by Dean Covin
The four wives were striking, but Vicki could tell by the flawless features of their daughters that the ghost of their past picturesque splendor haunted them.
The mayor tapped the microphone. “Good evening, everyone. We come together this night under the gravest of circumstances. A shining light within our community has been cruelly snuffed out”—a hitch caught in his throat—“and believe me when I tell you, I feel your pain—and I share your fears. My daughter, Amy, goes to New Brighton High. She loved her teacher. We all loved her teacher. Yes, I can confirm that it was indeed Ivy Turner who was found murdered this morning.”
Wails of prepared sobs and anger rose to permeate the expansive hall.
The mayor spoke louder. “Now I assure you, we are doing everything possible to find her killer and get Ivy the justice she deserves. I’m going to have Sheriff Roscoe come up and speak, but, before I do, I want to ask each one of you for your prayers—and your full cooperation.” He gestured to John Roscoe. “Sheriff?”
“Thank you, Mayor Travers. I don’t want to be here anymore than any of you. I’m here because Ivy Turner has been murdered. But know this, we will do right by Ivy. Mayor Travers said it—we need your full cooperation.” He motioned to the front row. “We have Special Agent Vicki Starr and Special Agent Hank Dashel of the FBI with us tonight, seated in the front row.” He looked down at them. “Please stand and let the good folks of this great town—Ivy’s town—see who you are.”
They stood, revealing themselves to the mass of silent onlookers.
“We are extremely blessed to have these two distinguished investigators working with us on this case. This speaks to the commitment that is being afforded to us in this troubled hour. Everyone in this room knows that I serve the will of New Brighton and you, her citizens. I ask that you serve Ivy as you would your town, your families and your friends—serve her as you would yourselves. Ivy was new, but she was one of our own. She deserves nothing but the best each of us can give, and I expect nothing less of each of you. I will be watching.”
The captivated audience revealed a glimpse of how this errant man could hold his official position.
“At this point, we need everyone to remain calm and be careful what falsehoods you’re spreading. We have professionals here, and they will do their job. We need to be patient, honest and open our town to them so they can do right by Ivy.”
A large man stood up and hollered over the crowd. “I for one will not stand by while some sicko kills our women. This town will never be cowed again.” Angry roars of agreement issued from a number of imposing men.
The sheriff countered, “And if you can tell me who did it right now, Paul, I’ll be happy to turn his sorry ass over to you so you can boot him ’til his brains bleed out.”
Impressed, Vicki leaned in and whispered, “I love how Roscoe’s playing him. The guy has no idea who it is. The sheriff’s getting the man to shut himself up.”
Hank shrugged.
Paul stood silent for a moment, showing growing discomfort as all eyes locked on him.
“Paul, do you know who he is? ’Cause I’d love to send these two fine agents home.” He looked down at the uncomfortable man, speaking with kindness. “Paul, I know what you’re feeling—I feel it too. Nothing will stop me from protecting my precious Rose.” He looked from his wife to Paul and then the audience in general. “So believe me when I tell you, our best chance of catching Ivy Turner’s killer is to afford these agents our every courtesy—tell them everything we know.” He raised his voice. “And if you hold anything back, then, in my eyes, you’re as guilty as the sick sonofabitch who killed her, and I’d just as soon spit in your lousy faces.” He turned from the stunned audience to face his friend. “You have anything to add, Mr. Mayor?”
Vicki and Hank sat stupefied.
Travers leaped to the microphone. “Um, no, that’s good, Sheriff Roscoe. I agree with you—all except that last part.”
Roscoe nodded, satisfied.
By the crowd’s subdued reaction, this town was accustomed to outbursts from their sheriff, though it remained a sour salt.
They were only ten minutes into the mayor’s question-and-answer period when the germination of anger and fear sent the accusations flying.
A man jumped to his feet. He called out to the audience, “Where were you, Rivera?” He scanned the ocean of heads.
