by S W Vaughn
At least he didn’t resent her for getting the promotion the way some of the others did, even though he was a few years older than her.
“Hey, Preston,” August panted when he reached her, stopping to glance over his shoulder at the knot of people around what she assumed was the body. He turned back with his mouth open to say something, but then his brow furrowed. “Are you okay? You look like somebody walked over your grave.”
Hearing that old expression chilled her. She’d never really understood the sentiment, but now it felt oddly appropriate. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. “I need to see the body.”
August nodded and fell into step beside her as she strode across the clearing and tried to prepare herself for what she was about to see. Lynn Reynolds’ body had been horrific, hard to look at, but this — it was personal.
There were three people clustered around something on the ground, two standing and one kneeling. The kneeling man was Tommy Brand, one of the town’s two full-time crime scene technicians. At twenty-four, he was also one of the youngest people who worked with the department. Lieutenant Rufus Krattiger stood next to Tommy, his position blocking her view of the body and whatever Tommy was doing, and there was a uniformed officer on Kratt’s right. Henderson, she thought.
Kratt pivoted to face her when she was a few steps away, his expression inscrutable. “Clarke,” he said. “You look like hell.”
She smirked. “Thanks a lot.” Trust the lieutenant to call it exactly like he saw it. Avoiding the inevitable for a moment longer, she panned a slow gaze around the clearing and took in the other uniforms milling around, as well as the young and clearly distressed couple sitting on a fallen tree, talking in muted tones to one of the officers as he took notes. “They the ones who found her?” she asked.
The lieutenant frowned. “Listen, I know what you’re thinking,” he said in a tone that was as close to kind as Kratt could get. He’d been one of the officers on duty all those years ago, when a hysterical twelve-year-old Preston had burst into the police station with tales of hooded men and bloody knives. “But at this stage, there’s no way to be sure the body is even female, much less what you think—”
Her glower cut him off. “I don’t think, Kratt. I know what I saw.”
“Well, it’s definitely female. You can tell from the pelvis,” Tommy Brand said from behind the lieutenant. “If that makes any difference.”
“It does. Thank you, Tommy.” Preston leveled an even stare at Kratt. “I need to see her.”
He shrugged and stepped aside.
Preston’s breath caught at the sight of what was on the ground—or rather, in the ground, half-buried and partially covered with twigs and dirt and pine needles. Her legs wanted to shake as she approached slowly, but she forced herself to remain steady and took a pair of disposable gloves from her backpack kit. She crouched in front of the body and slipped the gloves on.
The corpse was withered and desiccated, little more than leather and bone that had darkened with time and exposure to a dull, flat brown. Only the head, upper torso, and one arm were fully exposed, and the earth had eroded to reveal parts of the pelvis and upper legs. Tree roots had spread into the remains, entangling themselves around and through flesh and bone until it was difficult to distinguish wood from bone. The effect was surreal, forming some kind of awful, tortured plant-human hybrid.
Most of the clothing had long since disintegrated, but the ragged remains of a jacket still clung to the bones. It was impossible to tell what color the material had been from the above-ground fragments, but if she dug a little…
She turned to Tommy, who’d pulled back from his careful inspection to give her space. “Did you get the pictures you need?”
He nodded. “All documented in situ.”
“All right. Thanks.”
Despite her best efforts, Preston’s hands trembled a little as she reached out and carefully scooped dirt and detritus away from the torso. She uncovered some of the buried material and tugged gently, and then brought her flashlight out from the pack where she’d tucked it away and shined the beam onto the fabric.
The color was faded, but clearly the jacket had once been bright green.
“It’s her,” she rasped with a catch in her throat. “This is what she was wearing.”
Tommy, too young to know about what happened twenty years ago, shot her a raised eyebrow. “You know the victim?”
“I don’t know her name,” she said almost absently. “But I saw her die.”
And now, she’d see her killer brought to justice.
This girl had waited long enough.
Marco
The dingy little twenty-four-hour truck stop and gas station directly off the highway looked to be the only place around for miles. That was probably why the gas prices were twenty cents higher than everywhere else I’d seen in the two hours since I left the city. Good location, zero competition.
I wasn’t a fan of literal highway robbery, but my options were limited. My car was running on fumes.
I’d shaken the bastards on my tail an hour ago, but I still scanned the place thoroughly as I made the left turn into the parking lot and bumped across pothole-riddled pavement. The station was a squat building with industrial-ugly siding, flanked by two cracked asphalt lots — gas pumps and rural convenience store staples on the left, diesel pumps and truck parking on the right. There were entrances on either side of the building, and a neon OPEN sign flashing in the dark-screened glass front window.
The place wasn’t all that busy, probably because it was eleven on a Sunday night in a decidedly rural area. Three eighteen-wheelers stood far back in the truck lot, dark and silent, their drivers likely napping in the sleeper cabs. There was a flatbed tow truck and a dark gray SUV at the diesel pumps. No vehicles at the gas pumps, though there was a maroon two-door coupe parked a few feet back from the entrance on the convenience side next to a stand of bundled firewood, and a light blue sedan out in the lot beyond the pumps that probably belonged to an employee.
