by Anthony Izzo
“You have no evidence at all. That’s what you’re telling me?”
“None. No prints, no motive, no weapon. Nothing.”
“I find that hard to believe.” She leaned forward, rested her arms on the desk and looked him in the eye. Now that she was closer to him, she noticed he stank.
“Well, you can believe it. It was a messy murder, but other than a lot of the victim’s blood and some entrails, we found nothing. Not even footprints.”
“Look, Chief. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I suggest you let me in on whatever secret it is you have. I don’t suppose there’s a report I could read.”
He picked up a pencil, twirled it around with his fingers. “It’s gotta be typed up. You’d never be able to read my officer’s writing. Of course, once it’s typed, I could fax you a copy.”
“I’ll expect a copy.” She pulled out a business card and handed it to him. “Will you tell me anything right now?”
“The woman is dead. That’s about all I can tell you.”
Rafferty set the pencil on the desk, leaned back, took a toothpick from his desk drawer and placed it between his lips. Donna liked this man less and less by the minute.
“I don’t suppose you give a shit, but I know quite a few state troopers. I’m sure they’d like to hear about this case. Or maybe the county sheriff.”
“You just bring in anyone you want, Donna. Anyone at all.”
Arrogant bastard.
“You know, Ed. You’re a piss-poor excuse for a cop. I’ll find out who killed my sister-in-law,” she said. “Bet on it.”
He worked the toothpick from side to side, poking it around with his tongue. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“I’ll be going.”
She stood up from the chair and shoved it so it banged off the desk. Turning on one heel, she stalked out of the office, telling the receptionist on the way out that she might be better off working somewhere else.
Out by her truck, she stripped off her blazer and put it on the passenger seat. She ran her hand through her short hair and exhaled in frustration.
Rafferty was being difficult, and she didn’t anticipate him cooperating any more than he had today. She doubted if he would fax her the police report (if there was one) or share any other evidence with her regarding the case. The weasel didn’t even flinch when she mentioned the state police, which was a threat she could carry out. Her father had poker buddies who were state cops and she could put some heat on Rafferty if she wanted. But that wasn’t her style. Hit it head-on, even if it left you bruised and bloody.
For now, she would take matters into her own hands. It was the way she always handled things.
She started the truck up and pulled out of the parking lot.
The Ford’s gas gauge hovered just above “E” so she decided to pull into a service station, get gas and ask directions. After driving six blocks down Elmwood, she spotted a gas station with a sign in blue script that read JIMBO’S.
There were two gas pumps that could have been pre–Korean War, with no canopy overhead like the modern gas stations. White paint flaked off the pumps, and the paint still on the pumps was dotted with rusty blisters. The station had two overhead doors, one with the glass smashed out of six of the panels. She was beginning to think she made a poor choice in gas stations.
After parking the truck next to the pumps, she went inside to the office area, which wasn’t much better than the exterior of the station. It smelled sweaty and oily, and the desk had a layer of dust on it an eighth of an inch thick. It was silent except for the ticking of a clock on the counter. She had never been in a garage where impact wrenches didn’t whiz and zoom constantly.
“Hello!” she called.
There was no response for a moment and then a grizzled old man in coveralls slipped through the door from the garage. His name patch read JIMBO in cursive letters.
“Help you?” He said in a tobacco-frayed voice.
“Fifty dollars of regular.”
“You gotta pump it yourself, you know. This ain’t no full serve.”
“That’s fine.”
“Fifty it is.”
She dug in her purse and pulled out a rumpled fifty. She held it out and he snatched it from her. His eyes never left her purse.
“You’re a cop, huh?”
“That’s right.”
He sniffled and ran his sleeve under his nose. “Saw the badge on your belt. You know Chief Rafferty?”
“I’m acquainted with him.”
“What?”
“I know him a little bit.”
“He don’t take too kindly to strangers. That’s why I asked.”
“Can you tell me where the library is?”
“Across from the middle school.”
Apparently Jimbo wasn’t in the habit of being helpful. “Where would that be?”
“You didn’t ask me how to get there.”
He sniffed again, drew snot back into his throat and spat on the floor.
“They make tissues, you know.”
“You want directions or you want to stand there and be a smart-ass?”
“I’ll take the directions.”
He told her how to get to the library, went over to the cash register and rang in her fifty dollars. The register drawer chimed open and he put the money in the till. After switching on the gas pump, he disappeared into the garage again, slamming the door behind him.
As Donna pumped gas, she thought that if the rest of the people in Lincoln were as friendly as the Chief and the gas station attendant, this would be one hell of a visit.
Telling Jill his story did nothing to alleviate the nightmares. Matt sat up, chest pumping up and down. His skin was slicked with sweat, and he stifled the scream that was building in his throat. He looked around the room. I’m not in the park, I’m in Aunt Bernie’s loft, he thought. The clock read two fifty A.M.
He threw off the covers and swung his legs around the side of the bed.
