by Dean Covin
“Nasty bitches,” Stephen said.
Tabby shook her head. “She got off lucky.”
“She doesn’t look lucky to me,” Vicki said.
The girl chewed on a thought for a moment. “Okay, get this.” She leaned into her new friend as if to divulge clandestine intelligence.
“When they were eight, they led a boy from their class under the bridge to play doctor. Apparently he upset them somehow and so they hurt him, slapping and pinching him—spitting in his face—and claimed he was a pervert all over school.
“It ruined him. He was a pariah for years, and then he committed suicide—he was only eleven, if you can believe it.” She nodded at the shock on Vicki’s face. “His mother was too poor to get them out of town any sooner—the father left because he couldn’t take the taunting and accusations. Adults can be mean too. In fact the rumor is that their moms tormented the mother so much after her son’s suicide that she followed him six weeks later. Same way—zip-tied a bag over her head.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was. And the worst part, we all knew it was lies. But we loved the drama and, I suppose, picking on him for it.” She wore her heavy shame.
Vicki’s mouth hung open.
Stephen secured his glasses up his slender nose. “I heard they drowned someone’s cat.”
“Now you’re being crazy,” Tabby said.
Twenty-five
The students had been dismissed for the day, but Vicki hoped to catch Vice Principal Towers again before he left. The agents were reclaiming their seats when their follow-up was interrupted midsentence by the unmistakable cries of an upset girl, followed by the slapping of her bare footsteps rushing toward his office.
“What is it, Drew?”
Her wet hair stuck to her water-patched T-shirt. The quivering girl could barely get out the words. “Mr. Towers, they said I’d die like Miss Turner!”
He didn’t hesitate, jumping to his feet, flushed with anger. “Where?”
† † †
They rounded the corner toward the girl’s locker room. Vicki pressed a hand against Hank’s chest. “I don’t think so.”
Towers held out his keys to Vicki. “Just in case.”
She smiled.
Hank stood next to the vice principal as Vicki followed the tentative girl into the locker room.
Female sweat hung on the thick air, and, though most were at least partially dressed, seven naked figures giggled in the shower. That’s where Drew pointed her trembling finger.
Vicki stepped forward.
“Who the fuck are you?” a girl shouted but made no attempt to cover her soapy, mocha-colored body.
Vicki recognized Morgan Oliver—whom she hadn’t seen since the mayor’s town hall meeting. She held up her badge. “Agent Starr.” Three of the girls immediately recovered what modesty they could with their hands and scurried past Vicki toward their lockers.
Morgan glanced at Drew, who was still shaking by the door. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Alexis Luther stepped out from under her shower and joined her friend. “You cowardly little bitch!”
“Get dressed,” Vicki said.
“I’m not finished.”
“We’re going to talk.”
“I said, I’m not finished!” Morgan turned her back to Vicki, the three others beneath the spray following suit. They continued to lather themselves in no particular hurry. She recognized Brianna and Jasmine as the other two defying her command.
The girls’ cheek incensed Vicki. “I’m not going to ask again.”
“I’m not going to tell you again,” Morgan replied without turning around. Her cohorts giggled while the rest of the locker room quietly cleared out.
Hank watched dripping girls, clothes clinging to their soaked bodies, rush out the door between them. No time for towels? He smiled, turning to Towers. “Agent Starr must be flexing serious muscle in there.”
Vicki saw the steel door next to the showers. She pulled the key, turned the lock and reached into the utility room. The girls screamed as the showers turned ice-cold. They scampered past Vicki, shivering and cursing as they scrambled for their towels.
“What the fuck!” Morgan yelled, shivering, shooting Vicki a wicked glare.
Vicki wore an inner satisfaction, watching the girls having to wipe off the lingering soapy froth.
“You wait until my mother hears about this.”
Vicki thought mother was an odd threat. Usually children invoked the menace of their father.
Vicki stared down Morgan, who suddenly dropped her towel to the floor. The others followed suit. They swarmed around her, boxing her in—naked and close, still dripping. Too close, making Vicki instantly uncomfortable. She, of all people, was caught off guard by this forceful tactic by the young women.
“Step away.” She felt them around her.
Morgan came closer, probing Vicki’s face. “You like girls?” A sudden bump from behind sent Vicki lurching forward, her hands brushing Morgan inappropriately. “You just touched me,” she said coldly—her grin wide.
Vicki panicked at the obvious insinuation. Her voice broke. “She bumped me!”
“You’re not supposed to like naked girls—especially young ones.”
Vicki seethed at their attempt to control her.
“My friends saw you touch me … you should be careful.”
Vicki shoved the girl back hard, wiping the smirk off her face. “Get dressed. You”—she pointed at the other three—“leave.” They didn’t move. “I can call my partner in.”
“He’d love that,” Morgan said. “You gonna ask him to hold me down?”
“Move!”
Pulling on their T-shirts and sweats, they left clutching their underwear in their hands.
“Don’t worry, bitch,” Morgan said, raising her balled panties in her fist. “Your secret’s safe with me … for now.” Then she added, as Vicki walked her toward the exit, “One word of this and my friends will back me up.” Morgan turned to Vicki. “We will ruin you.”
