The Ophelia Killer

by Valerie Geary

After the nurse leaves, Brett scowls at Jimmy. “All that trouble and you only have to spend two nights in the hospital. Damn lucky,” she repeats.

  He starts to apologize again, but she takes his hand, squeezes it. “Next time you decide to play hero, at least call me first, okay?”

  He nods, and his eyes flutter closed as exhaustion sweeps him into a heavy sleep.

  * * *

  When Jimmy wakes again, Brett is gone. In her chair sits Detective Michael Rausch. He’s staring at the wall, a scowl etched into the stone of his face. Jimmy shifts in the bed, and Rausch’s gaze swivels to him.

  “You here to apologize?” Jimmy goads. “Tell me I was right.”

  Rausch tenses. His hands curl to fists on the armrests of the chair. “How did you find Archer French?”

  “I looked for him. I asked the right questions.”

  He feels a little more rested, stronger now, too. But it still hurts to talk, and he wants Rausch to disappear. He longs for Brett to be sitting in that chair again, watching over him.

  “Don’t play games with me, Slim-Jim,” Rausch says.

  Jimmy leans his head back against the pillow and lifts his eyes toward the ceiling.

  Rausch scoots the chair right up next to the hospital bed and bends close to Jimmy. “You might think you can hide from everyone else, but you can’t hide from me. You worked with Archer, is that it? The two of you were in this together, but what happened? You got tired of sharing the glory? He threatened to turn you in? But how did you convince him to take the fall?”

  “You’re out of your mind, Rausch.” It takes all of Jimmy’s efforts to push himself up in bed, so he’s sitting tall and facing the detective directly. “Just because I did something you weren’t able or willing to do, doesn’t make me a criminal. He would have gone on killing if I hadn’t stopped him.”

  He falls back against the pillows again, panting, exhausted.

  Rausch rises out of the chair, a smirk tugging on his mouth. He shakes his head, then takes a notepad from his jacket pocket along with a pen and sets both down on Jimmy’s legs. “Archer French gave us a pretty thorough confession after we laid out all the evidence we had against him. Between him and your boss, we were able to piece together a pretty good timeline of events, but I’m still going to need your statement. When you’re feeling up to it.”

  He taps his fingers twice on the notepad. He pauses in the doorway on the way out and casts a glance over his shoulder at Jimmy. “And remember, Slim-Jim, I’m watching you. I’ll always be watching you.”

  * * *

  The nightmares start two weeks after Jimmy gets out of the hospital. The details change from dream to dream, but the feeling is the same: terror. A hand coming out of the darkness, pulling Jimmy down. Jimmy is walking along a sidewalk, rain sputtering around him, when suddenly the ground gives way, and he’s falling, falling. A girl screams in the distance, and Jimmy tries to run in her direction, tries to save her, but his legs get stuck in quicksand or break into a thousand pieces.

  He wakes in a panic, sweating and unable to catch his breath. The sheets tangle around his body, choking him. But Trixie is always there to calm him down again. She nuzzles her head under his arm and presses the entire length of her body against his. Her warmth comforts him enough he’s usually able to fall right back to sleep.

  But sometimes he can’t, and it’s nights like these when he loads Trixie in the car and drives in circles through the countryside, watching the shadows for movement, for something amiss.

  Archer French is being held in prison without bail until his next hearing. He’s of no danger to anyone now. Still, Jimmy drives. He keeps his eyes open. He watches the shadows, knowing other monsters lurk in the dark, predators like Archer French, who are biding their time, waiting to kill.

  Chapter 20

  On a hot night in August, nearly three months after French’s arrest, Jimmy wakes from another nightmare. He grabs Trixie’s leash and heads out for a drive. He’s cruising down a two-lane highway near Valentine Creek, scanning the fields and gravel shoulders, when he sees flashing blue and red lights in his rearview mirror.

  He isn’t speeding. He’s not drunk. He doesn’t think he ran any stop signs. He pulls to the side of the road. The patrol car pulls up behind him, lights still swirling. The officer, a shadow in the headlights, walks slowly toward his vehicle.

