Under The Blade

by Serafini, Matt

  “I’m curious to hear how you fare, but I’m not giving you anything. That’s my work, and I’ll use it once the time comes.”

  “Your time already came, and then it went. Talk about holding it against someone. Take some fucking responsibility for your own failures, you bitch.”

  Melanie could only grin, finding a strange justification in a wobbly decision. “I am,” she said. And couldn’t wait to get the hell out of town.

  THREE

  Forest Grove was a four-hour drive.

  Melanie headed down I-290 though Worcester until it became I-84.

  As her return became a reality, so grew the inescapable feeling that she was making a mistake.

  She already missed Lacey. The kitty was staying with Riley and his husband, despite the latter’s allergies. The little old lady wouldn’t care much about the displacement. As long as there was a warm lap to curl up in, the bitch was positively mercenary. Cyrus Hoyt could break in and stick a bowie knife through her skull and as long as he dropped a can of Friskies on the floor, the cat wouldn’t mind one bit.

  The comfortable anxieties of urban life—unnecessary traffic, frantic lane changes and unprovoked honking—became a stillborn country row of isolated houses, sporadic vehicles, and the occasional business. The onset of dread this brought was inescapable.

  Melanie hated summer. Its inevitable return always set her on edge as she wondered: will this be the year he returns to finish the job? Outdoor activities in balmy weather were unappealing and she much preferred crowded sidewalks to countryside trails for vacation getaways.

  As a teenager, the town of Forest Grove felt so much further away. An isolated dream place hidden away from the word, where its inhabitants sat susceptible to unspeakable terrors and outside help was impossible. Today, it was growing closer with every passing mile.

  A winding right off the highway spilled onto a rural road of potholes and wooded overgrowth. She drove past a collapsed barn set several feet off the thoroughfare, little more than a pile of smashed and broken beams. An ancient pick-up truck, its flatbed loaded with flapping chicken cages, puttered past in the opposite direction and blared its horn for no discernable reason.

  Her own personal welcome wagon, perhaps.

  She tried thinking of the generous amount of money the publishing company was offering as a means of combating this rising trepidation. It was hard to believe that anyone would be interested in her story. Who even remembered Forest Grove after all these years, save for those whose lives were altered by it?

  Melanie guessed the town remembered all too well. Its reaction to Hoyt’s killing spree was a bizarre one. The town council came together in the wake of the murders to ban every activity that brought kids together in sizeable groups. Dances were off limits, parties were punishable by hefty fines, and sporting events were monitored as though it was life behind the Berlin Wall.

  The idea that something she was involved in produced a kind of gestapo police state did not sit well with her. From the sound of things, modern Forest Grove wasn’t much different. It remained the town from Footloose on steroids.

  What she didn’t like about the publisher’s deal was their insistence on using this trip as a means of drumming up interest for the book. They wanted to arrange a day with a photographer for some “authentic” publicity shots, and the thought of that made her feel dirty.

  Everything about it sounded so self-important. A trip back to Forest Grove was bad enough, but to market it? It wasn’t okay to use the deaths of Jennifer and Bill—or the rest of the victims—for publicity. Their deaths meant more than that. She was adamant that her memoir be tasteful, but the need to spite Dennis had somehow taken precedence over both her morals and her mental well-being.

  With assurances that this was a surefire bestseller waiting in the wings, it was easy to be seduced by that certainty. Especially when used against Dennis. Living well despite his best efforts was a powerful motivator.

  GPS put her arrival in Forest Grove at forty minutes out, meaning there was a lot of countryside to see between now and there. The road was uneventful. Lots of pastures and rows of corn stalks. Not much else.

  Completely deceiving.

  Dancing red and blue lights lit up her rearview, followed by the adjoined siren wail. One of Forest Grove’s finest was on her bumper, close enough that Melanie saw the driver’s aviators leering without expression.

  Her foot had gone a little too heavy on the gas, zipping along at 60 mph in a mad rush to start the homecoming. Only thirty over the speed limit.

  Melanie eased off the pedal and pulled off the road, overgrown fronds slipping off her bumper and bending beneath the hood as she stopped. A trembling hand reached for the glove box to retrieve her registration.

  The cop appeared window side, his knuckles rapping the glass as she fumbled around in the overstuffed everything-but-gloves box.

  A flick of the window switch brought the glass partition down, and she looked everywhere but at the officer’s face.

  “Going a little fast, ma’am. Mind if I ask where the fire is?”

  “I’m so sorry. No fire...just getting lost in my own thoughts.”

