by Peggy Dulle
“Stop crying over old wounds and discarded lives,” I told myself. Then I finished my tea, removed my uniform, locked up my gun and hardware, and crawled into bed. I hate water and I knew that trudging around in the rain for hours tonight might bring up memories of my near drowning as a child when I decided I was smarter than my parents and took an inner tube ride down a river rushing fast from the spring melt. But, more than likely, it would be about my struggle to get out of the wet ditch the Jackal had put me in to die.
As soon as I fell asleep, I drifted back to the days our team had spent in Texas.
Within two hours, John, Sheryl, William and I were on our way. During the flight, I counted nine times that William called me Constance. That was good since I planned to shoot him on the tenth.
It wasn't that I didn't like the name. In fact, my grandmother had called me that from the time I could remember until she died. And every time I heard the name it reopened the anguish in my heart caused by her death. Constance was a special name reserved just for the wonderful relationship I had with her. I didn't like anyone else using it.
By the time we arrived, the Jackal had kidnapped a fourth woman and the bodies of the other three still hadn’t been located. Dry Creek was in north central Texas, surrounded by woods and lakes. Dry Creek Lake had at least a million places that would make good dump sites, so finding the bodies wouldn’t be easy. And we were running against the clock since after a fifth victim, the Jackal would move on to another city.
For the first twenty-four hours, John, Sheryl, William, and I trudged through miles and miles of wooded areas, searching for the dump site of the first three victims' bodies. It was hot, humid, and exhausting. My stomach was in constant turmoil as the hours ticked by and we were no closer to catching the Jackal.
On the evening of the second day, I called Matthew.
“I wish I could come myself, Connie. But I'm right in the middle of testifying to the grand jury on the Wilcox murders.”
“Just send me some more agents, Matthew,” I pleaded.
“I can't spare many. We're stretched pretty thin these days.”
“I'll take whatever I can get. We need to find the dump site as quickly as possible. I think the only way we're going to catch the Jackal is if we stake out his dump site.”
“Okay, I'll send as many as I can. Do you think you're reading the clues wrong?”
I let out a small laugh, despite my weariness. It felt good after that frustration and irritation of the last two days.
“You sound tired, Connie,” he continued, the concern clearly evident in his voice.
“I am. I don't think I've gotten more than an hour of sleep in the last two days.” I didn't mention that I hadn't been able to keep any food down either. Even the smell of food made my stomach roll with nausea.
“You sound more than just tired,” Matthew's voice was full of trepidation.
“I've picked up some kind of flu here, that's all. I'm okay, really.”
“Then catch this guy and get home, Connie. I miss my partner to bounce ideas off of.”
“I miss you, too,” I said, then added. “I love you, Matthew.”
“Me, too.”
Matthew was true to his word. He flew every available agent within a hundred miles to Dry Creek. It only amounted to fifteen agents, but I was glad for the extra help.
John Carpenter stayed at the command center and coordinated the search. Sheryl worked her magic on the computers and searched for links between the victims. William and I trudged side-by-side through the miles of forest that lined the lakes in over a hundred degree temperatures with at least eighty percent humidity. Hell was probably a cooler place.
“God I hate this place,” I told William, as I slapped at a mosquito that tried to lunch on me.
“Why don't we rest up a bit, Constance?”
“No, he's got his fourth woman and we've got to locate his dump site if we want to have any chance of finding her alive, since his M.O. is to slice them up and bury them in a shallow grave to die.” I stomped deeper into the undergrowth. The thought of three dead women and the fourth who probably was slipping away churned the bile in my empty stomach. I fought down the emotion and the desire to vomit.
I felt William's hand on my arm. I jerked it away.
“You don't look good, Constance. You need to rest.”
Taking a deep breath to settle the explosion that simmered just under the surface of my barely contained emotions, I said. “I'm fine, William. We find the girl alive and I'll look better.”
