Trial by Twelve

by Heather Day Gilbert

  Stella sniffs and jerks her head my way, like a queen trying not to notice a peasant.

  Definitely time for me to leave. I really hope Thomas has something agreeable to discuss, or else this day is going to end even worse than it began.

  10

  I HAVE APPLIED FOR so many jobs and the response is always “You’re overqualified.” I tell them “Better overqualified than underqualified,” but they usually show me the door. I would work in a McDonald’s if I had to, but the local one isn’t hiring since teens on summer break commandeered all the positions.

  Hard to believe you’re a teenager. I’m sorry I forgot your birthday but these dates are so trivial in the grand scheme of things, wouldn’t you say? I hope your new foster family celebrated with you. Just look at it this way: every year is one year closer to sixteen, when I will bring you to live with me. And we’ll hunt! Don’t forget to keep practicing. I know I harp on this, but I would hate for your natural talent to go to waste.

  You’ve always been quite gifted. Be sure to read extensively, on top of your school assignments. I’d love to discuss philosophers or poets with you when we meet again.

  BY THE TIME THOMAS gets home, I’ve changed to my favorite light blue pajamas and cut up a salad to go with our subs. A freshly-bathed Mira Brooke is safely ensconced with my in-laws for the evening. I can’t imagine Stella spending any time with our little munchkin, but I have been pleasantly surprised by Andrew’s girlfriends before.

  After a quick peck, Thomas goes up to our room to change and unload his Smith & Wesson .45. When he comes downstairs in his plaid pj pants and tank T-shirt, I can’t take my eyes from his gold-tan skin.

  I squeeze his bicep. “Woah, baby. You been working out?”

  He gives me a wink. “Trying to. I hate to say this, but maybe we’d better eat and talk first. But after that…who knows?” He pulls me into a tight hug and gives me a full, sensual kiss that leaves my lips tingling. “I just know you’ll want to be aware of what’s going on.”

  I slowly pull out of his embrace. “What’s going on? Uh-oh. Is this heavy stuff? You’d better start talking.”

  As we get our food and settle on the couch, Thomas tells me he’s been offered the county prosecuting attorney position. The job opened sooner than expected because the current prosecutor died of a heart attack yesterday and he was only elected last year. There are three and a half more years left of his term.

  “Tess, you know how we’ve been praying for direction for me? I feel like God is dropping this in my lap. I know it’ll be a longer commute, but it’s hardly grueling.”

  “Oh, honey! This would be amazing. How’s the pay? The hours?”

  The more Thomas tells me, the more I’m in awe. I’ve been praying for a new job for him, but didn’t really believe anything would come through. A dark voice inside me says this only happened because Thomas was praying for it. When he prays, mountains seem to move. When I pray, things tend to get worse. Or—even more unbearably—nothing happens at all. I should probably start praying for patience, on top of a healthy dose of faith.

  We celebrate by cracking open a bottle of sparkling cider left over from Mira Brooke’s first birthday party. I fill Thomas in on the latest happenings at the Crystal Mountain Spa, including my decision to spy for Detective Tucker. He scrunches his eyebrows together, trying to reconcile the notion of me throwing myself in danger’s path with his desire to look good for Detective Tucker. My safety wins out.

  “You don’t have to do this. Shoot, let him ask Dani. She doesn’t have kids. To be honest, I don’t care if you never go back to work there. All that Yanni music and henna tattoos and orange peel massages.”

  I laugh. “There are no orange peel massages, silly. Bamboo, but not orange peel.” I rub his shoulders. “I feel like I should help. This psycho is targeting women, and one of them was your mom’s age.”

  “And they could be your age, too. You’re right up in the epicenter, where all the bodies are. This feels creepy and all wrong.”

  I take our dishes over to the dishwasher and load some decaf coffee in our French press. Thomas is right about one thing—something is all wrong. I can’t put my finger on it, but things aren’t what they seem at the Crystal Mountain Spa.

