Under the Overtree

by James A. Moore

  “So, why don’t tell me a story.”

  4

  Jennifer Howell reclined on the back porch of her home, tanning her body in the sun’s warm light. Today, she’d decided some hours ago, was a day made for tanning. She sipped at her iced tea, sweetened with honey never with sugar, and flipped the page in the murder mystery she had been reading.

  She was fairly certain she knew who was responsible, but she refused to allow herself the pleasure of going to the last few pages and finding out the easy way. By reading the book all the way through she got to read all of the dirty scenes, they were all but a trademark of this particular author.

  She listened to the door open in the front of the house and decided that it wasn’t worth the trouble to make herself decent. If it was Mark, he’d seen her in her birthday suit before and it wouldn’t bother her at all. If it was Joe, all the better.

  It was Mark; he walked out onto the porch only moments later and looked at his mother intensely. Suddenly she felt naked, as she never had before her son in the past. The reason was obvious and she marveled that she hadn’t seen it before. He had literally become, save for the scar on his right cheek, the spitting image of his father. She flushed at the thoughts that raced through her mind and flushed twice as hard when she recognized the look in Mark’s eye that said he was thinking along the same lines. After a pregnant pause, he turned his head away and she covered herself with her towel.

  “Um, sorry, I was just going to let you know that I’ll be over at Cassie’s.” There was a thickness in his voice that she’d never heard there before and she finally noticed on a conscious level that his voice had gotten a good deal deeper in the last few months.

  Jenny looked at her son and smiled, keeping her voice light. “I should have put up a sign, imagine how embarrassed I’d have been if Tyler had been with you.” That seemed to break the tension in him, he was probably picturing Ty’s eyes leaping out of his skull. “So, when will you be back, should I save dinner for you?”

  “Um, probably not, I’ll scrounge up something when I get home.” Mark was turning away when she called him back and he looked down at her uncomfortably.

  Jenny smiled her brightest “Mom” smile and beckoned him to sit next to her. He did. “The folks are going to be coming down in a couple of weeks. I thought you’d like to have a little advance warning, a chance to prepare Cassie for when they meet her. And you know that as soon as they hear about her, they’ll want her over here for dinner.”

  Mark positively beamed at the thought and said he would prepare Cassie for the meeting. As he stood up, Jenny looked at how tall her son had become and stood with him, careful to keep the towel from falling off of her body. With a quick peck on each cheek, she dismissed her son, he was off to find true love and she knew how very important that was in this world. After all was said and done, she was glad that she’d opted to keep him, rather than abandon her baby to strangers who could have none of their own. Mark was more than just her son, he was her memories; Jenny Howell could never give up her memories, not the good, not the bad. They were hers.

  She stretched the towel out beside her on the recliner and turned on to her stomach. She did her best not to think of the man she had married first. Like always, she almost succeeded. Joe would be home soon and she wanted to look her best for him; she wanted to make her husband as happy as he made her. That was even more important than memories.

  Finally, she decided that she needed a treat and confirmed her suspicions about whodunit. She was right, the author was predictable and safe, just the way she liked her writers to be. The way she liked her men to be.

  5

  Alan Fisk left his car parked at the edge of the Red Oaks subdivision and found a good hill from which to watch the Howell boy on his route through the area. Normally, he would have found the work dreadfully boring, as he had for most of the day, but from his vantage point, he had a good clean shot of the kid’s mother and his binoculars picked up details very well. He couldn’t see writing this part down in his report; somehow he doubted that his wife Donna would see the humor in the situation.

  Donna was a wonderful woman, but she was hardly a ravishing beauty. And since the stork had delivered the second rug-rat, she had really put on the weight. He loved Donna with all of his heart, but she just didn’t have a figure like the woman he was looking at. Probably never would again.

  He waited a few extra minutes enjoying the sights, before he started sweeping the area with his field glasses. While he’d been ogling the momma cat, the baby cat had left the premises. There! Already on the next street.