“Keep moving.” Vicki shoved Morgan through the door.
“I have nothing to say to you,” Morgan announced to her vice principal, ignoring the second FBI agent completely.
Vicki decided to call her bluff. “You have the right to have your parents present if you want. If you need Mommy by your side, I’m fine with that.”
“I don’t need her.” Then her lips smiled, but her eyes didn’t. “But I’ll bet it’d piss you off to have to wait for her to get here … so, yeah, let’s call Mom.”
Vicki wanted to slap the triumphant grin off the girl’s face.
† † †
The smug brat was right; having to wait was pissing Vicki off—Hank too.
Morgan sat smugly snapping her gum in the vice principal’s office as the three adults fought to tolerate her insolence.
Towers rose from his desk. “Mrs. Oliver, please come in.”
Vicki watched the woman enter the office. She was absolutely striking, even this close-up—but Vicki could tell it took more work than it used to.
“What is the meaning of this, Brent?”
Vicki noted that the informality roiled the vice principal, but he retained his composure.
“Please, Mrs. Oliver, have a seat.”
She took the open seat as a queen takes a throne, without so much as glancing at her daughter.
“There was an incident. Your daughter, Morgan, threatened another student in the showers.”
“Threatened, how?”
“Allegedly she warned another girl to be careful or she would end up like,”—he glanced at his file before quoting—“the bloody Miss Twatty-McBitch, apparently in reference to Miss Turner.”
/> The woman tightened but said nothing for a long moment. Vicki admired how the vice principal held the space silent, forcing the mother to be the next to speak. She turned and locked gazes with her daughter, who didn’t waver. “Is this true, Morgana?”
Morgan rolled her eyes at the invoking of her formal name but offered nothing.
The woman’s stare burned into the side of her daughter’s head.
The girl glanced back and nodded slowly, keeping her eyes trained on her mother’s. Her eyes only began to reflect fear when the mother slowly rose over her daughter.
“Morgana, that is absolutely unacceptable!” Her voice shot up on the last two words, causing everyone in the room to jump. “I don’t care that you threatened some pathetic little girl. But you do not invoke the horror of poor Miss Turner’s death in such a disrespectful way—do you understand me?”
Wide-eyed now, Morgan nodded in quick compliance.
Her mother turned to Vicki, Hank and the vice principal. “Leave this matter with me and—”
“We have questions,” Vicki insisted. The lingering wrong of Morgan’s soft, wet flesh against Vicki’s hands felt like a hot slick of foreboding along Vicki’s skin.
Morgan’s mother snarled at Vicki between her clenched teeth, “Leave it to me.” She turned to Towers. “I can assure you that my husband and I will see that Morgan is dealt with appropriately.” She didn’t wait for an answer, taking her daughter by the arm and escorting her out of the office.
Towers called after her. “Mrs. Oliver!” But she continued down the hallway with her daughter. Exasperated, he said, “I’ll fill out the incident report and have Morgan’s parents sign it later.”
“I wouldn’t want to be that girl,” Hank said as they left the school. He laughed. “That woman scared the hell out of me.”
“Yeah, you looked pretty scared of her ass as she walked out the door—good thing you kept such a close eye on it.”
Hank shut up.
Twenty-six
Vicki’s Vette pulled up to Kyla More’s house—the Jetta in the driveway confirming she was home.
“I’m sorry.” Ivy’s best friend covered her trembling mouth as she wiped tears with her other hand. “I thought it’d get easier.” The distraught woman had been shut in for days since hearing the news.
Kyla was a trendy young woman with a thin, tight figure, flashy glasses and a mass of wiry hair that led a strong revolt against normalcy—and gravity. Kyla More was here to make a bold statement to the world with her every step. Seeing someone so overtly confident this emotionally ruined struck a sharp contrast.
Her quaint home had been transformed into a stylish photo studio with exposed bed and bath. Pictures were scattered across every wall, ranging from the sweetly cherished to the darkly erotic with no obvious staging pattern between the two genre extremes.
These were photos of people, not landscapes. She captured individuals, or parts of them, in bold crisp colors and stark haunting grays alike. Each, even the subtle, made a statement about the subject of its focus. Vicki was impressed.
Kyla managed to compose herself after Hank fetched her a glass of water from her open kitchen.
“Those are Ivy.” Kyla pointed to three towering black and whites, side by side, showing deeply moving, smoky poses of a naked silhouette standing statuesque against a full glass window overlooking the Las Vegas strip. The face was obscured, but the soul was exquisitely exposed—an arresting vista of open feminine vulnerability that held immense power. The display was intensely erotic in its sensual, shadowed simplicity.
Kyla was scanning Vicki intently. “You’re stunning,” she finally said through her tired throat, as if seeing her for the first time. “You have to let me take your picture.”
“No,” she said too quickly. “When was the last time you saw Ivy?”
Kyla gave a short pout and then returned to the question. “We had dinner together on Thursday—Ivy cooked. She was an amazing cook. She could make even the healthiest of dishes mouthwatering.” Kyla steadied her breath, the memory obviously overwhelming. “I was away for a few weeks, in New York, on a commissioned shoot. Ivy picked me up at the airport and surprised me with dinner—it’s how she was.” Kyla choked up again.
