by Vivian Barz
Apparently.
What stung Susan most was the way Ed had indirectly pointed out her lowly standing on the force by highlighting his seniority, which she could hardly be blamed for. It was, as Susan so often reminded herself, one of those things that was entirely out of her hands. For her age and number of years on the job, Susan should have possessed a higher ranking. Much higher. And had she been at a station in a larger city, she probably would have already made detective. But in Perrick, it simply wasn’t possible. It wasn’t that she’d been passed over for promotions; it was that there were no promotions to give. They were a small force with small-time crimes (until now), and their allotted staff budget reflected this. The only way to move up, it seemed, was to wait for a higher-up to quit, transfer, retire, or die. When Susan had first started at the station as a rookie, a fellow officer—who, coincidentally, was slated to transfer to LAPD at the end of the following month—had made a joke when Susan had professed her ambition to move up quickly through the ranks. “You want to know the fastest way to get promoted at Perrick PD?” he’d said with a laugh that was more than a trifle bitter. “Quit.”
In their silence, Susan studied Ed’s face, which looked a good ten years older than when she’d last seen him. He appeared edgy, exhausted, his hair a little more gray. Susan was only now realizing just how much Ed had gotten on in years. He looked like an old man, which, she supposed, he kind of was. As worked up as she was, she felt sorry for him. Getting on his last nerve was not going to help matters. She said, “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I thought this was sort of my case, Chief. Or that we were going to work this one with county?”
“Well, we were,” Ed said with a shrug. The edge in his voice had faded. “But once all the bodies started turning up, the sheriff’s office handed everything over to the FBI. It’s out of my hands now.”
“That’s what I don’t understand—how did the bodies start showing up?”
Ed arched a brow. “What, did you think everyone was going to pack it in at Gerald’s place just because it was your time off?”
Susan did not enjoy being zinged. “Of course not,” she said stiffly. “I’m just surprised nobody called me.”
“You were off.”
“But I still would have liked to have been called. Who was working in my place?”
“Flynn.”
“But . . .” But Flynn’s an idiot , she nearly said.
“But nothing. Other officers also have to put their hours in. I can’t reserve all the exciting work for you.”
That’s hardly the point , she thought.
Susan’s anger was threatening to make an encore. It irked Susan—not just being left out of the loop but also how lackadaisical Ed was being about the whole thing.
How could he not feel the same indignation that she did? Wasn’t the FBI taking over its way of insinuating that they didn’t think Perrick PD was competent enough to handle the case on its own?
Susan had heard a few officers call Ed “ROD” behind his back, and the nickname had always pissed her off royally because of its unfairness. Ed had become somewhat listless, sure, but he still did his job. Now, though, retired on duty —policespeak for an apathetic cop on payroll—seemed to be a pretty accurate summary of his attitude.
“Frankly,” Ed continued, “if the FBI wants the headache, they can have it. We’re in no way equipped to handle this sort of thing.”
Speak for yourself , she thought.
“We just don’t have the resources.”
Translation: the Gerald Nichol murders were a colossal mess a man just a few weeks shy of retirement had no interest in cleaning up.
Or maybe it was Ed who doubted the competency of the officers at Perrick PD.
Susan felt like grabbing Ed by the shoulders and giving him a good shake. The biggest case Perrick PD had ever seen, and Ed was passing it off to the FBI like it was infected with smallpox—he couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. Ed may not have cared about establishing himself as a crime solver, but Susan did. It was embarrassing to still be at the same position that she’d been at as a rookie, despite the circumstances that had kept her there. A case like this would have given her real clout, catapulted her standing within the force.
After a measured exhale, Susan said, “The thing is, I’ve still been working the case.”
Ed grew very still. “Meaning? You were off, so I don’t see how.” Suspicious, even.
Susan flapped a hand, exasperated. What did it matter? “This was before I was off—on my half shift a few days ago. I went and talked to Mary at the Meadows, remember? She told me some very interesting things. Things I would have told you, had you called me ba—”
“Oh, I’ll bet she did,” Ed said with the same dismissive tone he’d use with a person claiming they had proof of life on Mars.
