They skidded to a stop, the Buick sideways in the lane.
“Apologize,” she said.
“What?” Colleen asked.
“Apologize for calling me stupid.”
“I’m not apol—”
“Now!” Emma screamed.
Colleen’s eyebrows lifted. “You almost killed us.”
Emma tore off her seatbelt, faced Colleen on her knees, poked her index finger over the seatback. “It’s your fault we’re out here. I said we needed to be nice to Shannon, didn’t I?”
“Shannon’s a dunce.”
“Who happens to be chief editor,” Emma said. “I told you to be civil to her-“
“Kiss her ass, you mean.”
“—but you had to shoot your mouth off like always.”
“She deserved it.”
“So now every time a good story comes up we get stuck doing fluff pieces.”
Jesse said, “It is going to be one of the largest state parks in the Midwest.”
Emma glared at him. Jesse shrank against the door.
“He’s right,” Colleen said. “A new state park is a big deal. I’d rather spend the weekend out here than listen to people barking at each other in Tibetan.”
“Mongolian,” Emma corrected. “And it happens to be the best story of the year.”
“Do you even know why they’re protesting?”
“The inhumane treatment of mine workers.”
“I’m bored already.”
“Of course you’re bored,” Emma said. “If it isn’t about some asinine reality show, you’re not interested.”
“I get attached to the characters.”
“Dumb people doing dumb things.”
Colleen crossed her arms. “We going to sit here in the middle of the road, or are we gonna check in?”
“Check in,” Emma muttered, resettling in her seat. “Not only are we stuck covering chipmunks and squirrels, we’ve gotta waste an entire weekend in a tent.”
“Didn’t your family ever go camping?”
Emma jerked the Buick into gear. Jesse breathed a sigh of relief as they rolled back into their own lane. Not that there were marked lanes out here. If not for the occasional hand-painted wooden sign, there’d be no indication they were in a state park at all. Over thirty square miles of forest and marshes, the Peaceful Valley Nature Preserve was proving as unspoiled as advertised. Now, if Emma would stop driving like she had a death wish, they might live to enjoy it.
“We never camped,” Emma said. “Mom was usually working or out with some guy.”
Jesse opened his mouth to ask Emma about her dad, but the sour expression on her face convinced him otherwise.
“We camped all the time,” Colleen said. “A few times we brought the pop-up, but most of the time we used tents.” She turned to Jesse. “That reminds me, where are you spending the night?”
Hopefully, Emma’s sleeping bag.
“I’ll rent something, I guess. I was thinking about going without a tent, actually.”
Colleen cocked an eyebrow. “You bring bug spray?”
“Uh-uh.”
“I’d recommend a tent.”
They neared a brown shack with a large window comprising most of its front. Slowing, Emma rolled down her window and reached into her purse. Jesse lowered his window, too, and though the air outside was wet with humidity, its warmth felt good on his face.
A tall man with a thick, black mustache appeared in the window and watched them stolidly. Though it was already late in the day and the western sun was falling, the man wore Ray-Bans that only revealed a vague hint of his eyes. He reminded Jesse of a surly traffic cop.
Emma flashed her credentials. “We’re with the Shadeland Truth,” she said. “Linda Farmer should be expecting us.”
“Speed limit’s fifteen,” the man said, leaning out the window on his forearms. Up close he appeared to be in his early fifties. His brown shirt said DNR, which stood for Department of Natural Resources. Jesse remembered one of those guys coming to his science class in junior high. The DNR officer was supposed to give them a lesson on boating safety, but instead spent most of the hour telling them horror stories about the corpses he’d fished out of the lake and the wide-reaching powers of his position. The DNR, that long-ago officer had claimed, could take away your car and your house if you went fishing without a license. They could also retrieve your body if you were decapitated by an outboard motor.
“I didn’t see the speed posted,” Emma explained.
“Going too fast to read the signs, I expect.”
Jesse braced himself for another argument, but Colleen leaned forward and intervened. “How long have you worked for the department?”
