by Dean Covin
The strong yearning drew fantasies of tapping her funds to buy the plot out from beneath them. Money had its advantages—something she had always been loath to leverage because that was Daddy’s way.
Pushing away the thought, she resisted the urge to dive into the wet sanctuary she so missed. Instead, she simply enjoyed the time she had left before picking up her partner.
In the silence, she considered the case so far. Ivy’s grisly violations had meaning somehow—too deliberate. Her face, savaged because of her beauty. Breasts and genitals represented her sexuality—unfortunately no surprise there. Her stomach and thighs were attractive features, which made smooth targets for hate. The fingers on her left hand, as Charlie had explained, likely because of a possible DNA scratch … but why the hell remove a single shinbone, leaving the leg intact? It made no sense.
† † †
Vicki caught Hank’s eye roll and then noticed Roscoe sitting in a booth patting the seat next to him, giving Vicki a wink.
He stole obvious glances at her, darting from eyes to chest to crotch as the agents approached. The sheriff was anything if not predictable. Overt to a fault, but as much as she could tell it bothered Hank, she took a twisted comfort in it. At least with Roscoe, she knew where she stood. To tease the line a little, she took the seat next to him as he had wished, leaving Hank with a well-defined scowl etched across his face.
“So how’s my favorite superagent”—he turned his coffee breath toward Hank—“and her sidekick?”
Clenching his jaw, flashing a vicious grin, Hank slid a verbal round into the chamber, preparing to return fire.
Vicki snatched the reins as the conversation skidded toward the cliff. “Tell me more about New Brighton’s dark history.”
“You mean the roaring years of moonshine and drug running?”
“I mean 1984.” She leaned in. “Tell me about the Pieces of Eight.”
“Well, my luscious lady, I just so happen to have a part of the dossier right here.” He tapped his briefcase, making no moves to retrieve it, like a salesman lurking in the uncomfortable quiet to claim the higher ground over his prey.
“Just pull it out,” Hank said.
“Sorry, big fella, I don’t play that way.” He appeared to relish the pulsing vein on Dashel’s temple.
The sheriff just wouldn’t stop. Vicki understood Hank’s frustration.
“Agent Dick-Dipper here was still in diapers at the time,” Roscoe offered as he drew out the file.
“I was a freshman,” Hank countered.
“Like I said, still in diapers.” Roscoe glanced at Dashel. “Freak.”
Vicki realized that Hank was already a sophomore by the time she was born. “Can we just see the file?”
The folder was labeled two of four next to 1984 - Pieces of Eight. Vicki took the file and turned it toward Hank. When she rose to join Hank’s side of the table, Roscoe ogled every inch of the skintight 7 jeans hugging Vicki’s glorious behind as she turned around the table. He flashed a smirk at Hank’s disgust and flipped the folder open to a photo of a striking man with a fit physique, dark curly hair, strong mustache and luring eyes.
“Meet Darren Yilmaz, Pirates football coach from ’73 to ’84. Born Derin Nadeem Yilmaz to a Turkish father and Spanish mother, he Anglicized his name to Darren when he applied for his driver’s permit at sixteen.”
Hank raised a reflexive eyebrow. “Muslim?” He remembered—and had loathed—Mr. Yilmaz as much as he had loathed each year’s scrawny crop of freshmen.
“His family was, but he was the black sheep. While his mother converted before he was born, Yilmaz preferred her Spanish heritage to his father’s. I know where you’re going, Dasher—”
“Dashel.”
“Don’t care. Yilmaz was third-generation—as American as a hamburger.”
“Hamburgers are German.”
“Well, aren’t you a walking mass of googolplex trivia. Thanks for the update, Prancer.”
No one bothered to correct him.
“Anyway, I doubt he was killing pretty white girls for the ayatollah.” Roscoe enjoyed Hank’s growing frustration. Stifle the competition. He turned to the intoxicating Agent Starr, pleased to see her suppressing a grin. He lobbed a final volley. “If Donner and Blitzen over here is finished, I’ll tell you what actually matters.