  AFTER I TUCK MIRA BROOKE in bed, Thomas heads over to the big house to visit with Andrew and Stella. I’m in the middle of Rear Window when Dani calls. Between the luminous, well-costumed perfection of Grace Kelly and the relentless plotline, I’m a sucker for this movie.

  “I talked with Detective Tucker today. I’m getting a modified work schedule together. We’ll talk about it tomorrow afternoon. You want to bring your suit and get some laps in? I know you love swimming and we’d have the pool to ourselves. I could fire up the sauna, too. I need to sweat out all this stress.”

  Dani knows me well. I love swimming, any time of day, any temperature pool. As a teen, I escaped to the outdoor pool near our trailer park every chance I could. I learned the easiest way to adjust to the ever-chilly water was to dive in and swim as if my life depended on it. Not a bad life philosophy, come to think of it.

  “Sure. Will do. Thanks. I’ll be glad to see you.” Silence falls on the other end. “Dani? You there?”

  “Sorry, yes. I’m here. Just have a lot on my mind and I don’t want anyone else to get—”

  “I know. Me neither. Well, I’ll watch your back, and you watch mine.” There’s another pause. “Or not,” I joke.

  “No, Tess, I promise I’ll have your back. See you tomorrow.”

  VELVET STALKS MY FEET as I make coffee, and I wish I could sit on the couch with the kitty and savor the morning. I don’t want to wake Mira Brooke, who finally tossed into a sweat-coated sleep somewhere around 3 a.m. We need to bite the bullet and buy an air-conditioner unit for these sweltery summer nights. Our little cottage is far from climate-controlled, with its hit-and-miss insulation and old windows. But it’s bigger than a trailer and it’s set on the ground. What more could a girl ask?

  I rub frizz control serum on my hair, since the humidity charges its straight texture with a bit of unwanted oomph. I’ve let my short bob grow out to my shoulders and I can’t tell if Thomas likes it this length. He’s pretty enigmatic about his hair preferences, but seems to like just about anything I do, as long as I keep it brown.

  I remember my mom growing her hair out nearly to her waist, saying “men like it better this way.” I wish she’d spent less time trying to please men who didn’t love her. Probably one of those leeches got her into selling prescription meds and then fled the scene when she got hauled off to prison.

  Feeling festive for the Fourth, I pick out some denim trouser pants and a red paisley blouse that will cover my Glock. I roll Mira Brooke up into my arms, grab her diaper bag, and head up to the big house. She’ll probably snuggle up with Nikki Jo for a little extra sleep.

  By the time I get to the spa, not only Byron’s van, but two police cars and a sedan with painted rust spots sit in the parking lot. Tawny Creeden steps out, all business in a boxy nineties suit.

  “Mrs. Spencer. I hoped I would run into you. We need to talk.”

  Byron lounges in an Adirondack chair on the front porch. He proffers an encouraging wave. Who knows how long he’s been here? He’s either an early bird or voraciously nosy.

  I speed-walk to the front door, planning to unlock it, zip inside, and lock it again—with or without Byron. I should leave him outside with the intrepid reporter. I still don’t believe there’s any serious computer work left to do.

  As I insert the key, Tawny gets desperate and grabs my sleeve. I place my hand on my gun so she doesn’t accidentally touch that next. Her eyes widen and she steps back.

  I smile. “Miss Creeden. As I recall, both my boss and the lead detective said we are not at liberty to discuss this case.”

  Tawny tugs at one of her naturally ombré strands of hair, processing my comment. “So you’re saying the case is still ongoing?”

  I’ll giv
e her that much. “Yes. So you need to leave.”

  She glances at Byron, who’s scrolling up his phone screen, effectively ignoring us. “Right, sure. I might just stay here in the parking lot until the detective comes out, though. Would that be okay?”

  If she wants a run-in with Detective Tucker, I’ll leave her to it. “Knock yourself out.”

  “Thanks.” She strides off, her obviously-new heels slipping and flapping at the gravel. That girl has some courage, I’ll give her that. Probably par for her job.

  Byron springs into action, stashing his phone in his fitted jacket pocket and grabbing his messenger bag. Is it just me or does he look all dressed up today?

