by Dean Covin
I’m driving tomorrow for sure, she thought as a wellspring of dust puffed from her seat when she sat. Her phone buzzed.
“Starr.” She nodded and mouthed Charlie at Hank. “Just a second, Charlie, I’ll put you on speaker.”
“Hey, Coop.”
“Hank, I was just telling Vicki that the forensic team confirmed traces of semen at the scene.”
“What about the body?”
“I’ve found no vaginal or anal traces of semen. There was extensive tearing in both openings with traces of a latex compound.”
“Condom?”
“Actually, no. With the excessive breach and penetration, the object in question was likely an instrument such as a large sex toy. We’re scanning the database for matches in girth.”
“So what about the semen?”
“We found a trace mixed with the victim’s blood in her mouth, throat, stomach and lungs, meaning contamination occurred while the victim remained alive and respirating.”
Vicki blew out a tight breath. This never got easier.
“I also found traces of semen in several wounds.” He paused. “All indications point to deliberate application rather than overspray.”
Hank’s face twisted. “God.”
Vicki thought of the vile desecration—him standing over her, rubbing his semen into her wounds. A sick intimacy with his victim’s suffering. A revolting quiver forced itself upon her.
Still, it was pretty sloppy, DNA-wise. They couldn’t get overzealous. It was possible that the semen was a plant.
As they pulled into the farm field and approached the morose structure, Vicki felt her stomach tighten.
Even with the body gone, it was a hard fight to press back the blinding flashes of Ivy’s mutilations from Vicki’s mind’s eye as they stood in the barn once more. The dead smell of barn dust reaffirmed what her mind maliciously sought to reapply. Vicki crossed her arms tight around her chest, slowly scanning her colorless surroundings.
“I can’t pin it down,” Hank said, looking out the doors and across the field. “Do you think anyone could hear a scream from this far away?”
“Are you assuming that her scream wasn’t muffled?”
“Hard to tell by the way her mouth was left.”
Vicki shuddered as she moved next to him. “Do me a favor”—she pointed at the walking path lying along the far edge of the field, separating it from the town—“go out there. I’ll cover my mouth and scream. Tell me if you hear anything.”
He nodded.
Hank jogged to the edge of the property and stood on the walking path, noticing three inline skaters wheeling down the walk. He looked back toward the barn, raising a high thumbs-up and listened.
Vicki closed the heavy doors and then pressed her hand against her mouth. The torment Ivy had faced was too easy for Vicki to imagine. She allowed her muffled scream to match that terrifying reality as it sent living shivers crawling up her spine.
From the street Hank heard the muffled scream—audible, but just barely. The volume was a tough call because he had been actively listening. But then he saw the skate enthusiasts look at the barn with concern. He raised his hand. “Just a test.” They looked at Hank warily but then continued on, satisfied, after seeing the flash of Hank’s badge.
The sinking sun scorched his eyes as he walked back to the barn, trying to see where he was going. Stepping again into the gray shroud of the dusty shadow, Vicki’s form slowly materialized as his eyes adjusted.
“Someone should have heard something,” he said.
“I thought so.”
“According to Coop, she was definitely alive during most if it.”
Charles had described the self-inflicted damage her fingernails had made into her palms. He said Ivy had scraped away most of the flesh—only thin scrapings were left.
“And, even with what he’d done to her tongue, she should’ve been able to scream—gagged or not.”
This wasn’t right. Vicki jostled old buckets and dusty boards with her toes finding nothing beneath them to stir her ponderings.
“And there were no tire tracks?”
Hank shook his head. “Not for months—not before Roscoe and then our crews got here. The men who found her were on foot.”
Hank checked the time. “If you wanna hit that sermon, we should go.”
She nodded and joined him, as she continued to scan the space for something—anything—that would satiate her niggling feeling that this scene was wrong.
Eighteen
After their last encounter, all Vicki wanted to see of Father Reilly was the priest keeled over her knee. She came, not to hear more of his self-righteous drivel, but to monitor the responses in the crowd. The killer might come out of interest—say something, expose himself.
Tonight was going to be a full house at the small church. Parking spilled onto the street. Old and new cars, SUVs and pickup trucks were strewn about the roadway. Parking had devolved into a hoedown free-for-all, and Vicki felt the excessive magnitude of their car as Hank slowly coursed in between the mess of vehicles. He managed to find a wide berth to dock his boat, and they went inside.
† † †
Cole slipped behind a rotund farmer dressed in his Sunday best, as the agents stepped through the entrance. He had hoped that Miss Starr’s earlier outburst would preclude their intention to attend the father’s gathering but was prepared for her arrival regardless.
There was an art to blending in. Even in a small town where people had a heightened sense of strangers, he was adept at passing through and waiting among them unnoticed—mastery of his craft.
Maintaining a position of stealth, he allowed himself to look upon her and remember her silky-wet curves from the other night. He was a man, after all.
He was stunned when, for no explicable reason, she turned and looked directly at him.
† † †
Hank turned but she was already rushing through the incoming crowd toward the open doors. “What is it?” he cried but knew by his partner’s sudden action that he had to follow.
