Butterfly

by Sharon Sala

  “Maybe her forehead was higher,” Avery suggested. He typed in a series of commands, and the forehead of the face on the screen morphed into another face altogether.

  “No, go back to the way it was,” China said. “It’s not above the nose. It’s something around her mouth, but I can’t—” She gasped. “Her upper lip. That’s it. Her upper lip. Make it longer and add a deep indentation. The way it is now makes her face too soft.”

  Avery’s fingers flew over the keyboard, and a new feature was added to the face.

  “Yes!” China cried. “Yes. That’s her! That’s the woman who shot me.” Her voice broke. “That’s the woman who killed my baby girl!” She covered her face and started to cry.

  “Wrap it up,” Ben ordered.

  Avery did as he was told. Whatever else had to be done could now be done at headquarters. Red began helping pack up the equipment, while Ben wheeled China back to her bed. Within moments they were alone. She started to stand, but Ben stopped her.

  “Let me,” he said softly, and lifted her out of the chair and then into bed.

  She was limp with exhaustion and so tired of crying. “I did it, didn’t I, Ben?”

  Ben straightened her legs and then pulled the covers up past her waist. There was a knot in his throat and rage in his heart. God would have to have mercy on the shooter, because he never would. He smoothed her hair away from her face and took a deep, calming breath before he trusted himself to talk.

  “Yes, honey, you did it, but are you all right? Should I call a nurse? Are you in pain?”

  He was reaching for the buzzer when she grabbed his wrist.

  “No. No nurse.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She nodded. “I just need to rest.”

  “Then close your eyes.”

  Her eyelids fluttered, then fell, as she took a deep breath. Within moments, her breathing had slowed. Ben watched until he was certain she was falling asleep; then he turned out the light over her bed and leaned down and kissed the side of her cheek.

  “Sleep tight, China. Sleep tight, and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  He looked back as he reached the door, assuring himself that she was all right, then made a quiet exit. But his goodbye had slipped deep into China’s subconscious, dredging up an old, but sweet memory from her youth.

  “But, Mommy, I don’t want to go to bed.”

  “School tomorrow, China Mae. Now close your eyes and think sweet dreams.”

  China wiggled beneath the covers and closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come.

  “Sing to me, Mommy. Sing me one song and then I can sleep.”

  Mae Shubert smiled. “If I do, will you promise to be quiet?”

  “Yes, Mommy, yes, I promise.”

  The sweet sound of Mae’s voice filled the room.

  “‘Amazing grace, how sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but now I see.’”

  She sang one verse and was halfway through the second when she realized China was asleep. She stopped, leaned down and pressed a kiss on her daughter’s forehead.

  “Sleep tight, China doll. Sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  China smiled in her sleep. It was good to see her mother again.

  ***

  Mona Wakefield paid the cab driver and then hurried into the Galleria to get out of the cold. Her pantsuit was fashionable but less than suitable for the December weather. The fabric was too thin to protect her from the piercing wind gusts, and while she could have worn any one of the dozen or more coats that she owned, she hadn’t wanted to be burdened with hiding what she’d worked so hard to present—namely herself. The smug expression on her face was partly due to the fact that she was about to embark upon her favorite thing, which was shopping, and also due to the fact that she’d eluded Bobby Lee’s watchful eye. She shifted the strap of her purse to a more comfortable position on her shoulder and set off down the mall with purposeful strides. The aroma of cinnamon and popcorn filled the air, reminiscent of the upcoming holiday. As she strolled from store to store, she took great pleasure in the surprised glances and second looks her appearance was eliciting. God, but she loved the fame, even if it was secondhand.

  ***

  Bobby Lee slammed down the receiver and then turned with a jerk and pointed a finger at Ainsley Been.

  “Delia says my mother is not at home. You told me she was taking a nap.”