It took me about twenty seconds to process my surroundings and store them. My hypervigilance, a “gift” from my ever-so-delightful childhood, made me freakishly observant sometimes — even when I didn’t particularly want to be.
But while I was on the run from armed thugs, exercising my observational skills was probably a good idea.
I pulled up to the pump nearest the entrance and killed the engine. Before I got out, I checked the S&W Shield tucked in the back of my jeans to make sure it was still concealed. Didn’t need anyone making a panic call to 911 when I just wanted some gas, and maybe a snack for the road.
The driving gloves I was wearing in July to keep from leaving fingerprints were already suspicious enough, without adding a gun to the mix.
As I swiped one of my alternate-name credit cards and started filling the tank, my thoughts turned to Nicky, and once again I tried to figure out what the hell happened there. For some reason, the head of the Franzella crime family thought I’d murdered his girlfriend — excuse me, mistress — and his goons had been hunting me down for the past three days.
The problem was I hadn’t done it. First of all, the guy I’d taken out three days ago was definitely not Nicky’s mistress, unless he’d been keeping a burly, forty-something man with a serious drinking problem on the side. And second, I didn’t accept contracts on women or children. Yeah, I was a hitman, but I liked to think of myself as a gentleman first.
Inexplicably, Nicky believed I was responsible for not just killing, but butchering his bit of fluff. I didn’t do shit like that, and he damned well knew it.
But right now, Don Franzella was not a clear-thinking man.
It was why I’d finally left the city, headed for the hills. The Adirondacks, to be specific. I knew a guy who had a cabin up there, where I could lay low until I sorted this shit out. I just had to make it up there first.
Because somehow, no matter where I holed up or ran to, Nicky’s goons kept finding me.
He wouldn’t stop until I was dead.
I’d pumped ten gallons into the car when my phone buzzed in my pocket. Frowning, I drew it out and stared at the screen, half convinced that Nicky had somehow found my private number and called me directly, instead of using one of my go-betweens. But it was Jake, so I answered reluctantly. “Yeah, talk fast,” I said.
“Marco, thank God,” Jake breathed on the other end. “Where the hell are you? I got the cash. Thought you were meeting me at the docks.”
I grunted. Initially I’d planned a more thought-out departure from New York, and I’d sent Jake out to run errands and gather supplies, namely the money he owed me. Only while I was waiting, I impulsively decided to leave sooner than expected — an impulse largely driven by the bullets that had suddenly riddled the shitty motel room where I’d been squatting.
“Change of plans,” I told him. “Just hold onto it for now. And that means don’t spend it.”
“What’s going on?” he insisted. “I just heard that you left the city, and that Nicky had you pinned down somewhere near Jersey. Where are you?”
“Gas station,” I said absently. “I’m fine.”
A strident dinging tone sounded from the convenience store building, and I flinched in spite of myself, but it was only the door opening as a fifty-something man in a Carhartt jacket, oil-stained jeans and shitkicker boots walked out to head for the maroon coupe. He shot me a brief, narrow-eyed glance on the way. Must’ve been a local.
Jake coughed on the line. “The hell was that?”
“Annoying excuse for a door chime.” There was a clunk as the gas hose kicked off in my hand, signifying a full tank, and I pulled the nozzle free and slammed it back on the pump. “Look, I gotta run,” I said to Jake. “I’ll probably call you when I get there. Maybe you can wire the money or something.”
“Get where?” he said with alarm in his voice. “Jesus, Marco, you gotta come back here and clear this shit up, or they’re gonna kill you. Where the hell are you going?”
I twisted the gas cap in place and pushed the little door shut. “I don’t know yet. Listen, don’t call me for a while.”
“Marco, wait!” I caught a note of desperation behind his words. “I can help you,” he said. “Just tell me where you are, okay? I’m worried about you.”
My hackles rose suddenly, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Jake didn’t worry about me — especially when he owed me money. In fact, he tended to avoid me even when he could afford to pay up.
I thought again about how Nicky kept finding me, and how often I’d heard from Jake in the past few days. More than usual.
“You son of a bitch,” I growled into the phone. “You’re singing for Nicky, aren’t you? How much is he paying you?”
The horrified pause before he spoke told me everything I needed to know. “Marco—”
I hung up before he could sputter anything else out. Spineless little backstabbing prick.
I should’ve known, or at least suspected. Jake would roll on his own mother for a cold case of beer, and he’d do a hell of a lot worse for actual money. But he wasn’t smart enough to track me, not with any kind of accuracy at least, so I had to wonder how he’d managed to pull this off.
Right now, I couldn’t worry about the hows of Jake Paladino. I had bigger, uglier problems headed my way.
For a moment there was nothing but the idle of the tow truck engine in the far lot, and the rustling of leaves in the faint summer breeze that blew through the trees across the road. I closed my eyes and silently cursed Jake’s name with every breath. Part of me wanted to get back in the car and burn rubber out of here, make miles with only my rage to keep me company. But I hadn’t told that squealing bastard exactly where I was, and the car wasn’t the only thing running on fumes. I needed food. Plus, I had to take a piss.