  He watched silently as the boy walked over to the Monroe house and thinking about the two women that lived there, Alan wished he was ten years older or younger; there were two women he would have loved to know better. He mused over the likelihood of the two ever wanting anything to do with a low-income deputy and did his best to think of other things before he got himself depressed.

  After the boy had been in the house for about ten minutes, he and the Monroe girl stepped back into the rapidly warming daylight. They walked together like two young people in love; slowly, hand in hand, with no place special to go as long as they were with each other. Alan longed for the days when his life had been that free and easy.

  Alan found himself hoping that the sheriff was wrong, that the young man down in the subdivision had nothing to do with the murders, but then, Alan always hoped that no one was guilty, it was one of his flaws. He thought back to when Andy Phillips had burst into the sheriff’s office, so long ago now, and felt himself fill with pity for the dead boy. Even realizing that the kid had done wrong, the tormented shrieks from the holding cell had filled Alan with an overwhelming sense of sadness. No one should suffer as the Phillips kid obviously had.

  That train of thought eventually detoured as he watched the two young lovers walk into the woods closing in on the question of what could have scared the poor slob so much. As always the thought of personal fears sent his mind running to his own worst nightmare; Stoney Miles. Everyone in the town knew the story of Stoney and Alan was one of many who would swear that they had seen his mad specter running through these very woods. It had been a long time ago, when he was only ten years old, but he would never for as long as he lived forget the sight of that blistered festering smile, or the burnt skull that gleamed under what was left of the man’s steely gray hair. Or the hatchet that had still glistened with the blood of Stoney’s victims, decades after the man had died in the fire that killed Summit Town. Stoney Miles was Alan’s worst fear, a dead man with a murderous penchant. How the hell could somebody catch a dead man?

  Such thoughts put the fear of God into Alan. Momma Fisk had done one hell of a job raising a superstitious coward. With a sigh, he realized that he’d let the Howell boy out of his sight again. Grumbling faintly to himself, Alan lowered his binoculars and started off into the woods; there’d be hell to pay if he let the kid get away, but then, who was going to tell? Certainly not him.

  6

  They had walked in silence for almost ten minutes, when Cassie spoke aloud, “So, what do you want to do today? Movie? Lunch? Wild passionate sex?”

  Mark practically gagged, knowing that his mind was making up the words. He looked over at her and saw the teasing gleam in her eyes. He smiled back and responded that all of the above sounded wonderful. “But, because I’m such a wonderful guy, I’ll let you decide.”

  Cassie smiled wickedly and pulled him close for a passionate kiss. She chided herself silently as she enjoyed the sensation and then responded. “Hmm, let’s try lunch and a movie.” As always, Mark smiled in return and nodded his agreement. She felt slightly like a tease, but he knew as well as she did that they would proceed when the time was right.

  Their walk to town was slow and they meandered through the woods in no particular hurry to get anywhere. From time to time, Mark would look over towards where Third Avenue stretched off to their left and he would frown. Finally having decided
that enough was enough, she asked him what was so interesting. He took a few moments to prepare the words, before responding. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were being followed.”

  “What do you mean?” For some reason she found herself very nervous at the concept, though for the life of her, she couldn’t think of why. Tanya was followed once and the same guy followed me!

  Mark pointed over to the street and stopped moving. As they both looked where he had pointed, they saw a battered old black Mustang cruise at a pace just above idle, slowly coming around the bend in the road. “There, see? Whoever it is, he’s been following me for a long time.” He frowned, momentarily lost in thought. “Since about eight o’clock this morning.”

  Upon seeing the car, Cassie felt much better. “Oh, jeez, you had me a little scared for a while. That’s just Alan Fisk.” Seeing the blank look on his face, she added, “The sheriff’s deputy, he’s probably just doing the rounds over here, since they found—since Pete’s body was located.”

