by Dean Covin
Vicki enjoyed being distracting, turning heads. She didn’t consider herself superficial, but rather a pragmatist.
She pulled out her flat iron and worked her supple locks into her favorite straight look. Cut sharp and sleek, she knew her sassy hair would be provocatively inviting. She glanced at the clock on the wall—5:47 a.m. Styling was taking longer than usual. She continued to pull at her hair but grew incessantly unsatisfied with the look.
Of the many things they were, women were to be adorned and attractive—as men were to fulfill physical utility. Old thinking but she had accepted that, as far as civilization had come, there were realities in the natural order that were just supposed to be—being a beautiful woman was one of them.
This beauty was not strictly constrained to the physical, of course. To be a comparative beauty against the unattainable digitally enhanced goddesses strewn across the magazine racks was not absolutely required—but it didn’t hurt either. So why couldn’t Vicki get it right today? She pulled her hair through again—second-guessing her lipstick.
Vicki felt obliged to exercise her advantage and present her stunning self to the world—how many could deny the same feeling? Considering the billions spent on the beauty industry every year, she acknowledged that she was in a comfortable majority, regardless of the resentment that abounded.
Ivy had been an exceptionally beautiful woman—but more beautiful than Vicki? She looked at herself in the mirror. Could it be?
An unnatural scowl formed across her brow. She pulled her hair through the hot iron, again and again, more times then she ought to. The more she looked at herself in the mirror, the more she grew frustrated. She was extraordinarily adept at not only getting ready quickly, but also coming out looking incredibly hot. Attractive embellishment was natural for Vicki, like breathing—so this made no sense.
This had nothing to do with Dashel—perish the thought. Still, she just couldn’t get her hair to look right. Something was wrong—this wasn’t fair! She locked onto her furious eyes in the mirror. Something was happening, as if these feelings of revulsion were not hers. She looked like herself in the mirror but felt insufficient—ugly. Perfection stood before her, and yet she felt robbed of it. She flashed angry teeth at the inadequate beauty in the mirror and grabbed a handful of her luxurious hair, ready to tear it from its roots.
Ivy’s decimated face, with her hair hacked off, flashed in the mirror, jolting Vicki from the sink, sending her stumbling back. Ivy was there in the mirror, face ruined, stepping away in unison—Ivy’s long, beautiful hair recklessly docked, shorn in places or ripped from her bleeding scalp. Her mangled eyebrows were virtually torn away with the skin. She stood only slightly more intact than Vicki had seen in the barn, but this Ivy was alive and aware of her torment. The image had only flashed for a moment, but the impact lingered, burned into Vicki’s retina like the blinding sun, matching motion with every blink.
How could she be so self-centered? As Vicki looked at herself again, she saw her natural perfection staring back at her. Ivy had been savagely stripped of her beauty and beyond. Vicki had no right to feel anything negative about her appearance.
She asked her reflection with an anguished heart, “How vain have we become?”
Her phone scuttled slowly across her nightstand. Blocked ID.
“Victoria, it’s Dad.”
She remained silent.
† † †
Vicki pulled into Hank’s motel parking lot where he sat on the curb in the early morning sun spitting deep purple cherry pits. He hopped to his feet and pulled open her passenger door.
Sliding into her Corvette, he offered, “Cherry?”
She ignored him, giving a sideways glance at the shiny new rental in his parking spot as she pulled away.
“Yeah, figured you for a strawberry girl.” He immediately regretted his joke. He wanted to add a little levity to the morning rather than pounce on questions about her state of mind after last night. But the anguish on her face was something different. A ball of panic ballooned in his chest. Had she seen him outside her house last night?
Hank had hailed a cab from his motel and, after picking up a rental, had found himself parked outside her house, watching the dark windows, listening to her soft sobs in the distance. She shouldn’t have recognized his new car sitting across the street. Roscoe hadn’t the seven times he had rolled past throughout the night—an act which Hank didn’t know if he appreciated or despised.
She wasn’t listening. “You ever have a father?”
He looked at her as she pulled onto the street. “Yeah, I’m thinking I might have had one.”
“For fuck’s sake, you know what I mean.”
Her language was jarring this early in the morning. “Do I?” Hank could tell she was wildly distracted. He looked nervously at the oncoming traffic.
She continued, “I have this dad—”
“I suspected as much.”
“Will you let me be serious for a minute?”
He wanted to scream, Would you keep your eyes on the road? but held his tongue and gestured dramatically for her to continue.
She pulled over.
“What now?” he insisted.
She watched the road, and, the second there was a clear break, she whipped her Corvette around in a tight U-turn, her squealing tires announcing her infraction. “You’re driving—I need to talk.”
Vicki had never demonstrated any problems with talking and driving—fast—at the same time before. Something must have set her off this morning. He figured it couldn’t be last night, because she mentioned her father. He realized that she was making a good call about letting him drive, so he supported it—family was always distracting.
† † †
Despite his disappointment to be in his vehicle, Hank did feel safer behind the wheel. The lingering new scent of his rental was admittedly far better than his Buick—even before it went up in flames.
