Mystery Dance: Three Novels

by Scott Nicholson

  But the stinging memory swarmed over her again, and the force of the nightmarish admission blew in like a hurricane. She closed her eyes tight, but all she could see was the hooded man on top of her, his skin hot and sweaty on hers, the skull ring on the fist that held the knife, the twin rubies glowing as brightly as the two eyes under the hood–

  “Julia, look at me.”

  She opened her eyes, shivering, her tears cool on her cheeks.

  “It’s natural for you to be scared,” Dr. Forrest said. “It gets easier. Accepting is the first part of healing. From here on, we go forward.”

  Julia nodded. Forward.

  “Now you’re ready to embrace the whole truth. But we’ll have to go slowly.”

  Julia began putting away the memories, the emotional trauma of the session, as if they were notebooks filed in mental cabinets. She needed to gather herself and go meet the demands of reality. She was behind on her work, and the paper’s deadline was this evening. And the police were supposed to come by her house to dust for fingerprints.

  She bent down to get her purse and stopped with her hand on the strap. “What about the drawing?”

  “Let’s not worry about the drawing right now.” Dr. Forrest walked to stand beside Julia’s chair. “I think you have enough to sort out right now without thinking about that. In fact, I believe it would be best if I kept it for you. At least for a week or two, until you’re ready to face your recent problems.”

  Julia clutched the purse into her lap. She wasn’t sure she should let the paper go. The police might need it to prove that the Peeping Tom had illegally entered her bedroom. It likely had his fingerprints on it.

  But how would he know about the pentagram, about “Jooolia”?

  Maybe Dr. Forrest was right. The drawing had caused her nothing but worry. If she were rid of it, maybe she could get on with her healing. Out of sight, out of mind.

  She opened her purse and handed the folded paper to Dr. Forrest. The therapist smiled, her gray eyes almost mirthful. “You’re going to be just fine, Julia. You’re going to be perfect.”

  Julia closed the purse, the wooden box still buried under Kleenex, hairbrush, wallet, cell phone, and keys. She would keep the ring secret until the next session.

  “Time heals all wounds, Julia,” said the doctor.

  Time, and maybe the band-aids and salve of hope. And faith, if she could find any.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Rick O’Dell came by Julia’s desk after lunch, his confident smile a counterpoint to her dark mood.

  “So, how was the vacation?” Rick asked. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his tie carefully askew. He was eating a donut, nibbling it like a fastidious mouse.

  “Refreshing.” Julia glanced back at her computer screen.

  “You look like you hardly slept a wink. Who was the lucky guy?”

  Certainly not you, Mr. Stud-In-Your-Dreams. My private life is none of your business.

  She controlled her annoyance. “Look, Rick, I’m way behind. I’ve got four articles to get done by deadline.”

  “Touchy. Don’t you want to hear the latest on my Satanic sacrifice theory?”

  Julia’s fingers froze over the keyboard. She swiveled her chair, forgetting her resolve to be indifferent to him. “Actually, I was kind of wondering about that.”

  “You’ve still got it in you. Once you get a nose for the crime beat, you never lose it.”

  “Rick, I’m strictly features now. Don’t worry about me trying to take your job.”

  Rick laughed, the confident boy wonder with two press awards on his desk. “I just got a copy of the medical examiner’s preliminary report. Ritualistic markings, made with a blade. No fingerprint match, unfortunately. The victim is still unidentified. Autopsy showed traces in the system of morphine and–get this–belladonna.”

  “Belladonna?”

  “Yeah. Also known as ‘witch bane.’ Long associated with black magic and Satan worship. It’s taken as a hallucinogenic substance, even though it’s actually a poison.”

  “I know what belladonna is. Hand of Glory, and all that. So what killed him, the wounds or the poison?”

  “From what they can tell right now, he probably was just getting a decent buzz on when the knife fell the first time.” Rick stuffed more of the donut in his mouth, crumbs dribbling down his chin. He wiped his hand on his pants. “If he was lucky, he was dead before they chopped off his head.”

