by Eric Beetner
Alex gathered her things and left.
“Wait,” Noah called after her. “How about two-fifty? Three hundred? Come back. Let’s talk. Price is negotiable! Alex!”
Alex headed to her car. No matter how loud he called her name, she did not turn around.
When she came to the Interstate 87 split south, she didn’t go home either.
CHAPTER TWO
She never wanted to hurt him. She knew the damage done if word spread, how it would destroy Riley’s world, which in addition to the job and wife now included a new baby girl. The age difference alone would destroy his reputation. He might even go to prison. Alex had understood Riley’s need to break things off. She never held that against him, and she believed him when he said he wanted to stay friends, have her in his life. And he tried.
It was funny. Riley’s ending their affair wasn’t what spurred Alex to leave town. It had taken Kira Shanks to do that. Not being in his bed hurt bad enough. Being rendered irrelevant was too painful to bear, the entire town consumed by Kira Shanks hysteria.
Alex had of course followed the story when it first happened seven years ago, was vaguely aware of the particulars. Noah’s proposed exposé jostled loose the long-term, brought specifics back to the light.
Though they were no longer together, Alex watched Riley’s star rise, albeit from a distance—his promotion to detective as he led the charge to find Kira, just as he’d done with Alex five years earlier. Only the hero was too late this time. Alex knew they liked Benny Brudzienski for the crime, which, as Noah Lee pointed out, still listed officially as a missing persons case since no body was ever recovered.
Benny Brudzienski wasn’t much older than Alex. But he seemed a lot older. In part because he was such a permanent fixture in Reine. Like that hundred-year-old oak tree struck by lightning or the fire-scorched hall of records, you never remembered a time when he wasn’t around. Alex could still picture Benny wandering through town—sloe-eyed, lumbering strides, aimless. Reine’s very own George slouching toward Friendly’s or the Pig ’n’ Poke. Until one of his brothers would roll up beside him, load him onto the flatbed like some wayward, dopey cow that had broken through the fence. No one ever believed he was dangerous.
When word of Benny’s involvement leaked, either via press or police, unidentified locals chased him down, ran his bicycle off the road, shook loose whatever remaining lug nuts were rolling around his junkyard oil pan. How much more damage could the accident have caused? Guy had the IQ of an eight-year-old to begin with.
Alex hadn’t known Benny was in a mental hospital, but it made sense when she thought about it. Noah was the first to imply Benny was faking it. Alex didn’t know if he was or wasn’t. He deserved to burn all the same.
Sometimes Alex doubted her memory, especially during stretches where she partied too hard. There were a lot of stretches like that. It got worse after her ordeal, the pills she leaned on to make her forget, the holes in her memory that formed like Swiss-cheese excerpts of a hastily erased tape. There were times, late at night, when she’d wonder if what she and Riley had was as real and deep as she recalled. She knew she had a tendency to think in terms of black and white. Heroes, villains. Good guys and bad. When your hand is against a wall, you know where you stand, no matter how dark it gets.
Therapy helped. For a while. She liked the part about how Denise’s rotating cast of abusive boyfriends hindered her chances long before Parsons came along. Loose mothers and tumultuous childhoods absolve most sins where therapists are concerned. Alex didn’t appreciate the other interpretation though, the one about a seventeen-year-old victim infatuated with the young, handsome, married cop who saved her. Savior complex, the doctor called it. Alex hated that. Made her sound clingy, nuts, like some wacko trashy home-wrecker. She knew what she and Riley shared was real; she didn’t need a diploma on a wall to validate it.
When Alex first left Reine, Riley checked in. Then that correspondence waned. Mostly because Alex stopped returning calls and answering emails. She’d never been one for small talk—how a new job is going, what are you doing for fun, how about this crazy weather we’ve been having. People move on. Alex hadn’t spoken with Detective Sean Riley in at least three, four years. So why did the wound still feel so fresh, so raw? Why did just hearing his name make her heart yearn? Why had the need to see him come on so pressing, so strong, so relentless?
