Pieces of Ivy

by Dean Covin

  Pieces of Ivy

  Dean Covin

  Published by Carson Cove Publishing

  www.carsoncove.com

  Copyright © 2014 by Dean Covin

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For information, address

  Carson Cove Publishing

  Bankers Hall, West Tower

  Suite 1000, 888 – 3rd Street SW

  Calgary, Alberta, Canada

  T2P 5C5

  or visit www.carsoncove.com.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  ISBN 978-0-9919943-0-4 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-0-9919943-1-1 (eBook - mobi)

  ISBN 978-0-9919943-2-8 (eBook - epub)

  Cover design by Dan Yeager

  Author photo by Libertee Muzyka

  For my beloved wife and kids.

  No man could ask for more enthusiastic cheerleaders.

  I couldn’t have done it without you.

  Thank you!

  Acknowledgments

  I had so much fun writing this story, and there are many people to thank for making this book happen.

  Thank you, Tara Leigh and Darren Gouin, my first readers, for braving my grim tale in order to offer me honest feedback. Candid reactions are key to any story’s success, and, for yours, I will be forever grateful.

  I want to give special thanks to Caroline Smailes and Denise Barker, who are my editors extraordinaire. It’s not an easy thing to edit a large piece of work, especially one so beloved by the author, and do it with both an expert editorial eye and authentic kindness. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

  In addition to the team at Carson Cove Publishing, I also want to thank Dan Yeager for creating an eye-catching cover that made me say, “Oh, yeah.” And Libertee Muzyka’s photographic genius and exceptional eye for making this big lug look not half bad.

  Always, to the friends and family who support and encourage me, your faith means the world. And none nearly as much as my beloved wife and children. Beyond your patience with a busy husband and daddy is your relentless encouragement and excitement. Every success I have, I share with you, because of you. I love you with everything I have to offer. Thank you.

  Finally, to my ravenous readers. Without you, my stories would remain trapped in my mind, serving only one master and living out a single purpose. Your presence gives my stories a bigger life, and that, I’m sure, thrills every writer to the bone.

  One

  California, May 10th, 2011

  “Jesus, fuck!”

  The scream cleaved the peace of the early morning. Jerry turned in the tilled earth to see his old friend sprinting from the ruined barn. In their twenty-plus years, Jerry had never seen Rick so terrified—far beyond that horrific Iraqi Friday.

  The long howl of terror stretched with the fast coming of Rick’s flailing body. He ran at Jerry like a child running reckless down a steep hill.

  “What—” Jerry began but Rick slammed into him. The collision took them both to the ground, hard. Cropped thatch stabbed at the side of Jerry’s face as he tried to reclaim his busted breath. “What the hell, Ricky?”

  Rick’s unyielding grip pinned Jerry’s shoulders to the earth, burning hard fingers into his joints as Jerry stared up into Rick’s unrecognizable face. Stretched lips matched the white of his cheeks as his mouth gapped wide, silently moving like a landed fish. His eyes were just as round and petrified—lidless with fright—barely seeing anything through the constricted pupils of Rick’s shock-wide eyes. Dry soil dusted the bravest man Jerry had ever known—now blanched by terror, trembling like a child.

  Jerry turned his stare to the crumbling structure, seeing only darkness in the depths of the yawning barn door hanging from a busted iron hinge. Afraid to pick himself up from the dirt to investigate, he knew something was terribly wrong.

  Jerry Ferris should have stayed on the ground.

  Two

  “No!”

  Vicki clutched her breasts, gasping for oxygen to fill the void locked in her lungs. Her heart hammered against her chest, as if panicked fists were fighting to escape a fright house. Pain sliced into her again and again—slashing at her flesh. The fearless Vicki Starr bawled between breaths too thin to satiate, uncertain if she were truly dying, fighting for life or praying for death.

  Her fingers, ensnared in the sheet’s holes torn by her fingernails, struggled for release. Her eyes, remaining immersed in confused panic, flew open. This was no nightmare. Blood churned in her belly. Nausea pushed up against her throat.

  Her teary vision darted around the lie of her surroundings—disbelieving the familiar darkness of her bedroom. Nevertheless, while mistrusting the betrayal of her eyes, she knew this was no forest.

  Prying from within her panic, Vicki slipped her hand down, clawing at herself, finding her thighs free of blood and her thin cotton T-shirt intact rather than shredded.

  “Please, I don’t want to die!” The woman’s cries were filling the air as the pounding of Vicki’s heart overwhelmed her ears. Vicki grappled for orientation. She fought for focus. The hammering coming from the front of her home now echoed from the dark corners of her bedroom where no sharp trees or razor-hooked shrubs lingered. Contorted roots didn’t grab to trip her, yet she leaped side to side through them as she hurried toward the noise. She scrambled through the dark, reaching out to stop the chaotic pounding and the relentless screaming—dodging gnarled branches that were never there. Only when she fumbled unconsciously at the latch did Vicki realize that the woman’s wails had issued from Vicki’s own throat.

