Pieces of Ivy

by Dean Covin

“I just didn’t like the way she looked at Ivy, okay?”

  † † †

  Kyla waved at them from her window as the agents walked toward Vicki’s car.

  Vicki disarmed the Corvette. “You like Vietnamese?”

  “Sure.” Actually he loved it.

  “Let’s go back to my place and order in. We’ll consolidate our notes.”

  “Good idea,” he agreed, scanning her profile in his periphery. Great idea.

  Twenty-seven

  Cole stepped back into a narrow slice of blessed sun, a life raft for his sanity. He felt the dead timbers brooding behind him. The man in black trembled in the warming light although the forest air—even in the darkest places—rested at a reasonable seventy-five degrees. Wiping the wet sting of cold sweat from his eyes, he wondered how much of that was actually tears.

  “It’s not her. It’s not her,” he whispered as he chanced a stride toward the gate at the far side of the graveyard. Shadowed by the blackened church, he was only minutes away from the safety of his car—minutes were too long.

  He avoided brushing against the charred church as black things crawled along his skin and his heart struggled for escape. His fear that his salvation was stripped away abated as he caught a glimpse of shiny black metal on the far side of the bushes.

  He backed over his concealing shrubs rather than waste the precious seconds to cast them aside. He could always order a new paint job—that was immaterial. What was material was getting the fuck out of here.

  The scratching of hungry wooden nails against the paint was short but unbearable—he drove with his rump raised from the seat as if it diminished the threat of the scraping touch below.

  Blood flushed back through him, warming his flesh as he stretched the distance between him and that hateful place. There was nothing to this witch. He tried to convince himself that she was not the one they were looking for.

  That’s the report he would give his client. Did he actually talk to her? No. Did he even see her? No. Did he think there was no point in pressing this avenue further? Pretty damn sure, and he was sticking to that.

  He convinced himself that she was just a rumor—a crazy old woman—and the true source of their concerns was still to be found.

  “It’s Cole,” he said into his phone, happy to have his nerves back, along with at least twenty miles between him and that bridge.

  “Yes, sir. … I did. … Yes, sir.”

  He swallowed. “No, there was nothing to it—she’s no threat. … Mentally ill, self-care, but unstable. … No, not the one we’re looking for. … Yes, I’m sure it’s not an issue,” he lied. “Agreed. … I’ll continue to evaluate and take steps to clean up the rest as discussed. … No, sir … I’ve never been wrong before.” He was grateful his tone remained level.

  “I’ll provide another update within seventy-two hours. … Understood.” He pressed End with a heavy sigh. He peered through his rearview mirror back at the town that he had to return to. Gripping his weapon beneath his jacket, Cole was soothed by the solid, heavy metal.

  Besides, he saw no reason to set foot in that dreaded black forest again.

  † † †

  The early evening was settling in. Vicki pulled up to the curb in front of the motel, and Hank got in. She drew in his freshly showered scent—waiting a moment before slipping her car into first.

  They pulled up just down from the Vietnamese takeout. Vicki decided to join him. As they walked past an outdoor patio, Vicki froze midstep and whispered, “What the?”

  Hank saw the mother and daughter laughing over a plate of savory tapas. He sighed as Vicki swung her legs over the low wrought-iron fence.

  She folded her arms, happy to draw the attention of the other patio patrons. “Tough love, I see.”

  “I dealt with it,” Mrs. Oliver shot back, not bothering to offer the agent her full attention.

  But Morgan did address her, flashing a scornful smile. “You can go now. Go on—go,” she said, shooing Vicki away with flitting fingers. The mother offered zero parental intervention at this blatant public insolence.

  Vicki stared at them both for a long moment, partially in disgust, partially weighing her personal—legal—options.

  Morgan spoke again, “Mmm. These tapas are to die for. I’d offer you one but you’d only get fatter.”

  Her mother let loose an arrogant snort, raising her hand to her mouth to demonstrate, rather than hide, her chuckle.

  Vicki wished she wasn’t law enforcement. She bit her tongue and walked away, fully aware of the hushed giggles behind her.

  “Gotta love those mean girls,” Hank said.

  “I’d love to bitch-slap the both of ’em.”

  Hank let her lead the way, savoring the view.

  † † †

  Vicki put the dishes in the sink and started brewing coffee. Her mouth dropped when Hank filled the sink with soapy water and start scrubbing.

  “You’ll make a great wife someday,” she said, surprised by her own chauvinist quip. But somehow the playful taunting felt right.

  “I will indeed,” he nodded as he wiped the last of the two dishes dry.

  He returned to the table, scribbling his final thoughts. Reconciling their notes had taken far less time than either had imagined. Across so many notes, there were negligible gaps or discrepancies between them—something Hank had never experienced with another partner before.

  She set his steaming cup at his elbow and joined him, pushing her finished notes to the side.

  He spied her camera on the breakfast bar. “So why didn’t you?”

  “Why didn’t I what?”

  “Take her up on her offer.”

  “Whose offer?”

  “Kyla More—to take your picture.” He looked at her for a moment and then went for it. “You’ve got the looks.”