The man lowered his shades enough to reveal the smallish eyes beneath. His eyebrows were almost as bushy as his mustache. “Nineteen years this August. What’s your name, miss?”
“Colleen Matthews,” she said, sticking her hand through Emma’s window.
The man shook it. “Glad you came. Staying all weekend?”
“We’re doing a story about the opening,” Emma said. “Colleen spoke with Linda earlier.”
“Oh,” the man said, chuckling. “You’re the ones she was talking about.”
Emma shot Colleen a look.
The man nodded toward the rear of the shack. “Linda’s busy at the moment, but she’ll be out any time. You guys want a map?”
Emma said sure, and the officer handed her a glossy pamphlet. She tossed it on Jesse’s lap without looking at it. He pocketed it, figuring it might come in handy for erection coverage later.
The man gestured toward the register. “I don’t have the first clue how to use this thing, so you’ll have to wait until Linda gets done.”
“I got the impression our stay was paid for,” Emma said.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” the man said and withdrew into the shack.
Emma regarded Colleen in the mirror. “Well?”
Colleen shrugged. “We didn’t talk price.”
Emma turned all the way around, the blue fabric of her sleeveless shirt drawing taut over her breasts. Jesse felt his mouth go dry.
“What did you talk about?”
“Whether or not a state park should’ve been built here.”
Emma surveyed the woods. “Doesn’t look to me like they built anything.”
Colleen counted on her fingers. “Sand volleyball courts, playgrounds, dump stations…”
“What’s a dump station?” Jesse asked.
“Where RVs empty their shit.”
“Ah.”
“I merely asked if we had to stay on one of the marked sites, and Miss Park Nazi flew off the handle. Said if we made a fire outside a designated area, we’d be fined and kicked out of the park. I said, ‘What, you’re worried about wildfires?’ She said she wanted to maintain the integrity of the land. I said the Indians didn’t play volleyball. It went downhill from there.”
Jesse grinned, but extinguished it when he noticed Emma’s scowl. “You don’t have to pick fights with everybody,” she said.
“I only fight with people who take themselves too seriously.”
A figure emerged from the back door of the shack. She was short and skinny, all angles and bones. Her short, blond hair had so much hairspray on it, it resembled a helmet. And despite the official-looking, white, button-down shirt and navy blue shorts, something about her reminded him of the groupies he saw in those glam rock videos from the eighties. The woman stopped and beckoned them forward.
“Oh boy,” Colleen said. “Wants to show us who’s in charge.”
“Would you be civil?” Emma asked. “For once?”
“She’s the one with the attitude.”
Emma’s whole demeanor changed. Jesse thought of an anchorwoman telling off her co-host before they went on air and then smiling into the cameras. She beamed as the Buick crunched forward to where the short woman stood. “Hi, Ms. Farmer. We’re from The Shadeland Truth.”
“You Colleen?” the woman asked.
Emma’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m Emma Cayce, this is Jesse Hargrove, and—”
“Your friend needs a lesson in politeness.”
Jesse glanced back at Colleen, who looked unabashed. He waited for her to make some wisecrack, but she settled for a quiet smirk.
Emma nodded. “Colleen can be abrasive at times.”
“Hey,” Colleen said, but Emma was going on. “We’re so grateful you agreed to talk to us, Ms. Farmer.”
“Good publicity,” Linda Farmer said. “I trust you’ll paint us in a positive light?”
Emma’s face tightened almost imperceptibly. “Of course.”
“You can park over there,” Linda said and indicated a row of spaces. “I’ll show you some of the salient features of the park, then you can interview Ron.”
The mustachioed man in the brown shirt and, Jesse now saw, skin-tight brown shorts stepped out of the shack.
Ron the DNR officer said something to Linda, whose face lit up. Jesse marveled at how much mascara and lipstick she wore. Emma and Colleen exchanged a look. They’d noticed Ron’s shorty shorts too.
“We’ll take the Gator,” Linda said.
