by Sara Reinke
“She showed me a picture in my mind of you and Scooby Doo,” Emma had said.
Paul had blinked at her. “Scooby Doo, the cartoon dog,” he’d said, a patient statement, not an inquiry.
Emma had nodded. “She said you’ll need to follow Scooby Doo. He can help you find it.”
“Find what?” Paul had asked. His voice had still been velveteen with patience, but he hadn’t believed her. Emma had seen that plainly in his face.
“I don’t know,” she’d replied. “But you’ll be looking for it. And soon. Scooby Doo and Claire Boyett will help you find it.”
This time, in her dream, the skies above Grandma’s house had been darkened in full, blackened with low-hanging storm clouds. The wind had snapped and snatched at Emma’s hair, and large, stinging droplets of rain had pelted her face. She’d heard thunder grumbling and cringed to see splintered forks of lightning fluttering overhead.
That was why Emma had been so afraid for her father, why she hadn’t believed in his safety until she’d seen him and touched him for herself. Because despite Paul’s assurances the night before that Jo and Jay were safely underway from the Bahamas, the storm had still appeared in her dream―and so had Grandma’s warning.
Something bad is going to happen, and your daddy is going to be hurt.
Emma watched Daddy and Uncle Paul talking. Paul was smiling, trying to laugh, and she knew he meant to put Jay at ease, reassure him nothing was wrong. But she could also tell by Jay’s expression that he wasn’t buying it. Not for one minute.
Uncle Paul hadn’t been sleeping. Emma didn’t know where he went at night, but she knew he wasn’t sleeping. Whatever it was that kept him awake, it was like the hole inside of him she sensed because of his divorce from Aunt Vicki. It was something heavy and deep and it ate him up inside. It made him seem like somebody else.
And Daddy sees it, too.
* * *
After Jay left with Jo and Emma, Paul took M.K. and Bethany to the mall. Jay had been reluctant to leave; he’d drawn Paul aside while the girls had squealed and tussled over souvenirs, and he’d looked at him, his dark eyes round and concerned. “You feeling okay?” he’d asked. “You look like hell, man. I don’t―”
“I’m fine,” Paul had replied, laughing dismissively. “I didn’t sleep good last night, that’s all. I’ve gone from being a bachelor to having three girls in this apartment, all in about twelve hours. My head’s still spinning from it.”
Jay had smiled, but his eyes had still been troubled. He’d always been a lousy liar, his thoughts and concerns, his emotions readily apparent in his eyes, the unconscious set of his brows. “You sure?” he’d asked. “You sounded kind of funny there a time or two on the phone while we were gone, and I…”
For a moment, an image had flashed through Paul’s mind, the dream he’d suffered in which he’d seen himself cutting off Melanie Geary’s fingers. He remembered that in the dream, Melanie had looked up at him, pleading around a rubber-ball, sex-toy gag that had been strapped into her mouth, but all of a sudden, it hadn’t been Melanie Geary anymore. It had been Jay, with his enormous brown eyes frightened and dazed with pain, his voice choked around the piano wire garrotte.
“You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” Jay had asked him in the kitchen doorway. “If something was up, I mean.”
Paul had hooked his arm around Jay’s neck, drawing him momentarily near, pressing his lips and nose against the crown of his dark hair. “Yes,” he whispered, forcing the memories of his dream from his mind, of Jay’s whimpering pleas as he’d squeezed the blades of the steel shears closed against his finger. Theeeesss…! “Yes, I’d tell you, Jay.”
He distracted himself further for the rest of the afternoon by letting M.K. and Bethany have some free reign with his credit card at the mall. They’d rushed about excitedly, arms laden with paper shopping bags, trying on sandals and sundresses, buying new earrings and sunglasses, sampling perfumes and lipsticks.
They had supper at the food court. Paul had a lackluster plateful of lo mein from a fast-food Chinese vendor that couldn’t by any means compete with Joe’s Wok in the city―his personal favorite. M.K. and Bethany had cheeseburgers and fries, swapping fruit-flavored smoothies back and forth.
“Is that fashion?” Paul asked, nodding as a teen-aged girl walked by wearing little more than a dishcloth wrapped around her torso, or so it appeared, not to mention a pair of blue jeans so tight and cut so low, the curves of her ass threatened to spill out over the top of her waistband. He glanced between his daughters. “Tell me neither of you would walk out of the house dressed like that.”