  She threw open the door as the elderly Hazel Downey stood wide-eyed in the night, readying another hard blow against the door with her tiny fist. Hazel’s forty-six-year-old son, Evan, stood behind her, averting his eyes. The chill washing over the sweat of Vicki’s body revealed that her thoughtful neighbors were being treated to the sight of Vicki in her soaked cotton T-shirt in the black of this unconscionable hour.

  “Are you okay, Vicki?” Hazel’s first words of the morning came with the soft crack of her gentle voice.

  They must have rushed to Vicki’s door without exchanging a word. Vicki’s heart would have relished the comfortable warmth that should accompany such a gesture, if her heart hadn’t been punching so violently to escape her chest—to flee her torment.

  All she could offer was a quick nod with her apology. Feeling the shudder of the awakened night and the firelight of her nerves arcing across her flesh, Vicki held her smile and forced the door closed behind her. Instant regret suffused her senses, locking her breath as the dark solitude squeezed in around her.

  This was the first night in years Vicki had felt the sharp grip of fear. Her train
ing, success and badge had fortified her personal strength—a strength that had now been sucked from her.

  Vicki was unable to shake the horror of what had just happened. Her hands trembled as, twice, they failed to lock the door. She prayed it was a nightmare. And though every search indicated that she was physically fine, she couldn’t stop inspecting herself.

  She shivered before her bathroom mirror, fighting against the chill of heinous phantom hands lurking in the shadows of her dark bedroom behind her—invisible claws yearning to grab on to her and tear off pieces for themselves.

  Her raw senses caught the shadow in her periphery—standing in the night outside her bathroom window. Instinct and training threw her to the floor. She rolled for the door and kicked the light switch with her toe, leaving her momentarily blind and breathing heavy in the dark.

  Sightless, she rolled to her knees and crawled low in the direction of her bed from memory. Halting her breath, Vicki reached for the weapon in her nightstand. She belly-crawled to her front door, snatching glances at her windows, seeking a glimpse of her tormentor. As she rose into a squat against the door and unlatched her lock, she caught the scent of unfamiliar cologne. She stood, readying her weapon, and swung open her door into the night.

  Aiming down the apex of the barrel, she scanned the breadth of her line of sight before stepping farther, repeating her survey of the darkness as she went—sweating in the cool night. Her scan was thorough. No one was there.

  She returned to her house, locking herself in. Wiping wet hairs from her eyes as she crossed her bedroom, Vicki froze at her window, this time stripped of both instinct and training. The man stood across the street—watching her. His stare lingered too long for a stranger simply catching a glimpse of a half-naked woman losing her mind in the night.

  Flame ignited across her senses, intuition on fire. She forced a look back at the man with no face. “I see you, too!” she cried into that damned veil of night. “I know you’re there.” She shivered but remained standing, unable to do anything else. Even armed, Vicki refused to go out there again. Normally she wouldn’t hesitate to go toe-to-toe with anyone—sans clothes or not.

  After a long, disturbing moment, the man took a step back—melting into the shadows. His black silhouette cut the distant streetlight moments later, confirming his retreat. The trapped breath burst from her lungs.

  “Stop it, Vicki,” she whispered, fighting back nervous tears as she locked the bedroom door behind her. She completed a thorough search of this room and scanned the night from her en suite bathroom window, finding it quiet and void. Maybe Evan had been wearing the new cologne she had smelled. Pull it together.

  A chill caught the slick of her sweaty thighs, but it was fearful shivers that sent her diving beneath her down comforter—rolling side to side to mummify her body within its perceived security.

  As her body warmed beneath the covers, her adrenaline burned down, weighing heavy on her eyelids, but she fought their closure and didn’t remember them shutting.

  † † †

  Her eyes flew open, this time too terrified to scream—her body drenched in blood. The cool night gripped her as she threw off her covers and ran to hide behind the thick dead tree. Her frantic fingers grabbed at brittle bark but found only her smooth wall. The bedroom materialized around her, and, even in the dark, she could see the painful drawing of blood that she had wiped from her torso was sweat.

  “What’s happening?” she mouthed in a tight whisper. She pressed her back into the protection of one corner of her bedroom, shoving herself away from it when the ghosts of spiders scurried up her spine.

  An intermingling of the waking dream flashed between terror and reality with every blink as she paced her room, seeking to ground herself. No gnashing branches were ripping at her clothes—pulling at her skin, clawing at her hair.

  Decorated Special Agent Vicki Starr fell to her bedroom floor, bawling.

  Three

  After forty minutes her eyes blinked bone-dry. Sleep was impossible. Instead, Vicki paced the hardwood until it was time to blend her morning smoothie. Her swollen throat fought every swallow.

  Unable to shake the night’s malevolent imprint, she gave her swimsuit a swift kick into her closet, opting to skip her daily swim for the first time since she had moved in.

