by Dean Covin
If Vicki had despised Lionel Starr before, this went beyond the pale. These women unwittingly slaughtered their own—a big sister to one, daughter to another. Gutting a stranger out of pure jealousy, not realizing the pieces they cut were from their own coveted flesh and blood.
Even more than before, Vicki was determined to tear down her father. Only her deep-rooted drive for vengeance fought her burning need for answers. He was not one to be confronted head-on, as Vicki had always done. She knew now that this dangerous goliath had to be taken with an attack from his blindside.
An angry call—a vicious confrontation. It’s what he would expect. For Vicki to respond like a firecracker, react to him without thinking—and, as always, he would triumph, leaving her diminished. Not this time.
From the moment of her Ivy revelations, she knew staying her hand was her best move. She realized that, for all the truths unearthed, this ran deeper; and her best course was to keep all her cards close—keep her father in the dark, guessing. When she confronted her father, she would be armed with everything she needed to tear him down. The only way she would get the truth from him was with her heel pressed against his throat. The fire in her belly had to be fought back; New Brighton had been a game changer—she had to play the long game, the smart game, on this one. Her life depended on it.
Revenge burned down to sudden anguish. Vicki couldn’t handle the idea of her beloved mother not being of her flesh; instead, traded for a mother of the most heinous sort of human beings she had ever encountered. She threw open her passenger side door to Hank’s car and spilled her guts onto the speeding pavement.
† † †
Hank had tried to dissuade Vicki from jumping to conclusions, though he understood her horror. After dropping her off, Hank swung by the market to pick up a few things for dinner. He promised to make Vicki his famous lasagna—hoping he could remember how—if she took a bath and relaxed.
From the bank, to the grocer, to the butcher and baker—even his stop by the coffeehouse had garnered the same reactions. Everyone thought what had happened to Agent Starr was an unforgivable evil—minus any sympathy offered for the McQueen girl. Hank’s and Vicki’s suspicions were not their own.
“It ain’t right—burns me to fuckin’ Jesus. They best not get away with it.” He handed Hank the coffees, refusing his money. “They won’t be eatin’ in my place, I’ll tell you that right now. Not that they were overly welcome before. Fucking assholes, the lot of ’em. Lousy tippers too.”
Hank hoped the resounding town sentiment would lift Vicki’s spirits. Then his phone rang and that prospect evaporated.
He called Roscoe right away. “Did you speak to Kempt? Does Vicki know?”
“Just got off the phone with her. I don’t need to tell you that she didn’t sound too happy.”
“I’ll bet,” Hank said, as he hung up, infuriated.
He paused, and an overwhelming, unsettling tingle washed through his body as something dreadful occurred to him. “Oh, shit!”
† † †
His car stopped halfway up the lawn, narrowly missing, but blocking, the Corvette. He launched himself out of his car as her front door blew open. Vicki rushed down the steps, running toward her car as she snapped the clip into her weapon.
“Vicki, stop!”
He tackled her to the ground.
Her face filled with rage, Vicki’s wild eyes terrified him.
“You’re on the right side of the law, Vicki. You can’t do this!”
“The law?” she screamed. “Being an agent means shit—just means there’s no justice. You, of anyone, should know that!”
“I was wrong.”
“You were not wrong. They can’t get away with it. What they did to Ivy. What they did to me!” She pounded on his arms and chest. “Goddamn it—they can’t. What they did to me—they can’t.”
She deftly put the much larger agent to the ground three times before he managed to lay his full weight down on her, wrestling the gun from her fist and sliding it along the grass.
He coiled his arms around her as she wailed. Then he brought them both to a seated position so he could rock her gently back and forth, giving her nowhere else to go. He held her, and he let her scream it out. He ignored the concerns from the growing crowd and soon heard Roscoe’s distinctive siren approaching.
† † †
Dashel, Roscoe and Rose all attempted to convey their understanding, but Vicki remained stony and resentful. Even as she tried to keep her rage lit, it slowly burned to a smolder as the aroma of the warm blueberry pie and strong, fresh coffee penetrated her senses.
The FBI’s order—that all involved close the file, posthumously convicting Jason Oliver, and drop their harassment of the four families in question—burned through Vicki worse than any gasoline. The decision reeked of external pressure—and the bad guys had won.
Ivy’s life was horrifically shattered, and Vicki was left with night terrors that would never let her sleep. Official or not, Vicki dreaded the coming physical torments of Ivy’s unresolved massacre.
Rose took her hand. “Bad as any situation might be, Vicki, things tend to work themselves out.”
Vicki went to question Rose’s unhelpful new-age platitude when, from the harsh squelch of Roscoe’s radio, Deputy Ouellette screamed through the speaker.
