by Dean Covin
She remembered his irate pacing. “How dare anyone take my daughter?”
Vicki had thought of the other little girl—the one she had left behind.
“Nobody does this to me and gets away with it,” she remembered him screaming. “You find him or face a fucking bloodbath.”
Even at such a young age, Vicki knew, on some level, that her father’s ferocious, visceral reaction had little to do with her. Stealing Daddy’s Maserati would have evoked the same call for blood.
She remembered clinging to him, shaking, his stiff core offering no comfort to his terrified little girl. Her mother had grabbed her, carrying the full weight of Vicki’s ten-year-old body, relishing every ounce of her little girl’s living, intact flesh in her willing arms. And her brother’s sudden affections knew no bounds; his touch no longer bothering her as it did in the car when he constantly violated the invisible line etched between siblings, imposed to keep the peace in the backseat.
Only when the press cameras started in frenzy as the hospital doors swung open did the great Lionel Starr lift his daughter from her mother’s trembling arms and hold her tight for the cameras.
“I’m just happy that my little girl is safe.” His pursed lips had been tight and unyielding against her bruised cheek.
† † †
Somewhat lucid, Vicki wished she hadn’t been told about the cruel desecration that had been inflicted upon Ivy’s breasts; it had obviously planted the seed of Vicki’s germinating nightmare—which rolled into horror.
She awoke screaming, clutching at her chest. Burning, stinging infused her nipples as she shivered hysterically in bed. Tears of dread spilled down her face. As she wiped her wet cheeks with both hands, she slipped her face into their cradle seeking sanctuary within their warm, saturated cover.
The agony vanished and her breath steadied—she smelled the familiar iron of blood. Pulling back her hands, even in the murky shade of night, she could see red streaked across her quivering fingers and palms.
She glanced down, revealing the source of blood—a thick crimson stain across her breasts. She leaped from her bed and rushed to the bathroom as she tore off her T-shirt. She batted frantically at the switch, which answered with a vision-burning brightness. Her eyes fought back, squeezing tight, adjusting to her unseen image in the mirror. Her left hand foraged for injury as her right scrambled for the tap.
Her fingers found each nipple intact, and every poke and pinch registered the expected sensation as the blood on her flesh started to gel, becoming sticky and crusted over, beneath her fingers. By the touch and slowly rematerializing vision, her breasts remained immaculate. Her chest imploded with the release of her breath, followed by drawing in quick gulps of air.
Panic rested as she continued to closely examine her nipples, around the areola and beneath the slight arc of each round curve, seeking the source of the undeniable blood covering her chest. She splashed and rubbed the cold but slowly warming water to clean and fully expose her stained breasts. She could find no wound, no source of her scarlet scare.
She looked up from her now spotless and fully intact breasts to see the mirror reflect the rosy smears on her face, left thin by her salty tears. She had to look again. The expected bloodstain on her face didn’t catch her off guard. She leaned forward, closer. She was sure she had seen herself as different, and she was. Yes, definitely blue eyes—now brilliant, but terrified, blue eyes.
Not brown.
She took a step back and stood topless in her cool bathroom, shivering, yet sweating. She pulled a large towel around her and allowed herself another lingering moment to stare into her eyes, confirming they belonged to her before turning back into her bedroom. Yes, they were brown now—as they had been since birth. But as she walked, her mind held onto the sapphire eyes in the mirror, looking back at her through her own blood-streaked face.
In the sharp wedge of light that sliced across the bedroom floor from the bathroom behind her, she saw the crumple of her small white T-shirt, stained with blood that was not hers. Her perineum tingled with apprehension as gravity tugged at her legs. Her defensive training sunk like claws into her skin as she realized a possible source—someone else was in here with her.
The towel fell away as she lunged onto her bed, stretching for her weapon. She rolled and leaped to her feet with the uncanny agility that was a sure blend of excellent training, frequent practice and the primal drive to live.
Her weapon scanned the room, and she moved about it with purpose, her heart pounding in her chest as she reached with one hand to tug the closet pull. The dark, narrow gap that opened revealed none of its secrets. She stretched to press the bedroom light with a finger as she kept her gun trained on the gap, slowly widening it with the push from her toe.
No one.
She scanned every conceivable corner. Nothing. Her room secure, she scoured the rest of her house. Empty. She slowly drew open the front door.
“Whoa!” Hank said turning away from her as soon as they met—a flash of her exposed body burned into his skull.
“Hank?”
“You wanna put something on?” He flushed as he tried not to linger on the glorious image seared into his visual cortex. But carnal greed dissolved from sight as his brain processed the image of the gun in her hand.
“Turn around,” she said with a shaky, angry tension in her voice. “Face me.”
“I didn’t see any—”
“Turn around!”
He turned with his eyes respectfully closed and then sneaked a single-eyed peek. She had draped her thin black leather jacket across her bare breasts rather than put it on—holding the leather tight against her, tucked beneath her arms. She had been unwilling to redirect her aim to pull the jacket on.
“What are you doing here?” She raised her weapon to his face.
“I—You wanna put that down?”