Tell me your mother wouldn’t let you, he added mentally.
M.K. rolled her eyes, sparing the girl in question a sideways, disdainful peek. “Puh-lease, Dad,” she said.
Bethany looked mortified at the notion, so Paul figured he didn’t have to worry on her end of things, either. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, prodding at his half-eaten food with a chopstick. “So tell me about this guy your mom says you’re dating,” he said to M.K.
She laughed. “Dad!” she exclaimed, her face blazing with sudden color.
“What?” he asked. “She told me you were out on a date with him this week.”
“I was, but that hardly makes it dating,” M.K. replied, still blushing.
“Well, who is he, then? This guy you’re not dating?”
M.K. glanced at Bethany, and clapped her hand over her mouth, giggling. “His name is Jeremy Laslow, Daddy,” Bethany supplied. “He drives a Mustang.”
Paul raised his brow, and M.K. slapped her sister’s arm. “He drives safely, Dad. Well within the speed limit. And he’s got insurance. He’s really nice. You’d like him.”
“He’s a senior,” Bethany supplied helpfully, making a little part inside of Paul that had groaned at the word Mustang grumble again, more plaintively this time.
“I’m a junior,” M.K. reminded. “He’s only seven months older than me, Dad―not even a year. He’s really nice.”
“He’d better be,” Paul said, scowling but trying to pretend like he was only pretending to scowl.
“He is,” M.K. said again, rolling her eyes and laughing.
By the time they returned to Paul’s apartment, the sun was setting, the sky draped in violet shadows. The light on his answering machine was flashing; he had two messages waiting for him.
“Paul, hi, it…it’s Brenda.”
Paul froze, breathless, motionless, listening to the recorded sound of her voice, feeling it grip his heart as if she stood in the room and spoke to him. From the spare bedroom, he listened to the rustling of bags and the sounds of his daughters laughing and joking together as they unpacked their new things. They suddenly seemed a million miles away.
He’d been wanting to call her and tell her about what he’d uncovered about the mayor. He’d only discovered the truth of the real estate scams because Brenda had brought the three abandoned houses to his attention originally. Otherwise, it might have all gone unnoticed, the truth never uncovered. And while the houses hadn’t ended up to be the crime scenes Brenda had been hoping for, in a sense, they remained crime scenes nonetheless, just of a far different nature.
He’d wanted to call and tell her, had debated over it, in fact, but in the end, had been too chickenshit. The memory of their kiss, and her rebuke in its wake, remained too fresh―too painful―in his mind.
“I’m sorry to call you at home,” Brenda said, the gentle undulations of her Southern accent lilting in her words. “I don’t have your cell phone number, so I looked in the phone book. I…I need to talk to you. Something’s come up…and I think you should take a look. I’m at my office. The number is…”
He darted for his desk, grabbing a pen and notepad and scribbling madly as she recited her phone number. He reached for his cell phone, meaning to fish it out of his hip pocket to call her, when the second message played.
“Paul, it’s Brenda again. It’s about…o
h, quarter after six, and I’m home again. Listen, they brought another body in this morning. They found it about two blocks from where Melanie Geary was dumped. Missing Persons identified her right away―Aimee Chesshire, last reported seen a couple of nights ago at Snake Eyes nightclub, the same spot where Melanie Geary disappeared.”
The pen fell from Paul’s hand. All at once, his knees felt weak, as if the sum of his strength had sapped out through the soles of his feet and into the carpet. Aimee Chesshire, Brenda had said. Aimee…
Don’t give up on all of us, he’d dreamed of telling her, as he’d offered her a cigarette in a crowded nightclub.
Don’t give up on all of us.
“Jesus―!” Paul gasped, and then he rushed down the hallway for the bathroom, barely making it in enough time to slam the door shut behind him and slap on the lightswitch. His stomach heaved, and he leaned over the toilet, vomitting his supper.
It’s not possible! his mind screamed. It was a dream! It can’t be real! It can’t be!
His stomach twisted in agonizing knots, Paul sank to his knees beside the toilet. The acrid stink of regurgitated ginger, garlic and soy sauce stung his nose, and he flapped his hand, finding the toilet handle and flushing it. He slumped against the tub, shuddering, gasping, his eyes flooded with shocked, dismayed tears. Oh, God, he thought. It can’t be real. I…I couldn’t have done that, those horrible things. Christ, please tell me I didn’t hurt that girl.