  She felt a tender burn on her cheeks. “Why didn’t you offer?” she countered.

  “Not my thing.”

  She set down her hot cup, giving him a second look as her well-honed bullshit detector went off. “What the?” She scanned him. “Why so sheepish, Dashel?” Then she knew, and her eyes went wide. “Oh, my God”—she jumped to her feet—“you modeled?!”

  His sip missed his lip. He shook his head, avoiding her gaze.

  “You liar—you did so! Oh, my God! What—were you a nude model?” She danced around his chair. “Totally buck naked?!”

  He sighed with a shake of his head. “No. It was—” He mumbled something.

  “Was what?”

  He mumbled a little louder.

  She buckled over, giggling. “Underwear! Oh, my God, too funny!”

  He stood. “It was college, and it was a good line to have at bars—to pick up girls.”

  Her fingers fought—and failed—to stifle her laugh. “What magazines?”

  He went silent.

  “What magazines?”

  “Well … none.” He tried to ignore her wide-eyed smirk. “They took the pics, but none of them made it—I got paid anyway.” He knew she sensed there was more, and her unsatisfied stare pried relentlessly. He closed his eyes and released his embarrassing admission. “I refused to wax.”

  Vicki burst out laughing.

  “You think that’s funny?” He snatched the camera and started shooting her.

  “Stop!” She tried to scream past her unstoppable giggles as she defended her face, throwing up her left hand at the camera as she rounded her sofa. He pursued her, camera firing.

  The past fifty-seven hours of tension fizzled away into the childishly riotous insanity. Because of how quickly and unexpectedly it had come, it had been allowed to snowball without forethought—playful fun, laughing … stimulating.

  She teased him, feigning desperation. “Eek
! Help! The underwear model is coming to get me!”

  “Come on, love the camera.”

  She surprised him by taking a sultry step forward and momentarily flirting with his lens, setting everything masculine in Hank on fire, before rushing away. “No underwear model is getting the best of me.”

  His moves were instinctive, autonomic—he chased her.

  “Stand back.” She laughed. “I’ve got wax!”

  The room was thick with a sudden sexual charge. “Oh, yeah”—he angled the camera down—“let’s see if you’re afraid to wax.”

  “I’m not,” she teased, raising her eyebrows, flashing him a grin—mischievous electricity snapping against her flesh.

  “Prove it.”

  “No way!” Thrilled with the insanity of it all, she couldn’t stop her giggles.

  He was charged. “Prove it. Come on—I dare you. Show me.”

  “Um, no.” Cornered, she could feel their tension tighten—his playful quest to see her panties drop. She liked it.

  He stepped closer, his face growing more intense—hungry. “Come on.”

  “Noooo waaaay!” She laughed again, bathing herself in the play.

  He stepped again—too close—lowering his voice, his intensity looking at her. “Come on.”

  Her face shifted with his tone—he wasn’t kidding. His demand was real. Her voice reacted and instantly commanded, “I said, no!” The word cracked through the air like the snap of a whip.

  He seized and then went to speak but stopped; he saw it in her eyes. The energy in the room imploded into a single stressed point of volatile tension as they stared at each other.

  “I think you should go.”

  “Yeah, I should.” He set down the camera, grabbed his jacket and left.

  Hank walked to his motel and drank himself to sleep.

  Vicki took a scorching shower and didn’t sleep at all.

  † † †

  The morning sun forced Vicki’s heavy eyes tighter. Hank slid into the passenger seat.

  Vicki pressed the gas. “Morning.”

  “Morning.”

  Quiet for the entire ride and through breakfast, the agents shared only three words.

  “I got it,” Hank said and threw down a twenty. Vicki only managed a single nod in gratitude.

  As they turned off Main Street, she started, “About last night—”

  “Yeah, it was a dick move—won’t happen again.”

  “Yeah.”

  He shot a glance at her, paused, then added, “Yeah.”

  More silence.

  She spoke, “It’s not that—”

  Hank cut her off. “Roscoe should be able to give us directions.”

  She looked at him. “Didn’t you used to live here?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t hang out in the forest.”

  That was a lie. He had been in Cherrybrook once—on a dare—and he didn’t get far. He didn’t want to admit that his childhood hesitation lingered, even as an armed, well-trained adult.

  Twenty-eight

  Roscoe grinned. “I was wondering when you’d get to it.”

  He printed out a high-resolution grayscale copy of Cherrybrook Forest from Google Maps and handed it to his wife. Rose began scrawling lines and scratching notes—in bloodred ink, of course.

  Vicki found it both astonishing and unsettling to see what was clearly a cracked human skull etched upon the world with the sun-bleached bony fingers of inexplicably dead trees. She followed Rose Roscoe’s crimson course along the natural waypoints as she spoke.

  “You go down Old Church Road here. You follow it for about ten minutes. You’ll hit the burned church and the minister’s house.”

  Vicki glanced at the line relative to the rest of the town in the printout. “Why would it take ten minutes to get that far?”

  Hank glanced away, knowing the answer that was coming.

  Rose looked up. “’Cause you’re walking, sweetheart. It’s an overgrown buggy trail. You might get lucky with a Jeep Rubicon—but I doubt it.”