In the dream, the creature had him pinned to the ground, all of its weight on his chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs. His limbs felt heavy, like they were made of steel, and he could not move an inch. The creature lowered its head until they were nose to nose and exhaled, forcing Matt to breathe in the foul breath. It raised its arm to swipe at him, and just as the claws reached his face, he awoke.
No, the talk with Jill had not ended the dreams. In fact, this one seemed more intense than the others. The feeling of paralysis and not being able to breathe under the thing’s weight stuck with him. He slept very little the rest of the night.
At five o’clock he rose, exercising, showering and having French toast with his Aunt Bernie all before eight. She had been animated, asking him how his date went, but he had been only half listening. His mind kept drifting to Jill Adams, the way she had held his hand. It felt good, right, somehow, like it belonged there, her hand in his.
He helped his aunt clear the table and the two of them took his rental car back to Avis, Aunt Bernie following him in the truck and bringing him back to the house.
As they walked up the steps into the kitchen, Matt saw Uncle Rex sitting at the table in a flannel bathrobe and blue slippers. His hair jutted in several directions and gray stubble covered his cheeks. Matt hoped for a quick getaway before his uncle had a chance to shoot off his mouth.
“What’d you have for breakfast, Bernadette?” Rex spoke low and slow, not yet fully awake.
“French toast.”
“You make him some but not your husband, is that right?”
“Rex, I’ll make you breakfast. You’re never up this early, though.”
“Well, I am today, and I want French toast.”
Matt tried to break the tension. “How have you been?”
“Just dandy now that you’re here.”
“How’s things at the plant?” Matt said.
“Too many niggers working there.”
His uncle’s ignorance never fail
ed to amaze Matt.
“You gonna make my fucking toast or not?”
“Yes, Rex.”
Aunt Bernie scurried to the counter like a dog who feared abuse from a cruel master. Matt wished his aunt had the nerve to tell Rex where to put his French toast and then walk out on him, but he knew that would never happen. The bastard had intimidated her to the point where all he had to do was raise his voice and she jumped.
“Will you be okay, Aunt Bernie?”
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him.
“Why wouldn’t she be fine, huh? You think we need you to check on us?”
“I think you need someone to teach you how to treat your wife.”
Uncle Rex took a swig of coffee. A thin line of it dribbled down his chin. He wiped it with the sleeve of his robe. “Don’t you mouth off to me. I’m still able to kick your skinny ass if I want.”
Fat chance of that happening, Matt thought. He had knocked down his Ranger buddies in hand-to-hand training, some of them over two hundred pounds of solid muscle. Dropping a slow, middle-aged drunk with a well-placed kick would be no problem. “I’ve got errands to run.”
He kissed Aunt Bernie on the cheek and whispered in her ear, “I’m right out back if you need me. Remember that.”
She gave him a look that was equal parts gratitude and fear.
The Lincoln Mercy emergency room had exploded with activity.
There was a three-car crash on Elmwood Avenue, with two passengers dead and the remaining three brought in to the ER. One had brains leaking out of a gaping wound in his skull, and that was among the most awful things Jill had ever seen. That man had died ten minutes after being brought to the ER.
The other two victims, one a middle-aged woman and the other a teenage boy, had not fared much better. The woman had a broken neck and Jill had assisted Dr. Kessler in inserting a tracheotomy tube when her lungs began to fail. She overheard Kessler telling one of the residents that she would most likely be a quadriplegic for life. The boy’s mangled left leg would need to be amputated.
What a day it had been, indeed.
Now Jill sipped her iced tea, relishing a break from her armageddon of a day. The cafeteria was silent save for the hissing of grease as the cook lowered a basket of fries into the fryer.
“Nurse Adams, how long have you been on break?”
It was supervisor Gaines; not what she needed right at the moment. Jill hadn’t even noticed her approach the table.
“Ten minutes, I’m just finishing up.”
“With the ER as busy as it is, we can’t afford to have people taking extended breaks.” Dorothy pushed her glasses onto her nose with her index finger. “Are you finished with that tea yet?”
“I am now.”
Jill chugged the last of her iced tea, stood up and threw the Styrofoam cup into a trash can.
“None of the other nurses are taking breaks.”
“Cora told me to come down here and take fifteen. Everything’s quieted down since that car wreck came in,” Jill explained.
“I could write you up if I wanted to. Unauthorized break, and maybe insubordination.”
“Insubordination?” Jill couldn’t believe her ears.
“That’s right.”
“If you’re really going to write me up, then I’d say you’ve got nothing better to do with your time. Excuse me, I have to get back to work.”
Jill brushed past her and noticed it immediately—the rank, pungent smell, the same one that she noticed on the attacker in the warehouse. The hair on her arms rose in little prickles as the odor brought back the memories of that night, stirring her adrenaline.
“You can count on that, Nurse Adams.”
“Do what you have to do.”
Jill hurried from the cafeteria, thinking that a smell like that on two people was more than coincidence.
Jill walked down the main hallway in the ER, past a row of gurneys and a cart filled with sheets and towels. Cora stepped from one of the exam rooms, a manila folder in her hand. She reached out and gripped Jill’s arm.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Cora. Just ate something that didn’t agree with me.”