  “You’re saying ‘they.’ Any evidence that this wasn’t the act of a lone psycho?”

  “Who cares about evidence? This story is sweet.”

  “Is the daily onto it?”

  “Don’t you read the papers?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “They’re strictly soft-selling it. The cops are feeding them a line of crap, and as long as they can publish that quote-of-the-day, they’re happy.” Rick pulled a couple of wrinkled clippings from his shirt pocket and read from them.

  “‘Police say they are pursuing new leads in the case of a murder victim whose headless body was recovered last week. Investigators now believe the body was dumped into the Amadahee River miles upstream and that it’s unlikely the murder occurred in this area.’“ Rick looked at Julia over his glasses. “How’s that for positive spin?”

  “Not bad. The writer should work in P.R.”

  “The writer was the daily’s editor. Rumor has it she’s a bedmate of the sheriff and a couple of council members, and not just politically, either.”

  “Too much information, Rick. My day was hell enough without knowing that.”

  “Here’s yesterday’s. ‘Chief Investigator Lieutenant T.L. Snead says–”

  “Who?”

  “Snead. Supposed to be some hotshot detective from the big city. Only been here a few months, though, so the good-old-boy jury is still out on him.”

  “Snead.” Julia stared at her keyboard, her belly tightening.

  Rick moved closer, taking advantage of the broken eye contact to loom over her. “What’s with this Snead? Do you know him?”

  No. It’s all a coincidence. Cops don’t get transferred just in time for a ritual sacrifice to come bobbing up in the river. Snead didn’t follow me from Memphis as an agent of Satan. The devil isn’t stalking my immortal soul, because I’m not sure I even have one any longer.

  Julia ignored the shadowy cloak of panic that hovered at the corners of her mind. “What does Snead say?”

  “He believes identification will be difficult since the body was in the water so long. The skin was too far gone for fingerprints. And without the head, dental records are useless.”

  “Gee, that’s convenient. It’s almost like a forensic expert committed the murder.”

  “Or else a bunch of people who are insanely lucky.” Rick leaned forward and arched his eyebrows, trying to look sinister. “Or maybe Satan’s awesome power is protecting the coven from being discovered.”

  For a brief instant, a second face had superimposed itself over Rick’s, a face with red eyes and a wide black nose and a goatish beard. A face distorted by evil.

  Julia rolled her chair away. “Don’t do that, Rick.”

  Rick grinned, but his grin was like that worn by the skull ring, sinister and sick. He tried to laugh but the wind died in his throat.

  Julia stood and walked to the corner of her office.

  Rick started to follow. “Hey, I didn’t know you were so jumpy.”

  He put out his hand to touch her arm but she jerked away.

  Satan doesn’t exist. Dr. Forrest says monsters are only in the mind.

  Oh, but monsters could wear flesh. Daddy. Lucius. Mitchell. The Peeping Tom. The people in the coven who had scarred her for life. And maybe, just maybe, there was a monster inside her, wrapped around her bones, owning her every movement and breath and thought.

  “Hey, I’m sorry, Julia.” His hands hovered as if he wanted to touch her or pass her a tissue, anything to ward off an uncomfortable show of emotion
.

  “Just leave,” Julia said. “I’ve got work to do.”

  Rick backed away, pausing at the door. “Gee, hope you feel better. Guess you don’t want to go out to dinner, huh?”

  The worst part was she couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. She waved him away, sat at her desk and pressed her palms against her eyes until the bright colors drove away the dark image of Rick’s goat face. God, if she was going to start seeing things, she might as well check into the rubber room right now. Visions were the gift of only the blessed or the damned. Which was she?

  Julia finished her articles and went home around seven o’clock. She drove fast, racing the sun because she hadn’t left the house lights on. The thought of what might be waiting in the closet filled her with a gut-clenching dread. She arrived at Buckeye Creek Road just before dark. Mrs. Covington was sitting in her front-porch rocker as Julia drove by. The old woman waved her over.