  Jimmy grips the wheel, thinking it’s Rausch who pulled him over. Rausch with his wrong theories and personal vendetta. This dark highway with no one around for miles—the detective could do whatever he wants to Jimmy and get away with it.

  But the silhouette standing at his driver’s side door is slimmer and shorter than Rausch, and the voice is feminine and familiar. “I thought that was you.”

  Jimmy relaxes his grip on the steering wheel. He hasn’t seen Brett since that first night in the hospital. He thought about calling her several times, but whenever it came down to actually picking up the phone, he always lost his nerve.

  “What are you doing out here?” she asks, glancing around the empty farmland.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “He can’t hurt anyone anymore, you know.” Her voice is quiet in the dark. “There won’t be another August girl this year, Jimmy. There won’t be one next year, either. You should go home and read a book. Or write one, for God’s sake. Just stop wasting your time out here chasing shadows.”

  Jimmy stares through the windshield. A moth flutters in the glare of his headlights.

  “So, listen.” Brett’s tone shifts to something more playful. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”

  He turns to look at her. “What do you mean?”

  She bends so her face is framed by the window, then she reaches her hand inside to scratch Trixie’s head. “Hey, girl. How have you been?” She smiles at Jimmy. “I’ve been down at the bar every Thursday. Thought for sure I’d run into you there at some point.”

  He feels his cheeks grow hot and is grateful for the cover of darkness. “Oh, well, I thought since you weren’t with the special unit anymore—”

  “The special unit is over, Jimmy. But that doesn’t mean our friendship has to be.”

  “Right.”

  She studies him a moment and says, “You at least owe me one more drink.”

  “Oh? How’s that?”

  “Without me, you would have never tracked down Archer French.” She straightens and adjusts her utility belt. “So, I’ll see you Thursday afternoon? My shift ends at four.”

  Jimmy nods.

  Brett pats the roof of his car twice and walks away.

  * * *

  Jimmy shows up to the bar a little before four on Thursday, thinking he’ll beat Brett. But she’s already there, waiting for him in their usual booth, their favorite confessional near the jukebox. Two pints of beer and a plate of greasy fries sit on the table in front of her.

  He starts to walk over, but the bartender intercepts him and insists on shaking his hand. He tells Jimmy to bring Trixie in with him anytime he wants. She’s a hero as much as he is. Everyone’s heard about Jimmy’s confrontation with the Ophelia Killer by now. The story’s been plastered on the front-page of the Statesman Journal for weeks, thanks to Tadd. Other papers picked it up, too, but Jimmy’s first-hand account is exclusive to the one he writes for. Jimmy’s never seen his editor as happy as he’s been for the past three months.

  Jimmy frees himself from the bartender’s grip and drops down onto the vinyl bench across from Brett. He sneaks a fry into his mouth.

  “So. You’re a big shot celebrity now,” she says.

  “Hardly.”

  “Too good for the likes of us ordinary people.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” He keeps his voice light, teasing her, as he grabs another fry.

  “Yeah, well, I was starting to think you weren’t coming,” she says, but there’s no anger in her voice either. She relaxes against the benc
h, studying his face.

  “You look good,” she says. “Better than when I saw you three months ago.”

  “Has it really been that long?”

  She shrugs.

  “Well, I don’t have any permanent damage,” Jimmy says, reaching for his beer. He doesn’t mention the nightmares or the way his throat sometimes hurts for no reason. “How is it back at the sheriff’s department?”

  The offices the Salem Police were using for their special investigations unit are empty now. There’s a For Lease sign in the front window.

  “Boring.” Brett shrugs. “I thought maybe I could talk the sheriff into giving me a promotion, but so far, there haven’t been any openings.”

  “You could always apply to a different department? Portland is always looking for good police.”

  She laughs. “Portland? Why the hell would I go to Portland?”

  “I’m moving there next month.”

  She looks surprised, then angry. “Why?”

