by Dean Covin
“Not funny! At least twice I fell under her gaze or her spell or whatever. I’m not kidding, Hank. It was real—I felt it. What the fuck was that?” She shoved away any branch that dared block her hurried exit toward that unbearable bridge.
Hank looked on her aggravated rambling with concern but said nothing. He found the vexing woman’s insane assertions annoying, but he wasn’t about to let her crazed ruminations sap his logic—his partner appeared less able to do the same. The only struggle he had was the powerful carnal drive to have sex with that woman. The pull was equal parts consuming and frightening. Trepidation filled his chest as Vicki approached the bridge he didn’t want to cross.
In her anger, Vicki couldn’t help but temper her advance on the bridge once it came into view. The woman had assured them that it had the mysterious ability to amplify the emotion the agents carried toward it, but, even as Vicki consciously fought for positive thoughts, her flesh began to ice. Her tone reflected her uncontrollable frustration. “It was as if she looked right into me somehow, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I felt stripped down … violated.”
“Now you’re just trying to spook yourself,” he said as she took her first step.
Again, as improbable as it was, she could draw no air as she crossed the bridge. She convinced herself that it was her unjustified fright that had squeezed her lungs into submission as she crossed, but it truly felt as if the air was dead.
Her first dry breath was dusty yet devoid of taste but welcome nonetheless. Each following breath carried the same unnerving sense of foreboding emanating from the blackened trees surrounding them. Gone was any stirring of the air, even as she walked—as if the air moved with her, held her, confined her.
She felt Hank quicken his pace to reach her, like a nervous child scooting up to Mommy. She welcomed his proximity as the unseen eyes of the shadows watched her again.
“Do you think she’s capable?” Hank asked as he also kept an eye on their surroundings.
“More than capable. She’s a kook, but she’s still on my hot list. What matters now is, how the hell did this charm get out of evidence?”
“Sheriff’s office?”
She nodded, her periphery catching fluttering smoke fingers in the shadows.
“So you don’t believe the fondness she claimed to have for Ivy.”
Vicki wanted to say no but sighed. “I don’t know—maybe. But she was there. She admitted seeing Ivy’s body. Didn’t report it. Took evidence.”
“I think she’s a nut.” A smokin’-hot roasted nut. “Ivy’s mutilations could be ritualistic,” he mused. “But I did get the sense that she cared for Ivy. And if so, why do that to her?”
No frost formed from Vicki’s icy breath as she nodded. “And burning the word slut across Ivy’s belly with a blowtorch isn’t very occult.” That admission rang with a slight warming comfort, regardless of her foreboding surroundings. She found herself inexplicably rooting for the witch.
Even with her heightened nerves, Vicki hadn’t expected to be grabbed. She screamed as her body went rigid. Hank spun her around and locked onto her gaze, pushing out the daytime darkness that enveloped them.
“Don’t … don’t let your guard down, Vicki. Whether she killed Ivy or not, that woman is dangerous—do not trust her.”
Vicki reclaimed her breath but only nodded. Hank was right. How quickly she had slipped into comfort with the strange woman was unsettling. Truer still was the fact that every well-honed instinct in Vicki’s body had warned her.
No matter how attractive, wise and even misunderstood the woman appeared to be, Sky emanated a strong undercurrent of a dangerous dark power from within that Vicki could feel but not articulate. She resented the uncanny, inexplicable comfort she felt toward the woman. It was unnatural and Vicki knew it.
† † †
Vicki sighed a breath of relief as they stepped onto the decaying graveyard, actually welcoming the looming charred structure of the old burned church before her. Still, Hank’s sudden voice lashed a jolt of startled fear through her entire body.
“Better late than never.” Hank was looking at his phone.
An inner thrill leaped in her. They must have a signal again. Her cord reattached. She held back her hand, resisting the temptation to overtly confirm this comforting notion by seizing her phone.
She could tell by his constricted tone that Hank remained equally unsettled. There lingered a thinning in the air that kept his voice lifeless and tinny. They weren’t out of the woods yet.
“I had Shane look up Tanya Kilroy, even though Allison Voxel denied the witch was Tanya—just in case.”
“There’s no way that woman can be Tanya Kilroy,” Vicki said. “No way.”
Hank agreed, but he scanned the report regardless. “I’ll send it to you,” he said as her side tickled. “If she’s not lying about her real birth date, she would fit the bill.”
Hank hadn’t shared his prickle of frustration. Having worshiped Tanya Kilroy from afar in high school, he had made every attempt to recognize something familiar in the witch’s face. Instead, he could neither confirm nor discount it—like the frustrating wisp of a memory teasing just beyond grasp, like a rope of smoke. Reconciling the two stunning faces into a single recognition failed like the name of an old colleague that rested mockingly on a tongue tip, never fully forming. He should know her to see her. Yet the discomfort of a veil draped across his mind wouldn’t release him of the possibility—a nagging ache, like a steel hook embedded in his awareness, numb to the pain that was causing the mental bleeding to cloud his memory.