“I can drive a stick,” he said, annoyed that she had refused to let him drive her baby.
“I need you to listen, or I’m gonna pop,” she insisted. “If you care anything about this case, you’ll let me vent—agreed?”
He nodded, bracing himself.
“My father’s an important man.”
Hank thought that was an understatement. Lionel Starr, the founder and CEO of Starr Enterprises, was an inescapable pharmaceutical goliath with deep commercial interests spanning agriculture, communications, advanced biotech and defense.
“He called me this morning—wants me off the case.”
Hank raised an eyebrow. “The fire?”
“It’s none of his business, you know?”
Hank stayed quiet.
“Not a word between us in years—no calls, no nothing. He hates that I’m a Fed. Thinks it’s beneath our station—did you know that? He barely acknowledges I have a job at all. I think he’s scared.”
He let her get it out.
“Now he has the nerve to tell me what cases I can work? I’m through with that asshole—I thought I was before, but now I’m so done.”
Hank had presumed, and resented, that Vicki had come from a life of privilege—and, materially, she had. But he knew physical wealth was nothing without paternal abundance, especially after her string of tragedies.
“Your mother and brother died, what, three years ago?” The sensational death of a celebrated socialite mother and playboy brother was a scandal that Hank wouldn’t have wished on his worst enemy.
She nodded. “And, no, Dad and I had our issues long before that.”
“So when your brother died, your father lost his heir apparent.”
Vicki nodded. “He views all his preparations as wasted on me now—resents my choices because he believes I make them to spite him. Sorry, Mr. Center-of-the-Universe,
but I actually love my job.”
“Ergo, the father-daughter chasm.”
She sighed out her window, shaking her head. “That was just the straw—look out!”
Twenty-two
“Little bastards,” Hank said, tossing the sticky paper towel in the trash.
Vicki’s arrested heart finally let go—the events of last night making her ultrajumpy.
“It’s just egg,” she said, knowing if it had been her car, she would have had the little shits spread-eagle on the grass until someone talked.
Distinguishing the perpetrator from the horde of young onlookers was impossible, but that didn’t stop Hank from eye-probing each of them as they entered the school.
The hallway crowds thinned as the last trickle of tardy teens took their time stepping into their respective classes.
Vicki glanced at the time—9:15 a.m. “Teens get a late start these days.”
“Guess the lazy buggers needed to sleep in after all,” Hank said, recalling his own exhausted youth. Even with fresh paint and new posters, his old alma mater felt the same. He passed his graduating class on the wall—awestruck by the alarming enormity of his own teenage hair. He quickly moved on without a word.
“We’re here to see Principal Marrow.”
The elderly woman blinked at Vicki.
Vicki paused, glanced at Hank and then reiterated, “Rupert Marrow—the principal at this school?”
Visibly shaken, she whispered, “Oh my.”
Hank recalled seeing her at both the town assembly and at Father Reilly’s church. She had been watching the two of them carefully. The old woman wasn’t alone in that regard, but her unease with federal authorities involved in the heinous affair was obvious.
“One moment please.” She scuttled away, making no attempt to lift her shuffling shoes.
A giant man with thinning hair, small wire-rimmed glasses and a neatly trimmed goatee presented his hand to each of them. “Vice Principal Towers—please come in.” His office smelled of coffee and photocopy toner. He directed them to sit. “How can I help you?”
Vicki was confused. “We were supposed to meet Principal Marrow this morning. The sheriff’s office arranged it.”
“I understand. Rudy, Principal Marrow, is away at the moment.”
“Away?”
“Out of town.” His deep voice carried with it a military command.
“Where?” Hank asked.
“I can’t say. All he said was it was an urgent personal matter.”
“Did he know about Ivy’s murder before he left?” Vicki asked.
“It’s possible, but I doubt it. In fact, I’m pretty sure he didn’t know, because I only found out after he was already gone.”
“We’ll need to speak with him regardless,” Hank said. “Can you get in touch with him?”
“I’ll get Betty to chase him down,” he said, referring to the jittery blue-hair at reception. He scratched Rudy on his pad and underscored it with two sharp lines. “In the meantime, I’m happy to answer any questions you have.” He leaned forward, his tone turning morose. “We’ve suffered a terrible loss. Anything we can do to help is yours.”
“When was the last time you heard from Ivy?”
“The office received a text Monday morning that she was not feeling well and might be out for a couple of days.”
This took Hank by surprise. “A text? To the office? Didn’t you find that a little strange?”
“We did, especially considering it’s a landline. We have text-to-speech service now for parents, so we did get it read to us by an automated voice, but, to be honest, I just assumed she texted out of habit—all the young people do it nowadays.” He looked sullen. “I know now that it could have been anyone who had sent it. I wish I had paid closer attention. It didn’t even cross my—” Pain etched across his face, and he left his point incomplete.
Vicki continued, “She was relatively new to the school, correct? How was she accepted?”
