dark corners. There was nothing to see: no secret doors or hidden panels, no levers or tripwires. Having found nothing waiting in the darkness, they approached the first piece of art.
In the top right-hand corner of the glass cube was another Polaroid print, labeled FIFTY-ONE – MARTIN McCAMMON. It was the photograph of a twenty-year-old man. He had dark skin and dark eyes; he was not looking at the camera. In fact, he didn’t seem to realize that he was being photographed.
Beneath the photo, a corpse was humped together in a pond on blood; it looked like the same person. The legs were cut off, the arms were off; each limb looked like it had been sliced a thousand times. In the center of the kid’s face, a deep cut traveled from chin to forehead.
The glass was smudged red, like someone had opened the lid and dropped the corpse inside.
The case must be airtight, Scott thought. Otherwise the blood would be dripping out of it.
They walked across the sticky floor. Inside the next case they found another photograph. This one was labeled THIRTEEN – CHRISTINE S. HUSTON. It was the image of a woman. On camera she looked pretty. Inside the case she looked like ground beef.
If Scott had to guess, he’d say someone had taken a chainsaw to her.
Inside the third case they found comparable art. The photograph was labeled EIGHTY-NINE – OWEN GLENN. A teenager had been ripped apart.
“God,” Scott said, amazed. “These look real, don’t they?”
“What if they are real?”
“Yeah right.”
“No, think about it,” Penny said, completely serious. “What if this is real? That doesn’t look like a special effect to me. That looks like a dead body.”
“You’ve seen a lot of dead bodies, have you?”
“That’s not the point. Look at it! It’s real!”
“Why would anyone do that to a person, and then display it? You’re being stupid.”
“No I’m not. They’d do it for the money.”
“Money? What money?”
“The two hundred dollars.”
“They only sold a hundred tickets, babe. That’s all that they put on sale. What’s two hundred times a hundred?”
“It’s twenty grand.”
“Twenty? Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Still… twenty grand isn’t enough money to kill for.”
“No? This is a ‘one night only’ event. Think about it. They set up shop, rent this shit-hole for next to nothing, kill a couple bums, take our money and hit the road.”
“I think you’re being insane. I also think the people putting on this event were hoping to draw this type of reaction, and with you, it’s clearly working.”
“Don’t talk to me that way.”
“What way? I don’t want to fight, babe. But think about what you’re saying! So this is what, a snuff show? I bought tickets in advance! It’s promoted in the newspaper!”
“So what? They could take the money and run, couldn’t they?”
Frustrated, Scott put a hand to his head. This sucked. First, the dog scares the shit out of them––and not in a good way––and now this. He wished he had stayed home. “I suppose.”
“I’m ready to leave, Scott. I’m tired. I want it to be over.”
“Me too.”
They walked to the fourth display. It was different than the first three. It still had a photograph (without a number), and it still had a body, but this time the art was a dog. It looked like the same dog that tried to eat them, only mutilated.
* * *
Lawrence and Elizabeth were led from the conference room, down a hall and through a set of doors. There were several black limousines waiting. They sat inside the nearest one and the car began moving. Fifteen minutes later they arrived in a part of the city that neither Lawrence nor Elizabeth had been to before. The buildings were condemned. Derelicts loitered on the street.
“My,” Lawrence said. “There sure are making an effort to capture the mood, aren’t they?”
Elizabeth huffed. “This is dreadful. I can’t imagine what encouraged you to buy tickets for such an event.”
“Variety is the spice that makes life worth living, my dear.”
“Well, I could do without this.”
The driver opened their door but didn’t offer a hand.
Mr. and Mrs. Whitely pulled themselves from the car and were led into an alleyway. Elizabeth wondered if they would be mugged. They reached a door. The driver knocked three times, paused, and knocked again. The door opened, and Denoté led the couple up a flight of stairs. The stairs looked terrible. They hadn’t been renovated in fifty years.
Lawrence opened his mouth but decided not to say anything. His blooming questions would be answered soon enough, he figured. There was