It sat ill with him, like much of New Brighton. So familiar and yet so strange. Having grown up here but recognizing few faces. Memories repainted with familiar steps along the old haunt of streets were now so changed and reclaimed by her new citizens that Hank felt like a stranger in his hometown. Returning to New Brighton had brought the heavy angst of running into people from his past; now, instead, he found himself constantly combing faces for a flash of recognition.
Vicki brought up the file on her phone, trading quick glances between her screen and her path through the stones. “There was a misdemeanor possession charge and probation for destruction of police property, both in ’86.”
“Police property?” he said. “Sounds interesting.”
Vicki scanned farther for a moment. “It’s not. Apparently she found a file box containing police evidence and burned it. She was a junkie, so they doubted she could have been the one to actually break into the precinct and steal it. She was given probation and ordered into rehab.”
“It looks like Shane went ahead and merged the timelines of the two identities,” Hank said. “According to this, Tanya Kilroy fell off the radar the same year Sky Veil started making appearances.”
“Still, there’s no way. You saw her.”
“I know. I’m just saying … you have her hair?”
“I’ll send it out first thing.” She jumped to the end of the file. “There’s a picture. It’s not her.” Tanya Kilroy was a stunning little blonde bombshell—the eyes were crystal blue—not blue-gray starlight like Sky’s natural eyes. “They might be able to pull off sisters, but Tanya didn’t have one.”
Hank nodded, still struggling between the visages in his mind. Tanya had arrived late in her senior year—one of those untouchable beauties who, for young guys like him, catching a glimpse of was his lucky day. Always surrounded by the big, tough jocks. Hank thought it sad to imagine the beauty as a struggling junkie. But after Tanya’s high school horror with the Pieces of Eight killer, who could blame her?
“According to this, Sky has had a number of charges herself. Public disturbance and public indecency—but nothing serious enough to pursue. She was caught importing prohibited substances late last year, but those charges were dropped.”
Vicki scan
ned ahead on the Sky Veil timeline and then locked on the screen. “Get this. The woman won millions in the lottery. It’s how she was able to buy all of this land. She’s no squatter. She owns full title, outright.”
“She sure doesn’t live the high—” Hank caught himself against one of the larger headstones near the gate, shaking his foot from a root, rather than a bony grasp. “A few people I ran into suspected she must be worth money, since she doesn’t need to work. Apparently they have no idea how rich she is.”
Vicki couldn’t shake her shivers. “Why the hell would someone blow all that money to buy this?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” There was a distinct quiver in his voice. “Seems to be a perfect spot for a witch to raise cute little ghouls and goblins.”
Thirty-three
Hank watched his partner sip her tea, staring at nothing on the dining table. He grabbed a blanket off her sofa and draped it over her trembling back. She jumped. “Thanks.”
They had stopped by the sheriff’s station and confirmed that the amulet in her pocket was missing from evidence. Vicki had expected Roscoe to be more surprised; and his quip, shit happens, would have incensed her more if she hadn’t felt so completely off.
She had jumped at Hank’s suggestion that they take a little downtime to warm up at her place. This was crazy because it was a sunny eighty degrees, but she didn’t question his suggestion. Besides, the protection and sanctity of home was what she was craving the most.
He nodded. “Well, thank you for the tea. You still feeling it?” They had left Cherrybrook Forest two hours ago.
“Yeah,” she answered. “I can’t seem to shake it. You?”
“Weird, isn’t it?”
She agreed, taking another slow sip. Her hands were shaking.
He sat across from her, placing his empty cup on the table. “How does someone get into your head like that? With just a simple set of suggestions, I suppose.” He was trying to convince himself as much as her—and failing. He could tell his explanation left her with no additional comfort either.
Concerned, he continued, “You’re a superstar, Vicki. You can get any case you want. You don’t have to stick with this one.”
“Yes, I do,” she whispered, more to herself than to Hank.
He looked at her for a long moment. “I’m worried about you, Vicki.”
She couldn’t take offense. His words felt more authentic than any he had spoken, causing a warm stir in her belly. She looked up at him; his eyes were waiting upon her patiently. “You think the witch is weird … you’re going to think I’m weirder.” She took a giant leap of faith. “Believe me when I tell you, this has never happened to me before.”
Proof of her lingering vulnerability, Vicki allowed him to take her hand and lead her to the sofa without protest, turning so they could get comfortable and face each other.
“Tell me,” he said.
She swallowed the anxious saliva that had formed and looked past the coffee table, but she quickly reasserted her gaze on her new partner’s face—first gauging the trust there and then relaxing.
“I had a nightmare.” She watched for a response.
He only listened.
“Monday night—so bad I was on the verge of throwing up. Seriously, as if I had the flu. I’ve never had a dream do that to me before—and I’ve had bad ones.” She waited for his scoff.
He didn’t.
“Ivy’s case came over the wire that morning. I already had an important file, and, yet, when I came across this one, I couldn’t put it down.”