  Mark looked over at her, with a strange expression, it looked like equal parts of fear, anger and relief. “Oh,” he said, “if that’s all you think it is.”

  In the woods, she could practically hear the cessation of sound; all of the animals stopped their natural buzzing, chirping and chattering, as if they were waiting for something Well, MY broker is Merrill Lynch and he says…She started feeling edgy and Mark grew silent for a moment. The whole world seemed to be waiting for something that she was unaware of. She felt like she had said something horribly embarrassing in church, as if she had screamed out loud, to be heard over the crowd in one of those sudden moments were everyone stops talking at the same time.

  “Mark, is something wrong?” She was worried by the look he threw her for about three seconds. Then he smiled openly and she knew everything would be all right.

  “No, I guess I’m just being paranoid, I mean, except for you and Tyler and maybe a few others, I’ve kind of gotten the impression that nobody here really trusts me.” He looked at her, trying to see if she understood what he was trying to say. Apparently he realized that she did, because he continued. He told her about the visit to the sheriff’s office and about what had happened between Tommy and himself, so long ago. Then, he added, “I guess the sheriff knows what he’s talking about. I just wondered if maybe he had the deputy following me because he thought I was lying.” He looked worried and then he looked very sad and then he brightened again and she would have been amused by the sudden rapid changes in his expression, if she hadn’t been reeling mentally from what he had just told her. “I guess you’re right though, maybe he’s just looking out for us, seeing us going through the woods and all.”

  Cassie smiled at him, finally realizing that there was simply no way that her Mark could kill a person, let alone Tommy Blake, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, giving him a strong hug, to say without words that she loved him and that everything was okay. He hugged her back, running his hands lightly over her back and sending shivers of pleasure through her. When she looked past Mark, towards the road, she suddenly saw the Mustang accelerate. It was gone around the next bend before she could even comment. They held each other for a slow eternity and then forced themselves to separate before lunch and a movie were over-ridden by other desires. She flashed her beau a grin of challenge. “If you can beat me in a race to the theater, we’ll see about that third option.” He grinned at her and both of them ran as fast as they could.

  She won, but just barely. She had the impression along the way that if he’d put his mind to it, Mark Howell could have left her stranded in the woods, watching a trail of dried leaf dust and dirt trace through the air, where he’d been only seconds before. She thrilled to think of just how far he’d come with his running and did her best to stifle the thoughts of how powerful a lover he would be. She was mildly disappointed that he hadn’t tried harder.

  7

  Alan knew as he came around the gentle curve in the road, that the Howell kid had spotted him. The kid had been pointing in his direction as he came around the road’s bend. To try and dispel the belief that he was trailing the kid, he sped up and away from them.

  Chuck, he decided, would not be pleased. He was on his way to the office, to let Hanson know that he’d been spotted, when he saw the sudden explosion of birds from the woods on the other side of town.

  For reasons he couldn’t quite place, the sight unsettled him. He skipped past the offices and went in the direction of the sudden flight. Because the town was so ridiculously small, he knew that the detour wouldn’t take but about ten minutes; he was at the approximate spot in only five.

  The woods looked perfectly normal, but there was something wrong. It took him almost a full minute of thought to realize what it was; there was absolutely no sound except for his breathing and the gentle sigh of the woods. No crickets or cicadas making a noise to tell everything within a quarter mile where they were, no frogs, calling for a mate to come and seduce them. It wasn’t a natural silence and Alan was made uneasy by the lack of nature’s symphonic rhythm. He was actually backing towards his car, when he saw them.

  Somehow, Mark Howell and Cassie Monroe had beaten him out here. His mind refused to accept the knowledge, it wouldn’t sink in, no matter how badly he wanted it to. No way, could they have come the six miles involved, on foot, in the sloping wooded area, not in the time it had taken him by car. But there they were, holding each other and peeling their clothes away.