She launched herself off the sixth step, landing hard on the walk but able to continue at a full sprint.
Hank watched her slip over the hood of a crawling car and rush toward the blackened trees lining the road across the street. He pushed with everything he had and was still losing ground on her, even with his longer gate. Goddamn, she’s fast.
She stopped short of the trees and lunged left, running along its berth. He angled toward her, narrowing their gap, when she planted her foot and reversed course. She rushed back and forth along the black expanse of trunks and branches like a freshly caught wildcat, frantically seeking a way through the cage bars.
“No! Fuck!” she yelled as Hank caught up to her.
“What?” he huffed.
“That man—did you see him?”
He shook his head no but took to scanning the trees with equal vigor.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck! I know it was him.”
“Who?”
She spun around in frustration, scanning the path before and behind her and then back toward the church. “A man. I saw him the other night, outside my place. Tall—black hat and coat.”
Instead of questioning, Hank started running left. “You go that way,” he yelled.
She nodded and sprinted with a jolt of renewed optimism.
That hope fizzled. Too much time had passed. He was gone. She continued her futile scans as she jogged back to the front of the church. She included Hank in her scan as she rested against the tree she had pummeled that morning—her heart pounding, lungs screaming for oxygen. Appreciation welled when she caught sight of Dashel scouring the parked cars, above and below. She beckoned him with a loud whistle, drawing the attention of everyone approaching the chur
ch.
“Sorry, nothing,” he said as he approached, trying to reclaim his breath.
She nodded in gratitude and frustration, and then added through her labored breath, “Too fast—he was too fast.”
He was too fast. Vicki was the fastest sprinter at Quantico her graduating year, and this man had turned, had slipped through the moving mass of oncomers like an oil-slicked eel, and had ran through the cars and across the street faster than anyone she had ever seen. But she did see him—that she knew for sure.
She looked at her partner for a moment. Even though the man’s escape had seemed impossible, and Hank hadn’t actually seen him, her new partner didn’t once question her. She wasn’t sure why she had expected him to—past experience, she supposed—but the fact that he didn’t meant the world to her.
And his pursuit hadn’t stopped there. She watched as he quickly polled people walking toward the church steps. She could tell by the shake of their heads that his queries were fruitless—but he was asking.
She shifted uneasily and pushed herself off the tree trunk. How could all these people be approaching, seeing her rushing past, and not catch a glimpse of her quarry? “I did see him,” she whispered. “I did.”
As Hank approached, defeated, a sharp whistle snapped their attention. One of the patrons Hank had spoken to pointed frantically at a black Escalade weaving slowly between the mash-up of parked cars.
Vicki rushed toward it. By the time Hank broke into a sprint, the SUV accelerated. Vicki hurled herself between two cars to intercept and narrowly missed getting crushed. The tinted window prevented Hank from catching a glimpse of the driver as it sped past, but he snapped a mental image of the California plate.
They both rounded into a full run from their respective positions toward Hank’s car, and already Hank was yelling the plate numbers into his phone. They had reached his car, realizing it would be no small chore to back it out, when Vicki asked who he was talking to. He raised a finger. “Yes, black Escalade. Heading east on Pritchet. Let me know.” He hung up and said, “Roscoe.”
Vicki watched Hank dutifully fish for his keys, knowing it was futile at this point and that Sheriff Roscoe was their best chance.
She turned her gaze back up to the church as a few stragglers climbed the steps. Music began spilling from the large doors.
“Your call,” Hank offered as he opened his door.
She knew it was no good. “No. Let’s go inside.” Vicki’s thoughts lingered on the night when she had first seen the stranger before turning to follow Hank in.
Nineteen
The vast majority of people squeezed in comfortably, glad-handing and chatting; ladies throwing shallow compliments and comparing attire, while the men relished the novelty of Sunday morning environs on a warm Wednesday evening. Still, the townsfolk seemed genuinely upset as an air of despair lingered. That, at least, was comforting. A small minority displayed discomfort with their unfamiliar surroundings, pushing past the unknown in the hopes of securing further sensational details.
The music stopped. Like a snuffed candle, the clamor closed to a deafening silence. Father Reilly stepped forth, smiling broadly at his obedient congregation.
“I scarcely see an absent face in the crowd,” he began, “and that warms my heart. And I see those of other flocks”—he glanced toward the agents—“or no flocks at all, have graced us with their presence, eager as all of you to hear the truth behind this tragic crime. I ask that you open your hearts to them and pray for their souls this night as we come together in trusted communion. Peace be with you.”
“And also with you,” the congregation answered in unison.
“Tonight, the truth and sin of Ivy Turner.”
Heat flashed against Vicki’s cheeks.
“While this crime is unfortunate—”
Hank felt Vicki tense.
“Her unexpected death serves as a reminder to us all that God’s will and ever-loving hand is forever present in our lives, regardless of our pretense.”
Vicki straightened and leaned forward, rising to meet Hank’s hand at her chest. He eased her back into her seat and whispered, “Just observe and listen.”