Vicki took a long, quiet sip of her tea. “They still hadn’t officially IDed the body, but when I saw Ivy’s driver’s license photo attached as a probable, I knew it was her. It was as if there was a flash before, and behind, my eyes at the same time. I swear I saw my face mirrored in the picture for a moment. Her coloring was different but she felt intimately familiar to me, even though I didn’t recognize her face. It was as if we had faced my nightmare together.” She thought about where they had just come from and shuddered. “And … there were trees,” she whispered.
Hank shifted, remaining silent.
“I cornered Kempt in his office. I’m telling you, Hank, when I picked the file off the desk, volts shot through my arm. I’ve never felt anything like it before. The Sullivan case be damned, I knew I had to have this one. I fought hard with Kempt for over ten minutes. May not sound like much”—she grinned—“but I’m usually in and out with what I want in under three.”
Hank let out a soft chuckle and asked, “Can you tell me about the nightmare?”
“I was watching myself in the rotting leaves—thrashing around, roots strapping me down, naked on the ground. I could only see myself in a tight beam of moonlight. There were gloved hands all over me. The arms disappeared into shadows surrounding my other body. I couldn’t see who they were.
“They were hitting me, cutting me, brutalizing me sexually, violently. I tried to scream for the dismembered hands to get off the other me, but there was no sound other than the attack echoing through the trees—as if we were in a warehouse rather than a forest. Even my other self wasn’t screaming. Like I—she couldn’t.
“The hands were smearing blood all over my body as they tried to kill me. I felt a crushing pressure all around me—holding me in place—trapping me so I couldn’t look away. It was as if invisible hands held my face forward, forcing me to watch them kill me. The hands—they hated me. I felt myself die just as I woke up. That’s why I think I got so violently sick—a reaction to my death.”
The creamy-gray sick color in Hank’s face made her feel as if she did matter to him.
“With our similar age and the strong hint of recognition, I did a background check to see if maybe we grew up together, attended the same schools, summer camps, something—our paths never crossed.”
“So you don’t know her.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then why the draw? Why stay? I get the dream thing, but that’s just simple coincidence, Vicki—it happens.”
“I have to see this through—I owe her.”
“No, Vicki, you don’t. She’s nothing to you.” He regretted his words the moment they slipped from his lips.
“The hell she’s not! She’s a young woman, brutalized and murdered. For whatever reason, I’m on the case, and I’m going to find her killer.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know. Just don’t—don’t try to change my mind, for whatever reason. Don’t.”
He nodded.
She wanted to find a reason to stay angry with him, feed her rage—it was keeping her warm. She knew he was just looking out for her. The witch had shaken Vicki, whether she liked it or not, and he was just trying to do right by her.
Thirty-four
New Brighton’s late-afternoon downtown bustle grew but couldn’t compare to the metropolitan masses Hank was used to, where commuters left their big city corporate offices earlier than usual as their workweek came to a close. Walking alone amongst the light Friday frenzy, Hank appreciated the fact that the quaint heart of his old hometown, along with her devoted dwellers, resisted the pressures of the expansion its growing population demanded.
He recognized the confident wiggle in the curvy form moving down the sidewalk in front of him. “Afternoon, Mrs. Roscoe.”
“Hello, handsome. How was your visit?” She was an attractive woman, even behind her Cheshire grin.
“You could’ve warned us.”
“What, and ruin the surprise?” She took his face into her hands. He feared she was about to stretch up and kiss him. “Where’s the fun in that, Agent Dashel? Besides, neither of you would’ve believed me anyway. This way I still get to play a little.” She released his face and eased back against the warm brick wall of the deli. “How’d it go? Did you
even make it to her house?”
He nodded.
“Shut the front door! You did? That’s farther than I’d ever get. John dragged me out there on Halloween three years ago—some kind of sexual thrill. I hated every step, but when I saw that bridge—I couldn’t do it.” She smiled, doe-eyed, and admitted, “I’m impressed, Agent Dashel,” gently patting his chest.
He puffed his chest in response. “You should be. It took three-ton kahunas to cross that motherfucker.”
She spread a wry smile. “Agent Starr went first, didn’t she?”
He smirked.
She laughed out loud. “I knew it! Giant matzo balls on that girl.”
“You’re right there.”
Hank liked Rose. Beautiful for her age, confident, and, while playfully flirty, he could see the eyes behind the tease were devoted and honest—this woman would never act on her taunts. She was both parts fun and safe to be around. She could make a man feel good without the risk of it going where it shouldn’t.
“What about the witch? Was she there?” Rose read on his face the instant her visage popped into his mind. “Not your ordinary wart-ridden witch is she?” Rose’s sly stare was provocatively probing.
He could only shake his head.
“Yes, she’s a hot one,” Rose admitted. “What do you think? Any threads there?”
“I can’t go into details, but she’s not off our list.”
This appeared to surprise Rose.
Hank glanced at the sign above her head. “Can I buy you a coffee?”
She stepped off the wall a little closer than platonically comfortable. “Absolutely!”
† † †
Hank watched the woman pour five creamers and a helping of what must have been the equivalent of six teaspoons of sugar into her steaming cup. “You seemed surprised when I said we hadn’t discounted the witch—I mean Miss Veil.”
“Just think you’re humpin’ the wrong leg there.”
“How so? You sent us out there.”
