by Laurel Dewey
“Shmeckle?”
Mollie was really embarrassed now. “You know? His… dick. I’d never seen it before. I swear to Hashem, never! But I just wasn’t ready to do it. I want everything to be perfect for my first time. Rose petals, candles…”
“The age of consent,” Jane quickly added, which elicited a roll of the eyes from Mollie. “Hey! You’re fifteen, for God’s sake. You shouldn’t be having sex!”
“And we didn’t! He couldn’t get his petseleh up! But it wasn’t like he didn’t keep trying. Gloib mir, he kept trying! But what a klutz! No matter how much he wanted to schtup, it wasn’t happening that night.” Mollie looked up at Jane. “He couldn’t stop apologizing and I was like, ‘It’s no big deal.’ Geez, all the frenzied groping and this off-the-wall need to prove himself.” She shook her head. “But there was no consoling him. He left and I didn’t hear from him until I got that email telling me it wasn’t my fault, it was his.”
“What do you think he meant by that?” Mollie started to speak but held back. “What were you going to say?” Jane probed.
“That he’s a faygala,” she said softly as if saying it too loudly would make it true. She realized Jane needed a translation. “Gay.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know… He’s been wearing those old time Palm Beach shirts and fedoras… So, either he’s gay or he’s secretly Jewish.”
Jane glanced at Mollie and thought, Kid, if you only knew the truth. “Clothing aside, you’re assuming he’s gay because he can’t get his pecker up?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Well…yeah…”
“Did you ever think that when a guy is stressed or emotionally distraught, it sometimes affects the rate of ascent down there?”
“I thought guys were always ready to go… even when they’re asleep.”
“You’re fifteen. You don’t know everything.”
“So, what was he stressed about?”
“The fight he had with his dad.” Jane paced the small bedroom. Over the last fifteen months, she’d spent substantial time meditating about life, and she’d come up with a few enlightened observations. One of those involved the root of our primal self and the instinctive reason why we do what we do. Jane broke it down to two causes—survival or salvation. We’re either looking to survive on this plane or seeking the promise of salvation on the next one. Some people do both. But in the end, our modus operandi is still centered on the preservation of the self now or the self after death.
When the self is threatened or compromised—usually involving its survival—it acts out in a parallel primitive manner. If a man is threatened by his wife’s male admirers, he might physically assault them because his own survival and identity is wrapped up in the relationship and the thought of having that connection destroyed creates a need to act out in a knee-jerk, primal manner. The more enlightened option—salvation—still held the echo of survival, in that the chaste woman who guards her purity and denies any whisper of the flesh is counting on her eventual survival into the Kingdom of Heaven. As Jane tested this theory in her own life and in the lives of the desperate killers and victims around her, she saw it played out repeatedly. However, the need to survive was the dominant M.O. for nearly everyone she encountered, including herself. She couldn’t escape the irony that for all the years she felt dead inside and even contemplated suicide, the DNA-driven need to fight for one’s own breath and security in this world motivated her primordial impulse.
So what in the hell triggered Jake’s survival mechanism? What did his father say or do that night that drove him down that rope and to Mollie’s house and then forced him to act out a sexually dominant role? Taking it a step further, what threatened Jake even more two weeks later so much that he abandoned his inborn survival instinct and threw a rope over a bridge support beam with death as his soul’s objective? And if the two were somehow connected, why was his death aborted by another who then used Jake like a pawn in a game of chess?
Jane handed Mollie Jake’s sketchpad. “Have you seen that before?” She shook her head. Jane instructed her how to flip the pages from the back forward to produce the smooth animation of the older man standing on a chair and hanging himself in a jail cell.
“Oh, my God,” Mollie whispered, stunned. “Jake drew this?”
“Do you have any idea who that is?”
“No. But, hey, he’s wearing the same type of vintage shirt and fedora like Jake wears.”
“I know.”
“Why would Jake want to copy the way this guy dresses?”
“I’m more interested in knowing why he wanted to copy how he died.”
Mollie handed Jane the sketchpad. “You know, I told you how Jake liked to wear black and that he told me he was in mourning for the dead. What I didn’t tell you, is that the last time Jake and I talked, he said the weirdest thing. He said he had an obligation…no, wait…he used a different word…” She thought hard. “…an allegiance. That’s what he said. He said he had an allegiance to someone he’d never met and that he didn’t understand it, but he had no choice.”