From three rows behind him, another man calmly replied, “I was with your wife, Hanson.”
“You slimy—”
“Sit down, Derek,” the mayor interrupted and then added, “You know he’s not worth it.”
This garnered wide applause, but Vicki watched as the man blew it off, coiling his arm around a sunken woman—likely his wife—flashing his triumphant smirk at the unfortunate people seated around him.
† † †
Hank sat silent in the ongoing discord, knowing it was coming.
After thirty minutes of back and forth comments among the attendees, the subject of 1984 finally returned to haunt New Brighton. The trigger had always been there, lurking in everyone’s head—everyone who knew. Only now its chilling three words were given rebirth when a shrill woman’s voice finally cried the words, “Pieces of Eight!”
Eleven
“This is not Pieces of Eight,” a man shouted in angry retort. “It’s fucking Pieces of Ivy!”
Rancor exploded, a foul mix of agreement and outrage. The mayor stepped forward, calling for calm.
Good luck. Hank couldn’t believe he used to be one of these locals. He gazed at the stage, listening to their rants, accusations and nonsensical prognostications—but was largely detached. He had expected the cursed phrase, so it hadn’t affected him like it had infused the room, but he was surprised that Vicki hadn’t reacted to it. As far as he knew, she had no idea.
Vicki raised her phone. “It’s Kempt, looking for a status. I’ll duck out and give the report. We’ll sync-up in the morning.”
“No, I’ll come with you.” The melding town voices around him ground against his skin like sand between glass. “There’s nothing going on here that Roscoe can’t update us both on in the morning.”
“That’s a waste—”
“We will give our report,” he insisted.
She could hear the irritation in his voice. Child. “Fine. Let’s go.”
The vicious torrent of sharp echoes was shut behind the large doors. Blessed silence. She felt Hank’s energy also relax.
The length of the street was packed with cars but devoid of people as night approached. Everyone appeared to be at the assembly. The line of cars stretched from one end of Main Street to the other, consuming both sides. Her hard heels clacked and resounded along the empty street as they walked the three blocks back to the diner in complete silence. Her car sat parked in front of his. The eatery displayed a paper sign that had scribbled on it Closed for Assembly. Open again a.m. Murray.
Hank twirled his keys. “Your place or mine?”
She sneered at him. “Just try to keep up—I’ll drive slow.”
† † †
Having Vicki give the day’s report to his boss wasn’t actually Hank’s problem. His layers of issues ran deeper than he liked to admit. But that had only made it worse.
“What the?” Hank had expected to pull up to a motel. Instead, she stopped in front of a house. Even in the last moments of dusk, he could tell the home, though on the smaller side, was as well maintained as the manicured landscape. He pulled in behind her as she stood on the curb raising her convertible top and then locking her Corvette with a chirp.
Remaining in his car, Hank’s confused stare was illuminated by the brilliant blue 8:11 on his radio. Irritation prickled beneath his skin. She approached the narrow steps leading to the front door and then turned, mouthing impatiently, “Are you coming?”
Her copy
of the signed rental agreement sat on the counter. That answered his first question. The bungalow felt spacious for its modest 1,400 square feet because of its open concept. Light maple floors spread across the area to the huge stone fireplace, carrying an impressive plasma TV.
He watched Vicki toss her bag onto the large granite island in the adjacent kitchen. A door to the left led into a shining bathroom nuzzled between two bedrooms. Impersonal art hung on every wall of the fully furnished home. While nothing fancy, it was a comfortable space.
He turned and looked at her as she plugged in a kettle. “And I’m staying in a fucking motel?” His attempt to simulate humor failed.
“That’s right, you are,” she insisted. And as he continued to scan the place, she walked up and poked him firmly in the chest. “Don’t even think about it.”
Frustrated, he argued, “How do you rate?”
