by Barry Lyga
They were somewhere between lime and Kelly green, with modest-sized white polka dots both front and back. No telling stains or markings. At the sides, they were remarkably narrow, and G. William imagined that, to those who cared about such things, they would look fetching, cut high over a teenage thigh. It had been a long time since G. William had witnessed a teenage thigh, and he had no particular interest in thinking about them, but this was work.
He’d called the Reeds, thankfully getting the missus and not the mister. Deanna Reed had always been a dull, gray woman, and her daughter’s death had only deepened the shades of gray. Talking to her on the phone was like negotiating with a bucket of dishwater, but he eventually prized out of her the answers he needed: The underwear did not belong to Samantha. Not her brand, for one thing. Not her style at all, for another. G. William had no children, but he was positive that kids of a certain age would do things like buy underwear—especially slightly sexy underwear—without informing their parents.
“I do the laundry,” Deanna said. “I’ve always done the laundry. Samantha didn’t even know how. I realized I’d have to teach her before she went off to…college.”
G. William murmured comforting platitudes over the phone line, easing her through a series of choking sobs, then thanked her for her help and hung up.
This was a lead. A clue. His first.
It was his gut telling him so, again. Nothing that would stand up in court, of course. The panties could easily have been bought by Samantha on the sly or given to her by a friend. And maybe Deanna didn’t pay that much attention when doing the laundry. Or maybe her daughter had housekeeping skills that Deanna was unaware of. It was entirely possible that the underwear belonged to Dead Girl Two.
Except G. William’s gut knew that wasn’t true. It was too odd a detail. It was just too damned weird.
The killer had put them on her.
He had taken off whatever underwear she’d been wearing that day (if any…kids these days) and had raped her to his satisfaction, and then—for some reason—he’d slid these up her legs and snugged them at her hips, as if dressing a child.
G. William stared at the panties for what felt like hours, until he began to feel like a pervert. He’d heard that in Japan, there were vending machines where businessmen bought girls’ used panties. But then again, Japan was one of those places onto which people seemed to project their own peculiarities, so he didn’t know if it was true or just something people said.
In any event, he was certain there were no such vending machines anywhere near the Nod. So where had these panties come from? They didn’t look new—the elastic at the waist was stretched a bit, just slightly worn. Not brand-new. The killer hadn’t bought them expressly to put on Dead Girl Two. He’d acquired them some other way.
Stolen from someone? Rifling through someone else’s underwear drawer?
Made the most sense.
His wife’s? Sister’s?
No. Daughter. He has a daughter her age and he wants to, but he can’t, so he transfers the underwear, transferring the need and the sin? Can’t do the things he wants to do to his own kid, so he turns Dead Girl Two into a version of her.
That tracked.
So did something else. Something he avoided thinking. It flapped at him like a bat blinded by the light, panicking and screeching, and he swatted it away, but it kept coming back. Finally, it sank its teeth into him, and he stood from his desk and marched into the outer office.
“Going home to change those shoes?” Loralynn asked.
“Sure,” G. William said, and didn’t look back.
The Swinton house was preternaturally clean. Damned eerie, it was. As G. William spoke, Geraldine Swinton darted from surface to surface with a duster, whisking away microscopic motes with a ferocity that suggested a level of personal offense.
He thought of the mornings he’d woken up on the floor, in the bathtub, and he didn’t judge.
Everyone grieved in different ways, he supposed.
“I’m truly sorry for having to intrude on y’all,” G. William said, then paused. Geraldine’s incessant motion was making him ill. “Gerry,” he said quietly. He’d known her nigh on twenty years. “Gerry, won’t you please sit down, sweetheart?”
Geraldine Swinton batted at a speck of dust only she could see and stared down at the polished surface of the end table that obsessed her so. “I’m sorry. It’s just…the house is so filthy. Do you understand? It’s just absolutely wretched, and that’s not acceptable, you know?”
He thought of his pristine bed, undented by his bulk, the pillows fluffed to perfection weeks ago and then untouched.