“You putting me on?”
“Honest. I just came from the ladies’ room, if you know what I mean.” Jill put her hand palm down over her stomach, indicating the universal sign for intestinal distress.
“I still don’t think that’s it. But whatever it is, I hope you feel better.”
Jill thanked her and continued down the hallway toward the nursing station. She sat down in one of the office chairs, closed her eyes, and massaged her temples.
Get through the day, she told herself. Looking at the clock on the wall, she saw there were two more hours to go on her shift. Avoiding her supervisor for that long was possible.
“Jill, possible arm fracture in one. Get his vitals, okay?” It was Cora, leaning on the counter of the nurses’ station, the rubbery flesh on her arms spilling on the desktop.
Jill looked at the clock again before rising to check on the fracture.
After downing a Whopper and onion rings at the Lincoln Burger King, Donna Ricci pulled into Hill’s Hardware. The building was brick, the front painted blue and the sides yellow. An assortment of lawn mowers were lined up on the sidewalk in front of the store. She walked around them, running her finger along the chrome handle of a Toro.
She opened the door and an electronic chime sounded.
An elderly man in an olive cardigan sat in a folding chair behind a counter. He leaned back in the chair, his fingers drumming on the counter to a big band tune coming from an unseen radio. He whistled tunelessly along with the music. It sounded like Benny Goodman.
Donna passed the counter and found the electrical section. She picked a sturdy-looking flashlight off the shelf and took it to the counter. She hadn’t thought to bring her police flashlight with her.
“How are you tonight?” the clerk said. His green cardigan covered a madras shirt, and a pair of bifocals rested on the end of his nose. He took a tissue from the breast pocket of his sweater, wiped his nose and tucked the tissue away.
“Could be cooler out there.”
He punched keys on the register and it beeped. “You don’t look familiar. You live in town?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been running this store for thirty-eight years and I’ve seen just about everyone in town come in and out of here at one time or another. I know who’s had kids, who’s died, who’s moved away. I know I’ve never seen you before.”
“Well, you got that right. I’m from Marshall.”
He took her money and counted back the change. Then he took out a brown paper bag from under the counter and slid the flashlight in.
“What brings you here, if you don’t mind me asking.”
Ordinarily, she did mind, and wanted to tell him to mind his own business. But after the reception she got from Rafferty and the gas station attendant, it was nice to meet someone halfway friendly.
“Police business.”
He handed her the bag with the flashlight in it. “I take it you’re familiar with our esteemed chief of police.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
He leaned forward over the counter toward her, so close that she could smell a mix of stale coffee and cigars on his warm breath. “Just between you and me, I personally think Ed Rafferty is a four-square revolving son of a bitch.”
She liked the way this guy thought. “A twenty-four-seven son of a bitch from what I’ve heard.”
“You have a nice stay in Lincoln—I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Donna.”
“Okay then, Donna.”
Tucking the bag under her arm, she headed for the door.
“And Donna. Please be careful out there. Lincoln’s not too kind to strangers.”
“Why did you say that?”
“Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but
people have a way of disappearing in this town.” He took his glasses off and polished them on his sweater.
“I can handle myself.”
“Don’t stay any longer than you have to, Donna. Any longer than you have to, okay?”
She left the store without answering him, and the door slammed behind her. She wasn’t one to scare easy or get the creeps, but she felt the hair on her arms stand at attention and a chill cascade over her body.
People have a way of disappearing in this town.
CHAPTER 11
Donna sat in the cab of her pickup. She had gone into the Lincoln Public Library, performed an Internet search and come up with one article from the Daily Recorder written in 1995.
Woman Visiting Neighboring Town Attacked by Animal
A Buffalo woman was attacked by a wild animal on Friday night while pumping gas at a Lincoln service station. Janice Perry, 34, stopped at Jimbo’s Gas Station on Elmwood Avenue when she noticed she was low on gas. Apparently, after paying for the gas, Ms. Perry heard a strange noise from behind the station. “It was snowing hard, dark out and blowing pretty good. I heard a grunting sound from behind the station.” Ms. Perry thought that it was the wind and continued pumping gas.
About five minutes later, she was attacked. “It came at me out of the snow. I could just see a shape. It walked on two legs and smelled horrible.” The animal slashed Ms. Perry across the forehead, knocking her to the ground and requiring her to have twenty-two stitches.
The animal fled when another motorist pulled into the gas station. “That man who pulled into the station probably saved my life. That thing was big and mean and I think it would have killed me.”
Lincoln Police reported finding no signs of an animal in the area, but have advised residents to exercise caution when traveling at night.
Donna set the printout on the passenger seat. In the library, she had done a Google search on Rhonda’s name and come up with nothing. Likewise with Rafferty’s. She had also picked up a late edition of the Buffalo News and found nothing on Lincoln or the murder. Something told her Ed Rafferty was very good at camouflage. Either that, or he repelled people so much they stayed away, reporters included.
