Hunter Tremayne

An audio

REBECCA

GOES

TO

HELL

A Novel by

Hunter Tremayne

© 2009 by Hunter Tremayne

Chapter One

A Little Banter with the Bitch

“Heads up, rookie”, she heard Ted Avery say. “You’re wanted upstairs.”

Rebecca Kubb spun on her swivel chair. She stared at the city editor; he was smiling, but his eyes weren’t.

            “Upstairs?” She managed finally, knowing the word meant only one thing, that “upstairs” meant…

            “The Bitch wants you.” Avery was already walking away. “Move it.”

            Shit, she thought, her mind racing as she saved the article she had been editing.

 What the hell is it? It couldn’t be the Henderson story:  they’d taken her off it after only three days, said it could happen to anyone, that there’d be no comebacks. She’d never even had her byline on it.

            Shit, she thought again, as she entered the crowded elevator, but she must have articulated the thought, for she heard someone snigger as she punched for the thirteenth floor. By the eighth, she was the only person left. She caught her reflection in the mirror that ran around the inside of the elevator.

            I look like a fucking zombie. I looked like this when I told Larry I was pregnant.

            The doors opened. She waited until they started to close before she stepped out.

            Get a grip, Rebecca, she told herself. So she’s the publisher. So what? If you’re going to get canned, you’ll get canned. But why would she fire me herself?

            But the voices, the rumors, whispered to her, scuttling like rats in the dark.

            “Sacked Jon Queens for taking time off after his wife died.”

            “Canned Glickenhaus after twenty years for asking for a raise when his son was hospitalized.”

            “Nobody ever sees her come and go.”

            “Never goes to awards.”

            “Doesn’t do TV.”

            “Got to be sixty if she’s a day and looks fucking thirty.”

            “She’s got a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow in the basement been gathering dust for years.”

            “Never sleeps.”

            “Vampire.”

            “Bitch.”

            “That bitch upstairs.”

            Her heart was beating like a trip hammer.

            Get a grip, Rebecca, goddammit!

            White, deep pile carpeting filled a featureless corridor. To her left were a water cooler and a blank wall. To her right, at the end of the corridor, a secretary sat behind a desk before a set of scarlet double doors. Rebecca made her way up to the secretary, her shoes making no sound on the plush carpet. The secretary did not look up, even when Rebecca was standing at her desk. Even when she coughed.

            “I am Rebecca Kubb,” she said finally. Her voice sounded small, lost and frightened.

            I sound like a little girl, she thought.

            The secretary looked up at her. Her eyes were a brilliant green. Her thin smile showed none of her teeth. She looked down again and Rebecca saw that she was doodling on a notepad. The page was filled with moons: full; three-quarter; crescent. A dime lay next to the pad.

            That’s what she uses for the full moons, Rebecca realized.

            “You may go in, Ms. Kubb,” said the secretary. “Ms. Archer is expecting you.”

            Rebecca tugged at her jacket, put her hands on the double doors and pushed.

            “Good afternoon, Rebecca,” said a voice that echoed.

            The room she had entered was huge. It was circular and at least a hundred feet in diameter. Opposite her, a semicircular glass window took up half of the room’s wall space. The only furniture was a large desk, also semicircular, of dark wood. A low, fragile-looking chair was set before it. Rebecca supposed that there had to be a chair on the other side of the desk, but the woman behind it was standing, so she could not be sure. She was not able to see the woman’s face; the sun was setting, casting her in silhouette. Rebecca could not tell what color the woman’s hair was, but there was a lot of it, cascading around her shoulders.

She was very tall.

Rebecca, stunned, swayed on her heels. She looked up and saw that the entire ceiling was glass, too, a vast dome of glass.

I’d go crazy here, she thought. Stone cold crazy.

“Please sit down, Rebecca,” the woman said.

Rebecca stumbled towards the chair, shading her eyes against the glare of the dying sun.

This reminds me of something, she thought, as she almost collapsed into the wooden chair. It’s like a set from a James Bond movie. The villain’s lair. She felt an almost uncontrollable urge to giggle, and thrust her hand in her mouth to stifle it.

She saw now that the woman had her back to her.

Rebecca waited. She felt as insignificant as an insect.

“How old are you, Rebecca?” The woman asked.

What?

“I…I’m twenty-nine, Ms. Archer,” she managed, “twenty-nine last November.” But she must know that! It’s on file, for God’s sake.

“Twenty-nine,” the woman said. “And unattached, I believe?”

“At the moment,” said Rebecca, frostily. “I see you’ve been doing your homework.”

The woman laughed; the sound was as bitter-cold as a January evening.

“No need to be so touchy, Ms. Kubb,” she said, inclining her head a little to the side, “but Kubb is not your name by birth, I believe?”

“It’s the name on my social security card.”

“Yes.” There was as sibilance to her voice. “Yes, yes, yes.”

Rebecca waited. Eventually, she spoke.  “Have I done something wrong, Ms. Archer?” Damn! Her voice was so weak, so…

“I don’t know, Rebecca,” the woman said, turning back to face the window, “have you?”

Rebecca felt anger flow through her like a shot of tequila.

“No, Ms. Archer,” she said, almost shouting. “I’m a damned good reporter.”

The woman did not turn, did not raise her voice, said:

“Junior reporter. You’re a cub, Ms. Kubb.” She paused. “Or should that be… Kublinsky?” She snorted. “Someone ashamed of being Jewish in Manhattan? What an utter waste of time. ”

Rebecca seethed with impotent anger. She sat in the low, hateful little wooden chair and thought: Bitch! Bitchbitchbitchbitchbitch!