What else could it be? a quiet, solemn portion of his mind whispered. Think about it, Paul. Get a grip on yourself. Why would you see these things, remember these things, if it wasn’t real? If it wasn’t you doing them?
Paul shoved the heels of his hands against his eyes, hoping to shove that goddamn little voice away. “I didn’t do it,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “God help me, I know I didn’t. I didn’t hurt those girls.”
“Daddy?”
He jerked, startled by Bethany’s soft beckon, her light rapping against the door. “Daddy, are you okay?”
“I…I’m fine,” he called, his voice shaking and hoarse. He cleared his throat, struggling to force a normal tone. “I’m fine,” he said again. “I just…something in that Chinese food didn’t agree with me, that’s all. I’ll be right out.”
He shifted his weight, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. He dialed information and asked for Brenda Wheaton’s home number. Brenda answered on the third ring.
“Tell me about the girl,” he said after they’d exchanged perfunctory greetings. “Aimee Chesshire.”
“She was just like the other, like Melanie Geary,” Brenda said. “She had severe ligature wounds on her wrists and ankles. A piano wire garrotte that had cut so deeply into her soft tissue, it nicked her jugular vein. Burn marks on her torso and thighs, puncture wounds from small-gauge needles. I counted one hundred and forty-seven in my preliminary examination.”
Oh, Christ, Paul thought, closing his eyes, again pressing his hand against his brow. Not me, not me, not me IT WAS NOT ME
“The distal, middle and proximal phalanges on all four fingers were missing, severed at the metacarpophalangeal joints,” Brenda said. “The thumb was severed at the carpometacarpal joint. The official cause of death was strangulation.”
“Christ,” Paul whispered, wiping his mouth, feeling the thick, pungent flavor of bile still against his tongue.
“She was a lesbian, like Melaine Geary,” Brenda said. “So of course, Dan’s having a field day with it.”
She sounded tired and more than a little bitter, but at her words, Paul straightened. “What?”
“She was a lesbian,” Brenda said again. “Or at least, she was in a lesbian relationship. Or she had been until just prior to her disappearance. Apparently that nightclub, Snake Eyes, is a popular hang out for a mixed crowd that includes a lot of homosexuals―men and women.”
Paul forked his fingers through his hair. He’d dreamed that Aimee had told him she’d just broken off a relationship. Had she ever mentioned her ex-lover’s name? And if she was a lesbian, why had she gone with Paul outside to his truck?
She didn’t go with me anywhere! It was just a goddamn dream! It wasn’t me! I didn’t do anything!
“Dan thinks she went to Snake Eyes to bat for the other team,” Brenda said. “A couple of witnesses saw her talking with a couple of guys during the night, dancing pretty cheekily together, Dan said. He’s thinking she might have been out looking for a guy for a little get-even with her ex.”
That made sense, even though Paul hated to admit it, considering Dan Pierson had thought of it first. His skin crawled at the idea several witnesses recalled seeing Aimee Chesshire in the bar on the night of her disappearance. God, what if one of them remembers an older guy, kinda balding, buying her drinks, giving her smokes? he thought, and then he shook his head. It wasn’t me. Christ Almight, it couldn’t be me. I didn’t do
“I don’t know, Paul,” Brenda said wearily. “I wanted to talk to you about it today, but then Dan came to the morgue and kept getting in my way, and I just…” She uttered an exhausted, frustrated sound. “I brought the case file home with me. What I’ve got of it anyway. I know we kind of ended up shitty with things yesterday, but I…I would really like it if you’d look over it with me.”
“I’ll be right there,” Paul said, rising to his feet. “Give me twenty minutes, tops.”
* * *
“I don’t think we should do this, M.K.,” Bethany said, sitting on the end of the bed and watching as her sister brushed her hair.
“What? Don’t be stupid. It’s perfect,” M.K. replied, leaning forward to peer in the mirror and check her freshly applied lipgloss. She met Bethany’s gaze through the glass and frowned. “And don’t you dare tell me you’ve changed your mind. I’ve already called Jeremy and he’s on his way. He’ll be here any minute.”