The Reine police station sat across the river in a squat brick building that might as well have been a video store in a strip mall. Reine had undergone a major facelift since Alex’s last visit—more chain restaurants, renovated Hannaford, new Target—but the local PD hadn’t parlayed the string of murders into bigger, better headquarters. Compared to the daunting NYC jails, the understated precinct projected junior league.
When all those girls went missing in the early 2000s, terror gripped the small town. You’d think local politicians would have been able to manipulate residents into footing the bill for more cops, shinier cars, state-of-the-art digs. Instead, everyone opted to ignore, pretend like it never happened, lock the doors and stay inside, turn a blind eye. Can’t rationalize an evil you don’t understand.
Maybe Noah Lee had been right about that part, too. At least in a broader cosmic sense. Like cheating death, escaping the noose meant for her. Didn’t matter that the two cases were unrelated; that the man who’d abducted Alex and killed all those other girls, Ken Parsons, was locked up miles away in a maximum-security prison when Kira Shanks disappeared. Alex had traded one life for another, her unintended release creating a malevolent butterfly effect. Like one of those cheesy Final Destination movies. One child taken, another spared. Fate, a roll of the dice.
Alex parked her battered Civic around back beside a cruiser. Remnants of rainwater dribbled off the gutter overhead. Before her interview with Noah Lee, Alex hadn’t known for sure if Riley still worked in Reine. She’d assumed so. Riley preferred to be a big fish in a little pond. Probably ran the whole show up here by now. Talking to Noah Lee had got her thinking, wondering…regretting? No, that wasn’t the right word. But there was no reason why she couldn’t stop by and say hello. They were both adults. In fact, given their history, be rude not to.
She tilted the mirror, sweeping the hair out of her eyes, securing an unruly lock of brown behind her ears. She retouched her lipstick and eyeliner, adjusted her shirt, tightening and tucking, grinning back at what she saw. Alex owed Denise and the father she never met that much.
“Can I help you?” the young desk sergeant asked.
Behind him, the small-town force scurried, filing speeding violations to make the monthly quota, or whatever they did to pass time up here in between kidnappings. Route 9 by the elementary school had always been a speed trap, stuffing county coffers since Alex was in pigtails. Denise had been popped there at least half a dozen times, providing her mother with yet another reason to feel like the whole world was out to get her.
“Miss?” the desk sergeant repeated.
“I want to talk to Sean Riley. Riley. Detective Riley.”
“Is this about a case?”
“Yes,” Alex lied.
The desk sergeant said to have a seat. Alex didn’t sit, instead pulling her black hoodie over her head, jamming hands in her back jean pockets. She studied pictures on the wall. Certificates, awards, accommodations, handshakes with the chief, rewards for jobs well done. There was one of Riley being given his detective’s badge. He faced the camera, stern expression betraying a solemn oath to serve and protect, but there was an undeniable glibness in his eyes, an inability to hide the joy. He deserved it. She could still hear the resounding cheer that erupted when they walked through the door that night. He’d wrapped her in a scratchy old wool blanket, his arm around her, pulling her so close she could smell the musk on his neck and feel the scratch of several days’ growth.
“Alex?”
It felt like forever since she’d heard his voice in person. He had the same in
tense, soulful stare, and still looked younger than his years, except that he’d grown an actual beard, tight and trimmed. Faint crow’s feet tattooed the eyes. Other than that, he was the same Riley.
“Surprise!” Alex said, feeling stupid the moment the phony exuberance escaped her lips. She’d intended irony. The exclamation came across as ridiculous, childish.
Alex pretended to be distracted by a sudden noise but the only startling sound was her own beating heart. She had a hard time avoiding that piercing gaze, which still possessed the power to disturb.
“What are you doing here?”
