Coin-Operated Machines by Alan Spencer Read Free Book Online

spot.  Some Australian home interior guru and tabloid personality saying, "Room by room, we'll recreate the destruction, and play-by-play, we'll have real witnesses give their true accounts to the rise and fall of the Gene Richards estate."
    Brock's wrist ached, so he concluded the writing session.  He wasn’t used to committing anything to paper except signatures on checks.  Brock left his apartment and walked down the block and ate a hot dog from a street vendor.  After eating, he sat under a tree overlooking the Beverly Hills Open Air Park, feeling guilty for eating a piece of greasy meat, but also frustrated he was still afraid to completely open himself up on the page.  Oh well, I guess I have an entire road trip to figure it all out. 
    It was already mid-afternoon.  He still had to pack his clothing, but at seven o'clock, he had a date with his most favorite blue hairs in the universe. 

             
                 
     
     
    BAD ROAD TRIP
    Present Day
     
    Private investigator Mike Kinsley drove on the back roads of Madison, Virginia, seeking Hampton Hills.  It was a small town along the foothills of the Appalachian Valley.  His trek had turned into an aimless one, being lost, though he swore he had the directions right.  He stayed on the back road surrounded by dense deciduous forest seemingly driving in circles.  Everything looked the same.  There were no breaks in the woods, road signs, or any indication he was going the right way.  After battling to decide if he should check his GPS again, a road sign appeared with the words "Hampton Hills" painted crudely in yellow paint. 
    No fancy road signs in this place.
    Mike sipped his morning coffee in victory, awaiting the jolt he needed to get his day going.  That was the problem all along, he thought.  The coffee wasn't working its magic yet. 
    Driving along the bumpy terrain, reassured he was finally on the right track, his thoughts drifted to his mission.  He flipped open the top of the file sitting on the passenger seat and viewed the picture of a woman named Peggy Albright.  She was thirty-one.  Single.  Friends said she was visiting Hampton Hills to hook up with an old flame.  She didn't come back.  The bills were stacking up.  Friends and family were concerned.  They called the police.  The police's case was ice cold.  Then Mike had been hired to investigate Peggy's disappearance by her family. 
    Rumors Mike was hearing involved other people going missing in the general area, though the investigation was slow-in-the-coming because the people missing weren't just from this area.  They were located across the United States in random pockets of the nation without an obvious pattern.  That wasn't his problem.  His problem was Peggy Albright. 
    "Whoa, something stinks."  Mike pinched his nose.  "Did I run over a dead carcass?"
    The tires didn't bump over anything in the road.  He checked the rearview mirror, and the road was clear. 
    "Seriously, what was that?"
    The vents kicked out more fetid air.   So strong, it was visible.  The color was a dark tint of yellow.  The tendrils curled from the trees around the road too, wrapping around their trunks, bending, and twisting, and spreading to obscure the distance.  He turned, and Peggy Albright's file was suddenly blank and dripping with ink.  No, not ink, he thought, but a strange black oil.  It was growing soggy until it started to smolder and smoke the strange color of earthy brown until it vanished into thin air. 
    Mike reached out to his police frequency radio when the receiver itself softened, the plastic melting into his hand, threading through his fingers, latching on, and burning through his skin.  He slammed the gas, trying to escape whatever was surrounding him.  He was speeding ahead and gaining distance until the terrain turned rough.  The tires popped, and once the car swerved, skidded, spun out, and then stopped, the dirt had changed into