“I know,” he told her.
He’d come here under the pretense of “just checking in.” A civil servant, looking after the needs of one of his constituents. He had a true reason, though, for the visit to Dead Girl One’s home, and he was avoiding it. The reason was on the smartphone tucked into his left hip pocket.
After some chitchat and after realizing that his heart couldn’t tolerate the ineffable, chaotic, yet pristine sadness of the Swinton house, G. William finally did what he’d come to do, what he absolutely did not want to do. Because once he asked the question, he’d have the answer, and the answer scared the bejesus out of him.
“Gerry, I need you to look at something for me.”
“Will this help?”
“Might could.”
She nodded and alighted on the sofa next to him. G. William hauled out his phone and showed her the photo he’d taken of the mystery underwear.
“Gerry, do you recog—”
“Those are Cara’s,” she whispered. “How did you find them?”
G. William’s gut gurgled and hissed, as if to say, I told you. I knew it. I knew it all along.
Chapter 7
He switched the underwear.
They still hadn’t found Dead Girl One’s body, but now they had her underwear, and G. William knew that when they did find her—probably out in the wild brush beyond town, maybe buried, maybe not—they would find her wearing Samantha Reed’s panties. And now they knew that both girls had been killed by the same man.
More accurately, G. William knew. He hadn’t told anyone yet.
At home, he splashed cold water on his face, throwing handfuls of the stuff at himself with a violence that nearly winded him. The bathroom was spattered and soaking in all directions—walls, floor. Droplets formed on the ceiling. He couldn’t get enough clean out of the tap and onto his face.
Not a serial killer, he thought. It’s not a serial killer. Serial killers have to kill three, with gaps between each one. There’s only two.
Unless…
No. It’s not a serial killer.
Unless there’s a third body you haven’t found.
No.
Unless there’s a third body yet to come.
No.
It couldn’t be a serial killer. He wouldn’t let it be a serial killer. Serial killers meant task forces and manhunts and all manner of insanity. Hunting a serial killer was like tracking prey through the forest, only the forest kept changing and the prey was just as smart as you.
He looked up in the mirror. Dripping face. Uniform drenched through.
“Don’t let this be happening to me,” he said aloud, his own voice foreign.
It’s axiomatic in police work that a clue is better than no clue, but this one…
How could this help?
There was still no other evidence. Nothing to use. Nothing to exploit. He knew only that the girls had been killed by the same person (or—ah, shit—people, working in concert). Nothing more. There was still no trace evidence on Dead Girl Two. No clues as to Dead Girl One except for that bit of hair, that bit of sweater, that spot of blood, and that naked iPhone.
Having this single clue was even worse than having nothing. He’d spent the past several weeks grinding through the case files, convincing himself that within lurked the clue that would crack the case wide open. And here he’d found a
clue, and the case remained resolutely, imperviously shut.
Maybe it had been the ghost of old Étienne LeBeau after all. Come back after all these years for a new banquet of the young flesh he’d enjoyed so much in life. Haunting his Nod, laughing all the while.
The villains get the last laugh. Because at the end of the day, we all die. Good, bad, indifferent, we all die, and fucking Death just grins his bare, Reaper’s grin and says nothing because there’s nothing worth saying. In a ditch on the outskirts of town, in a hospice bed unconscious and fidgeting from morphine, it makes no difference. Not at all.
He fumbled in the pantry, shoving aside bottles of olive oil and vinegar, looking for the half-full bottle of Jameson he’d stashed there after an anniversary party. They drank only socially, rarely when just the two of them, and liquor had a long shelf life. He never thought of that bottle, but now he could think of nothing but it. Being drunk was no better than being sober, but it was sure as shit no worse.
I can’t do it. I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry, Joyce. I can’t do it. I’m supposed to be strong, I know, but I ain’t. I just ain’t. Not strong enough. They took you away from me, and now they’re gonna take everything else, too, and I just can’t. I can’t.