They parked and followed Linda toward a small green vehicle that reminded Jesse of a golf cart. As they climbed in, Ron pulled away in a white pickup truck with the DNR insignia on the door.
“Is he your special friend?” Colleen asked Linda.
Linda Farmer turned in her seat and stared at Colleen, who for some reason had opted to ride next to her. “Let’s get something straight, Ms. Matthews. I have a college degree, too. In forestry. Four years at WIU, same as you. I probably bring home double what you make at that pissant little newspaper, so you can just drop the patronizing attitude.”
Jesse glanced at Emma, who’d swallowed her lips to hold back laughter.
Colleen met Linda Farmer’s stare for a moment. She said, “I apologize if I offended you.”
Linda nodded curtly and started the Gator.
As they began to roll forward, Colleen said, “Should I call you Professor?”
Chapter Two
Charly barely heard Eric pull into the drive over the screaming on the baby monitor. She’d have gotten to the nursery thirty seconds ago, when Jake began crying, but her hands were slathered in paint thinner.
Her oldest daughter had decided to decorate the foyer wall.
Charly braced herself for Eric’s reaction. If she was lucky, he’d enter through the garage and not use the entryway, which had been splashed with garish swaths of purple and green, Kate’s favorite colors. Using her elbow—one of the few places on her anatomy not smeared with paint or tingling with paint thinner—Charly eased open the front door curtain.
She frowned. It wasn’t Eric’s Escalade at all, but rather a little red sports car she’d seen before but couldn’t immediately place. Then the driver cut the engine, and Charly saw the tall, longhaired brunette climb out.
Great, Charly thought. President of the Eric Florence Fan Club.
Easy, a voice soothed. Most women’s basketball coaches have female assistants, right? Would you rather he let you screen the candidates to make sure none of them are attractive?
Charly grinned. Actually…
Stop it, the voice told her. Meet them on the lawn and put on a good show like always. But first wash your hands. You smell like an old rag someone tossed on the garage floor.
But…Jake, Charly thought. The poor kid’s been cranking for well over a minute now.
He’s fine. Babies are supposed to cry.
Charly’s smile faded. That sounded way too much like Eric for her liking.
She peered out the window again and discovered her husband and the tall girl standing in the driveway, Eric demonstrating some sort of basketball move on her. Whatever it was, it apparently required him to nestle his crotch against her rear end.
Charly’s lips thinned.
She moved resolutely up the stairs. She poked her head inside the nursery and said, “Just a minute, Jakers, Mommy’s gotta wash her hands before she picks you up.”
Over the light blue crib liner she saw one pink foot peek briefly at her before dropping out of sight. Jake’s screaming intensified.
Charly twisted on the water. Below she could hear the side door opening, muffled voices. She scrubbed her hands, her forearms, and struggled to retrieve the new assistant’s name from her memory. Mallory? Melody? Maleficent?
Melanie, the voice reminded her. Melanie Macomber, like that Hemingway story you read in college.
Charly shut off the water and dried her hands. Across the hall it sounded as if Jake was about to shatter the nursery windows.
“You got good lungs, kiddo,” she said and hurried to the crib. Jake’s blue eyes—her eyes—flitted to her, and her heart ached a little at the tear streaks on his temples, the scarlet hue of his face. Cradling him, she whispered, “Mommy’s sorry, Jakers. Mommy’s sorry.”
He quieted down after a few moments of rocking, so she shut off the baby monitor—who needed a monitor anyway when the kid had a voice like a fire truck siren?—and lugged her six-month-old down the curved staircase. She reached the landing and heard Eric and Melanie talking in the kitchen. When she and Jake came in, Eric said, “Hey, Junior.”
Hasn’t noticed the purple-green horror, Charly thought. He also didn’t attempt to hold his son, but that was nothing new.
“Aww,” Melanie said to Eric, “he looks just like you.”
The hell he does, Charly thought. My blue eyes, my nose. Maybe he has Eric’s chin, but even that’s debatable.
“He’s even more adorable than you said,” Melanie cooed.