“Yilmaz was the town’s most eligible bachelor, whose passion was Pirates football and pretty girls. He killed eight high school girls, which he infamously called his precious Pieces of Eight because they were the finest jewels in the school. He wasn’t wrong there. He just had a fucked-up way of showing his admiration. He was confronted and killed by two other students when he went after a ninth—Tanya Kilroy. Unfortunately the young heroes succumbed to their injuries, dying for their trouble.”
“Nine Pieces of Eight,” Vicki mused.
“Go figure. He was a football coach, not a math teacher.”
“Tanya was a latecomer,” Hank interrupted. “She was new to New Brighton and wasn’t a cheerleader, so Yilmaz didn’t know about her until she started dating his star quarterback. Being the most beautiful of them all, the coach probably realized he couldn’t be done until he had her too.”
“He probably would’ve never been done,” Vicki said. “These guys never are.”
Hank agreed. “If the quarterback and his buddy hadn’t intervened, she’d be dead and probably others.”
“The problem was,” Roscoe continued, “while they found most of the victims, the town has never had real closure because the boys killed the killer.”
“What do you mean?” Vicki asked. “There are victims still missing?”
“No, when I said most of the victims, I meant—”
Hank interrupted, again. “The thing about the Pieces of Eight murders was, they found most of each victim.” His grim face said it all.
Forty-four
She watched Dashel climb his staircase before she drove away. He had seemed off—she was sure it was more than Roscoe’s relentless taunts. In fact, he had been off since Charlie’s last report. Vicki didn’t hold dominion over devastating reactions to Ivy’s attacks, but she doubted Hank had gushed planted blood from his vagina.
The long day finally began to decompress in the comfortable surroundings of her room. As she pulled off her shirt, the vibration on the table startled her. She picked up her phone. Why was Charlie calling this late? Then she remembered her panties.
“Charlie?”
“Yeah, Vicki, it’s me.” His voice sounded dour. “The panties you sent me. The blood is not menstrual.” He hesitated. “Are you okay, Vicki?”
“Yeah, why?”
“It’s your blood, again. How did you get nonmenstrual blood in your panties?”
That was impossible—there were no injuries. The blood couldn’t have come from her. “Are you sure?”
“There’s no question. It’s your blood, Vicki.”
She panicked. “Oh, Christ, Charlie, I’m sorry. It just dawned on me. I had a bleeding nose,” she lied. “It was late, and I must have mistaken my panties for a cloth.”
“You’re lying to me, Vicki. That was too much blood for a nosebleed. First the T-shirt and now this—I can’t keep doing this, Vicki. Are you in trouble?”
Fear choked her. “No, I have everything under control. I need you to drop this, Charlie—please.”
“What’s going on with you out there?”
She didn’t know what to say. She was lying to Charlie. She was lying to Hank. She was lying to herself about what was happening to her. Never, in her career, had she been so deceitful … and she didn’t even know why.
After the long silence, he said, “I won’t say anything because you’re a friend. I’m going to have to trust you because you’ve never given me a reason not to
before. But the limb I’m out on is about to snap. Please, tread carefully.”
He hung up the phone, and Vicki stared at hers for a long time before she could put it down.
This couldn’t be happening. It’s your blood, Vicki. Black enveloped her vision as she whispered the realization, “It’s tied to me.” How could Vicki handle enduring any more of Ivy’s torments? Would Vicki’s heart stop when the fatal blow manifested?
She didn’t need to understand it nor explain herself to anyone. Tears spilled through her whimpers, and her hands shook, as she threw her belongings into her bag.
† † †
Roscoe turned into the black of the dirt field toward the loud, crackling echo of random gunfire. The sporadic flashes didn’t concern him—he had seen it many times. Midnight target practice.
As always, he just wanted to make sure the drunken buffoon—there was only one muzzle flashing in the distance—didn’t take his practice off the reservation nor get behind the wheel.
Roscoe grinned when he saw the drunkard.
† † †
In Hank’s mind, Ivy’s assailant was a composite of monsters assembled from past jobs and nightmares. He pictured the mongrel face obliterated with every round but then reforming with its malevolent smirk.