  The thought of a little voyeuristic fun took all of his quiet fear away and he slipped silently out of the car, glad that he had thought to bring his binoculars with him. He watched as they stood together, holding each other tenderly, their bodies tanned a golden color and their hands roaming each other, exploring, while his heart stuttered excitedly in his chest.

  Mark lay Cassie on the ground and stood over her, his hard body gleaming with a light sheen of sweat in the dry Colorado summer. He moved his field glasses down slightly, to concentrate on Cassie’s form and marveled at the supple, sinuous girl-woman that writhed in anticipation of her lover. He longed to be down there with her, longed to be in the boy’s place; both in time and in lack of responsibility. He crushed the guilty rush of thoughts that tried to remind him of Donna and focused the binoculars to give him a clear shot of the two forms.

  Before his eyes, the girl’s features changed, twisted and ran and in less than the span of one heartbeat, she had become Donna Fisk. Not as she looked now, but as she had looked six years ago, when he had first made love to her; with firm heavy breasts and luscious wide hips, her chestnut hair spilling across the ground.

  Donna beckoned to Mark Howell with her arms and he dropped to his knees before her, gripping her breasts in his powerful hands. He heard her moan, as she hadn’t moaned to him in a long while.

  Alan Fisk felt his blood pounding in his temples, as he dropped the binoculars from hands gone suddenly cold and numb. With a strangled cry of rage, he started forward, intent on wringing the life from the boy he was supposed to be watching. He never looked past where the boy was roughly pleasuring his very own wife. “That sum-bitch,” he spat venomously. “That sumbitch!” He broke into a full run, crossing the distance between him and his intended victim in a less than a minute. He hadn’t felt this kind of anger in a long, long time.

  He felt himself growling, a primal fire burning in his chest, feeding him the raw strength to pull his targets face off. He hit his young opponent with all of his strength and velocity in combination, knocking the boy off of his wife, who screamed shrilly at the sight of him.

  He grabbed a handful of Mark Howell’s hair and physically lifted him into a standing position, pulling back his free hard, prepared to send a devastating blow into the little punk’s throat.

  The man of about fifty that he held up smiled through burnt, peeling lips and blew a kiss at him. Alan felt his whole body freeze, all of the anger that had propelled him this far going away like a wisp of fog in the brighte
st sunlight; replaced by cold hard fear, as he looked into the one remaining eye of Stoney Miles.

  Stoney pulled him into a ferocious bear hug and stared at him with mild amusement in his one good eye, the other socket spilled a foul thick, yellow pus, that dribbled down onto Alan’s shirt. Alan screamed as loudly as he could and fought for dear life to break the grip of iron that Stoney held him with.

  He looked around himself, trying to find a weapon, his revolver forgotten. To his left and behind him, the young and shapely Donna laughed at him, seeing his predicament. With a new strength, fueled by anger, shame and fear, he swung his knee into Stoney’s crotch and felt the satisfying release of his pinned arms. Stoney was bent almost double over and Alan took full advantage, swinging his joined fists into the side of the evil bastard’s head and watching as he staggered and fell to the ground. He kicked and stomped and jumped up and down on the stunned man, reveling in the sensation of bones breaking under the force of his assault. With a cry of triumph, he drove his foot through the demon’s back and felt the spine snap.

  Breathing heavily, he looked around for his wife and saw instead, Stoney Miles, axe in hand, where his Donna should have been. He looked down at the pulped mass at his feet and saw chestnut hair, sheened lightly with crimson, resting under his black boot. With a dawning sense of terror, he looked back over at the specter with its axe. Stoney’s hair was steely gray, in the places where it still hung on his burnt scalp.

  He looked down again, at the shattered features of his wife, a woman that he had from time to time hated and always loved. He made not a single sound as he felt the first blow of the hatchet against his chest. Alan’s body took a long time to die, but his mind and soul had died already; finally having realized that it wasn’t just the form of his wife, but her lovely and patient spirit that he had crushed under his bloody heels.