Jane turned away. When she stood on the bridge and felt into what Jake was feeling at that precipitous place, she distinctly recalled the thought that imprinted on her mind. There was despair and an allegiance to death. At the time, she couldn’t understand it, but now it had been confirmed. And when she and Weyler were discussing why people keep secrets, one of his theories was an allegiance to another person. But if that loyalty was unconscious, what in the hell kind of warped psychological game was going on in Jake’s life?
Jane wasn’t waiting until Monday for her big secret tête-àtête with Jordan. Sprinting across the street to The Rabbit Hole, she located Hank working the bar for the mid-afternoon lunch crowd. He’d promised her the use of his truck while her Mustang was being repaired and he kept his word, tossing her the keys and telling her that he filled it up for her. There was a wink that followed that statement which turned heads in unison at the bar toward Jane.
“Like the shirt, Chopper!” he yelled out to her as she left the bar.
It took some getting used to, but Jane actually enjoyed the feel of the truck underneath her. She’d seen the world out the window of a ’66 Mustang for so long that she’d forgotten what it looked like to view everything a few feet higher off the road. The Mustang had become so closely identified with Jane that people who’d only known her for a short time didn’t know she’d actually inherited it more than fourteen years ago. It had taken her a good seven of those years to get his smell out of the car. But his memory always lingered around the edges.
Jane pulled into Jordan’s property, parking the truck around the back of his cabin. Just in case Bo happened to be cruising down the highway, she didn’t want him to think that Hank was hanging with Jordan. Looking around the property, she saw no one, but she didn’t yell out Jordan’s name. She ascended the four steps that led to the narrow porch of the cabin and gently rapped on the door. When Jordan didn’t answer, she peered into a side window. Nobody home. Checking the door, it opened and she crossed inside. “Hello?”
Nothing.
A thousand thoughts crossed her mind—scenarios of where Jordan might be, interlocking with strategies for her opportunistic visit. She was drawn to the overflowing bookshelves across the room, up the two steps near the loft and single unmade bed. The cluttered collection was arranged in an erratic manner with some books facing forward and others set in backward. Jane hopscotched around the various titles that gave new meaning to the word eclectic. Modern classics were juxtaposed next to art books which were wedged tightly against history texts that were cloistering Chinese herbal encyclopedias. There was a section of the center shelf that was less dusty and gave Jane the impression that Jordan frequently sourced reading from that area. Each of the titles appeared to be esoteric in nature. One caught her eye, titled, Sacred Symbols of the 52-Card Deck. Jane was about to pull it off the shelf when a large hand touched her on the shoulder. She jumped an
d spun around.
“See something you like?” Jordan asked in a low, eerie voice.
“Jesus!” Jane said.
He smiled and chuckled. “Did I scare you?”
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“That’s because I was already inside.”
“Then why didn’t you respond when I called out?”
“I wanted to see what you were up to. I like to observe people…just like you do.” He stood back, reading her I LIKE BOYZ T-shirt. “Thanks for clarifying your sexual preference. Now I can sleep peacefully at night.” Jordan sauntered to the cluttered kitchen table, still laden with stacks of books, and eyed Jane more closely. “You look different, Jane.” His eyes bored into her. “You’ve been awakened by the blue lily, haven’t you?” Jane remained stone-faced. “Yes! I’m right. You’ve had an otherwordly experience.” He smiled a knowing grin. “You’ve been awakened! You’ll never be the same again, Jane. Never! Awareness is a demanding mistress. Once she wakes you up, she won’t let you go back to sleep.” He walked around the table. “It’s nice to meet a fellow compatriot on the path. There aren’t many of us brave souls. There’s too much ignorance out there. Ignorance is bliss but the ignorant are too stupid to recognize their bliss by virtue of their ignorance. If that ain’t irony, I don’t know what is!”
Jane tired of Jordan’s chatter. “We have to talk.”
“Patience, Jane. Patience. I promised I would tell you my big secret on Monday.”
“I gotta know now.”
Jordan tilted his head, probing Jane’s psyche. “Oh, dear. Did he slip up?”