I headed for the station. The overly long, high-pitched chime sounded again when I pulled the door open, and I shot a sympathetic glance at the woman behind the cash register counter to the right of the entrance, a thirty-something dishwater blonde in casual clothes with an air of minimum-wage resignation. “You must get sick of hearing that door buzzer all night long, huh?” I said.
She gave a tired smile that suggested she’d heard the comment before, and it was just as hilarious the first hundred times. “Yup,” she offered in response.
Clearly, she wasn’t interested in small talk. Fine with me. “Got a restroom in here?”
“Down that way.” She pointed to the last aisle in the store, adjacent to the other entrance.
I nodded thanks and crossed in front of the counter. There was movement outside, and the truck-side entrance opened just before I reached the last aisle. I started to shuffle aside, a murmured ‘excuse me’ ready on my tongue, when I caught sight of the person entering the building and a startled jolt went through me, freezing me in place.
Jesus, I could’ve been looking in a mirror.
The man from the truck side had my face. Same olive complexion, same hazel eyes, same black hair, though he wore his short where mine was shaggy and down to my shoulders. Even the shape of his face was the same. There were plenty of subtle differences — he was a few inches shorter than me, the cleft in his chin was a bit more pronounced, my cheekbones were a little sharper. I’d like to say I was in slightly better shape than him, too, though he was no slouch. But the resemblance between us was nothing short of striking.
And, I realized with a shock, I knew him.
A memory stirred, one I hadn’t thought about for a long time. One of my many stints in juvie — New Heights. I’d met that slimy little bastard Jake there, but he hadn’t been the only remarkable thing that happened during that time. I remembered the kid who looked just like me. Even though our sentences had only overlapped for a week, it wasn’t the kind of thing you could forget easily.
“Donnie?” I finally said as the name swam up from the murky depths of my childhood.
I imagined that the startled expression on his face was mirrored on mine. When I said his name, he gave a nervous laugh. “Holy shit,” he said. “You’re that kid from juvie … Mark, right?”
“Yeah.” It was close enough that I didn’t bother to correct him. Something about this guy had always unnerved me a little, beyond the fact that he looked so much like me, being around him made my skin crawl. We hadn’t exactly ended up pals in lockup, hadn’t really talked much at all. We’d never even exchanged so much as last names or the reasons why we were both in that place — the run-of-the-mill small talk normally traded by convicts of all varieties, even the under-eighteen ones. I figured he was just as creeped out as me by our bizarre, completely unrelated resemblance.
Doppelganger. The word alone gave me chills.
“I can’t believe it, running into you out here,” he said. “You don’t live in the city anymore?”
“No, I’m still in the city.” I chose my words carefully, knowing that a shared juvenile record wasn’t enough for me to start blabbing about my profession to this man. For all I knew, he could’ve cleaned up his act when he got out of there. “Just on my way to visit a friend up north. You?”
He opened his mouth, started to answer, but then held up a finger and pulled a phone from his jacket pocket. I noted that, like me, he was unmarried — no wedding band, no tan line indicating he usually wore one.
When he glanced at the phone’s screen, a quick spasm flitted across his features. “Uh … yeah, me?” he said slowly as he swiped at the phone and started to text something. “Sorry, this’ll only take a second.” He tapped almost frantically, and for a second I thought I glimpsed sweat beading at his temples. But then he finished, put
the phone away, and flashed an apologetic smile. “Work,” he said with a shrug. “I’m supposed to be going on vacation, but you know how it is.”
I made an agreeable noise, as if I did indeed know how it was. If he had a job that he took vacations from, I definitely couldn’t let anything about me slip. Whatever he’d done to land in New Heights, it appeared that his time there had somehow set him on the straight and narrow — which was more than most of the “graduates” from that place could say.
Awkward as this encounter was, I figured this was the point where we’d make our excuses and go our separate ways. But my lookalike hadn’t moved or looked away from me. Apparently he was expecting something more.
“Vacation, huh?” I finally said, trying to surreptitiously edge down the aisle toward the bathroom.
He nodded. “Yeah, Vermont. It’s supposed to be nice this time of year.”
“So you’ve never been there before?” I asked, as if I had. As if I cared whether he had or not. Small talk wasn’t really my thing.
“Uh, no. First time.” His gaze darted past me for a second, to the entrance across the store where I’d come inside. “It’s so bizarre running into you out here,” he said. “I mean, what are the odds? Unless you’re headed for Vermont too.” He gave a nervous laugh.
I shook my head. “Listen, man—”
“So anyway, enough about me,” he interrupted. “What’ve you been up to all this time?
“Oh, you know,” I said vaguely, deciding that if this conversation didn’t end politely in about sixty seconds, I was going to end it rudely. “This and that. I manage.”
He laughed like we were suddenly old friends. “Yeah, I’ll bet you do. That shirt looks like it cost more than my whole closet,” he said. “Is that an Armani?”
My upper lip twitched. It was an Armani, actually, but I didn’t want to discuss my financial standing with him. “Well, you look good,” I said.
“Yeah, sure I do. Man, it’s been a long time.” A grin eased itself across his face. “Hey, you remember that kid Jake who was in with us?”