  “Got a job offer from the Oregonian. It’s more money, bigger stories. Hard to turn that down.” Plus, he needs a change in scenery. New roads that don’t lead him to the dumping grounds of dead girls. Shadows that aren’t so twisted. Sleep that doesn’t give him nightmares. He doesn’t know if he can really leave the August girls behind, but he wants to try.

  “Good for you. Congratulations.” Brett’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She seems sad about his news, maybe just disappointed.

  “I’ve had some publishers contact me, too,” he says. “They’re interested in my story, of how I tracked down Archer, the whole ordeal, how I survived”

  “That’s great, Jimmy.”

  “Is it?”

  “You don’t want to do it?”

  “I do, I think I do. I just wonder if maybe it would be better to put the whole thing behind me, forget it ever happened.”

  “But it did happen. Maybe instead of forgetting, you need to face it head-on. Tell the whole story, and it will stop haunting you.”

  “Where’d you hear that from?”

  “It’s something my grandpa used to say to me. After my sister died. Whenever I was having a hard time with school or my parents or whatever. I was always pushing my feelings down, pushing it all away, and he sat me down one day and said that was the worst thing I could do. He told me that yes, this world is cruel, that it will do its damnedest to try and break me. He said the things that happened to me could either turn me calloused, hard, and mean, or I could open up, let the hurts in, and then turn them into something useful, something that made me kind and compassionate. I don’t know.” She laughs softly and shakes her head. “I never completely understood what he was trying to say or how to do that. You know? How to stay tough here…” She taps her finger against her temple. “While also staying soft here.” Her finger moves to her chest, touching above her heart. “But he said that’s how you survive the things life throws at you, that’s how you stay sane. By remembering your humanity. It’s the only way to make anything meaningful from this tragic mess of a world.”

  Brett smiles across the table at Jimmy. He smiles back at her and starts to lean closer, the words forming in his mouth. He’s going to ask her to come with him to Portland. He’s going to tell her how he feels. But as his courage is building, she reaches for a french fry and changes the subject.

  “I didn’t want to ask you while you were in the hospital, it didn’t seem right. But I’ve been wondering, I can’t stop thinking about it. When you were with French? When you were at his house? Did he tell you about Margot? Did he say anything to you about killing her?”

  Jimmy shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Brett. He admitted to being in Crestwood, but that was the closest I got.”

  She slumps back in the booth, disappointed. “I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.”

  Their eyes meet, and he sees his own doubts reflected back to him. She knows something he doesn’t. He stays silent, waiting her out.

  Finally, she says, “I could get in deep shit telling you this. Rausch isn’t making this public yet, so maybe don’t make an article out of it just yet, but Archer is swearing up and down and sideways that he didn’t kill Margot. He confessed to the other eleven women during the interrogation. All the ones we knew about. Lydia and Cherish and Natalie, the others. The ones whose tongues were…” She shakes the image from her head. “He admits to killing all eleven of those women, but every time they ask him about Margot, he says he didn’t do it. He says it wasn’t him.”

  “He’s a liar, Brett. A psychopath.”

  “Yes, but I keep thinking, what if he’s telling the truth? What if he didn’t kill Margot? What if someone else did?” She looks sickened at the thought of it. A shudder rolls through her, and she says, “Never mind, it’s stupid. Of course, it was him. He’s just playing games with us, trying to keep some leverage or something for the trial.”

  “Will there even be a trial? If he’s confessed to everything?”

  “There will be a sentencing hearing, at least. But I don’t know, I think I need to try and move on. Accept that he’s the one who killed Margot. I need to try and find some closure here.” She runs her hand over her face. “Is that even possible? She was my big sister, my best friend. Every time I think about what happened to her, what he did—” She swallows the rest.

  “It’ll get easier,” he says and instantly wishes he could take it back. “Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.”

  She shakes her empty pint glass at him. “Buy me another, and I’ll find it in my heart to forgive you.”

  Two hours later, they walk out to the parking lot together. Jimmy lets Trixie out of the car, and Brett crouches to say hi to the beagle, who can’t stop moving. She wiggles and wags and bumps her nose against Brett’s arms and legs and elbows and anything else she can find.