Vicki hated being questioned on everything she did—all the steps she put into motion during her investigations. She took the time to plan ahead, have systems and people in place so she could make things happen with a phone call—a trait she refused to attribute to her father. Many resented her for it, but she knew what assumptions were driving Hank’s resentment. “Maybe if you’d show a little cleavage, you’d get your way too.”
“Bullshit.” He tried to pretend this wasn’t exactly what he was thinking.
“That’s how I do it, you know? I suck and fuck my way into getting anything I want.” She glared at him with complete disdain. “That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
Her accusation sliced like a knife to the belly—because it was true. “I didn’t—”
Her tone sharpened. “During the salary freeze last year, I negotiated a side deal in lieu of my well-deserved raise. I do a good job for the bureau. This is the least they can do.”
His mouth ran away without him. “A lot of people do a good job.”
“Well, I do it better, and I have my own people make the arrangements. The bureau only has to sign the expense report. Besides, there is nothing stopping anyone else from asking, is there?” She lurched forward into his face. “That’s the difference between me and someone like you—I actually have the balls to ask.”
She was right up in his face. Head pounding, sandpaper scraping across his skin, fists clenching, he had never wished that a beautiful woman were a big, burly man so badly in his life.
She knew he was done, but her voice remained cold. “Why don’t you go home and shower or something? You look like a grubby hobo.”
This was something he intended to do long before she had opened her big, fat mouth. He stared through her, seething. She stood there before him wearing her tailored, skintight pantsuit, too many buttons free from modest constraint. She wore it too well—her fury making her all the more desirable. He bit back calling her a whore, an arrogant bitch—because that wasn’t who he really was.
He despised the hold she had over him. She dressed professionally, but found a way to wear it so that it magnified her already powerful attraction—worn to drive men mad, and it was working. If this woman was ever to offer herself, it would be on her terms and her terms alone. Her price would be the man’s free will—and she would get her price. He hated himself—his damned weakness … the male weakness. His skin ached, and his head throbbed—his muscles sizzled as if they were dipped in acid.
He sucked it deep, trying his best, but the words still came out like a curse. “What about the report?”
Wrath flashed across her face. “Trust me. I won’t screw you over, Hank.”
“I didn’t—” He stopped. She was right—he was done. He shouldn’t have come. Report be damned. He left.
† † †
Sheriff Roscoe watched the mayor calm the crowd down a third time as clamorous echoes filled the room, eroding any chance that the speaker could be heard. Tensions were running higher than he had expected.
“Silence!” Travers finally yelled into the microphone. “I said, silence!” That second louder command permeated the noise and swallowed it down to the ordered murmur. “As I said earlier, details cannot be forthcoming at this stage, unless the agents feel it’s helpful.”
Voices tumbled over louder voices. “I said, quiet!” His scream slipped into a punishing feedback loop from the microphone. The crowd winced into silence.
An old farmer took advantage of the dwindling roar and stood out of turn. “I heard he lobbed her head clean off.” He turned among his stunned peers. “And put it on a fucking spit.” More shocked grumbles gained momentum as wave upon wave passed over their heads.
A woman yelled, “Goddammit, Earl, there are kids in the room!”
“I’m not Earl,” he yelled back and then warned, “It’s happening again, I tell ya!”
The murmurs grew louder.
The mayor’s voice filled the room. “Eva’s right, Roland—edit yourself. There’re families here. And you’re wrong—her head was not removed from her body. Please, leave the past where it belongs. Now, I want everyone to remember—”
Another woman jumped up. “I heard she got raped by a tree!”
The mayor’s hand slapped the sweat against his forehead. “Oh, dear God,” he mumbled, shaking his head. He covered the mic, leaning back toward Roscoe. “John, I think we might need to have you stand at the back of the room. Things are getting ridicu—”
The doors blew open with a room-shuddering bam. The rabid howl of rage that flew through the doors ignited the townspeople, and Sheriff Roscoe drew his gun too late.