Did he happen to mention his daughters? Charly nearly asked.
“Oh, Mrs. Florence, you must be so proud.”
Charly suppressed a sneer. Mrs. Florence. Thanks a lot for aging me, you little tart.
“I am very proud, Melanie. And please call me Charly.”
Eric had his iPhone out, texting someone. Probably a recruit or one of his current players. Charly couldn’t reach him if her life depended on it, but his basketball players…
“Goddamned reception,” Eric muttered. “I get a decent signal out here maybe once a month.”
Melanie smiled at Charly. “Your new house is beautiful.”
“Better than that shack we lived in before,” Eric said without looking up.
“You mean my childhood home,” Charly said.
For the first time, Eric seemed to notice she was in the room. His expression indicated she’d be better off in another part of the house.
“Charly’s sentimental,” Eric explained. “She won’t get rid of anything that belonged to her parents.”
Melanie’s perfectly plucked eyebrows formed an inverted V. “Your folks aren’t living?”
“Would you like something to drink?” Charly shifted Jake to the arm that hadn’t fallen asleep and opened the fridge. “We have Coke, juice, water—”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Florence.”
“Oh,” Charly said, “I forgot to ask. Where’s your car?”
“Had a flat,” Eric said. “Thank God Melanie was still at the gym.”
“Don’t you have a spare?”
Eric shrugged, eyes on his phone. “One of the custodians can change it for me tomorrow.”
Charly turned away so he wouldn’t see her expression.
“You decide about that new zone offense?” Melanie asked.
“Don’t like it,” Eric said. “That skip pass is dangerous.”
“Your daughters are downstairs,” Charly said. “In case you wanted to interact with them.”
Eric and Melanie both turned and watched her. After a long moment, Melanie picked her keys up and said, “I better get going, Flo. Thanks for the hospitality, Mrs. Florence.”
Charly eyed the tall girl a moment. She couldn’t tell whether the tone had been ironic or not, but Melanie Macomber was indeed a stunner. Six f
eet tall, dark brown hair that reached halfway down her sculpted back, cheeks speckled with just the right number of freckles. The girl’s eyelashes looked like they belonged to some animated princess.
Charly put on what she hoped was a sweet smile. “Please come over for dinner sometime.”
Melanie nodded noncommittally, gave Eric a smile and went out.
When the front door closed, Eric said, “Feeling threatened?”
Charly opened the fridge and lifted out the ground beef. “Speaking of feeling threatened, Sam Bledsoe called.”
Eric grunted. “Bet you liked that.”
Jake seized a handful of her hair, yanked. Teeth bared, she gently pried open his iron grip. “He’ll be here any minute to check on the construction next door. He said you could talk to him then.”
“Nice of him to fit me in.”
“Please be nice, Eric.”
“You’re nice enough for both of us.”
Footsteps sounded from below, their daughters tromping up the basement stairs. Kate appeared first, followed by Olivia. Olivia went straight to the computer desk, presumably to draw circles on her notebook, but Kate just stood at Charly’s side.
“Does Dad know about the wall yet?” she whispered.
“What wall?” Eric asked.
Charly winced, drew Kate closer.
“I drew a purple walrus,” Kate said.
Eric watched her from the kitchen table. “Purple walrus.”
“I made his tusks green.”
Eric looked at Charly for an explanation. Beyond her husband, Charly saw Olivia’s four-year-old face pinch with worry.
“Most of it’s already come off,” Charly said. “She used acrylics, so there are only a few places where I had to use thinner.”
“Wait a minute. She did what?”
“She’s already apologized,” Charly said. “I took away her dolls, and she’ll have to load the dishwasher—”
Eric’s face reddened. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Against her leg, Charly felt Kate flinch.
“It’s fine,” Charly said. “She knows she made a mistake—”
“Then why does she keep screwing up?” Eric said, rising. “Christ, Kate, you think your teachers are gonna put up with this kind of crap?”
Night Terrors: Savage Species, Book 1 Page 2
