Twice Bitten, Once Shy: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #5

Chapter 17

Or do they?

Zandra traces her finger over the fast rise, pause, indecisive wobble, and sharp rise again of The Writer's Glove, LLC, stock over the course of a week. The next week, the stock price pauses like it gets stuck, wobbles indecisively, falls sharply, and pauses once again.

Zandra turns the pages in the three-ring binder faster and faster.

There's a pattern in the chaos.

Over and over, the stock price pauses, wobbles indecisively, and makes a big move up or down. The exact location of the prices on the chart still seems random, but the pattern couldn't be clearer. One stage follows another, every single time.

"So, you've got thousands or millions of people, all making decisions independent of each other about buying and selling this stock, all following the same pattern despite not having a clue what everyone else is thinking," Zandra says, again to no one in particular. "That's fucking wild."

Pause, wobble, make a big move. Pause, wobble, make a big move. It's like the stock price contracts, expands, and finds a trend.

Contraction, expansion, trend.

Contraction. Expansion. Trend.

Contraction.

Expansion.

Trend.

Zandra sets the three-ring binder aside and rubs her temples.

This could be some fingerprints-of-God stuff. If I sat here the rest of the day looking at those charts, I bet I could find even more.

But I can't sit here all day. I've got to figure out how to get the hell out of this room.

Zandra returns the three-ring binder to the shelf. Also resting on the shelf is a hardcover of Moby Dick, the classic novel. A copy is in all the cabins on the Curd Queen.

Novels work the same way, don't they? First, the world of the story is static—contraction. New events or information are introduced that cause that stasis to change—expansion. Everything changes in the climax—trend. Finally, the story settles into a new normal—contraction.

I wish Herman were here. He'd know what to do with weird shit like this.

OK, that's enough. I really need to stop with this. Time to get moving.

"That could've been a great demo. Sorry, everyone," Zandra says.

A muffled cough from the hallway outside her cabin redirects Zandra's attention. She moves to the door and listens. Silence.

Probably someone walking by. This cabin soaks in a lot of noise.

That reminds me of something.

Zandra goes to the Murphy bed. She raises a hand to the hole in the wall where the vent used to be. A cool draft tickles her fingers.

The vent serves as a veritable intercom for other parts of the Curd Queen. She could hear Aaron shuffling around in his room a couple days prior, pre-fatal gunshot wound. She also heard Jade's scream from the upper level earlier that morning.

But there's something I didn't hear: the gunshot itself.

A gunshot on the upper level powerful enough to wipe the face off Aaron would've woken me up, wouldn't it? Jade's scream did. Why wouldn't a gunshot?

Zandra lowers her hand from the vent to cough into her sleeve.

Unless I wasn't in bed when the gunshot happened.

She looks at the vent lying on the floor, placed there by her accusers when they found the gun.

Homicidal somnambulism? I guess it's possible. But how did I get the gun to do it?

Zandra picks up the vent. She runs her fingers along the edges, feeling the holes for screws in each of the four corners. The screws themselves rest on the floor. Zandra drops the vent onto the Murphy bed and scoops up a screw. It's a Phillips™.

Is there a Phillips™ screwdriver around here?

Zandra searches every nook and cranny of the cabin. It doesn't take her long to not find a Phillips™ screwdriver.

This smells like fuckery. Whoever put the gun in the vent had a Phillips™ screwdriver. Whoever found the gun had a Phillips™ screwdriver. I don't have a Phillips™ screwdriver.

It's not like that type of screwdriver is some rare artifact; they're everywhere. The question is this: who has a Phillips™ screwdriver and how did they stick a gun in the vent without me noticing?

"Unless, of course, I found a gun, killed Aaron, hunted down a Phillips™ screwdriver, unscrewed a vent, hid the gun, and screwed the vent back in, all while sleepwalking," Zandra says. "The least believable part about that is that I would give a shit to hide the gun."

Zandra lights up another cigarette, this time not bothering to ash in the bathroom sink. She stares at the hole above the Murphy bed.

Something isn't adding up, but I'm never going to complete the picture inside this cabin. I need to get out of here.

She walks to the bathroom and eyes the toilet paper stock.

Two rolls. Is that enough to clog the toilet? I could let that go and flood the sink until the water runs out the cabin. It'd look like the Curd Queen is sinking. They'd have to open the door and let me out.

But then what? It's not like they're going to let me loose to play detective.

No. I've got to get out without anyone noticing.

Cigarette between her lips, Zandra rolls onto the Murphy bed. She stands to examine the indent that houses the bed when it folds up into the wall.

Aaron's room is on the other side of this wall. There's an excellent chance the room is empty.

How much do you want to bet that the wall is the thinnest right here? It'd have to be.

Zandra slides off the bed and grabs the hardcover copy of Moby Dick from the shelf. She returns to the indent and draws the lawnmower knife.

Who says classic literature isn't relevant to the here and now?

Holding the point of the lawnmower knife against the wall, Zandra slams Moby Dick against the paracord-wrapped handle. The knife cuts into the wall with only moderate resistance. Zandra yanks the knife out of the wall, lowers the point, and repeats the process with Moby Dick. Eventually, she cuts enough of the wall away to see Aaron's room peeking through the other side.

The Murphy beds in our cabins are right on the other side of the wall from each other. The wall between them is more decorative than anything else.

What a shit design. I've slept in cars sturdier than these cabins.

After a few more cigarettes' worth of work, Zandra punches through into Aaron's cabin. It's unoccupied, but Aaron's personal effects remain. Zandra can't help herself. After helping herself to a bag of chips, she takes inventory of the late quarterback's possessions.

It's nothing but clothes and condoms. Good lord, the condoms. How many people was he planning on fucking?

Not finding anything interesting—at least not interesting at the moment—Zandra tries the door. Unlike her cabin, she's able to open the door from the inside. Taking care that no one is watching, she steps out into the hallway.

Time to figure out what the hell is going on.