  Vicki nodded for her to continue but not loving the prospect, especially since her gallant partner’s focus appeared to have been distracted away by absolutely nothing.

  “You’ll cut through the trees in the back of the church and come across an old graveyard.” Her line crossed the skeleton’s toothy maw. “Not a body in the ground has a living relative so they’ve been left to their peace. You walk another ten minutes, following the small worn trail.” Rose looked up at Vicki. “It’s her trail.”

  Vicki couldn’t tell if that was a threat.

  Rose continued, “If you’re sensitive to the natives, you’ll tread carefully through here and past their ceremonial stone—you’ll know it when you see it. The boulder looks like the face of a thunder-god’s hammer sticking up from the earth. Between that and the tree from a Tim Burton nightmare are the old native burial grounds. Show it some respect.

  “Five minutes past that it gets even better.” Rose’s face was lit—as if telling small children a frightening tale around a campfire moments before they had to sleep in the futile protection of a nylon tent.

  She drew a line toward the black voids of the two nostrils. “Now, her trail cuts right between the sinkholes, but I’d suggest you follow this line.” She drew a line around the right nostril. “Because if you fall, you die.”

  “And I ain’t goin’ in that place to fish out your body,” the sheriff added, only half kidding. As his wife inked in a wandering red swath cutting toward the lethal crack, Roscoe added, “There’s a bridge over the creek—you’ll know what I mean when you see it … you can’t miss it.”

  “Tell us now,” Vicki insisted.

  “What—and spoil the surprise? I don’t think so.”

  “This isn’t time for games.”

  “I’m not playing,” he replied. “You’ll see when you get there.”

  Rose finished drawing a line up to the right eye. “This is the old Kenton place. You can see her house through the trees from this side of the bridge. She usually has something burning, so you’ll notice the smoke long before you see the house.”

  Roscoe held out a hand to Vicki, hiding hesitation behind a smile. “Good luck.” He ignored Hank.

  Behind Rose’s grin, she looked sick.

  † † †

  As the agents drove toward the edge of the forest, Charlie’s call cut their lingering silence. Coop chuckled to learn about the field trip. He didn’t have a lot to add on the DNA front yet.

  “I suspect the victim did manage to scratch her attacker—the reason he severed her fingers off only that one hand. Traces of her fingers were found in a jar of acid recovered at the scene.

  “The substantial amount of melted latex also found in the acid leads me to believe that it was indeed a sex toy—of significant volume—that must have been used for penetration.”

  Being a woman in this job was tough. At least the suspected source of latex was a tool designed for sexual penetration—how many other instruments had Vicki seen used on victims to demean and destroy them?

  The use of a toy was good information. The attacker probably has trouble getting hard, as is often the case with killers obsessed with torture over the sexual attack—gratification coming from the agony rather than arousal of his victim.

  † † †

  They pulled up to the trees, understanding why it would take a Rubicon to challenge Old Church Road.

  Small trees and overgrowth choked the entire way to the distant black church up ahead. An unsettling thought grew in her belly—no emergency vehicle could follow them. A small trail was stamped into the green leaves and broken twigs—her trail.

  Vicki considered the full thirty minutes it would take to reach the witch—trying
to question its necessity. The witch was a focal point in this town—and Ivy had apparently known her—that made the walk necessary. Besides Vicki wasn’t a terrified little schoolgirl. She was a top-ranked agent with a gun and a tall strapping partner. None of which eased the threat she felt.

  Hank’s phone buzzed. “At least it’s a nice morning,” he said as he scanned his screen. “It’ll be good to get out and have some fresh…” His voice trailed off, and he stopped as he viewed the message scrolling down his screen.

  “What is it?”

  “The file from Coop.” He continued to read.

  Vicki could tell he was shaken, growing with outrage. His hand trembled as he held the phone out to her. He braced himself against the tree as she read the update. She fell to sit on the edge of the fallen log behind her—fighting back her tears.

  † † †

  Cole watched Vicki disappear into the trees with her partner. His curiosity over what message could have affected them so hard was trumped by his frustration that he could not follow her in—knowing exactly which direction in that forest they were heading.

  Whatever it was in there had better not rob him. He still had coming business with the beautiful agent—and Cole was never one to sit well with not having all pieces in play under his control.

  † † †

  The agents slowly approached the burned-out church, which remained tall and solid, if not wickedly soiled by heavy char and soot—sharp fangs of broken glass in every window.

  With each step, a twig was determined to snap beneath her feet, driving Ivy’s further torment into Vicki’s mind. Seeing the latest message from Charlie and now the jagged dry sticks all around her made Vicki shudder as she tried not to consider the excruciating pain caused by cramming the sharp, dry, brittle sticks into a woman’s body. So viciously attacking Ivy like this was beyond personal—there was a no-more-sacred place on a woman’s body.

  Vicki slowed her steps to widen the gap between them. She tried not to hate Hank for being a man—he was also upset. But how could he even begin to imagine what Ivy went through? Vicki knew it was unfair, and it would have to pass, but, for the moment, he represented that gender, and she hated him for it.