Another twenty-four hours of searching and we still hadn't found the dump site. I knew the fourth was dead by now. We hadn't gotten to her soon enough. One day left to catch the Jackal before he grabbed his fifth victim, and be gone. He always began and ended his killing spree in a period of a week. Two hours before dawn on the seventh day, I fell asleep with my head on the table in the conference room given to us by the local cops.
A tap on my shoulder startled me awake. “What?”
“Constance, why don't you go back to the hotel and get some decent sleep?” William bent over me.
I sat up and spit the words out. “I'm fine.”
“No, you're exhausted. And tired agents make mistakes. Besides, you look a little pale.” He put his hand up to stop my objection. “You know it, I know it. Just take a couple of hours, lie down, and get some rest. We all need to be at the top of our game.”
“You haven't slept!” I snapped.
He raised his eyebrows at the screech in my voice.
“I'm fine.” I stuck my hand out for the file he held.
He pulled it back. “Not until you get some sleep. You're useless like this.” I started to object but he continued, “Connie, you're the best agent I've ever worked with, but you're tired. Get some rest and then we'll go after this guy.”
The use of my real name startled me -- it was the first time he had actually said it. He was right and I knew it. I was exhausted, barely able to hold my head up, let alone think clearly. And I was queasy from what the stress was doing to my digestive system. But I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of saying so.
“Fine, Bill,” I teased, using the informal version of his name. “I'll take an hour, but then I'll be back.”
He smiled. “Good.”
I stormed out of the station, got on the freeway and headed toward DFW: the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport. We had secured several rooms at an airport hotel, although I hadn't spent any time there. Twenty minutes later, I set the alarm, crawled into bed, and was asleep immediately.
When the radio startled me awake in two hours, I was still exhausted. I dragged myself out of bed, took a quick shower, changed my clothes, and left the hotel. When I got to my car, the front right tire was flat.
“Damn it!” I cussed under my breath. I knelt down between my small white rental car and the huge Suburban that sat next to it. As I examined the tire, I shook my head. I wondered why the world seemed to conspire against me when things were going wrong. Then a jolt of pain shot through my neck, and the world went black.
Slowly I came to. Every part of my body ached and throbbed as excruciating pain hammered through my chest. But the pain wasn't the worst part. Dirt and water covered my face, and I choked and gagged. I turned my face from side to side, spit and tried to take a gulp of air. Mud flowed down my cheeks and into my throat. I struggled to get out of my premature grave.
As I thrashed back and forth, I stretched my neck and finally displaced enough of the mud so that my mouth was exposed. I inhaled several times, gasping to pull the air into my lungs. I took in a deep breath, held it, and tried to free my arms, but the mud held firm. I didn't have the strength to move the dirt that pinned my body down and surrounded my head.
I couldn't move but I could see the star filled sky, just like at home when I sat on the back porch with my dad. Death was still coming, but at least I wasn't going to drown. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Each breath brought a wave o
f intense pain in my chest. It was agonizing and I drifted in and out of consciousness. As time passed, I fought less and less to breathe. My grandmother's face came to my mind. She smiled at me. It would be nice to see her again and to listen to the wonderful stories she used to tell me about her life. Finally, I let go.
The next voice I heard was William's.
“Constance. Constance. Connie!” The panic was evident in his voice; it elevated with each word.
My strength was gone. My eyes were closed.
I whispered. “Leave me alone.”
“Get your ass out of that hole, Constance!”
“No.” I snapped my eyes opened and glared at him.
He smiled. “Hello, Constance.”
“Hello, William,” I frowned. “What took you so long?”
The world went black and, unlike the actual event, in my nightmare I always returned to the watery grave. The dream cycled over and over again, if I didn't stop it.
The cycle was broken by something wet and rough on my face. I shot up in bed, screaming. Cheezy went flying off my bed, clawed the hardwood floor to get traction, and then slammed her body against the door jam running to escape. My nightgown was drenched with sweat and the panic attack came like a wave barreling through my body. My hands trembled, every muscle in my body tightened, my pulse raced as my breathing became shallower. I gulped for air.