“So, what do we have?” The woman raised her hand, started counting off on her fingers.

“A Jewish girl. A failed law student. A child, a little girl called…Rachel, isn’t it? Adopted, I believe, due to a little drinking problem we had at the time, hmn? Then again, you were adopted also, weren’t you? Perhaps it’s in the blood. Tell me:  did you ever go looking for your parents?”

Rebecca made a small sound that she hoped passed for a no.

“Unmarried at twenty-nine, “Rebecca could not see the woman smiling, knew she was, “or should that be…thirty-three?”

More cold, mocking laughter.

“In any event, rather a senior age for a junior reporter, wouldn’t you agree? Hardly the bright shining star of our payroll, are you? Perhaps hiring you was a mistake, just like your poor little Rachel was. Or perhaps giving her up was the bigger mistake? Ah, mistakes, mistakes. Make no mistake, Rebecca: I am keen to hear your opinion. “

“Oh, are you?” Rebecca rose slowly to her feet. Stabbing her finger at the woman’s back, she hissed:

“Are you firing me, Ms. Archer?  Then go ahead and fire me. But I’m telling you right now,” she drew in her breath, then let it go, let it out, gave it everything she had, “I’ve taken enough of your shit!”

And the woman turned to face her. Her eyes were blue, the deepest blue Rebecca had ever seen. Her hair was black, as black as it came.  She wore a white tunic of pure silk and when she came around the desk towards Rebecca she saw that her legs were bare beneath it.

“Attagirl,” Ms. Archer said. “Would you care for a beer?”

And she winked.

*

“What do you know,” Ms. Archer said, while Rebecca sipped at a bottle of Blue Moon, “about rock and roll?”

            “I know the name of the guy who discovered it, if that’s what you mean.” Rebecca thought fast. “Alan Freed, Cleveland in the ‘50’s.”

            “No, Rebecca. That is not what I mean.”  Ms. Archer performed a devil’s tattoo on her desk with one-inch fingernails. “Rock and roll.  Skiffle. Reggae. Pop. Bubblegum. Heavy metal, grunge metal, thrash metal, death metal. Rock and rap. Acid rock, prog rock, punk rock, shock rock. Doo-wop, hip-hop, power pop. Move it over. Get down on it. Shake your money maker. Get on up-ah! Aw get on up!”  Ms. Archer raised her palms. “No, really, Rebecca dear,” she purred, “Do get up.”

            As Rebecca rose warily from her chair, Ms. Archer clapped her hands thrice. With a soft whir, an impressive and obviously expensive sound system of black steel and walnut rose from the floor like a genie in a pantomime.

            Ms. Archer, her scent a sea of Shalimar, took Rebecca by the elbow and walked her towards the music machine. Her hand danced over the controls, and an unfamiliar song began to fill the room.

            “This is the music of a band called Panic,” Ms. Archer told her. “What will it do for you, I wonder?”

            “I’ll sing you one-O”

            Rebecca heard flutes and cymbals, the paradiddle of a hi-hat, the skitter of a snare drum, the tock-tock of a cowbell

            “Green grow the rushes-O”

            The peal of an electric guitar, the low rumble of a bass, the glissando of strings, the brass fart of an alto sax

            “What is your one-O?”

            The singer’s voice was a deep and mellifluous baritone that sounded rather lecherous to Rebecca.

            “One is one and all alone…”

Another instrument began to play, one that Rebecca could not place.

            “A syrinx,” Ms. Archer told her presciently. “Pan-pipes.”

            “…And evermore shall be so.”

            Suddenly Rebecca became acutely aware of Ms Archer in a way she had not been before. She seemed even taller somehow, her vivid blue eyes now almost violet; when she sighed gently, it was like a susurration. A feeling swept across Rebecca, unfamiliar and almost primal. It took her a while to recall the name of it.

            Awe.

            Ms. Archer caught Rebecca’s eye. A half-smile floated over her lips; she clapped once, and the music stopped.

            “I want you to find someone for me, Rebecca.” The music gone, Ms. Archer seemed somehow diminished. “He won’t talk to me. You are to bring him a small attaché case. Don’t open it.  Find him and you’ll have a big story, and it’ll be all yours. It will be the making of you. You’ll be Woodward and Bernstein combined. Or perhaps, if you prefer, Woodward and Bern.”

            “Who do you want me to find?”

            “Just an old friend of mine who has gone to ground. My assistant Selena has the details, along with something else that should be of value to you. Check in with her on your way out.”

            I’ve just been dismissed.

            Rebecca was almost at the door when Ms. Archer spoke again.  

            “You must not tell a living soul about this assignment, Rebecca. Of course, one of the reasons I thought of you for this was because you have no friends, no confidantes, worth speaking of, but if you let slip a single syllable of this matter from your lips, why,” Ms. Archer lifted the hem of her tunic and produced a silver lighter; she lit a cigarette with it, inhaled luxuriously and breathed out the smoke, “I’ll never forget it as long as you live.”

END OF CHAPTER ONE

Rebecca Goes To Hell

This is a the story of Rebecca Kubb, a New York journo who falls foul of Greek Gods and Goddesses in Texas. In a nutshell, it's sex, violence, rock and roll, great suits, car chases, elephant jokes and one highly homicidal butler.

I will post selected chapters here. Presently posted is Chapter One, "A Little Banter with the Bitch."