“Ivy started at the beginning of the school year two Septembers past—we were lucky to get her. She was twenty-five at the time—graduated in the ninetieth percentile with her education degree. As for acceptance, she was extremely well liked by her students, especially the boys—I won’t lie to you. Coworkers thought she was great—very friendly, helpful, generous.”
“Any issues or conflicts with the staff?”
“There were a few tensions at first—mostly when she rebuffed advances. She was like a shiny new toy—contrary to what the students think, we’re all humans in the staff lounge.”
Vicki found his candor refreshing.
“She refused to date colleagues. A decision that, while not policy, I support wholeheartedly—though it ruffled a few feathers.” He took a sip of his coffee. “The tensions quickly abated, and they all became good work colleagues.” He looked up from his cup. “Bottom line is, Ivy was too nice to hate.”
“She taught English, correct?”
“And biology. She also substituted for phys ed.”
“What about extracurriculars?”
He nodded. “Fully engaged in our sports program—she was thrilled to be a part of it. Ivy brought a lot to the table—both boys’ and girls’ teams—although they were strong teams already.” Even the somber tone of the meeting couldn’t mask the pride in his voice. “Practically undefeated in every sport for the past three years. Our school teams are the New Brighton Pirates—have been since ’62, when it was converted into a public high school.”
“Right, because it was Catholic before that,” Hank recalled.
The vice principal nodded. “Correct, and a church before that, a school before that and a factory before that—but I think it was originally a church or monastery. She’s changed hands over the years.” His eyes shone at Vicki. “She may look old, but she’s as solid as they come. I’d put her up against that new Catholic school any day.”
“We would like to meet with your staff—starting with those who worked more closely with Ivy. Can you arrange a private space and the time?”
“No problem.”
As she stood to leave, Vicki pointed above the vice principal’s credenza. “That’s a strange picture.” The aerial view of a lush forest nestled against the midnight blue of a pristine lake triggered an eerie flutter, because there was an unsettling defacement across the soothing vista. Someone had digitally added a gray overlay of a decaying skull with grotesque teeth and a mortal crack slashed across its face.
He viewed it with admiration. “Yes, quite something, isn’t it?”
“Class project?” Vicki assumed it came from a visual arts class, knowing kids liked to delve into the morbid.
“It’s Deadwood,” Hank said with a hint of gravity in his voice.
“Indeed.” Towers smiled. “Eerily striking, isn’t it?”
“Deadwood?” Vicki repeated.
“Or Skullwood, if you prefer, as some do,” Towers added.
Hank stepped forward, pointing to the south edge of the topography. “See, here’s the town site—Main Street, this school, the sheriff’s office—”
The layout of New Brighton materialized before Vicki’s eyes. “And this is the forest and the lake—I can see that now.” She turned to the vice principal. “But why would you drop something so ugly on top of this photo?”
Hank answered. “They didn’t touch up this photo, Vicki—that’s real.” He pointed at the contorted skeletal facade.
Though the vice principal’s nod confirmed Hank’s claim, Vicki stared at him in disbelief as tiny pins climbed up her back to the base of her neck.
“It’s been this way for centuries. Within Cherrybrook, there’s a massive patch of the forest that’s essentially dead, but never rots—no one can explain why. There are legends of course, but they’re
just that.
“From the sky, it forms the unmistakable shape of a skull, which is why they call it the Deadwood Skull.” Hank drew his finger along the various features. “The yard of the old Kenton place makes up the right eye, and there’s a clearing here with a large flat stone outcropping that forms the left.”
“You’ve been there?” An inexplicable shiver seized her.
“No,” he lied—that was a time best forgotten. “Just know the story—everyone here does.”
Towers agreed.
Hank continued, “This nasty crack in the skull is actually Cherrybrook Creek. And these are two treacherous sinkholes that form a striking resemblance to nostrils.” There was no hiding the childlike show-and-tell wonder forming in his voice. “This is obviously the mouth. Can you tell what it actually is?”
Vicki stepped closer and saw how the bottom jaw of the skull’s open maw rested on the edge of the old church; while, upon closer inspection, the cracked and brittle teeth were formed from the larger tombs and headstones of the graveyard. “Creepy,” she whispered.
“I know, right?” Hank said.
“This’d be quite the spine-chilling tourist attraction,” she said.
“That was tried once,” Hank said, “back in the thirties, after the skull shape was discovered from the air for the first time, and a photo was brought back. A local businessman tried to run it as an attraction—leading paid tours and such. There was great fanfare apparently—lots of excitement.
“However, on opening weekend over a hundred people became ill and twenty-seven people died within days. The cause and actual illness were unknown—the only correlation was they had all attended the tour. Now here’s the real mystery—only the paying customers fell ill. None of the people leading the tours or working the attractions from inside the skull got sick.”
Towers added, “Aside from that, people have avoided it since the late 1800s. Besides a few kids entering on a dare from time to time, folks just don’t go in there. They enjoy the forest but stop short of the dead line, as they call it. It’s obvious. Roaming hunters stay away, even if the animals don’t.” He cleaned his glasses. “I’ll admit it gives me the willies. We were all shocked when we found out that she had moved into the old house … alone.”