“Don’t you at least want to hear what she said?”
“Will any of it lead to the apprehension of Gerald Nichol?”
“Well . . . no.”
“Then, honestly, I have no interest. Sorry. The priority now is apprehending that son of a bitch before he has the chance to hurt another kid.” Ed made a move to stand, a clear indication that he wanted her to wrap things up. “And the sooner the FBI catches Gerald, the sooner they’ll be out of my hair. It’s been nonstop around here.”
Susan wasn’t done talking. “So, what, they’ve just come in and taken over?”
Ed let out an amused chuckle that bordered on sarcasm. “This isn’t Hollywood. The FBI doesn’t ‘take over’ police cases. They’re helping us.”
Susan folded her arms across her chest and asked tartly, “Was that a helper out in the hall?”
Ed nodded. “Came up from San Francisco. Special Agent in Charge Denton Howell. Works closely with VCAC. Nice guy.”
Denton? Sounds pretentious , Susan thought, determined not to like the man. “VCAC?”
“It’s a program within the FBI’s Violent Crime unit. Don’t feel bad; I didn’t know, either, until Howell told me. It stands for Violent Crimes against Children,” Ed clarified. “They focus on abductions, child pornography . . . really, any kind of violent crime targeted at kids. You can see why they’re needed in this case.”
“Do they think there are more bodies? On Gerald’s farm?”
“They’ve still got agents over there working.” Ed shook his head, as if he could hardly believe it himself. “We’ve just got to wait and see, but there very well could be.”
“Jesus.”
“I hear ya,” he said, looking a little worse for wear. His skin was the color of paste. “I just can’t believe that this is happening in our town.”
“So what now?”
“If or when Howell needs us, we’ll make ourselves available. Until then, it’s back to our regular duty.” Ed must have sensed Susan’s disappointment, because he added, “Look, I know you’d like to make a name for yourself, but trust me when I tell you that now would not be a good time. You’d be out of your depth on this one—hell, I’m out of my depth, and so is county. Screwing up would be far worse than doing nothing—believe me.”
Susan nodded in reluctant agreement, but still. It would have been nice to have at least been given the chance to screw up.
CHAPTER 13
Eric glanced at Jake from the corner of his eye and then brought his attention back to the road. “I still cannot believe you talked me into this,” he said with a shake of the head.
But really, had Jake given him much of a choice?
The kid had been so earnest in his request that Eric could have hardly said no.
And then there was the whole fate thing Jake had proposed back in the classroom earlier that week, which even Eric, so scientific in his thinking, had to admit was a pretty fortunate coincidence. Jake’s band, they of the great name Augustine Grifters, had a show coming up on Saturday—the gig had already been advertised in the local papers, and tickets had been sold. The only problem was that one of their members, Chuck, had sprained his w
rist, leaving the band without a drummer. So what great luck it had been for Jake that his new professor also played drums, and could Eric please-please-please stand in for a onetime gig (though it would also require a couple of additional nights of practice to learn their songs), because it would really help them out.
The truth was that Eric was more than happy to oblige. He hadn’t realized exactly how lonely he’d been until Jake’s small measure of companionship had been extended to him. Given the gruesome vision with the boy in the classroom, Eric was beginning to have serious concerns that isolation was literally making him crazy (well, crazier). He knew it would do him a world of good to get out and socialize, and it had. He was feeling far less depressed after getting out, even if it was only band practice.
“Oh, believe it, friend,” Jake said with a wicked laugh.
Were they friends , though?
After a moment’s contemplation, Eric supposed they were. Or at least he suspected that they would become friends soon enough; he hoped so, anyway.