He swapped in a fresh clip, splashing the bottle against his jeans. The dark fence post flashed a blood-soaked grin at him seconds before it splintered from the seven rapid copper-coated rounds as he screamed, “Motherfucker!”
“Christ! Your dick is crooked.”
Hank didn’t turn around to answer Roscoe’s voice. He simply unloaded his clip and then fumbled for another.
Roscoe stepped beside the man, scanning his profile in the dark, as Dashel took a wet pull off his bottle and squeezed off his rounds with rage.
“The booze ain’t helpin’—you’re still a shitty shot.”
Hank was angry at what had happened to Ivy … and terrified for Vicki and all the women out here. The horror inflicted on Ivy Turner had proved the devil was real.
“You better improve your aim or I’m gonna run you in for impersonating the FBI.”
Hank pushed his face into Roscoe’s. “Fuck you.”
Roscoe waved away the fumes. “It’s getting to you, isn’t it?”
Dashel loaded another clip, waiting until the last moment to draw his gaze from Roscoe’s and then fired.
Feeling a glimpse of camaraderie, Roscoe lined up beside him and showed him how it was done.
After sharing three silent swallows of harsh whiskey, Roscoe spent his final rounds, reloaded and holstered his weapon. Hank handed him his spare.
“I’d say I like you better sober”—Roscoe’s shot snapped the rusty ring off the old wooden barrel—“but I don’t like you either way.” He hid his admiration for the tight carnage the drunken Dashel had left behind.
Dashel followed Roscoe’s barrel ring by cutting a scarcely visible shovel handle in half. “Just stay the fuck away from her.”
“What now?” Roscoe blew a plank to pieces.
“Stay away from Vicki—she doesn’t need your type.” He stepped closer.
Roscoe read the sudden threat. “No one puts boot-to-throat in my town, ’cept me.” He handed the gun back to Dashel, who then set them both on the warm hood of his rental.
Roscoe stared down Dashel, but, in the dark, the sheriff didn’t see the fist until it landed. Roscoe spun and regained his footing, replying with a harsh right. With Hank’s training, it should have been an easy match—regardless of blood-alcohol level. But Roscoe brought something different—street fighting—and he was good, dominant even.
After several unforgiving reciprocal salvos, Roscoe drove Hank off his feet, piling them into the ground, and Hank began to bawl. Roscoe knew it had nothing to do with pain. The man was emotionally ravaged—unbecoming an FBI agent.
Roscoe then stood over him and yelled, “You see these fucking things?” In spite of the dark, he pointed beneath his eyes. “Yeah, I don’t get bags like these by catching up on my coveted beauty sleep. I read the same fucking reports you do.” He smacked Dashel across the top of his head. “Christ, you didn’t even know her, you useless piece of shit!”
“Fuck you! I knew her and dozens more like her”—he could barely speak through his heavy sobs—“dozens more … too many—too many.” His howl was the guttural, wide-open man-cry that sent other men to cringe.
“I’m not like him. I’m me, hoss.” Roscoe drew his weapon on Hank. “And if you don’t like it, you can fuck off.” He paced in the heavy dirt, pleading his case. “I love ’em. I wanna smell them, feel them, eat them, fuck them—not fucking cut ’em!”
“Run, you piece of shit! And stay away from Vicki!”
Roscoe pressed the hot barrel against Hank’s forehead. “You get the fuck outta my town.”
Hank stared at the man, glossy-eyed—exhausted, feeling hamstrung against cruel violence, his gaze daring—begging—the man to pull the trigger.
Roscoe withdrew the weapon and booted dirt into the distraught man’s face. “See me when you’re sober. I’ll decide then.”
Hank rolled onto the bare ground as Roscoe pulled away, crying into the dust as he thought of Ivy—and Vicki.
† † †
As the lights of New Brighton faded to black in her rearview, Vicki watched the ruby glow of her taillights make the gravel smoke from her tires pursue her like bloody ghosts.