She yelled again, visibly shaken, “What are you doing here?”
“I mean it, Vicki. Put down the gun and I’ll explain.”
When he shifted slightly to the left, he allowed the streetlight to reach her face. “What happened? Are you okay?” Past the terror in her eyes, he saw what looked like blood on her cheeks and now noticed the stains on her fingers as she squeezed the gun uncomfortably tight. He steadied his voice. “Please, Vicki, put down the gun.”
She had unlocked the dead bolt from the inside—it couldn’t have been him. She lowered her gun but held it ready, continuing to watch him carefully.
“Is that blood?”
Her hands were shaking. “Bloody nose.”
“And the gun?”
“I thought I heard something.”
“You probably heard me.”
She hadn’t—she was lying. She hadn’t heard anything. Why was he here? Was he fucking with her? Did he pour the blood on her chest? An overwhelming surge of paranoia suffused her. Hank was from this town. He came from the abyss for this case, and this case alone.
Pull your head together, girl. Though he stood here in the middle of the night, her guts were not screaming at her. She stood naked in her panties, concealed only by a tiny leather jacket … as vulnerable as they come. If he were dangerous, her well-honed instincts would tell her. At least that’s what she hoped.
“You want me to take a look around?” He looked her up and down, and smiled. “Or, were you hoping to do a naked bust?”
A smile wedged through her terror. She decided she was glad he was there. “Just a minute.” She shut the door in his face.
She snatched her blood-soaked T-shirt, sealed it in a Ziploc bag and stashed it in the lower back of the fridge where Hank wouldn’t see it. She would send it off to Charlie when she had the opportunity. She flipped her bloody comforter, quickly wiped the blood-smattered light switch and tap, and then pulled on a robe and let Hank resume t
he search of the house.
When they found nothing, she finally asked again, “What are you doing here, Hank?”
“I was just driving around—I couldn’t sleep. Drove past your street—saw your light—and decided to stop.”
“At three in the morning?”
He flashed a coy smile.
Vicki finally sat on her couch, Hank beside her, as she relayed the terrifying details Charlie had shared with her. Hank was white. She looked at the clock. “We have a ten o’clock with Reverend Goodbrand tomor—today.”
Hank stood up, nodding. He glanced at the sofa, only half joking.
“Sure,” she offered, surprising him, not letting on that she was happy to have him stay the night—on the sofa.
Still, after reclaiming her freshly changed bed, she found her eyes wide, drinking in the dark. She couldn’t let go of her breasts. Kneading them, probing for nonexistent pain. The gravity of what had just happened sat too heavy on her chest to sleep. She reached for her iPhone, but rather than connect with a person able to give Vicki reliable comfort, none of which she knew, she tapped her photo album.
She stared at the young man’s grin lit across the screen. She ran her finger across her brother’s strong, playful smile. After gazing at his soothing bright eyes, she fingered the options and set his photo as her wallpaper. A hot trickle ran down her cheek as she released a heavy breath and whispered, “Good night.”
As she slept, Vicki’s mind lingered on her face in the mirror, the one with crystal-blue eyes.
Thirty-seven
Morning came and once again her body craved a swim. Not only did her body miss it, but her soul did as well. Vicki loved the water—water was her sanctuary. The local pool was a recurring cacophony of children, and she didn’t have time for a daily return trip to her city pool.
Instead, she had played host to her partner, the highlight being the look on his face when she had served him up one of her organic morning smoothies—the empty glass sitting before him as he continued to pretend it wasn’t a real breakfast.
In less than half an hour, he returned from his motel, ready for their meeting with Reverend Thomas Goodbrand.
Girded against the stigma of Father Reilly, Vicki knocked on the door. A hip, well-groomed young man greeted her.
“We’re here to see Reverend Goodbrand.”
“Yes, of course. Please, come in.”
The agents took the chairs he offered. The small office echoed the long quiet of the expansive empty hall, and the air smelled still but clean. Vicki glanced around the room’s many modern motivational posters among the more typically Christian fare.
“Will he be joining us soon? I know it’s Saturday, but we have a busy morning.”
“Oh, excuse me—I’m Thomas Goodbrand.”
Vicki stared at his informal attire. The young man’s esthetically faded jeans sported designer rips, to which he had added an untucked white button-down with sewn pinstripes. His styled but longer hair had been teased with product into a contemporary muss.
“Sorry, I just—” Vicki stopped.
“It’s okay. I know I don’t fit the mold. I assume this is about Miss Turner’s murder.”
Vicki nodded. “How do you feel the town is doing in the wake of Ivy Turner’s murder?”
“I can tell you, the women are scared. The authorities have been tight on details—and for good reason—but enough people suspect the sexual nature of the violence that they believe it was directed at her because she was a woman.” He looked at both agents. “Or are we wrong?” He waited. “I thought so.”
“By women, you’re referring to…?”
“I’ve had to counsel a number of my regulars, even a few concerned fathers, but I talk to people, even those who don’t attend our church. It’s not hard to feel the anxiety, as well as the anger.”