“Dispatch! They’re dead! They’re all dead!”
Sixty-four
Reports of the eight murders started rolling in. They were found lying together where Jason Oliver’s body had been discovered, and the deaths had all happened around the same time. Surprisingly everyone in town with opportunity had an alibi.
As pleased as this was supposed to make her, Vicki was stunned by the turn of events. She even felt guilty about her vicious thoughts over warm blueberry pie.
Vicki had desperately wanted to know how these women could do such a heinous act to another woman—stepping so darkly into the brutal domain of madmen. Now she could never get that answer—a loss that would haunt her forever.
At least maternity tests would be easier now—she dreaded that prospect the most. Did she honestly need to know to which horrific monster she was the offspring? No. But she wanted to be armed when confronting her father.
Each of the self-proclaimed new Pieces of Eight had met their fate with their hands and feet bound with blue zip ties and a plastic bag over their heads, sealed at the throat with the same ties.
In someone’s lax attempt to fake a copycat killing, pinned to each body was a duplicate of the hand-scribed note from the original 1984 serial killer: My heart to you, forever, my most precious little Pieces of Eight.
† † †
The three husbands went on a town rampage, circumventing the sheriff’s department, feeling their stature in the community was significant enough to sway people to talk before Roscoe could.
No one in town batted an eye. They simply said, “It wasn’t me. I was here. I was there. I was everywhere—just ask so-and-so.”
The universal response was a town-wide stonewalling.
† † †
Cole’s car sat idling as he waited for his handler to arrive and complete the exchange. He knew he had crossed the line with Miss Starr in the forest, and the serum was only partly to blame.
An incomparable professional, Cole didn’t fall prey to messy situations like the goons did. That was why his affluent clients engaged him—hacks were for hack jobs. This client was special. He couldn’t lose his supplier—he enjoyed his little secret, his Mr. Hyde.
He readied the client’s package—in case things went civilly. Cole knew he would answer for his actions, and he had slight regrets as the serum burned down. But Cole was an invaluable instrument—as he had proven time and time again.
As if in answer, the black Escalade pulled up in front of
his Chrysler. Two men got out. There was no way Cole’s handler was waiting inside. This wasn’t unexpected, and there was no delay. The spidered holes pocked his windshield with the quiet quip, quip, quip, of the silencers.
Amateurs. Cole watched the oblivious drunk in his driver’s seat slump to the side. One of the men forced his muzzle to widen a hole in the windshield and then pushed a thin canister through it.
By the time the enforcers had returned to their vehicle, the canister burst, spraying the entire interior of Cole’s 300C. The light-blue military corrosive went to work—because fire left too much behind.
He smirked at the thought: Vicki Starr’s bane was a relic.
He looked at the sample in his hand. Apparently it wasn’t that important after all. He slipped it back into his pocket for safekeeping. The two men watched the chemical work for a few moments and then drove off, leaving Cole dead and dissolving.
He watched from the woods as his car smoldered as hot as his loins. There was that pretty server at the Starbucks on the south side who would do in a pinch.
In a few weeks, he would rematerialize, unannounced, at the home of his master—a ghost to be reckoned with. Then he would beg his client’s forgiveness. Cole had plenty of acclaim to fall back on. He would explain his actions—it was the juice’s fault after all. Redemption was just around the corner, and Lionel Starr would forgive him.
† † †
Overlooking their greatest potential mark, news vans sped by as Vicki scanned the front page. Even bigger than the sensational mass murder in a small town, the article entitled Lionel Starr’s Dark Family Secret dominated the top fold.
“We’re gonna drive north—take the scenic route—escape to Canadian wine country for a bit until things settle,” Hank told Rose. “My uncle has a vacation house in the Okanagan.”
Vicki liked that Hank chose to join her crucial respite. She didn’t know where their relationship would lead, and she didn’t care. She was just happy not to be alone.
Roscoe continued his attempt to bond with Vicki. “My twin’s identical. He’s the evil one.”
Hank shuddered at the thought.
Roscoe lifted Vicki’s chin from the page. “If you’re ever back in town…” He choked.
She smiled.
He finished, “We should have sex.”
Rose looked up. “I’m standing right here.”
“I said, we.”
Vicki hugged them together. “Take care of each other.”
“We always do.”
Rose hugged Hank, and Roscoe held out his hand. “Never a pleasure, Dinkel.”
They shook.
“Likewise, Roshole.”
Roscoe smiled.
The married couple bid them farewell, not holding to Vicki’s promise that she would not be returning to New Brighton anytime soon.