  Julia eyed the apartment building carefully. The Creep could be out on bail and already back at his window, binoculars in hand. The forest was quiet, the trees readying themselves for a long winter’s sleep. The mountains were so solid and strong and peaceful that Julia almost convinced herself that everything was normal, that Elkwood was a safe place, and the past was not tiptoeing up behind her with arms outstretched.

  If God existed, he surely would set up his Earthly kingdom in this granite stronghold. But would his gates be open or would he fortify himself against unwanted, unwholesome company?

  Julia stopped in the yard just beyond the porch railing. Mrs. Covington sipped her tea and lit a cigarette. The red tip glowed in the dusk. “How you doing, Julia?”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Covington.”

  “Call me ‘Mabel,’ honey.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Cops made a big show of it last night, didn’t they?” The woman sucked on the cigarette, its glow throwing strange shadows on her wrinkled face.

  “Yeah. They arrested that guy for breaking into my house. He stole my–”

  “Didn’t I tell you to watch out for him?”

  “He broke into my house and–”

  “It ain’t the first time.” Mrs. Covington took a puff and let the smoke swirl around her face. The porch squeaked in rhythm with the rocker. “They done let him out. I saw him up yonder with his buddies, drinking beer like he didn’t have a care in the world.”

  “The police were supposed to come today and dust for fingerprints.”

  “Never you mind about the law. You’d best just take care of yourself.”

  Julia patted her purse. “I’ve got a can of mace. And a baseball bat under the bed.”

  The old woman cackled. “As good as a gun. Just make sure you use it on the right person.”

  The tobacco smoke wreathed Julia, sweet at first, but then cloying. “I thought mountain people were supposed to be trustworthy.”

  “That’s just what they show on the TV set. People is people all over, I reckon. Some good, some bad, and sometimes you can’t tell which is which.”

  “Well, I’m just glad Walter was here when the Creep broke in. No telling what might have happened if not for him.”

  Mrs. Covington quit rocking and leaned forward. “That’s a mighty handy coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Coincidence?” Julia preferred to think of it as good luck. She deserved a little, didn’t she?

  “He’s been around right regular lately.”

  “He told me he was working for you yesterday.”

  Mrs. Covington stubbed out her cigarette. Her face was barely discernible in the shadows. Julia wondered why the woman didn’t have on her porch light as usual.

  “Sure, he was working for me. But he could have done that any time. And he come by your place twice while you was gone. Walked around the back of the house where I couldn’t see him.”

  Julia’s mind spun with this information, trying to match it up with what Walter had told her. “He seems okay to me.”

  As okay as anybody in this new future where my lover attacks me and my shrink has a pentagram scar and cops let perverted Creeps roam free and headless bodies float downstream.

  “He’s keeping an eye on you, but I’m keeping an eye on him.” A cat padded across the porch like a moving shadow.

  “Well, if you don’t trust him, why do you let him work for you?”

  “He’s mountain. Knew some of his kin, and kind of felt sorry for him when he fell on hard times. He might not be innocent but so far I can’t find a crack in his story. And I spend a lot of time looking. That’s why I keep him close.”

  “He seems to be doing all right for himself.” Julia fidgeted, changed her purse strap to the opposite shoulder. She caught herself wondering if her door would be unlocked. Or if Walter would be hidden in her closet, waiting for her, a man who had a key to her house.

  Julia moved to the porch steps, feeling lost herself though she was only a few feet from the railing. A light came on in one of the apartment buildings, and Julia wondered if it was coming from the Creep’s window. Would he dare to come back for a second helping of whatever pleasure he’d stolen in her room, or to finish the job of stealing the engagement ring?

  And what if Walter had a secret agenda, and his kind face was only the mask of a sociopathic killer?

  No. Julia refused to believe it, not of the man who had sat across from her in the living room last night. She couldn’t see those same gentle but strong hands wrapped around a throat, squeezing, squeezing, fingers digging into soft flesh. That face with the cheeks that creased when he smiled couldn’t twist into a punishing, murderous mask. And his Christian faith seemed sincere. Walter simply wasn’t capable of harming anyone without a good reason.