  He grins. “Close encounter, eh?”

  “I didn’t think you were aware of what was going on, with your nose buried in that phone.”

  “I’m hurt, Tess.”

  I don’t like the way he says my name. I fumble at the lock a moment longer than I should. When I flip the lights, I glance around the cozy wood interior of the reception room that feels strangely sterile. I’m starting to miss Dani’s candlelit, musical ambiance in here. Besides, I had just about memorized all the lyrics to Enya’s songs, even the unintelligible ones.

  Byron starts chattering as I type in the computer password. “Read any great books lately? Call me a lightweight, but I just discovered Wodehouse and I can’t get enough Jeeves and Wooster. Classics in their own right, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Sure. I actually prefer my classics on the lighter side, like Hawthorne or Hardy.” I wait, wondering if he’ll pick up on my irony or if he’s a rehearsed fake.

  He laughs. “Light like your Plath obsession, eh?”

  So he does know his classics. But I still feel this guy is hiding something. Maybe he’s Canadian with that “eh,” but that’s hardly the kind of secret I’m worried about.

  Detective Tucker ambles down the hallway, giving Byron a once-over before motioning to me. I follow him back to the hair salon, our unofficial war room. The police must be working fast if he already has news on the body. He doesn’t even have to say what he’s thinking, because it’s written all over his face: the killer will probably strike again soon.

  11

  I GOT HIRED TODAY, working as a stocker at Woolworth’s. I’m not sure about working for a woman boss, but Julie seems reasonably well-educated. I am going to try to fit in at my first blue-collar job. I’ve even bought some T-shirts and jeans—can you imagine? Even when I hunt I wear old khakis so it is definitely a stretch for me. I’ll be in the back room all the time, never out on the sales floor when people are around. I like to think of myself as a hidden treasure. Maybe I’ll work my way up.

  Your new foster family never writes to me, like Karen did. I wonder how she is doing. Do you ever speak with her? She wasn’t married, was she? That would explain her naïveté about married relationships like your mother’s and mine. But she saw your potential, and for that I’m grateful. I hope the family you are with now appreciates you.

  I have actually moved into Hope’s Grove Commune, where we share income, grow our own food, and support one another in tangible ways. I don’t think you have written me lately, but please note the new address on the envelope for future reference. Don’t worry. By the time you come to live with me, I will have saved up enough for an apartment again, though perhaps you would enjoy commune life. Your mother would deem it wildly inappropriate, the way both genders network and mesh around here.

  I am, by nature, a more reticent person, but I have found that I have been able to contribute to the greater good many times, even if it’s just sharing a lesson in philosophy when people gather around the fire pit at night. I think many happy memories will be made here at Hope’s Grove.

  DETECTIVE TUCKER BRINGS me up to date on the investigation. “The arrow is nondescript—just a regular carbon arrow, could have been bought anywhere in the country. But we’re finding out more about the skeletons.” He pauses, probably not sure I want to hear more.

  “Go on,” I encourage, bracing my stomach for more gruesome news.

  “These women had been reported missing, from various states, starting about twenty-four years ago. Most—but not all—of them were married, white, aged anywhere from twenties to fifties. No unifying hair color, size, or job, so that’s not our link. But there’s always a link with these serial killers, even if they’re trying to be random. Something always drives them to choose who they do, even if it’s only because that person seems like an easy target.”

  “That motorcyclist seemed very independent and she was separated from her husband.”

  “Good thought. We’ll check up on the separation angle. Not sure how to establish what their dispositions were, but we’ll talk to some of the remaining husbands. You’re right, though, it could be a personality trait that drew him. And I’m saying ‘him,’ but I’m not entirely sure it’s a man yet.”

  “Aren’t serial killers usually men?” I seem to recall that from CSI shows.

  “Usually. But not universally. I’ve heard male and female serial killers often have different motivations. All the more reason to try and understand the link between these victims.” He works his mouth, but there’s no chew in it. He sighs, pulls a piece of bright green gum from his pocket, and pops it in. “That’s all I have now. I filled Ms. Gibson in on the bodies yesterday, since it’s her spa and her decision if she wants to close it up for a while. She’s not married, is she?”