“Who?”
“Your kidnapper. Did he? They always do. Did he reveal something quite by accident? Or…maybe not by accident?” Jane remained stoic, but Jordan seemed to read past the exterior. “Yes, of course.” Jordan’s eyes drifted, appearing suddenly remote. “He really wants attention, Jane. He needs you to listen to him. You’re the only one who will listen. As much as we work to hide our secrets, the unconscious mind prods our soul to reveal all. The unconscious mind is relentless. We leave a trail of mistakes that can only be deciphered by the truly aware and gifted…like you, Jane.”
Jane was never one to succumb to flattery, whether genuine or done to manipulate. Her eyes drifted to the disorderly kitchen table. She saw a deck of cards splayed in an uneven arch hidden between two stacks of books. Her stoic façade evaporated.
“What is it, Jane?”
She felt her heart beating harder. “Where were you the night of March 22nd?”
He slipped out of his altered state. “I already told Bo Lowry that story. He got it on video. Why don’t you watch it?”
“I did. Tell me again.”
“You want to see if the stories match? Checking for inconsistencies? Smart people like myself can maintain the consistency of lies better than the dumb fucks out there. You know that, Jane.”
“Why were you covered in mud? Why were your hands bloody? Why were you wandering on the Highway in a daze?”
Jordan appeared legitimately troubled. “I was outside… walking…I could smell spring in the air, but I also smelled death. Yet, it was more in the ether.”
“The ether?”
“The world around us! But this was far away.”
“How far away?”
“I don’t know,” Jordan replied, his eyes shifting to that night in his memory. “But I smelled it and then I felt it… right here.” He struck his fist into his chest near his heart. “It stabbed at me. I started to run but the more I ran, the more I felt the tentacles of death coming closer. It was the same way I felt that night so long ago.” Jordan’s chin trembled. “When Daniel died.” He shook his head. “But this time…this time, it was stronger… It was closer to me. It was part of me!”
“What do you mean, part of you?”
He looked at her, his eyes wild yet tortured. “I don’t know!” he yelled emphatically. “I’ve never felt anything as profound as this in my entire life.”
“Except the night you killed Daniel?”
He dismissed her statement with a toss of his hand. “It was twenty times stronger than that. I tried to fight them off. Honestly, I did!”
“Fight who off?”
“The demons. At least, I think they were demons. The storm was so fierce, I can’t be sure. I hid under a scrub oak and saw the blood on my hands. I didn’t know where it came from. But it was like a nightmare. And that stabbing pain in my chest was unyielding. I had to run. I had to get away. But I fell down the embankment that leads to the river. That’s how I got muddy, I guess.” He turned his head, as if he were back in that moment and reliving it. “There was a squeal… or maybe a scream. I’m not sure. From over there…” He pointed outside his cabin and in the direction of the infamous bridge. “That’s all I remember until one of the deputies picked me up the next morning on the road. Somehow, I’d walked out there. But I don’t remember how.” Jordan came out of his daze. “And then they told me a boy named Jake Van Gorden was missing. Last known location was on the bridge where he’d left a noose.” He shook his head. “Jesus Christ.” For the first time since Jane had known Jordan, there was an indubitable sense of sadness regarding the missing boy. “I knew it was obvious to them.”
“Obvious how?” Jane asked carefully.
Jordan looked at her with a knowing stare. “What in the hell do you think, Jane?”
“That you killed another boy, Jordan?! Is this what you’re saying?!”
“Fuck, Jane! You’re better than that!”
“Jordan, we’re pissing away time here! If you took Jake or if you know who did and where he is, you have to tell me now!”
Jordan hung his head. “I know what it feels like to want to die. I recognize what it takes to get to that point. I understand the emptiness… the desperation and the sorrow. Jake felt he didn’t have a choice anymore.” He looked up at Jane, his pupils screened in a ghostly glaze. “But you know all about suicide, don’t you, Jane?” Jane swallowed hard. “You reached that point a couple years ago but you didn’t pull the trigger.” He shook his head. “Oh, Jane…but he did. And you’re the one who found his lifeless body.” This was impossible. There was no way Jordan could know any of it. “You’re just shy of your twenty-second year and on your way to a better life. But there’s a man who can’t follow you. His conscience is dark and damaged and he turned a corner a long time ago.”