Eric tended to take solace in others who’d had weirdness thrust upon them early in life—physical or mental characteristics that would forever place them on the fringe of society no matter where in the world they went, whether it be Perrick, Paris, or Panama City. In Eric’s case the weirdness was mental illness; in Jake’s it was height, or his obvious lack thereof. It was an existence the average person, no matter how sympathetic, could never understand. The weirdo existence. Eric had discovered that weirdos tended to gravitate toward each other intuitively, as if they released a unique pheromone only others of their kind could detect.
The two men had had a few seconds of awkwardness loading into the car before practice as Jake struggled to reach the passenger seat from outside the Jeep. Eric had stood by with alarming indecision, wondering if he should give Jake a boost or if that would be emasculating or insulting or what, but then Jake finally managed to climb in. After buckling his seat belt, a smirking Jake had offered Eric a suggestion: “If you want to check out my sweet ass, next time just ask.” Soon, they were both laughing. It felt natural, their camaraderie, and Eric was more at ease than he’d been for a very long time.
“You know, I’d taken it with a grain of salt when you said your band was its own category,” Eric said. “But I’ve got to give credit where credit is due; I really haven’t ever heard anything like you guys.” He glanced over at Jake. “And I mean that in a good way. It’s like . . . like classic rock, blues, and British rock—more Stones and less Beatles—got together and made a baby. That baby’s your band.”
Jake let out a throaty laugh. “Thanks, man, I appreciate it. And thank you—again—for helping out. You really got us out of a jam.”
“You sure I don’t sound terrible? It’s been ages since I’ve played.”
“Well, you’re no Travis Barker,” Jake replied.
Eric pretended to make an invisible note on his hand, muttering, “Okay, that’s an F on Jake’s next homework assignment.”
Jake laughed. “You didn’t let me finish! I was going to add a but —but you don’t suck either. You’re good. Tell you the truth, you’re a lot better than I’d expected.”
“For such an old guy?”
Jake shook his head. “You’re not that old—I’m practically your age.”
“Humph,” Eric said with a teasing grunt. “I doubt that .”
“I’m twenty-eight.”
“Seriously? I never would’ve guessed.”
“I get that a lot,” Jake said with a sigh. “Must be because I still dress like a teenager.”
“Must be it.”
Bringing them back to their original topic, Jake said, “No, I was surprised you were so good because you’d said you hadn’t played in a long time. You caught on to our songs fast.”
“Been listening to you guys’ CD. It’s helped.”
“Why did you stop playing, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Eric shrugged. “Eh, you know how it goes. Life gets in the way—work, marriage, obligations.”
“I didn’t know you were married.”
“I’m not,” Eric said grimly. “Not anymore.” Eric did not elaborate further on his situation with Maggie. Even if he did want to get into it—which he absolutely did not —he wouldn’t have known where to start.
Jake, thankfully, took the hint. “I just broke up with someone too.”
“I’m sorry.”
Jake flapped a hand. “Nah, it’s all good. It was for the best; we both wanted different things. Kelly, she wants the whole package: marriage, stability, kids, a picket fence. She’s ready to settle down.”
“And what do you want?”
“Freedom,” Jake said and then laughed. “I know it probably sounds selfish, but I need to focus on myself, now that I’ve gone back to school. Also, we—the band—are starting to book gigs out of state. It’s nice to be able to just pick up and go without having to answer to anyone.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being on your own,” Eric said, nearly sounding like he believed it. Changing the subject, he said, “Back when I was in the Complete, we played out of state sometimes. Good times.”
“The Complete?”
“That was the name of our band—this was during my college days. We played a few small gigs along the Eastern Seaboard, mainly for the girls and free drinks,” Eric said with a little chuckle that was loaded with nostalgia.
“What was your sound?”
“We were pop punk, with a little ska thrown in sometimes, if we could persuade our horn player to travel out of town with us.”
“Why’d you guys break up? Creative differences—isn’t that what they always say?”
Eric smiled lopsidedly. “No, it was nothing dramatic—for a band, we actually had surprisingly little drama. We just sort of lost momentum after graduation. We joined the masses, got real jobs. Became responsible adults: Engineers. Doctors. Teachers. Husbands. Parents.”