“And before that?”
“Her birthday party—we celebrated her twenty-seventh last month.” Kyla took another drink of water.
“Anything of interest occur?” Vicki asked.
“Any male attention?” Hank added.
“Obviously, but that always happened. She grabbed attention just by being herself—having fun. Ivy was beautiful—knew it, dressed it and danced like no one else on the floor—always the life of the party. She’d dance with anyone but would never latch on to just one or try to lead anyone on. She had a good heart that way—too good, I think.” Kyla stopped to ponder her own thought. “It started out as a private party, but everyone showed—got a little crazy. Even a few of her students—so, yeah, underage drinking—but, hey, the sheriff and his wife were pouring so…”
The agents weren’t surprised.
Kyla pulled back a heavy swallow of water and continued. “The bitches weren’t too happy with her that night—they hate anything hotter than they are.”
“Bitches?”
“Yeah, Jennifer Boss and her evil league of skanks.”
Hank fought back a smirk.
“You think they’d have a hate on for her?” Vicki asked.
Kyla understood her meaning. “Sure, maybe—no, I’m pretty positive, in fact.” She looked at them and added, “But they’re bitches, not killers. Besides, the way that Ivy was—” Her voice broke, and she lost it again, apologizing.
They offered to come back later, but she insisted she would be okay. “Maybe I can show you a few pictures … good memories to wipe out the bad, you know?” She finger-scanned a shelf.
Hank was curious. “Did she go home with anyone after the party?”
Kyla tried not to smile and then admitted, “With me.”
Kyla carried something solid back to the table. “We hooked up a couple of times—nothing serious. She found it hard to find a decent man among the dregs of New Brighton so … friends with benefits.” She grinned.
“So you’re—”
“Oh, no, not even close—but I like to play.”
Vicki saw her attempt to show her more typical, lighter side but it remained tinted with a heavy shadow.
Kyla pulled an album from the locked box. “My secret treasures.” The leather-bound folio had the hand-stamped name Ivy on the cover.
Both Hank and Vicki were stunned as Kyla slowly turned the pages, revealing each magnificent photo adorned on its own select page. Every image was breathtaking—too breathtaking.
Vicki felt her competitive edge stir when a comparable beauty, or worse, a superior beauty, confronted her. The later case was a rarity for Vicki, but still she fought the envy trickling up over a mutilated dead girl.
“Why would she want to be a teacher when she could be a supermodel?” Hank asked as he consumed every image, portraying no polite restraint.
“I asked her that like three times a week.” Kyla shrugged as she revealed the next photo. “She loved kids, loved to teach.” Kyla was visibly excited by her own work. “Can I please take your picture?” she asked Vicki, and then she pointed at Hank. “I promise to make him leave.”
Hank pretended to be crushed.
Vicki avoided the question. “Any family?”
“No, only child. Adoptive parents—estranged when Ivy was seventeen. That’s when she finally left home for good.” Kyla turned the last page—lingered on the dark picture of a black lacy veil revealing just the captivating crystal blue of Ivy Turner’s eyes—then closed the book and placed it back into the box with a heavy sigh.
She looked at Vicki. “Ivy hated the drug scene which meant she had to escape the rough crowd she’d latched onto those first lonely weeks. It was a scary time for her. One guy tried to get her to turn tricks for him. When she refused, he assaulted her—tried to inject her with heroine—but she got away. The cops did nothing.” Kyla sighed. “She’d never show it, but, under all the beauty, fun and confidence, Ivy’s always been a little afraid—I think that’s why.”
Kyla magicked a package of strawberry Twizzlers from the leather sofa and offered a stick to each of the agents. She shrugged off their declines, biting off a piece before continuing.
“Ivy put herself through school. A couple teachers were there for her, and she made a real connection between teaching and happiness.”
“One of her teammates mentioned that she spent a lot of time in the forest lately,” Vicki said. “Any idea what she was up to?”
“Why would she do that?” Kyla snapped.
Vicki sensed resentment, rather than denial.
Hank was also surprised by the reaction. “You didn’t know?”
“No. What—Why would she go into the forest? It’s not like they say. They’re wrong. They’re liars. She wasn’t going to see her. She’s trouble. She’s nuts. Ivy would never—”
“Slow down, Kyla.” Vicki placed a hand on her arm. “Who are you talking about?” she asked, leaving the answer open.
“That witch—it’s bullshit. They’re wrong. Ivy wouldn’t go out there—no way.” Kyla’s gaze locked on Vicki’s, as if to convince her that Kyla’s next words meant life or death. “I’ve seen her around for years—kooky thing. Twisted liar too. Lies about her age, her name, her past. She’s fucking deranged.”
Kyla turned to Hank. “We saw her one day, you know? Ivy and I were together, and when we passed, she gave Ivy a double take.”
Kyla thought for a moment. “Then again, there were the rumors of dark, ritualistic—” She shuddered as she whispered to herself, shivering, “Ivy would have been very appetizing.”
“What?”