Bethany looked down at her hands as she anxiously twined her fingers together against the nest of her lap. She hated lying. And that’s exactly what the whole evening was turning out to be―lies. She was wearing M.K.’s clothes, a pair of tight-fitting indigo jeans and a cropped tank top of the style and fashion only earlier that evening, M.K. had denied ever wearing to their father. She wore a pair of high-heeled, strappy sandals that already pinched her feet, and M.K. had helped her paint her face up with a variety of pale, glittery cosmetics that left Bethany looking years older than her age.
“I don’t like lying to Daddy,” she said quietly.
M.K. left the mirror and came over to the bedside. She squatted so she could look Bethany in the eyes. “He’s never going to know,” she said gently, tucking her fingertips beneath Bethany’s chin to draw her reluctant gaze. “It’s going to be fun. You’ll see.”
Their father had left several hours earlier. He hadn’t said much as to why he was going, only that it was work-related. He’d had a couple of messages on his answering machine when they’d returned from the mall that evening. He’d played them and then erased them; neither M.K. nor Bethany had heard what they said. Paul had gotten sick. He’d darted into the bathroom, and M.K. and Bethany had listened in alarm as he vomited. He’d told them it was nothing; his supper had disagreed with him, but he had still seemed haggard and strained as he’d left the apartment.
“You two stay up, watch some movies,” he’d told them, kissing them each in turn, his breath minty with toothpaste and mouthwash.
“I might turn in early,” M.K. had replied, affecting a yawn. “I’m having my period this week, and it makes me really tired.”
“What if Daddy checks on us when he gets back?” Bethany asked her sister.
“He won’t,” M.K. said. “I gave him that line about being on my period so he wouldn’t. Men don’t like fooling with that stuff―and especially Dad. He’ll treat this room like it’s radioactive now, trust me. He won’t come in. And if he peeks through the door…” She patted her hand against two mounds of pillows they had tucked and deliberately arranged beneath the blankets, to make i
t look as though two people shared the bed. “…he won’t see anything but us sleeping soundly.”
M.K. dropped Bethany a wink and stood. “So come on. Finish getting ready. I think you should wear those new hoop earrings we found today.”
Bethany still didn’t move, her fingers tangled together uncertainly, and M.K. frowned again, planting her hands on her hips. “Bethany, he’s gone out for something with work. He’s going to be gone all night. You know how he gets once he’s working on a case.”
But he doesn’t have cases anymore, Bethany thought. She didn’t say anything, though. She just pressed her lips together and blinked at her hands. He doesn’t have cases anymore because that’s not his job anymore. Now he just goes on TV.
She rode in the backseat of Jeremy’s car on the way to the nightclub. It was a cramped fit in the low-slung sportscar, and she sat with her long legs folded, her knees nearly to her ears from the feel of it. Jeremy had a CD in, and Eminem boomed and shuddered through the subwoofers surrounding Bethany. She couldn’t hear a word Jeremy and M.K. exchanged, and watched them grin and laugh back and forth, smoking cigarettes and stealing kisses at stoplights. They also shared a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag back and forth, and after a couple of long swigs, M.K. pivoted in her seat, offering it to Bethany.
“Here!” she shouted over the din of Slim Shady.
“What is it?” Bethany shouted back, but M.K. merely cupped her ear and shook her head, laughing to indicate she couldn’t hear. Bethany sniffed the mouth of the bottle, smelling something sweet and fruity. A glance told her M.K. was watching her expectantly, and not wanting to seem like a baby, or that she was chickenshit, Bethany took a long drink. It was strong with alcohol, whatever it was, and she choked, startled as it burned her throat. M.K. quickly shoved a tissue under her chin.
“Don’t go ruining my shirt!” she yelled.
By the time they reached Snake Eyes, it was well after midnight. Bethany’s ears were ringing long after Jeremy had parked the Mustang in the crowded adjacent parking lot and turned off the blaring Eminem, but she could still hear the throbbing, heavy baseline of techno dance music punching through the night sky as they approached the building. Bethany limped along, the sandals aching her feet, her head somewhat dizzy from the wine. She’d had several more gulps along the ride to the club. “It’ll help you relax!” M.K. had hollered at her, but all it seemed to be doing to Bethany was make her feel sleepy and clumsy.