  The officer pulled the aviators from his face and stuffed one of the temples into his breast pocket, leaving them dangling off his chest. He clamped his large hands over the door and knelt down at eye-level. It was a bit too invasive of her personal space, but hardly the time to complain.

  “Miss…Holden,” he said, “am I right?”

  She could only imagine what a mess she looked. Skittish and probably more than a little confused. Her face felt hot and she didn’t need a mirror to know her cheeks were the color of fresh-picked cherries.

  The officer continued speaking, lightening his expression as he went. “We’ve been expecting you is all. I’m Chief Brady. Nathan Brady. That publishing house in New York contacted the bed & breakfast you’ll be staying at to arrange billing. Didn’t take long for word to spread of Miss Holden’s return to our little corner of the world.”

  “Makes sense.” Melanie breathed a little easier with that explanation, but there was still the matter of speeding back into town. Caught by the chief of police, no less. “I’m a kind of a mess about this trip. I think my jitters turned me into a bit of a speed demon.”

  “Got it, miss. And, uh, welcome back. Hopefully our town will get a pleasant write-up in your book. Although, considering the subject matter, I’m guessing that might not be the case.”

  “Is that going to be a problem, chief?”

  “Not for me.” He motioned toward the open road with his chin. “For some of them? Maybe. I’m sure you understand that your homecoming doesn’t excite the lot of them. Lots of good folks living there, though, I can promise you that. They just want to forget about what happened in their little town.”

  “Can they do that? I would think it difficult to forget with so many rules and regulations born out of what happened.”

  “A lot of us are doing our part to try and reduce the reach of those regulations. Off the record, I don’t think it does much except punish kids for being born in this town.”

  The chief seemed honest and Melanie appreciated that. He looked a bit too young to be the authority in Forest Grove, though—couldn’t be much over thirty. Maybe that wasn’t so abnormal, though. She wasn’t well versed in small town law enforcement and decided that a younger guy was probably better for the situation at hand. Preferable to some old stuck in his ways codger escorting her to the edge of town, at least.

  Besides, he was handsome, with piercing brown eyes and a cropped crew cut. He looked strong, on account of his chiseled jawbone and thick forearms, and must’ve worked out. No doubt that he walked the walk, either.

  “Just so you know, I was going to ticket you. I don’t tolerate people doing ten over the speed limit out here, let alone thirty. But, as I said, we’re all doing our part. And since I won’t be able to apologize for the less than enthusiastic reception you’re bound to get
from some, the least I can do is cut you a break. That way, your second first impression of our town might not be so terrible.”

  Melanie was glad to see him back out of her personal space. “I appreciate the leniency. I won’t be a problem. Staying long enough to jog my memory, then, I’m gone.”

  “Take as much time as you’d like, ma’am.” He offered a welcoming grin and then turned to go. “Nice meeting you,” he said and kept walking.

  With a sigh, Melanie started the engine and eased onto the road; careful to stay at 30 mph. Brady didn’t bother to follow, but the damage was already done. Whether or not it had been his intent, he’d succeeded in making her feel worse about this. In a town that produced Cyrus Hoyt, she somehow had to worry about annoying the locals with her presence.

  Did I expect them to roll out the red carpet?

  Melanie felt like cutting her losses and turning back. Her heart hadn’t stopped pounding all day and now she was heading to a place that didn’t want her. If Forest Grove had ever felt guilty about its part in the massacre, it sounded like it traded in remorse for resentment long ago.

  Did it matter to them that a seventeen-year-old teenager’s life was irrevocably changed? Or that others had lost their life to a deranged lunatic that they knew was out there?

  What could she expect from a town that chose to immortalize him in a campfire yarn, rather than deal with the problem? Of course, they would view her as an exploiter and nothing more.

  It maddened her to know that people already thought of her like that. If Melanie had any intention of cashing in, she could’ve written about it years ago. There had been an invite to do Oprah back in 1989, but that had been during the worst of it: sleepless nights, images of dirty welder’s masks seared into her brain, and uncontrollable hysterics. Survivor’s guilt. Therapy sessions. Off-and-on institutionalization.

  Back then, she desperately needed to forget.

  That wasn’t untrue now, either. Only the need to spite Dennis Morton was a dramatic counterweight against decades of anxiety. Her career was the only distraction she had. It filled her days with thoughts and worries of something other than the ghosts of murdered friends and crazed killers. She was going to fight like hell to keep it.

  Her GPS said Forest Grove was six miles away. Well past the point of no return. She swallowed and pushed down on the gas, anxious to get this over with.