“In town. Visiting friends.” They both knew that was a lie—Alex didn’t have any friends left in Reine. Other than a cousin she seldom spoke to, no family remained since Denise died. Alex’s mother passed, like most old alcoholics, going quietly in the night, unnoticed, unmissed, until the dogs next door smelled her and started barking and a neighbor alerted the police. Despite the town’s best efforts at reinvention, Reine was still small enough that every death resonated, even that of the town drunk living alone above a bar.
Riley waited. Alex had seen enough cop shows to know the trick. Prolonged silence makes people talk, give themselves up, say anything to fill the void. And it worked.
“I talked to a reporter today,” she said.
“Reporter?”
“Some kid with the college. Said you weren’t returning his calls.” The truth wasn’t always Alex’s first choice. Another coping mechanism, according to the doctors. The truth could be terrifying so victims of trauma often created their own realties. Easier to place pieces in advantageous positions that way. But Riley had always been able to throw her off her game. And this time the truth covered up the real, more substantive reason for her visit, the need to see his face, which came on without warning, relentless, like a rockslide, stones pressing on spine.
Riley creased his brow. “Noah something? Uniondale, right?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“Pain in the ass. Been calling nonstop. Stopped by couple weeks ago when I wasn’t here. Caused a scene—” He stopped. “He’s not a friend of yours, is he?”
“God, no.”
Riley waited for more, but Alex didn’t have anything else. There had been no reason to drive to the station.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s just that reporter, Noah. He was talking about Kira Shanks, and I guess it got me thinking.”
“About what?”
“Us. Not us-us, but that time. In my life. What happened when I was seventeen. How if you hadn’t found me…” Alex let the words trail off, choking back a laugh. “I don’t know why I came here.” She thumbed out the glass door. “I’m going to get going.”
“You want to grab dinner?”
Click here to learn more about The One That Got Away by Joe Clifford.
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Here is a preview from Harbinger, a prequel to the Ania Series by Frank Zafiro and Jim Wilsky.
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CHAPTER 1
Boyd
The sky is a clear, dark cobalt blue as the daylight fades. The sun just went down but its soft golden glow lingers on the boats and calm water of Gulf Pointe Marina. Going to be a half moon tonight and I can see its outline up there already. I work my stiff neck around a little and look down at the deck below me. Everything is done.
Hicks and I have already scrubbed and washed the boat down. The bait wells are clean, tackle and gear stowed, rods have new lines and are ready in their holders. Even our little galley is squared away.
Dusk is my favorite time of day and even more so on this Friday evening. Earlier, we had only our second charter of the entire week. A pain in the ass father and his two whiny, spoiled sons out on their first ever deep sea fishing trip. Probably their first fishing trip of any kind, period.
Bottom line, though, Hicks put them on fish all day, as he always seems to do. Today it was mostly Spanish mackerel and bonitos but the youngest boy also hooked a good size kingfish. We had to help him so he wouldn’t lose it and he whined about that, too. They caught more than enough to get their fair share of excitement.
The lunch we served them, on the other hand, was a ‘little disappointing’ according to the discerning tastes of the oldest son, who was probably twelve or so. All in all, though, I suppose they were satisfied and had a good time. As satisfied as a snake lawyer from New York City and his two brats are going to get, anyway.
I shift in the captain’s chair on the bridge of our boat, the Harbinger, and it squeaks a little protest. I look at the few wispy clouds in the west that are now only a burnt orange and try to enjoy the beauty. Sipping on another ice cold Dos Equis that was going down good, I set the bottle back in the holder and resist finishing it just yet.
The big ice chest is down on the deck, which isn’t very convenient when you’re doing some serious beer drinking. It doesn’t matter, since this is my spot. I like sitting up here and looking around. Watching the weather, whatever it may be. Looking at the lights of Fort Meyers, the causeway over to Sanibel Island. I watch the people on the docks and on their boats. I can think better in the big chair.