  Ainsley paled. “But that’s what she told me she was going to do when I stopped by the house to pick up that file I left yesterday. Besides, I’m not her keeper, and what’s the big deal? Maybe she decided to go out. She’s a grown woman. Surely she doesn’t need your approval before she makes a move.”

  “Big deal? What’s the big deal, you say?” He grabbed Ainsley by the lapels of his suit and pulled him to within inches of his face. “If you want to ride my coattails all the way to the White House, then you’d better learn to become her keeper. You don’t know what hell Mona is capable of, and by God, you better hope you never find out.”

  Ainsley’s eyes bugged and his mouth dropped. He’d never seen Bobby Lee so upset.

  “Okay, okay,” he muttered, and peeled himself out of Bobby Lee’s grasp. “I’ll see what I can find out. Meantime, you settle down now, you hear? You wouldn’t want the media to get wind of the fact that you think your mother needs a keeper.”

  He escaped without further comment, thanking his lucky stars that all he’d gotten were new orders. For a minute there he’d thought Bobby Lee was going to hit him.

  Bobby Lee strode to the window overlooking downtown Dallas. This should have been a time of regrouping. The senate was not in session, and the family business more or less ran itself, although he showed up at the office now and then, as he was doing today. The oil business wasn’t as profitable as it had once been, but Wakefield Industries had diversified years ago. The Wakefields might not be old money, but they had a whole hell of a lot of the new stuff. Yet for Bobby Lee, it was never enough. It wasn’t about money; it was about power. He liked to play games, like buying industries on the brink of bankruptcy and then selling them for huge profits. In the old days, before he’d become Senator, his peers had called him a shark. The fact that he made money was almost incidental to the joy he received in being in control. Now he’d embarked upon the ultimate power trip, and God help anyone who got in his way—including his mother.

  ***

  It wasn’t even noon, and Connie Marx was pouring herself another drink. She tossed it back with a grimace and then poured herself another as she resumed her pacing between the wet bar in her living room and the computer she kept in her bedroom. The blinking screen mocked her, as did the text she’d typed days before. It was a letter of resignation that she had yet to hand in, and therein lay her dilemma. Delay could mean the end of her career. If she quit, she could begin that book she’d always been going to write. Then later, when things cooled off, which they were bound to do, she could wend her way back into broadcasting, maybe with a bestseller under her belt. But if she waited and wound up getting fired, she would never work in the business again.

  “Goddamn it,” she muttered, and downed her drink, then spun and threw the empty shot glass at the wall, hitting the picture of Larry Dee Jackson right between the eyes. “It’s all your fault, you amorous jackass. If you’d kept your big mouth shut, none of this would be happening.”

  Within seconds the phone rang. Startled, she spun and ran to answer. It had been days since she’d talked to anyone, including Larry Dee.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Connie, it’s me, Ronnie Boyle.”

  The familiar voice of her coanchor was surprising. He had never called her at home. In fact, they didn’t even like each other. At least, she damn sure didn’t like him.

  “Ronnie.”

  Boyle caught the cautious tone in her voice and knew he was going to have to play loose to make this work.

  “Just thou
ght I’d check in and see how you’re doing. We miss you, you know.”

  “Really?”

  He grimaced and tried another tack. “Look, Connie, I want you to know I think you’re getting a raw deal. No one believes you had anything to do with the shootings. I mean… hell, you report stories like that, not cause them, right?”

  “Look, Ronnie, I appreciate the call, but I’m kinda busy. Thanks for—”

  “Wait!”

  She sighed. “What?”

  “How about an exclusive? Are you really having an affair with Larry Jackson? He’s news, Connie, and we both know it. The public has a right to—”

  “Who the fucking hell are you working for—Channel 7 or the tabloids? As for the public, they can go straight to hell with you.”

  She hung up the phone and then yanked the jack from the wall and threw the phone across the room.

  “Damn you, Boyle, damn Larry Dee, and damn you Chaz Finelli for starting this mess. I hope you’re in hell, because it’s where you belong.”