  Brett gives the dog a good, long scratch, then stands up and dusts her hands off on her pants. “Well, Jimmy, I guess this is goodbye.”

  “What do you mean? Like goodbye goodbye?”

  “Well, you’re moving to Portland, right? Out with the old, in with the new. A fresh start and all of that.”

  “I’m taking a new job, Bretty, moving to a new apartment, not abandoning my entire life. It’s less than an hour’s drive from Portland to Salem. My mom’s still here. You’re still here. I’ll probably be back here visiting so often, you’ll get sick of me.”

  She studies him a moment, then nods like she’s made up her mind.

  “See you next Thursday, then?” She sticks her hand out like they’re negotiating a business deal.

  To do the kind of work Jimmy wants to do, to chase monsters, to write the violent truth, he has to hold on to the parts of this life that are good, and Brett is good, perhaps the best thing that’s happened to him in a long time.

  He grabs her hand and pulls her forward into an embrace. She stiffens a second, then relaxes against him and speaks softly into his ear. “I’m going to miss you, Jimmy.”

  “I’m just a phone call away, Bretty,” he says, holding her a little tighter.

  Brett ends the hug first. Before she leaves, she bends to give Trixie one more scratch on the head and says, “Be a good girl and keep an eye on him for me, okay?”

  Trixie’s tongue flops from her mouth in a wide, conspiratorial grin.

  Brett shoves her hands in her pockets and starts to walk away. Over her shoulder, she says, “Stay out of trouble.”

  “All the best stories come from trouble,” Jimmy calls after her.

  She shakes her head and lifts her hand in a wave.

  Twenty minutes later, Jimmy turns onto the road leading to Crocker Creek. Though it’s after six now, it’s still summer; the sun won’t set for another two hours. He parks near the spot where Cherish Spalding’s body was found and lets Trixie out of the car. The dog takes off ahead of him, parting the tall grass, sniffing in a sporadic zig-zag, nose snuffling the soft earth. Jimmy takes
his time crossing the field. He stops when he gets to the trees, his toes on the edge where the long shadows and copper sunlight meet.

  Birds whistle and chirp in the canopy. The creek where she laid for hours burbles and mutters to itself. Jimmy waits for something to happen. The air is still. The sun tilts low to the horizon, but still warms the skin on the back of his neck and arms. He waits, but nothing happens, and after a while, he’s not sure why he came. To say goodbye, to apologize, to try and reckon with the happiness he feels alongside his grief. If not for the August girls, he would not have found Trixie. He would not have found Brett, either. There is infinite pain in this world, loss so deep a person could drown in it. But there is beauty, too, and hope if you know where to look.

  As Jimmy turns to go back to the car, he whistles for Trixie. There’s a rustle in the dry grass, and then she is at his side, bounding through a sea of white, purple, and yellow wildflowers blooming all around them.

  *

  *

  *

  Which killer will Jimmy and Brett track down next? Find out in On A Dark Tide, Book 1 of the Brett Buchanan Mystery Series. The book is available to purchase through most major retailers or sign up for my newsletter to receive $2 off the e-book or audiobook when you buy direct from my online store. Become a VIP Reader today!

  Want to check out Chapter One first? Keep reading!

  Bonus Material

  On A Dark Tide

  A novel by Valerie Geary

  Chapter 1

  Brett hadn’t seen any signs of rats in the four months she’d been living with her grandmother in the big house overlooking Sculpin Bay, but Amma insisted she heard them. They were keeping her awake at night, she said. Furry little bastards would chew apart the attic if someone didn’t stop them. And by someone, she meant Brett.

  Amma was afraid of the ladder that unfolded from the ceiling, worried that if she tried to climb the narrow rungs, she would fall, break her hip, and lie for days in agony until someone found her. If someone found her. A woman who lives alone dies alone, Amma liked to say with a bitter twist of her coral-tinted lips. But she wasn’t alone anymore, Brett reminded her nearly every day.