  But then, Mitchell had kept his own violent urges carefully hemmed in, hidden behind eyes that disguised whatever strange storms brewed inside his head.

  “Cops been out again,” Mrs. Covington said.

  “Good. They said they would follow up on the breaking and entering.”

  “They wasn’t doing much following. They went inside your house for a while.”

  “Inside? Where did they get a key?”

  “Seems like nobody needs keys to get in the Hartley house.” Mrs. Covington stopped rocking, and the cat hissed, leapt to the porch, and scurried away. “Company’s coming.”

  Julia looked at the dim outline of the woman’s face, with its wizened roadmap of wrinkles. The wind changed a little, rattling the leaves. Beneath it, hushed at first but rising, came the sound of a car engine on the road. Headlights swept around a bend and sliced across Mrs. Covington’s house. It was Walter’s Jeep.

  “Speak of the devil,” murmured Mrs. Covington.

  Walter parked in front of Julia’s house, got out and walked over to the porch. He carried something that Julia couldn’t make out.

  “Howdy, Mrs. Covington,” he said, adding more quietly, “Hi, Julia. I came by to see how you were doing.”

  “How do, Walter,” Mrs. Covington said. “Say, is your Aunt Peggy going to make her apple butter this year?”

  “Soon as the apples finish falling.”

  “She always was the best cook in the Triplett family, in my book. Don’t go telling your momma that, though.”

  Walter’s grin flashed in the weak light from the apartments. “I’m not as dumb as I look.” Then, to Julia, “I took a look at that appliance you gave me to fix.” He held up the bag he was carrying.

  “Great,” Julia said, not wanting to talk about possessed clocks in front of Mrs. Covington, who probably already thought Julia was batty, the way she double-checked her locks, kept her windows shut in the heat of summer, and rarely ventured outside after dark.

  “When you going to come finish up the mulching?” Mrs. Covington asked Walter.

  “It’s on my list.” He moved closer to Julia. “Did you ever hear back from the police?”

  “The Creep’s out,” she said. “I guess he’s got friends.”

  “Figu
res.”

  Mrs. Covington watched in darkness. Julia said, “I’ve got to go, Mrs. Covington. See you tomorrow.”

  “All right,” she said. “Mind my words, hear?”

  “Good night,” Walter said to the old woman, whose hand flickered in a wave.

  Julia walked toward her house, Walter beside her. When they were out of range of Mabel Covington’s hearing, Walter said, “She’s a strange old thing, ain’t she?”

  “Everybody’s strange around here,” Julia said.

  “Everybody. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  It means if I weren’t afraid that a Creep might be waiting in my house, I don’t think you would be stepping foot across my threshold again. It means maybe I’m not crazy at all, maybe it’s the rest of the world, and by my solitary saneness I’m the piece that doesn’t fit the Life Puzzle.

  “I’m just tired and babbling.” She fumbled in the purse for her keys, tucked the canister of mace in her hand, and unlocked the door. Before entering, she glanced at Mabel Covington’s porch. The woman had lit another cigarette, and its glow bobbed with her rocking. Julia stepped inside and turned on the lights, blinking against the brightness.

  “Leave the door open, if you don’t mind,” she said to Walter.

  “The bugs will get in and eat you alive.”

  “It’s not the bugs I’m worried about.” She slipped the mace into her pocket where she could quickly retrieve it if needed. She didn’t sit in her chair, hoping Walter would take the hint.

  “Your eye looks better,” she said. The swelling had gone down, though the flesh around his eye was red.

  Walter took the clock from the bag and set it on the coffee table beside the baseball cards. “Like I said, I’m not any electronics expert, but I couldn’t find anything wrong with it. The circuit boards look sound, and I’ve never heard of a microchip just going off the deep end.”

  “So your diagnosis would be to throw it away and forget about it?”

  “Sometimes something’s broke and you just got to go replace it.”

  She moved to the hallway and yawned, even though her pulse was racing. “I’m tired, Walter. Long day.”