The gun was heavy on his hip. He’d never been able to pull the trigger, but he suspected if he got drunk enough, he might. It could even be an accident. Slip of the trigger finger.
Either way, better than living in this godforsaken world.
The bottle—in defiance of his recollection—was not half full, but only contained a shot’s worth. Not nearly enough to inebriate a man of G. William’s impressive bulk. He stared at it, sighed, then hunted for his car keys.
He dressed in civvies, drove his personal vehicle. Didn’t want people seeing a police car parked outside Roscoe’s. Not that he thought it would impact his chances at the polls in a few days—the election was as good as over. Assuming G. William survived the night, he wouldn’t survive the challenge in any event. How do you go to people wondering about your fitness for law enforcement and say, “Give me another chance—I found a clue! I don’t know what to do with it, and it’s not going to help us, but I found it!”
He ordered a beer and sat in a booth toward the back. It was a weeknight, so Roscoe’s was only sparsely attended. G. William noticed a couple of college-age kids who he knew to be underage, but he didn’t have the energy or the wherewithal to bust them or the bartender.
World’s tough enough. We could all use a drink every now and again.
Speaking of which…he nursed the beer. He was in no hurry. Roscoe’s closed at two AM, and it was barely ten. He had plenty of time to sit there and slowly slip into a drunken stupor.
And then what? Risk someone else’s life driving so that you can shoot yourself in the comfort of your own home?
Don’t get ahead of yourself. Haven’t decided to do it yet.
Haven’t you?
He took another pull at the beer. It was smooth and sour and bitter all at once, and he wondered why he didn’t do this more often.
Had the killer sat in a place like Roscoe’s (hell, maybe in Roscoe’s?) and nursed a beer like this, lurking in a shadowy corner, watching the pretty girls?
You watch long enough, and you start thinkin’ it ain’t enough. You start thinkin’ maybe you deserve more than a look.
He gritted his teeth.
You start thinkin’ things like “Why do they show all that skin, ’ less they want me to look? Why do they flaunt it and flash it, ’ less they want me to touch? But they got all these forces working on them, telling them not to let me look, not to let me touch. So you just have to overcome that. That’s part of the game, part of the struggle.”
And then maybe it becomes the whole point.
He was grinding his teeth. He polished off the beer. He couldn’t tell if the alcohol was making it worse or better. Two girls playing pool in the corner, one in a denim skirt that flashed a tempting triangle of shadow every time she leaned in to shoot, both of them flirting with two older guys at a booth. And G. William wanted to go to them, to tell them, For God’s sake, do you have any idea what you’re doing? What could happen? Do you know what they’re thinking?
Do you know what I’m thinking?
He’d had no interest in sex since Joyce died. But he was human.
That’s what the killer’s thinking. What he thought. “I’m human. I got needs.”
That’s what the killer thinks, and now I’m thinking it, too. He’s fucking poisoned me without even touching me. Maybe it is time to sweep in the new. Maybe I’m just too toxic and too old.
Pinching the bridge of his misshapen nose, G. William sighed heavily. The scary thing about impulses, about yearnings, was that sometimes it was damn difficult to see the line where they transmogrified into lunacy. They often tiptoed in, sneaking up on you unawares, well concealed in the guise of innocent fantasy or some other pleasantry.
“Hey, Sheriff? You here for the—whatchacallit?—ambience? Or can I buy you a drink?”
G. William looked up to see Billy Dent standing over him, and a sense of relief filled him. Something about Billy’s easygoing nature, his pure born-and-raised-in-the-Nod candor.
“Just thinkin’, Billy.” G. William hesitated. It would only be polite to invite Billy to sit down, but a part of him still wanted to be alone.
With an easy, practiced gesture, Billy caught the attention of Maribeth, Roscoe’s sole waitress. “Darlin’, bring me my usual and one more of the sheriff’s, will ya? On me.” And with that, he slid into the booth across from G. William. His blue eyes sparkled as he steepled his fingers. Billy Dent had a way of getting what he wanted, a talent G. William dearly wished he’d cultivated. “So, Sheriff. I see them beatin’ you up somethin’ fierce in the press. I hope you’re not paying it no nevermind.”