  Confidence returned as she completed her dressing routine without thought, wearing the formfitting clothes that only Vicki could get away with at the bureau and adding the finishing touches that always turned heads.

  † † †

  Top down on her convertible, Vicki sped through the early Tuesday morning shadow of the colossal Starr Enterprises office tower with the same loathing she felt every morning on her way to her FBI field office.

  She deftly squared the rounded corner with an expert turn of her torch-red Corvette, approaching fast, yet perfectly aligned to make the swift swipe of her security pass. Slowing, rather than stopping, she blinked brightly for the camera and then flashed a playful wink at Kevin in the security booth as he allowed her vehicle to continue into the belly of division headquarters.

  This time her perky smile and teasing winks had been forced. While the drive had been quiet, she remained riddled with afterthoughts, and her gut’s roiling lingered from the night’s torments.

  She raced for the elevator door. “Wait!”

  † † †

  He snatched the closing door.

  Her smile was pretty this close-up. Cole held the door for the same half-naked woman he had watched from the street last night. This strange serendipity stirred arousal in his loins, and he allowed it as they shared a ride for a few floors.

  Ensuring that his visitor’s pass was securely fastened, he followed his escort out of the elevator, as his mark continued her journey upward.

  † † †

  Stepping onto the office floor always felt more like home than her comfortable condo. Here she felt safe and strong, offering the confidence that came when she knew her back, front and sides were covered—even if her due respect remained lacking from many of her older male counterparts.

  Vicki fondly referred to the FBI as her Big Beau. “He always looks out for me,” she claimed, knowing that no man could do that for her. Vicki Starr had a knack for pushing ahead—often recklessly. But for all the resentment toward her attitude, Big Beau never let her down.

  She sat for over an hour within the comfortable confines of her cubical, twirling her pen, struggling to concentrate. Vicki fought to focus on details—which she would normally devour in minutes—for one of the most sought-after cases at the bureau.

  She turned over her empty coffee mug.

  Regardless of her morning’s misgivings, her muscle memory assured that her steps were as confident and curvy as ever. Seven colleagues huddled at Lougheed’s desk. Aware of her approach, none turned an eye toward her, resenting her current assignment. She wore their envy as a badge of honor.

  In spite of themselves, their heads would cock in her direction when she passed—that would be sufficient. Vicki fought to swallow the buried sting of exclusion, but it burned her cheeks pink regardless. Sensing them turn away like clockwork, she stole a quick glance at their prize. Fresh meat. They hovered over the short stack of new dockets like a murder of crows.

  They were all on the same team, of course—she and they—but only when it counted. If lives were at stake, she wouldn’t want to be with any other crew. She wished this caliber of men and women had been on her case seventeen years ago. However, when she’s good, when she stands out, the brass loves her, other departments love her—her peers, not so much.

  It took guts, loyalty and a strong sense of purpose to do this job; it also took a strong measure of ambition to do whatever it took to get things done—requiring an unyielding competitive streak.

  The agents remained huddled as she retu
rned with her steaming cup. Vicki singled out Lougheed’s voice.

  “Discovered this morning. Fresh. Short on details. Looks like a torture slaying. Female. Young. Blonde. Pretty.”

  Wedging herself in among her colleagues, Vicki scanned the file over the agent’s shoulder. Dead schoolteacher. More than dead—butchered. The report sparked a pervasive anguish in her belly like a lit fuse. Files containing vicious brutality against women always did—especially given the horrors of her childhood. No one would argue that Vicki Starr wasn’t allowed a few nightmares.

  The brutality didn’t explain why it had hit the FBI docket. “Why is this coming across our desk?”

  The quiet faces proved they hadn’t been able to answer that question themselves. Of course Marv McLain spoke up—he always did. He motioned to the files on his partner’s desk. “I don’t manage the funnel, Starr. I just catch what comes down the pipe.”

  “Always helpful, McLain,” she said.

  They blamed her looks, her father’s money, whispering that she had slept her way to the choice assignments. Rarely did they acknowledge her undeniable track record. So there was no love lost when she snatched the file from Lougheed’s desk. A sharp bite, like a jolt of 110 volts, shot up her arm, striking her heart and leaving it pounding. She brushed it off as a strong electrostatic shock.

  “Hey!” McLain cried, joined by a backup choir of infuriated crybabies as he missed grabbing it from her quick grasp.

  “Kempt will tell me,” she said as she marched away, grinning.

  Vicki enjoyed flaunting her close relationship with the Special Agent in Charge, especially whenever McLain got a little haughty. Regardless, as much as McLain despised her, he would watch her walk away with the rest of them—they always did.

  Bringing it to Kempt was a ruse; she was simply curious. The question was, why?

  She pushed aside the large stack of current files on her desk and sat, scanning what little details existed. Poor girl. Vicki anxiously nibbled her lip whenever she reviewed cases like this—which was too often.