Twelve
Vicki’s eyes flew open, expelling her from her dark dream. She sat up, shivering, and again her thin white T-shirt clung wet and translucent to her sweat—blankets tossed to the floor. The backs of her naked thighs trembled against the soaked bedsheet. She struggled to catch her breath as tears streamed down her face.
Recurring violent thoughts churned as her mind struggled to process the level of torment Ivy had endured before death. How much had she been forced to bear, mentally and physically, before her body blessed her with its final release?
Vicki had to remain objective—but the brutality of it. How could she—how could anyone? Vicki fought off the cruel thoughts, floating like cobwebs sticking to her mind. He truly hated women—a black hate, devoid of light.
The dim sixty-nine on her thermostat claimed her body was mistaken. She shivered. Liar. And could she trust the clock’s assertion that it was already 5:55 a.m.? She trembled as she peered through the window’s curtain, catching the first wink of the rising sun as it bloomed against the eastern horizon. “Okay, I believe you,” she whispered, hugging herself tight as she shuddered all the way to the bathroom.
She sealed the door and turned the shower on full hot, allowing the steam to build as she hung over her sink. The visions of live mutilation, flashing with every blink, didn’t fade with the icy splashes of water against her face.
Stripping off her sticky shirt and panties, she approached the steam as her gooseflesh tightened with anticipation. She stepped in and slid herself beneath the hot spray, letting it douse her quivering skin. Pain lanced her horrific thoughts as she winced against the burn. She began swaying slowly beneath the steaming shower, warming each side a small measure before returning to the other, longing for the wide, luxurious mouth of her own shower. The wet heat warmed her flesh to the core, but she continued to tremble. Shake it, Vicki.
The spray retreated with a twist of the knob. Burning hot, she stepped out of the steam, through the bathroom door and into the cool bedroom. She stood naked, dripping on the hardwood, basking in the breezy blessing. Soft wisps of silvery steam snaked up the length of her body and into an invisible vapor as she drew the cool air deep into her—cleansing her of her terrors. Her glistening coat quickly slipped away into the ether, leaving only the need for a towel for her hair.
Enough steam had escaped the bathroom to clear a small reflection in the mirror. She stared into herself. “Make this one count, Vicki.”
She flossed, brushed and gargled. When she had finished rubbing the last circle of the coconut butter over her body, she began her ritual of sparse but enticing makeup and expertly drawn hair.
Her sufficiently distracting outfit hung on the back of the door. After squeezing into her navy denim, she pulled on her fitted white blouse and buttoned it to only just the right side of improper, finishing with the sassy angle of her stylish belt. Satisfied, she snatched up her bag, jacket and weapon.
Her Corvette woke with an enthusiastic growl as it winked a bright 6:45 a.m. on the dash. The blessed christening of the cool air on her hot, wet body had vaporized her terrors. She felt so much better now.
Her respite was short as Hank rose to the surface of her mind. Her gut pulled inward. She shook her head and drew a deep breath—then saw the sign. She grabbed two large coffees from the drive-through—one with copious amounts of cream—and geared the Corvette down into a playful roar as she sped her car toward Hank’s motel.
† † †
She jumped when the door swung open before her knuckle could rap a second time. “Look, I’m sorry about last night,” she said but had to look twice to make sure she was addressing the right man.
The eyes and nose were right, but a strong, clean-shaven jaw—no longer softened by long stubble—had replaced the scruffy overgrowth. The usual tousled crop atop his head was now tamed by product and held an edgy, swept-back style. The tailored cut of his dark sport jacket provided clean lines to his untucked button-down shirt, and his coarse deep-blue designer jeans met freshly polished boots at the hem.
“For me?” he asked, shamefaced.
“What? Oh, yeah.” She nodded, handing him the extra-creamy.
“Come in.”
His room was definitely much smaller than her rental, but it was impeccably neat—another surprise.
“You sure took my grubby hobo comment to heart.” She had regretted the nervous quip the moment it had left her lips.