Pain lanced through her teeth to the roots while the stinging in and around her mouth intensified. Each rapid breath was robbed thin, and she began to gag on sharp chunks and slime at the back of her throat … Not this time!
Struggling against wet coughs, she pinned the accelerator … and the pain intensified. She fought the urge to glance in her rearview mirror, fearing the source of the blood coating her hands as her fingers fought to grip the slippery steering wheel.
The farther she drove, the greater the agony. Her eyes betrayed her.
Blood sprayed and sputtered through her coughs from the ruined hole in her face where her mouth used to be. Her car rolled to its own stop as she fled her mirror and into the night.
Breathing was practically impossible, and it slowed her running retreat away from the direction of New Brighton. Sparkles prickled at her periphery. Her legs submitted to gravity, and her depleted arms could barely drag her body along the ground. Vicki was going to die here.
She collapsed onto her back, the stars blurry through her tears. She tried to form the words with a mouth she knew she no longer had. Help me.
The warm night wind carried a soft fragrance across her face—the smell of Ivy. The gentle air poured into her starving lungs—her lips tingling in their rightful place against her intact teeth—and she cried into the night, pressing her palms hard against her tear-soaked eyes.
“There’s no way out for me,” she whispered to the black, starlit veil above.
After a long, unbearable hour, she rolled onto her belly and then to her feet. She brushed the dust and leaves from her body with her blood-caked hands and slowly approached her idling Corvette.
She let out a heavy sigh as she buckled her sticky seat belt and closed the door—not surprised that she wasn’t alone.
“Promise me I’m getting close.”
Ivy’s face nodded over her shoulder as it faded from shadow to night in her rearview mirror. A spray of gravel arced Vicki’s U-turn, and she gunned it back to New Brighton.
Forty-five
Fighting the bright early morning sun, Vicki answered her partner’s sheepish silence. “Rough night?” Regardless he had no idea.
“That bad?” It came with a hoarse bite in his throat. He was just glad Roscoe had left no visible marks—not for lack of trying.
The new resolve in her belly made her fe
el better than he looked—and smelled. “You’ve looked better.”
Yesterday’s thick warmed-over coffee at the auto detailing shop earlier this morning had been effective, but she could feel the caffeine spike beginning to wane. While the owner wasn’t impressed by Vicki’s before-dawn banging to have him open up sooner than planned, he had been thrilled by his compensation. “Might get to close up early today,” he had said, grinning as he winced against his own bitter brew. Vicki was fortunate that her messy nosebleed had spilled mostly on her, allowing the scoured Corvette to hit the road by 8:00 a.m. The smell of the strong cleaner lingered, but Hank hadn’t asked—he seemed distracted, even more so now, and she saw the reason.
† † †
Roscoe’s patrol car was parked up ahead. He stood over an animated drunk crouched against the liquor store wall. Hank winced—having had enough of the guy last night—unsure what would be said this morning. Vicki pulled in behind the sedan.
“Fuckin’ fuck! The law never listens to me. Not now. Not even then. Dumb fuckers, all a ya. I donno why you stupid cops don’t check the old catacombs,” he slurred. “It’s where I’d do it.” Then he looked up at the two approaching agents. “Fuck, yer pretty.”
“Sorry, Phil”—Roscoe pointed at Hank—“Agent Douche here is a little too young for you, ol’timer.”
At least Roscoe seemed the same after last night.
“Douche! Aha-ha, that’s funny.” The drunk’s wheezing cackle hacked up a fistful of sour-smelling phlegm, which he smeared across his soiled jacket. “But I ain’t no fuckin’ fag-boy.”
Roscoe grinned at Hank. “Sorry, Dirty Hanky, I tried.”
Vicki fought against her gag as she grabbed Dashel’s arm and squeezed some patience into him. “What catacombs?”
“Phil’s being crazy,” Roscoe replied for him. “Urban legend bullshit. He’s been spewing this crap since long before I got here.”
Phil wasn’t listening. “Well, I just think it’s stupid y’all aren’t lookin’ there. It’s the perfect place to gut some fillies. You should all just—” He nodded into a heavy snore.