With a rueful smile, G. William shook his head. “In a few days, it won’t be my problem anymore.”
“That don’t sound like a man ready to go down fighting.”
“I’ve been fighting a hell of a long time, Billy.”
“Gotta keep doing it.”
“Joyce used to say: ‘All you have to do is wake up in the morning and go to bed at night. Everything else is optional.’”
Billy clucked his tongue and nodded thoughtfully. “True. But you know, sometimes the fight itself is worthwhile, even if the prize at the end ain’t.”
G. William opened his mouth to speak and stopped when Maribeth set a sweating beer bottle before him and a glass of something murky in front of Billy. He was grateful for the interruption; Billy was a good man, but it wouldn’t do to be discussing the case or his electoral problems with him.
Maribeth barely noticed G. William, taking a moment to chat with Billy before turning and heading back to the bar, tossing her hips just a bit more than was strictly necessary for basic locomotion. Billy’s gaze lingered just a moment longer than G. William’s own. “Been a while, eh?”
Billy straightened in his seat as though guilty of something. “Sorry. Lost in thought. I got a sister named Samantha. Guess this last one’s on my mind a lot.” He held up his drink. “Here’s to reelection.”
G. William grunted and clinked his beer bottle. “Sure. Why not?”
They drank.
“People around here are forgiving types, Sheriff. They know you can’t do everything, solve every crime, save every life. You’ve done well by them for a long, long time. My momma says you’re the best sheriff this town’s ever had. And she’s been here a damn long time.”
“Well, tell your momma I appreciate her confidence.” He sucked at the beer bottle again. He was just beginning to buzz, and it felt good and wrong at the same time. “Tell me: How old’s that boy of yours now?”
Billy drank, too. They were close to dry, and he signaled to Maribeth for two more. “Jasper? Almost fourteen.”
“You know, I always liked the way he took to that poor Gersten boy. It’s a credit to you and Jani
ce.” G. William realized what he’d just said. “Ah, hell. Sorry, Billy.”
Billy waved it off, but G. William detected real regret in his expression. “It’s okay, Sheriff. She’s been gone more’n five years. Eventually, I gotta get used to it.”
Five years. Jesus. And still getting used to it. “How long do you think it takes?” He hated the tone of desperation in his voice. “To get used to it.”
Billy shook his head sadly. “When I figure it out, I’ll tell you.”
Maribeth brought the new drinks. They raised them.
“To women who deserved better than us,” Billy said, a generous sentiment considering his wife had run off.
“Amen.” G. William clinked, and they drank again. He felt warm and almost invisible back here in the booth, isolated. No one was even looking in his direction, except for Billy, with those almost-too-blue eyes.
Billy belched. “Mind my asking—I’ve always wondered. What’s the G stand for?”
G. William clucked his tongue. He’d managed to do a good job keeping that one under wraps. Small-town folk were good folk, but he didn’t expect them to understand his mother’s whims. Even Joyce had called him “G. William” rather than by his Christian name.
Ah, what the hell. It was Billy. He chuckled. “Gareth.”
“Gareth?” Billy repeated with an expression of mingled delight and bafflement.
“It’s a perfectly good name,” G. William shot back.
Billy held up a defensive hand and laughed. “No argument from me. My momma gave me Cornelius.”
“At least she had the decency to make it your middle name.”
“Well, yeah.” He scratched his head. “Gareth. Really?”
“It’s from the story of King Arthur. Pretty sure that’s the only book my mother ever read, but she knew it back and forth.”
They laughed together and drank some more. “I see you’re letting your hair grow back,” G. William commented. A while back, Billy had surprised folks in town with a bald head.
Now Billy ran a hand over his stubbled pate. “Yeah. Saw some fella on TV had it bald. Thought it might look good on me,” he said with a snicker. “Thought wrong.”