Leaving Vicki’s Corvette to the ravenous press hounds converging in front of her rental home, Hank held the door for her as she slid into the passenger side. He jumped in his newest lease and looked at her beautiful face, not so young and naive as he had remembered on that first day.
She glanced over Hank’s shoulder and waved. He turned and waved at the sheriff and his wife as well.
As they slowly rolled through town, folks on the street took their own turns offering them a simple nod as they passed by—each with a knowing look of secret understanding in their eye.
† † †
Vicki skimmed the statement from Lionel Starr’s office, demanding privacy during this difficult time for a family already rocked by years of tragedy. Lionel Starr’s love for his daughter remains unchanged.
Unchanged. Vicki noted the veiled “out” clause.
Hank had driven for three hours before pulling over for gas. She noticed a nicely wrapped package lying in the backseat.
To show you that we all really do appreciate your efforts and consider you family. We take care of our own. We will see you soon. Love, N.B.
“That’s kinda sweet, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Hank replied glancing sideways at the package. His old hometown had done more than enough to creep him out over the past two weeks.
“Shouldn’t we open it?”
Looking apprehensive, he said, “Nah, it’s probably dried-up old fruitcake.” Pulling up to the trash can, he rolled down his window and lobbed in the package. They drove away.
The garage owner scratched his head as he watched them pull down the highway. He walked over to his trash bin and retrieved the package. He opened it.
“Why the hell would someone wrap this?” He walked back to his workbench and set the box of blue zip ties next to his toolbox.
† † †
From within the speeding hum of the gravel road, tailed by the torrent swirl of dust, Hank studied the flawless profile of his partner—feeling regret for everything the young woman had gone through. For her these calls from Charlie were never good. And knowing would be hell regardless.
Vicki got off the phone—white.
“What is it?” Hank asked.
“The mitochondrial DNA didn’t match any of the eight women.”
He slowed down. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“He had another blood surprise for me.” This one stirred something in her that was inexplicable. “He scanned the DNA from Sky’s hair—”
“No,” Hank interrupted.
She nodded, barely able to form the words. “My mother’s a witch.”
The puffing of the breeze from the lowered window washed her face with the soft scent of Ivy.
FAQs / Fun Facts
Fun fact: Parts of Pieces of Ivy were written in twelve different countries over the course of two years while Dean took his wife and three children on a world travel adventure.
Q: Is there another Vicki Starr novel coming? Please say yes.
A: Happy to oblige. Yes, there are plans—and hoards of notes—to follow up Pieces of Ivy with Sins of the Father. It’s going to be a very tense one, introducing some fantastic new characters—it’ll be a lot of fun to write. I haven’t set a target date yet as I have two other books on the go right now, but I look forward to diving deeper into Vicki’s past and the mysteries of New Brighton.
Q: Of the Ivy characters, who did you enjoy most writing?
A: I’ve only scratched the surface of Vicki’s character and Hank has some deeper issues, but I really enjoyed writing the Roscoes. I could totally misbehave with those two. Their bizarre relationship just works, and works well; and the dichotomy that is John Roscoe was both fun and endearing to write. I needed a good chuckle as some of the darker aspects of this story truly bothered me as they materialized.
Q: What characters do you plan to develop more deeply?
A: I can’t help but love to hate Father Reilly … man, does he have it coming. But I think sinking my teeth into Lionel Starr is going to be a blast—that’s a killer character who’s gonna drive you mad. So fun. The pack of young Hoods are also going to be a problem—can’t wait!
Q: Which character intrigues you the most?
A: Hmm, let’s see … A strong, sexually aware woman with esoteric prowess who enjoys walking around naked? One who is not afraid to call men on their shit? What’s not intriguing about Miss Sky Veil?
Q: Did you ever get writer’s block writing Ivy?
A: Quite the opposite. In fact, Ivy was nearly two-hundred-thousand words by her second draft … it was a magnificent free flow of ideas that came pouring forth. I could barely keep up. However, my resolve was to have the story weigh in at under 100K. Thus, I had much to cull, many darlings to slaughter. Thankfully a lot can be saved and birthed in later stories. Writers often fear cutting the most, but the results are always a far better—a leaner, meaner—story.
Check
out more fun facts and FAQs at
www.DeanCovin.com
Author Bio
Dean enjoys allowing his mind to misbehave, happily writing wherever his rump rests, his family by his side. When not writing, he loves to lose himself in stories in any form: books, audio, movies, series; listening to music that rocks his soul; and finding clever ways to thrill, shock, amaze and inspire himself while cherishing every moment with his wife and kids.
Visit Dean online at www.DeanCovin.com or on
Twitter: @DeanCovin