  Somehow, I’ve never gotten around to discussing Dani’s dating life with her. She appears very transparent, offering up tidbits about her healthy eating habits, her dreams for the spa…but when I ask personal questions, she changes topic so cleverly, I never even know she’s doing it.

  “I don’t think so. I’ll find out, maybe today after work.”

  “Right. Well, this will be my last day officially on-site. The bodies are in the medical examiner’s office, and I’m just supervising the final clean-up. I’ll stake out the woods on my own time. But for now, I want you staying out of them. Park as close to the building as possible. Also, try to leave with someone every day. Don’t be alone—even though I know you’re carrying.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “You walk a little stiffer with that gun on you. Try to pretend like it’s part of your body.”

  I feel self-conscious, like a total newbie. “Thanks. Will do.”

  “That Byron out there interests me. He keeps showing up here early. You heard of criminals who inject themselves into the investigation? Return to the scene of the crime, that kind of thing? He gets my dander up.”

  “Me too. I’ll let you know if he says anything.”

  Detective Tucker and I nod at each other and split up in the hallway. A flicker in the massage room draws me to it—did Teeny show up again and light candles? When I push open the door and turn on the light, the room looks empty. Great, now I’m seeing things.

  Byron is still set up at my computer. As I walk in, he catches my eye. “Tess, could you come here a second?” He points at the screen as I come closer. “See this? This is what has taken all my time.”

  Even as he tells me what I’m looking at, I get the strong impression he’s lying just to get me to stand next to him. I should have read up on computer lingo and whipped out some of that to shut him down faster.

  At the conclusion of his monologue, he gives me a brilliant smile. “So that’s what I was dealing with and I’m all finished. I think we need a drink, you and I. This has been a truckload of work and I know everyone else is off.”

  Those last words send a shiver down my arms. “Actually, I don’t drink. And I’m meeting someone here today.”

  His smile wavers. “Surely we could do something to celebrate? Any food in that kitchen back there?”

  As he loads his things, I notice again how fitted his clothes are, making it clear he must work out like a maniac. He’s probably quite strong, which isn’t comforting in the least. I don’t like his familiarity with this
building, much less his suggestion we scrounge up a celebratory lunch. He’s pushing himself at me.

  “No, I don’t think my boss would appreciate that. She’ll be here soon. In fact, you might want to explain those repairs to her, so she’s ready for the bill.” I give a short laugh.

  He looks genuinely disappointed, like a child who didn’t receive the one Christmas present he begged for. “Of course I’d do that, but I should get back to the office before my boss calls. Are you ever in town?”

  I point to my ring finger. “Married. So I would never be in town with you.”

  Byron finally seems to take the hint, but as he brushes past me, his fingers catch my arm and he whispers in my ear. “Should you ever want to talk sad poets, Tess Spencer, you know where to find me.”

  He adjusts his glasses, leveling a suggestive blue gaze at me, which I try to return in daggers. I watch out the window until his van slowly pulls away. The police cars have gone, as has Detective Tucker’s distinctive Hummer. The only car in the lot is my red SUV.

  I move away from the windows, dropping into an oversized leather chair in the corner. I take my Glock out and set it on the table next to me, aimed at the front door. One thing’s for doggone sure: if that killer shows up here, I’m not going down without a fight.

  12

  THE FEMALE PSYCHE IS indeed a mystery best not pondered by the male gender. From the pot-sotted women in the commune to Julie at work, I’d rather avoid them altogether. One thing is screaming obvious: they are all so needy. Julie tries to domineer over me like a mother hen. The commune women are desperate for any male attention, which I find revolting. Your mother wasn’t the only one of her kind, it would seem.

  I find myself daydreaming about the soft leaves and the earthy smell of my great-grandpa’s land. That moment of decision before I let the arrow fly. That tang of deer blood spilled on the snow. Hunting is cathartic.