Count! “One, two, three…” Concentrate on each breath. Remember the techniques they taught you at the hospital. My mind slipped to William's face. “No!” I shouted. Don't use him as your crutch.
As I closed my eyes, I pictured a running river, careening out of control. Then the river flowed into a creek, the water began to slow down in smaller and smaller increments. Finally the water stopped and the panic attack subsided.
I slid my feet to the floor, pulling the coolness of the wood into my body. In the shower, I let the hot water soothe the taut muscles and rinse away the residuals from the anxiety attack. When the water turned cold, I dried off and crawled back in bed. Cheezy jumped on the bed and snuggled next to me.
“That was a bad one, huh girl? Sorry.” I petted her. “Thanks for waking me up. Maybe I should get some padding for the walls and door jams in here for you?”
Since I had gotten in so late, I slept in. Besides, it was Saturday and even though I still planned on going into the station, I could take a few hours off. When I finally stepped outside, the air smelled fresh and clean from the recent rain and sunlight filtered through high drifting white clouds. It warmed the back of my neck and brought a huge smile to my face. The day was already a step up from the last three. Hopefully there would be no more broken levees.
It was almost ten when I stopped at my usual eatery, the Get Away Diner. It had a U-shaped counter, circa the 60's, that swept around an area housing the cash register, milk shake machine, revolving pie case and soda fountain. Around the back of the restaurant were several red leather high-backed booths. Stainless steel square tables, each with four chairs and red patent leather cushions, adorned the front by the windows.
As I came into the diner, I took in a deep breath, letting the smell of sizzling meat and onions assail my nostrils. A classic Johnny Cash tune was playing on the jukebox.
As usual, Ron was at the counter. His crew cut of dense black hair was tucked under a red, white, and blue bandana. He wasn't tall, maybe 5-8 or 9, but was two hundred pounds of pure muscle. His wife Erma's physical statistics were the same, except her weight came from enjoying the wonderful desserts she concocted every day.
He waved as I came in the door.
“Morning, Chief,” Ron called out. “The usual?”
“Of course.” I smiled. “Why mess with perfection?”
Erma came out from the swinging doors to the kitchen. “Chief, you've got to try some of my new eggs and fried potatoes.”
No one called me by my name, just Chief. “I like your usual food, Erma.”
“But I learned a new way to fix them.”
“Is that all you do when you and Ron take off for a few days or weeks? Learn how to cook food in a different way?” I asked.
“Yes. Last week we were in New Mexico and I found some new ways to cook potatoes and eggs.”
“It's her new specialty.” Ron beamed with pride. "We call it Erma's Potato Eggsplosion!"
“Every time you come back from a trip, you've got a new specialty. Why don't you two go on a vacation and enjoy an amusement park or camp in a beautiful forest?”
“Nope.” Ron smiled. “We like watching people cook.”
“Come on, Chief. Try the new eggs and potatoes,” Erma pleaded. “If you try them, other people will too.”
“Fine, make me the guinea pig.” I laughed and took my usual booth, my back to the kitchen so I could see who came in the front and back doors. Once a cop, always a cop.
While I waited for my breakfast, Ron brought me a cup of tea. Doc Sloter came in and slid into the booth with me. He was tall, over fifty, with black hair graying at his temples. He was born in Arroyo but left, like I did. First he went to the state university, then medical school in Los Angeles, and then worked at several hospitals in four states. But eventually he came back. He always looked like a doctor because he wore a white lab coat over his street clothes of khaki pants and a brightly colored polo shirt. Today's was red.
“Hey, I hear you're our hero.” He smiled.
“Why?” I asked, as I sipped my tea.
“You saved the town from drowning.”
“I don't think the water would have gotten this far, Doc.”
“That's not what I hear.”
“Well, the gossip is a little off this morning. Joe Garza’s and the Ramirez’ fields were flooded, that's all.”