“And do you feel an obligation to save them?” Vicki was feeling punchy, preparing for a fight in the flavor of Father Reilly.
“Our Lord and Savior offers sound guidance and love. It’s my job to remind people of His love and wisdom, so they can live the life they were gifted with to its fullest.”
“So you and the good father would share the same view of Ivy Turner.”
“I don’t know what view he espouses, but I can guess.” He leaned forward. “You should know that I’m not aligned with his way of thinking—him or his ilk.”
“So it doesn’t bother you, the rumors of Ivy’s purported promiscuity?”
“Personally? No,” he answered, turning to the view outside. “I’m obliged to offer the teachings of our Holy Father, and the beliefs of our church, but Miss Turner was a grown woman whose adult choices were her own to make, so long as there was no harm in her heart.
“Besides the little knowledge I have of Miss Turner, she was in line for sainthood compared to many of the other good folks in this town. In fact one of my closest friends and many in this congregation are in the lifestyle.”
“You mean swingers?”
He nodded. “They are the ones, the couples I mean, who have to look each other in the eye the next morning. If they can do that with a clear conscience, then fine, so be it. I can honestly say there are greater issues in play that we should be concerning ourselves with—beyond the sexual peculiarities of consenting adults.”
He was sincere and progressive throughout their questioning.
This is a reverend? Hank thought, as the candid young minister walked them to the door. Vicki’s apparent comfort with the swinging conversation highlighted the generational gap Hank felt.
Unfortunately the good reverend refused to disclose who he knew to be in that lifestyle. “My confidence is my greatest asset. I’m sorry. I can’t be the one to reveal their names.”
“I have zero confidence and no assets,” boasted a man with a strong Mexican accent, standing to their left.
In the warm waft of fresh-cut grass, a slender man with salted hair and rich leathered skin stood with his rake, sweating in the early morning heat.
“Good morning, Reggie.”
“Morning, my friend.”
“These are Special Agents Starr and Dashel of the FBI.”
“I know who they are.”
“You heard us?”
“I hear everything.” He waved a hand through the air. “I am like the trees and the grass I tend to—I am everywhere.”
“My window was open wasn’t it?”
His bravado winced. “Maybe.”
“This is our groundskeeper, Reginald Jones.”
Hank shook the man’s soiled outstretched hand. “Reggie Jones?”
“Pure-blooded American,” he nodded with a surprisingly polished grin, as if Hank was supposed to buy this over-the-top facade.
“Okay, Reggie, so you have no confidences to hold, and you know who are in these clubs?”
He gave a single nod and then held out his hand. “And no assets.” His fingers beckoned.
“You want a payoff?”
“No, no, not a payoff … a donation. These are hallowed grounds after all.”
Hank appreciated the man’s errant aplomb enough to almost like the guy. He pulled a ten from his pocket.
“That’s it?”
“Let’s see what you’ve got. I might be in a more generous mood after we talk.”
Reggie’s self-assurance returned, but then he glanced at the reverend.
Reverend Goodbrand shrugged. “Go ahead. I’m not breaking any rules standing here, and you’re free to speak your mind.”
Reggie snatched the ten.
He was less knowledgeable than he had espoused, but by the subtle nod given by the good reverend, Reggie did provide one solid lead that earned him another twenty.
“They run the flower shop on Main �
� I can’t remember the name”—he grinned—“not a lot of need for store-bought bouquets. It’s the one at the far end. They’re the most open about it. They won’t rat out the rest, so don’t even try, but I’ll bet you that they’ll be more honest than anyone else.”
The reverend nodded in agreement, being cleared of actually divulging the names.
There were two official swingers groups in the town—another largely suspected. Of the two, one group was casual, while the other was especially formal—often engaging in opulent masquerade parties. Reggie wasn’t able to elaborate further except to declare that it was a bloody three-ring circus in this town.
Thirty-eight
The entire flower shop storefront was pulled open to the late morning sunshine, sharing displays of exotic plants and beautiful arrangements among hand-bundled bouquets.
With the warming sun at her back, Vicki was enveloped with the fragrant wafts and the soothing scents of fresh flora. An attractive brunette in her late thirties, sporting a sassy pixie-cut, stood behind the counter stripping thorns from long-stem red roses, absently stroking the blushing petals across her lips, drawing in their lush scent as she hummed.
“Bonjour,” the woman sang with a soft, uplifting accent. “Please come in. I will be with you in a moment.”
Vicki took the opportunity to draw in the perfume from the lavish bouquet of a few exotic-looking blossoms. Heavenly. The appeal was apparently lost on Hank.
The woman finished drying her hands, rounding the counter with a smile. “How can I help you today?”
“I’m Agent Starr. This is Agent Dashel. We’d like to talk to you about Ivy Turner if you have a few moments.”
“Of course,” she said, the brightness falling away from her face as she called to the back. “Baby, can you come out here please?” The woman’s eyes began to glisten. “I’m Anita. We both knew Ivy.”
“What is it, babe?” A tall, fit man in his late forties stepped through the back curtain wearing leather gloves and holding a pair of pruning shears.
“These are the FBI agents we were talking about earlier.”