  ***

  Ariel Simmons took a deep breath and then exited her dressing room, making her way from backstage toward the podium and the awaiting crowd. Tonight the congregation had spilled out into the parking lot of the amphitheater where her broadcast was being held. Many of those in attendance were regulars—people who believed in her ministry—and then there were the others who’d come to see the woman who was under suspicion for murder. She’d heard the gossip. Everyone knew about the picture of her in leather and brandishing a whip. They’d come to see the woman who preached the word on Sundays and played with the devil on Saturday nights. Damn Chaz Finelli. She still didn’t know how he’d gotten that picture, but there was nothing she could do but bluff her way through. Commandment or not, she would gladly shoot Chaz Finelli a thousand times over if it would make this all go away.

  “Sister Simmons, are you ready?”

  She turned. Her producer was watching her. Even he was treating her differently. The rage that had been bubbling within her began to boil over. She’d come too far from the backwoods of Mississippi to be stopped now.

  “Yes, I’m ready,” she said, and strode onto the stage, her pale-blue gown floating about her ankles like clouds too low to the ground.

  The murmuring crowd was suddenly silent as Ariel thrust her hands upward, as if beseeching God to hear.

  “I am being tested!” she cried, and before anyone could react, she doubled up her fists and shook them toward the crowd. “Satan is trying to silence the Word. He’s poisoned the minds of the law and the media and all of you who doubt me now. He’s putting evil in my path at every turn, but hear me now!” Her voice rose to a scream. “I will not be overcome! God is my sword. He is my shield. I am an innocent lamb, but I will not be slaughtered in Satan’s name.”

  Then she fell to her knees, her long blond hair falling over her shoulders and onto the stage as she prostrated herself before the crowd.

  They came to their feet as one, crying and shouting. The people began wailing and praying aloud, shamed that they’d believed, even for a minute, that this delicate angel of God could be guilty of even one measure of the gossip being spread.

  Ariel lay immobile, her face hidden beneath her arms. When she felt the floor shaking from the thousands of stomping feet and heard the wailing of the crowd, she smiled.

  ***

  Rod Stewart music rocked the walls of the cabin as the woman strutted before the cheval mirror standing in the corner. The red silk against her skin and the long blond hair brushing against her neck were aphrodisiacs. But the music was her anthem—her high. And there was only one thing she needed now to complete the mood. She paused before the mirror to stare at the picture she’d taped to the surface. Dark eyes stared back at her from a chocolate-brown face. It didn’t matter to her what color a man’s skin was as long as he had what it took to set her on fire, and from everything she’d been told about this man, he was a walking flame and none too picky about who or what turned him on. She liked that in a man—someone who was willing to experiment.

  “Hurry, my darling,” she whispered, then touched herself lightly, fondling her breasts, sliding her hands between her legs.

  The loose silk of the caftan wrapped around her hands as she pressed them against her body, and she closed her eyes and let her head fall back, playing out the sexual fantasy of a man’s hands upon her. It felt good—so good. The blood began to pulse within her to the beat of the music. She opened her eyes, watching her own face as she began to pleasure herself.

  Suddenly the lights of a car swept across the wall behind her, and she stilled, her heart pounding, still cupping herself. A slow sigh slid from between her lips, and then she smiled.

  “Just in time,” she whispered, and headed for the door.

  ***

  Just after daybreak, the nude and lifeless body of LaShon Fontana was found near a Dumpster in Garland. The media arrived at the same time the coroner’s car pulled up.

  “Christ almighty,” someone said. “Tell me it isn’t so. Tell me that’s not Fancy Feet Fontana.”