“I'll set the people straight. I did hear through the gossip network that Mayor Benson was looking for you this morning.” Doc gave me a sardonic smile.
I rolled my eyes. “Great.”
“I sent word that you were out at the bridge looking over the river,” Doc said.
That brightened my mood considerably. Mayor Benson would spend hours looking for me and hopefully by the time he returned I would be out on a call.
“I've got a new procedure for scar removal. You want to try it?”
I touched the top button of my shirt which didn’t quite cover the crest of my scar. “No, Doc. I might be Erma's guinea pig, but I'm not letting anyone, not even you, take a knife to me again.”
“I wouldn't be using a knife. I'd use a laser and some creams. And I could lessen that scar by at least forty percent. Wouldn't that be worth it?”
“No. I like my scar. It's a reminder.”
“Of what? Your horrific experience?” Doc’s eyebrows furrowed together.
“No. The fact that I survived that experience.”
“Okay,” he said, as Erma brought my food and a glass of milk. He leaned over and smelled it, then glanced at Erma. “If she eats it and doesn't croak, I'll give it a try.”
“Then I'll start yours,” Erma said, as she left the table.
I took a bite of Erma's eggs. They were light, fluffy, and full of potatoes, cilantro, onions, cheese and red chili peppers. The fiery concoction burned and made my eyes water. I coughed and nodded at the Doc. “It's a little spicy for me, but you're going to love it.”
He smiled broadly. “I've never had a bad meal in this place since Ron and Erma took over.”
“That's true.” I gobbled down the eggs, following each bite with a swallow of milk.
Ron and Erma Jolsen bought the cafe in Arroyo ten years ago, remodeled it, and reopened it as the Get Away Diner. They were among the locals that I had to get used to when I returned. Actually, Ron had been born in Arroyo, but left in his senior year of high school. His parents divorced and he went to Michigan to live with his mom. It was a good thing, since the crowds he was hanging with at high school were drug addicts and juvenile delinquents. I was a freshman at the time and remembered seeing him a few days befor
e he left, standing against the wall of the cafe with four other kids. All of them were dressed in black and the two girls had more body piercings and tattoos than I had ever seen. I didn't recognize any of them.
It was amazing that he and his wife had come back to Arroyo and bought the cafe, the same place where I had last seen him. But since it had been almost twenty years, he was like a stranger.
The first time I was in their diner, I had a panic attack and couldn't eat my lunch. But the food was hard to resist, so I kept coming back. Soon enough, Ron and Erma were part of the Arroyo family and my panic attacks evaporated. It was a good thing. If I had to eat my own cooking, I would be a lot lighter and have no strength to lift my gun.
After I finished eating and answering a few questions from the locals, I headed to the station, not because I actually had anything crucial to do, but because going home meant cleaning - I hate to clean. On my way out the door, Ron handed me a warm Erma's Scrumptious Oatraisin Cookie with no nuts - my favorite!
At the station, my officers milled around. I guessed they hate to clean too! I waved and went into my office. Most people don't realize the amount of paperwork that's involved in law enforcement, I thought to myself as I spent the next several hours making notes and filing old reports that had piled up on my desk.
Sometime later, Bob tapped on my door.
I motioned him in.
“We're on the news,” he said. “Come and see.”
I followed him into the squad room. Everyone sat around a small television placed on top of Bob's desk. Pictures of the newly running river filled the screen.
The local station, KTML, had a camera crew set up by the river. They were taking pictures and talking about the water flowing again.
Cheryl Burton, the bubbly news reporter, pointed to the river and smiled, as she pushed a loose strand of her curly blonde hair behind her ear. “I'm standing here in the parking lot of a deserted riverside picnic area. This river hasn't had water in it for thirty years. It's wonderful to see it flowing again. It was Chief Davenport's idea, although, according to my sources, she is giving credit to Sergeant Bob Linden for knowing about the old river.”