Jane shook her head. “Stop it…”
“He sits in a wingback chair and he puts the cold steel under his chin and he hesitates. Yes, you wondered if he ever hesitated…whether he thought about you before he did the deed? Oh, yes, Jane. He did. But he was too lost down that pit that has no soft surface.”
Jane felt trapped. She backed up but the ladder to the loft stopped her progress. “Stop it, Jordan!”
Jordan moved closer to her. “And when you found him, he was there, sitting on the couch watching you and realizing that he’d fucked up. And he was with you later that night in bed, holding you, but you were too drunk to feel his ghostly touch. But he was there and still feeling the pain he thought he killed.”
Jane bolted for the door. “Shut up!”
Jordan stood in her way. “It wasn’t his time, Jane. He still had life in his veins. It was still pumping and meant to vibrate on this plane for many more years. So, he hung around you… haunted you. He lay between your thoughts.” Jordan moved within inches of Jane, his hot breath stinging her face. “He woke you in the middle of a dream with his scent. You felt him inside you and his breath against your skin. You heard his heartbeat in your throat. And you thought you were going crazy but he was tearing at your etheric body, begging to be seen and heard.” Jane reached for the door, but Jordan grabbed her arm. “Then one day, he left you for good. He slipped into the silence and dragged his memory with him. But he still hovers on the edge of your consciousness…especially when you think there’s a chance of finding him again in another man. The good part of him—t
he part that was true and noble and who loved you desperately no matter your faults. You want that but you’re scared that it’s impossible to attain. As if love were only for the fortunate.”
Tears welled in Jane’s eyes. She shook off Jordan’s grasp. “You have no right!”
“Jane…”
“Fuck you!” She opened the door and stormed to the truck. Peeling out of his property, she caught Jordan’s reflection in the rear view mirror. He was standing in the cabin doorway with a cruel glare.
CHAPTER 27
Jane parked Hank’s truck in front of the B&B and walked upstairs to her room. But even after a long shower, she couldn’t shake Jordan’s incisive dive into her buried past. Nobody was allowed there. No one. You talk about sacred territory? Even her brother knew better than to utter his name. And this crazed, wild-eyed child killer had the audacity to not only bring the ragged memory to the surface but to validate all those weird, sentient encounters she’d had after he died. No, it wasn’t acceptable to Jane. There were lines you simply didn’t cross. There were dark memories that needed to stay buried. But now they were bubbling to the surface again and the pain was as potent as it was fifteen years ago. He had no right.
Weyler knocked on her door, but Jane was still wrapped in a towel. “Hank brought your car around front and left your key on the entry table,” he said outside the door. “Here’s the two clues that weren’t dispatched to CBI.” Weyler scooted two envelopes under the door. “I’m going to dinner.”
Jane acknowledged Weyler and retrieved the two envelopes. Inside the first was the one sentence note and, in the other, the lone Chesterfield cigarette. She hung the duo in their respective spot on the clothesline and grabbed one of the three nearly identical blue poplin shirts. But before she finished buttoning it, she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The woman staring back at her looked drab in that far too sensible shirt. Jane fingered through the girlish offerings Mollie had loaned her and stared at the long sleeved, plunging necked, cream number that skimmed the hips with its silky fabric and lacey embroidered accents. It was so unlike anything she’d ever wear, but she removed the navy blue poplin number, tossed it on the bed and slipped the feminine frock over her head. Turning back to the mirror, she didn’t recognize her reflection. It wasn’t that it was unattractive. On the contrary, it was close to stunning. The fabric clung to her breasts and defined a waist she’d hidden for years. But it just wasn’t who Jane was. Who she was, was lying in a wrinkled, indigo heap on the bed. Her eyes glanced between the two shirts—one embracing the past and the other whispering of where she could go. Jane grabbed the poplin shirt and put it over the new one and headed downstairs. Grabbing the keys to her Mustang off the entry table, she headed outside. As she caught her reflection in the Mustang’s side window, she recognized how clearly ridiculous she looked. She removed the poplin shirt, tossed it into the backseat of her car and walked across the street toward The Rabbit Hole.