The two men went quiet.
Jake broke the silence. “I think you’re going to like the bar we’re playing on Saturday—Luna’s. It’s smaller, probably like what you played in college. Mellow crowd. Low key.”
“Good, because I’d rather not make an ass of myself in front of a colosseum full of people.”
“Oh, stop,” Jake said. “You’re not going to make an ass of yourself. I’m telling you, you’re good .”
“How about you, though? You’re amazing! When you play, it sounds like the violin is actually singing .” Eric placed a hand over his heart. “It brought tears to my eyes, man. Honestly.”
“Aw, thanks,” Jake said with the kind of confident modesty one uses when they’ve been praised so many times for something that they recognize their skill as fact. “Been playing since I was six.”
“It shows.”
Jake brought a hand up and tapped the windshield. “Oops! Almost forgot that I was giving you directions. Take this next turn. Just up here on the left.”
Eric squinted. Although they hadn’t been driving that long, they were out in the country now. “What? Down there—is that even a road? We doing a body dump or what?”
Jake chuckled. “I’m showing you a local shortcut. You’ve got to start learning back roads around here, or else you’ll waste half the day farting around in town traffic. It gets even worse in the summertime, when tourists drive through to the coast.”
It disheartened Eric to hear Jake talk about shortcuts for locals as if he were one. He supposed he’d have to face facts: he was a Perrick local, just like he was also a divorcé and community college professor.
Still, the unintentional sucker punch delivered by his well-meaning new friend smarted, since it solidified his situation. Made it real through vocalization, permanent. It endorsed the idea that Eric’s time in Philly was now merely a facet of a former existence he’d never return to—and that all events that transpired henceforth could only occur if he got off his ass and started rebuilding his life. That, out West, ever
ywhere he’d go, everything he’d see, and anyone he’d know, love, and fuck (though sex was the last thing on his mind) would be new to him. His friends, his lovers, his hangouts, his possessions, and, yes, even the local directions he learned would all be foreign. Everything.
Eric made the turn and saw that there was a long, sprawling field to his left. It had just turned twilight, and the horizon was swallowing up what remained of the sun’s rays. “I heard it can sometimes get pretty foggy outside of town,” he commented. The field was quite pretty, with an old windmill and a rickety fence that ran across its base. Seeing down-home properties like this in Perrick still struck Eric as amusing, as he’d always imagined California as it was shown in the media—all glamor, beaches, surfers, celebrities.
“Sometimes it gets so thick out this way that it’s like driving through a cotton ball,” Jake said. “I remember this one time . . .”
Eric’s teeth came together with a painful click. He gaped at Jake, who had broken off abruptly and was staring intently out the window.
Eric held his breath, listening. That sound! He gave his earlobe a rough tug, and the world went silent.
“Sorry, Jake. I missed that last—”
More screaming! Coming from everywhere inside the car: exploding from vents, blasting from the radio, whooshing up from the floor. It wasn’t merely screaming; it was a cacophony of agonized children wailing , a soundtrack befitting a kindergarten slaughterhouse in the blackest of nightmares.
Jake placed a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “Hey, man, you all right?”
Me? Only hearing a bunch of kids being tortured. You know, just another day in the life of a schizophrenic.
Eric made a controlled effort not to shout as he spoke, since the car would seem quiet to Jake. “Sorry. I’m fine.”
“Are you hearing it too?”
Eric’s neck cracked as he whipped his head sideward to peer at Jake. “What are you hearing?”
“I don’t know—it’s coming from really far away. It sounds like . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Can he hear it? Eric wondered. Like with the rotting kid back in the classroom, Jake could sense something —maybe—but he didn’t get the whole picture. Could there actually be a metaphysical side to life that only fringe-dwelling weirdos like Jake and himself could detect, some uncanny connection they all shared . . . or was that just crazy tinfoil-hat thinking?
