Finally, the bizarre murder of a prostitute in Key West, Florida, came on the local news. Stella’s name wasn’t even mentioned at first.
But, as the story wound down, Katie felt as if a chill was settling over her. The tiny hairs at her nape seemed to be rising.
In the television screen she saw a reflection.
She turned, and Stella Martin was back, standing in her kitchen, watching the television screen. She looked at Katie, her features twisted in torment.
“Help me,” she whispered.
“Who did this to you?” Katie asked.
But Stella shook her head, tears forming in her eyes again.
She lifted her hand, beckoning to Katie.
“Come with me,” seemed to hover on the air.
The ghost of Stella Martin walked to Katie’s front door, and beckoned again.
I’m an idiot! Katie thought.
And yet she followed.
9
Strippers came in all sizes, shapes and varieties-even ages. Once, in college, David and a friend had done a piece on the strippers of north Florida. A lot of their other friends had ribbed them about the project, but it had earned them both superior marks for a photojournalism class.
A lot of young and very attractive women went into the work for the money. And the story was usually the same. It was good money with little effort. Prostitution and stripping were not the same, though the latter sometimes led to the first. One girl they had interviewed told them that drugs were readily available, so stripping sometimes led to drug or alcohol addiction. The addiction meant that more money needed to be earned, and stripping allowed a girl to find out who had money and who didn’t, and who would pay, what they would pay for and how much.
Some strippers remained, even when not addicted to drugs, alcohol or sex, because they liked the thrill of being sexy on a pole. To some, it was empowering.
Others did love sex.
Some just loved money.
When Morgana appeared on the floor, David at first felt sorry for her. The woman was not young, nor did she have a perfect body.
But she could move. He imagined, watching her, that as a young girl, she had wanted to be a dancer-a dancer, not a stripper. When she moved, there was something special about her.
Some of the customers in the establishment were talking and didn’t even notice her. Some of the clientele hooted and hollered.
She seemed oblivious to all of them.
And yet, when her music ended, she was back playing the game. David thought it was all by rote. There was a look of abject sadness in her eyes, even when she smiled. She was far away, even when she bent down to squeeze a bill between her breasts or accept an offering in the thong bikini she wore that was just strings.
When she walked from the stage, David rose to meet her, reaching out a hundred-dollar bill. She looked at him, and her eyes grew wider. Fear registered in them. He was afraid she was going to press the bill back into his hands and run.
“My friend Katie told me about you today,” he said quickly. “I’m so sorry. I just want to talk to you. I was hoping you could tell me more about Stella Martin.”
She hesitated. She stared at him. “The place downstairs has a quiet patio in back. But the bartender is a big, old bruiser, and he’s a good friend of mine,” she said.
He smiled. “I swear, I have no intention of hurting you,” he said gently.
“And don’t go getting the police on me!” she warned.
“No,” he said.
“Five minutes,” she told him.
She left, and as she did so, David turned to see that someone was leaving from the far back of the room.
Someone who had been sitting in the shadows, and was now just about hugging the wall and the darkness to hurry out.
Danny Zigler.
There she was. Katie O’Hara. She was leaving her house behind, as she had surely done thousands of times before.
Katie O’Hara. Such a pretty thing. Sweet kid. She always had been. No doormat, she could handle a drunk out of control, speak with a cool authority that seemed to demand attention and hold her own with the best of them. Actually, she might be called beautiful now. All the rough edges of the child and the teen were gone; she was a woman. She had a magical speaking voice, and as far as Katie-oke went, ah, she was great.
Katie O’Hara…
She was there, she was alone, she was vulnerable.
Tonight…
Ah, tonight…
Tonight was too soon.
Too soon; the death of the stripper had to be noted, puzzled and plastered all over the news. A stripper might be forgotten quickly. That was the way of the world. But Stella Martin, pathetic user that she had been, had now taken her place in importance. Now she was history; she was legend.
And, of course, that would be it with Katie, too.
For a moment, he frowned, regretting the fact that he had chosen such a whore to be his victim. Stella hadn’t really deserved to be remembered in any way.
Then again, Tanya Barnard hadn’t been pristine, either.
Katie…well, Katie was a good girl. She deserved the best. She truly deserved to be legend.
Something very, very special would have to be done for her. Nothing quick, nothing spur-of-the-moment. It must be thought out carefully.
Fantasy Fest was coming…
Ah, yes. Something truly magnificent could be done with Fantasy Fest.
On a Monday night, the streets were quiet. Comparatively.
There were still people out and about. The bars were open on Duval, and scattered venues around the city. It was an odd Monday-still Monday, but a Monday with the city beginning to fill. Many people planned vacations around Fantasy Fest, and some had already trickled in. More would arrive on Friday night, when the city went into high gear.
Katie wondered if there would be an air of nervousness, or if tourists would simply need the diversion for their own lives.
Usually, people could rationalize away something wrong, heinous or even evil.
I’m not a prostitute. I can’t be affected.
I am always with my friends…husband…lover…
I will be safe.
Of course it was true.
The ghost walked ahead of Katie.
She thought that the ghost of Stella Martin was going to turn down the block before Duval, but she didn’t. She seemed to hesitate, as if thinking out her move. She looked at Katie, and then she moved on to Duval.
Katie followed. There was no reason for her to be afraid. Duval was as familiar to her as her own front walk.
Rick’s was open, as was the Irish bar across the street, and both seemed to be busy. Up ahead, more bars were still issuing the sounds of music out to the road and all those who still prowled the town. They passed the smallest bar, and a few old friends were hanging around; they waved to Katie. She waved back and hurried on.
They were near one of the inns on Duval Street that many people might pass on a daily basis-and barely notice. They were wonderful places for the city. Small, on top of storefronts, they often had the kind of rooms where spring-breakers might find an affordable stay. Her brother had rented one with a group of friends once. “Katie, there’s one bed. There’s a bed under the bed, and when you open the closet, there’s a mattress standing up! It’s just great. Of course, you have a ton of folks and one bathroom, but it means that kids can afford to come!”
The ghost stopped. She stared at Katie, frowned, looked worried, then sighed.
And walked around back.
Katie hesitated, then followed her.
A narrow alley led to the back of the building and stairs that allowed guests at the place to depart through the rear of the establishment. Another alley ran between the shops, bars and restaurants on the main street and the shops, bars, restaurants, B and Bs and homes that were on the other side.
Katie could hear all the sounds from the street. The laughter. The music. The cars and small motorcycles going by. She could hear the light toot of a horn.