Father Reilly furtively noted Vicki’s acquiescence and grinned. “And here is why, my dear ones—Ivy, like all God’s blessed children, was a sinner. And only through Jesus Christ our Lord, and the righteousness of this, our blessed church, could she ever have hoped to be saved.” He raised an open hand. “Believe, Brothers and Sisters, Ivy has met her salvation and embraced it with open arms. I tell you the following only because I believe it will serve His church, this glorious congregation and our beloved but troubled town. Indeed, this country is at a crossroads, and there is no other path to choose but the righteous path, and I … I will lead you there, I promise you with all my heart and love for God. Amen.”
Vicki recoiled as many of the captivated worshipers around her waved and rocked in pleading penance and abject gratitude. This was like no Catholic sermon she had ever witnessed. This man called Father Reilly would have been more suited to an ultraconservative backwater ministry. One particular Baptist sect came to mind, but his lead was more cunning—his oil-slick personality slipping beneath the veils of New Brighton’s weaker minds. She sensed a sly wolf beneath this shepherd’s robes.
She saw Hank shake his head in slow, stunned confirmation—his low expectations now appearing lofty.
Father Reilly drank long from his flock’s abject humility and then continued, “So please, please hear me, my children, because what I am about to share I do so as a father … Our Father loves His children.” He scanned the silent faces before him. “Twice. Twice! Ivy Turner came to me. And twice I sought to gift her guidance.” His voice quieted to a hushed sadness. “And twice she spurned my guiding hand. Questioned my ordained regulation, rejected my warnings and cast off my instruction of truth. And so, by her own hubris, she is dead. Please, let that be a lesson to you all. Do not let her regrettable circumstance lie in waste.”
Vicki felt her tension met by Hank’s. Losing Hank as her anchor, she had to hold her own. What bothered her most were the quiet nods around her. Fucking sheep!
“But why, Father, do you say such things? you ask. Let me share with you an open window into our beloved schoolteacher.” Her vocation rolled off his tongue as if it were menial, beyond his regard.
“We are all sinners,” he admitted. “Some more than others. Ivy was adored by many—maybe too many—that is true. But there was One who loved too much … and He wanted her back.”
Seething at his insinuations, Vicki felt his words split her skin and seep in via the cracks made. If God had wanted her back so badly, why did He dispatch her so violently?
“She was a schoolteacher, and I’m sure she touched the lives of some children. But what else was Ivy Turner?” He spoke as if he would never tire of driving this point home. “Again I say to you that, like you—each of you—Ivy was a sinner.”
“Amen,” voices echoed from the crowd.
“We arrived together tonight, in grief and shock and horror, so let us also come together in love and forgiveness—to understand her many trespasses. To understand the will of the Lord, and His divine response in kind, to those of you who choose not His path of salvation, shall we?”
He gazed upon his followers, stretching the uncomfortable silence until he achieved his desired majority of nodding heads. Then he began to recite her lengthy list of sins.
“To avail yourself, without modesty, to the men of this great land, it is a sin. To lead a man to water and not let him drink, it is a sin. To hold your purse tight against the needs of your church, it is a sin. Oh, Ivy, please, may the Lord save you and keep you.” He paused for effect. “To lie salaciously with another woman, it is a sin.”
Murmurs washed through the crowd.
“To corrupt the sacr
ed bond between man and wife, to lie with them, it is a sin.”
The mumbles flourished.
His voice grew less condemning, but angrier. “To cast off the words of this good man,” he said, driving two sharp fingers into his own chest, “it is a sin.
“To accept your own words, coming from your own corrupted heart, as equal among His, it is a sin. To speak of untrue powers with the black tongue of the devil’s craft, it is a sin.” He glanced at Vicki. “To hold a station in life of which you are not worthy … it is a sin.”
The podium rocked beneath the unrelenting grip of his shaking hands. Vicki had no idea who this man was; he may have been a man of the cloth but this was no man of God. She saw her anger reflected in Hank’s face, his right hand resting on his left hip just inside his jacket. Did he go for his gun? The prospect made her a little lighter.
“Now we can all appreciate that our dear Ivy was not able to control her feminine wiles without a strong guiding hand, and that we cannot solely blame her, and her actions, for her demise. Still, we must forgive her in our hearts, for in her ruin she is now with Him and will finally begin her good work on His path, by His hand.”
Fighting against her fury, Vicki focused on the faces in the room.
“I want you to realize—and please, Sisters, heed my words, pull them into your hearts evermore—that your wicked deeds, your wicked thoughts and your wicked ways are yours to overcome and will shine upon you as proof, or incrimination, in the eyes of our sweet Lord. And you will be punished, as Ivy was, for your failings in His eyes.”
Vicki was shocked into stunned silence and an unexpected flood of desperation filled her as she watched too many of the women around her dabbing wet eyes—nodding in humiliation.
But Vicki and Hank were not alone in their outrage.
“You’re one of us,” an older man yelled. “Just a man.” Vicki saw him standing two rows back. “No different than that sweet girl. If she was a sinner, then so are you. Apparently we all are, as you say. So tell me, Father, do you—or any of us—deserve to die the way that Ivy died?” The man’s voice cracked as thin tears split his aging cheeks.