  But it was. All six feet five inches of pure muscled perfection—pride of the Dallas Slickers and the best running back in the league for three years straight—with a bullet through the back of his head. Four hours later they found his abandoned car at a convenience mart with all his clothes inside. A few hundred workers had mourned the death of Tashi Yamamoto, and only then because of losing their jobs, but the state of Texas and the nation had gone into mourning over Fontana’s death. The Garland police department was overwhelmed with media camping on their doorstep. But it wasn’t until late that afternoon that the real shit hit the fan. Someone in the Dallas crime lab got curious and ran a test on the bullet that killed Fontana to see if it matched the bullet that killed Yamamoto. It did, and not only that, they also got a match on one of the bullets they had dug out of Chaz Finelli. The police commissioner then ordered a series of tests to be run on all the unsolved murders in the Dallas-Fort Worth area with similar profiles. By nightfall, there were six matches.

  Ronnie Boyle broke the story on the 10:00 p.m. news. Even the death of Fancy Feet Fontana took second place to the fact that there was a serial killer in their midst.

  Connie Marx sat on her living room sofa with a bottle of Scotch between her legs, a shot glass in her hand and tears streaming down her face. Last month, this would have been her story. She would have been the one covering the updates. But thanks to Chaz Finelli, she was part of the sordid affair. She poured herself another drink and then tossed it back as if she were taking medicine. With each passing minute, her rage and sense of injustice grew. If Chaz Finelli hadn’t already been dead, she would willingly have killed him.

  ***

  Homicide was in an uproar at the Dallas P.D. The governor had called the commissioner, expressing his concerns over the recent revelations. A tactical meeting had just taken place in which Captain Floyd had established a task force on the Finelli and Yamamoto murders, with Ben English as the primary and Red Fisher as second in command. Everyone who wasn’t already tied up on serious cases had been ordered to give this top priority. All information was to be shared with both the Garland police department and the Arlington police departments, since they, too, had open cases that were now connected to the whole.

  The picture that Avery and China had made the day before was being distributed to every police department in the area and had also been released to all the media. By morning, that face would be in every newspaper and on every television station in the area.

  That was the good news.

  The bad news was that, inevitably, someone would ask who’d given them the ID.

  China was no longer safe.

  Eleven

  Mattie English alternated between pacing the floor and staring out the window. The sun was setting, and she still hadn’t heard from Ben, although she’d left two messages for him to call. Ever since she’d heard last night’s news, she hadn’t been ab
le to get China Brown out of her mind. The poor girl had to be terrified, knowing that she was the only witness to a serial killer. It also occurred to Mattie that by having China stay with her, she was putting her own life in danger, but she couldn’t bring herself to say no. The memory of the heartbreak she’d heard in China Brown’s voice was stronger than her fear.

  Just as she was passed the phone, it rang. Startled, she jumped, then grabbed the receiver.

  “English residence.”

  “Mom, it’s me.”

  “Ben, what on earth is going on? Is China all right? Has the media gotten wind of her identity?”

  “She’s fine, and thank God, no. Look, Mom, I think maybe we need to rethink this visit. Having her on the ranch could put both of you in danger.”

  “We’ll be fine,” she said. “Dave will be here, remember? Besides, I’ve lived in the shadow of life for too long. A little excitement might be just what I need.”

  Ben snorted lightly beneath his breath. “Mother, we’re not talking about a trip to Six Flags, we’re talking about a serial killer. I love you. I don’t want you hurt.”

  “What about China? How do you feel about her?” Mattie countered.

  There was a moment of total silence, and then Ben completely ignored both her questions.

  “The only way this is happening is if the both of you are under twenty-four hour watch. Dave will watch you during the day. I’m staying there at night.”

  “That’s quite a drive to make each morning,” she said, reminding him that it was more than half an hour from the ranch to the city.

  “I think you’re worth it,” he said. “Both of you.”

  Mattie pursed her lips. She’d been right all along. There was more to Ben’s feelings for China than duty.

  “That’s it, then,” she said. “When can I expect you?”

  “As soon as it gets dark. I don’t want to take a chance on some snoopy journalist recognizing me, then seeing me with a convalescing woman and putting two and two together.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” Mattie said. “Drive safely, Bennie. I love you.”