Operator B

Operator B

Edward Lee

Bedlam Press

An Imprint of NecroPublications

Orlando

2010

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Smashwords Edition

Also available in a signed trade paperback edition.

ISBN: 1-889186-49-X

Operator B © 1999 by Edward Lee

Cover Art © 2006 Travis Anthony Soumis

this digital edition June 2010 © Bedlam Press

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For Doug Clegg

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PROLOGUE

“Dad? Mom?”

Stu and Sarah Billings simultaneously leaned up in bed; Sarah dragged the sheets up over her bosom, flicked on the lamp. How’s that for timing? Stu thought, flushed in embarrassment. He’d been out of town on business for two weeks, and this was the first time since then that he and Sarah had a chance to…

In the bedroom doorway stood their thirteen-year-old daughter, Melissa, tall and slim in her flannel nightgown. She was rubbing sleep from her eyes but also… quivering.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” her mother asked.

“You have a bad dream?” Stu guessed.

Their daughter just stood there for a few more seconds. When she lowered her fists from her eyes, it was obvious she’d been crying.

“I-I woke up,” she peeped, “and…”

“What, honey?” Sarah asked.

“There was a man looking in my window.”

Stu got up, hauled on his robe, then guided Melissa to the bed. “You stay here with your mother, honey. I’ll go check it out.”

“But, Stu,” Sarah fretted, “shouldn’t we call the police?”

Stu considered this, then tossed a shoulder. “Naw, it’s probably just one of those kids from down the road. They’re always cutting through our yard at night to drink beer behind the fence.”

Melissa sat next to her mother on the bed. “But, Dad, this wasn’t a kid. It was a man. He was bald.”

“A lot of those punks shave their heads, honey. It’s this Goth thing. Just stay here with Mom, and I’ll be right back,” Stu assured. “I promise.”

Sarah hugged Melissa. “Your father’s right, sweetheart. Everything will be all right…”

Yeah, Stu thought. When neither Sarah nor Melissa were looking, he quickly slipped the Smith & Wesson revolver out of the dresser and stuck it under his robe.

««—»»

First, to Melissa’s room. He peered out the window, saw nothing outside but the night. Yeah, it’s probably those pinhead punks. They drop out of school, shave their heads and put all these metal studs and rivets in their faces…and throw their empty beer cans in my yard.

Of course, Melissa had probably just had a dream; she’d dreamed of the face in the window. The counselor at school had told Sarah and him it was typical.

Melissa had been only three years old when her father had been killed in a plane crash; her mother killed herself a year later. That’s when Stu and Sarah had adopted her—immotile sperm had prevented them from having a child themselves. It didn’t matter to Stu, nor to Sarah. They wanted a child and they got one.

And after ten years, neither of them even gave it thought that Melissa was adopted.

She was a model child. Intelligent, courteous, perseverant. A straight-A student at Sligo Junior High.

But she was shy, too. Pensive. Too often, she seemed bottled up, uncomfortable about revealing her feelings. The counselor had told them that even though she didn’t consciously remember her early childhood and biological parents, there would indeed be some subconscious shadows. Ghosts of things that weren’t right, that weren’t the way they were supposed to be. Melissa felt haunted but by what she didn’t know.

Father dead, mother dead. Her whole world turned inside-out, Stu considered.

Didn’t matter that she’d only been three. Of course that’s gonna have an impact on a kid, whatever the age.

Stu walked down the long hall to the living room, then turned toward the kitchen and laundry room. This was the first time he regretted buying a one-level rancher. That’s just great, I’ve got these bald-headed Goth kids looking into my daughter’s window. Christ…

No one could be in the house; the ABC alarm would’ve gone off. In the laundry room, he stepped into his floppy yard boots, which he donned every Saturday to mow the grass. He turned off the alarm on the console by the door.

Then he went outside.

It was warm. Crickets trilled, making the air thrum. The darkness looked infinite. Goth kids, huh? he thought. They think it’s funny to scare my kid?

He pulled out the Smith revolver, a .44.

We’ll see who scares who.

He backtracked the opposite direction. If there really was a peeping tom, this would be his probable direction of escape. Stu’s unlaced, booted feet took him around the back yard, across the patio, and then along the west side of the house.

He honestly expected to find nothing. What he found instead—

“Oh, shit!”

—was a tall, bald-headed man standing beside the azalea bushes.

“Calm down,” the man said in the softest tone.

“The fuck!” Stu yelled, and all at once the sensation shocked him: snakes churning in his stomach. He jammed the gun forward. “You were staring into my daughter’s window!”

“Yes, I was,” the man said.

“You’re a goddamn pervert! You get off looking at kids!”