As the light continues to fade, the pole and berth lights of the Marina are blinking on one by one. The rows of boats are gradually lit up. Some of these boats are just trophies. ‘Look at me’ boats, as we like to call them. They get used maybe three or four times a year by folks who don’t even live here. Just toys for people with money to burn. People who are really just grown children who get bored quickly. Other pleasure boats here, though, are at least out on the water almost every weekend. Then there’s boats like ours. Working boats.
Many are sitting quiet, still, and dark. There’s a number that still have crew guys washing them down, cleaning up and doing prep work for tomorrow’s business. Something Hicks and I don’t have. We’ve got a six hour charter booked for Wednesday of next week but nothing in between. And nothing after that. No email inquiries to answer, or phone messages to follow-up on. Zero.
And right on cue, my phone laying on the padded console next to me vibrates and the screen lights up. I finish my beer while standing to twist and stretch my back out a little. Definitely not answering, but I pick it up to look at the number displayed and recognize it immediately. Just not in the mood to talk to anybody right now, let alone my dad.
He’ll be wanting to talk about the customer we had today, whether we caught fish and whether the boat is ready to go for the next run. Was the customer happy and will he be back someday. Now, Hicks would have answered it with a smile on his face and he would have obliged my dad. He would have talked about the day. He’d play the game, say the right things but he would have glazed over the real issues.
Not me.
I grab my empty bottle and head down the metal rungs that I’ve gone down and up more times than I can count. Down on deck, I get another beer, open it and take a slug. I check the rods in their holders, open the clean bait wells, and check the tie downs…as if I’m going to find something out of order. Then I pace around the deck and talk to myself a little more.
Again, the phone hums and vibrates in my pocket. Dad wants to talk, and I feel guilty about that but the conversation that needs to be had, never happens. What Dad won’t want to talk about is how we need to advertise more, how the Harbinger needs a full refitting right down to the cracked vinyl seat I was sitting on up there. The boat basically needs new everything.
Back in the day, our business, Fish-On Charters, was one of the best in the Fort Meyers area. My father, Ben Tomlin, and Dan Ledoux, Hicks’ dad, had a winner. They were downright prophets when the named the boat Harbinger. Good things did come. The calendar was full. Hell, potential customers sometimes needed to be turned down and referred to one of the other charter boys out here. They made good money around these waters, and even better lege
nds.
That was a good fifteen, twenty years ago, though. Competition kept coming, not only in numbers of boats but in what they had to offer, the amenities, equipment and such. They caught up to our dads and then ran by them like they were standing still.
The phone stops and I try to hang up in my mind too. Maybe not think about this situation for a bit. Best I can do though is just push it back in the corner for now, because the problem is not going away. Bottom line, we’re damn near broke and the money won’t get spent to turn this thing around. I can see that coming as clear as any reef.
Heading back up the ladder to the bridge now. I settle back into the cracked vinyl chair again and sip the cold beer. Looking blankly at the dash of instruments and gauges, I remember that today we had a little glitch in the GPS that we’ll have to check out closer tomorrow. It’s always something, always.
I can feel my mood getting darker and I’m glad to be alone. Having no one else around, even Hicks, is just the way it needs to be sometimes.
Hicks is pretty much the only guy in this world I want to be around and we are almost always together, always have been. But earlier, when he headed over to Sanibel to hit a few of our haunts, I passed. Just one of those nights where I need to completely check out, I guess.
Three boat slips down, the big twin inboards of the Sea Witch cough and then rumble to life. Earl ‘Early’ Loomis is the owner and captain. He’s been running his charter business for over twenty years. An old friend of our fathers, as well as Hicks and I.
Early just bought that boat less than a year ago, a new Cabo that had been hardly used by the previous owner. The hours on it were so low that he must have paid top dollar. Not saying it isn’t worth it, but damn.
I can see him up on his bridge, but the light is fading fast now. As if he knew I was thinking about him, he does a half turn and waves, then salutes me. I salute him back. It’s a little routine we have and it at least brings a half smile to my face.