  ***

  Chief Nathan Brady watched the Buick LaCrosse pull away.

  At least she buys American, he thought.

  No reason for such a chilly disposition. There was tragedy in Melanie Holden’s life, sure, but she allowed herself to become defined by the things that happened all those summers back. The skittishness and trembling inflections as she spoke—she was a woman scared of her own shadow. Everyone went through rough patches, but you had to accept, and then drop that baggage.

  Though he supposed it was easier said than done when it came to the hell that poor girl had gone through. He’d seen people traumatized over a lot less in this line of work.

  Brady grabbed for the thin two-way radio sitting beside the cab computer and flipped it to the car-to-car frequency, pausing at the stream of chatter he hadn’t been expecting to catch.

  “I was just talking to Lloyd this morning. Said we’re in for a full-on happy hour discount on pitchers. All we have to do is go out to his house and tell those asshole renters across the street to shut their goddamn mouths at night.”

  This was Alex Johnson, his youngest officer. Couldn’t wait to hear with whom he was speaking.

  “Already did that twice. Nasty bitch just sits in her screened in porch, guzzling Budweiser, sucking on Newports, and swearing at her kids on the phone. Figure we’ll have to step up the intimidation some if Lloyd’s willing to give us a generous price on frosty ones. Hell, I’ll arrest her if Lloyd’ll throw in a plate of buffalo wings.”

  That was Sergeant Steve Maylam. What a disappointment. The kind of guy who acted like your best friend when you were in the room. Apparently, also the kind of guy who thought having a small town badge meant you could barter for better services. Coming into this gig, things were always going to be tense. Maylam had technically been in line to secede the chief, but that meant he should know better than to act like a first year rookie.

  Brady’s personal cell phone buzzed on the dash but he ignored it.

  “I like where your head’s at,” Johnson laughed. “Whatever we do, we gotta figure it out over the next few months. I want to spend my Sundays at Lloyd’s Bar once the Pats come back. And if I can do that without blowing half my paycheck, that’d be even better.”

  Brady’s fist tightened around the radio. “I wouldn’t expect to see much of this season. Not only won’t you be doing any extra favors for Lloyd Henderson, you’ve also bought yourselves Sunday afternoon shifts effective September 1st. How would this look if a civilian got on this frequency and heard about your little racket?”

  “Sorry, chief.” Johnson’s voice was quick and apologetic. “I know that didn’t sound good but…”

  “Sounded terrible, officer. I’ll take it up with you once I get back into town.”

  “Yes sir.” Johnson went radio silent.

  Maylam said nothing and only fell off the channel.

  Brady dropped the radio into the empty seat beside him and glanced at the cell phone text. Trish wanted to know if he was coming home for dinner. He tossed the phone aside with a groan. Wasn’t like he didn’t love and worship his wife, but why in the hell was she so thick when it came to understanding the way things needed to be?

  He wasn’t used to Forest Grove yet, and the arrival of Little Miss Book Deal only complicated things further. This was a juggling act. On one hand, he had to prove to the grove that he was a worthy successor to their beloved Ron Sleighton. The other hand required him to please the woman who could potentially drag this town’s reputation through the muck for a second time.

  Guilt ate him as he threw the car into drive and headed back. Trish’s question would have to go unanswered until he knew for certain.

  Christ, he thought. One of his guys was supposed to play the welcoming committee and meet Miss Holden at Desiree’s Bed & Breakfast, but after the stunt he’d just eavesdropped, he wasn’t sure which of them could be trusted. Trish said—repeatedly—that he needed to be more authoritative like her father had been. True words, but things only got done right when he did them himself.

  He struggled with the idea of delegation—even when he had been a sergeant detective in the city. There were men under his command then too, but he always had the urge to street it himself.

  Today was no different. He wanted to drive out to Desiree’s but decided that wouldn’t work. Not after making Miss Holden so uneasy. Still, Forest Grove couldn’t stand to be massacred in her book. The mayor had been very clear about that.

  Brady didn’t know why it fell upon his shoulders to give the woman a wholesome impression of the town, but it wasn’t his place to question it. Not after Mayor Cobb had been so accommodating when it came to sliding him into this position.

  Poke your head in once she’s settled. Apologize for today and see what else you can do, he thought. That’s how you get Melanie Holden to come around on Forest Grove.

  “Dammit,” he muttered, thinking of the full plate before him. Trish should probably know sooner rather than later that this wasn’t going to be an early day at the office. For now, the best place to be was back at the station. He ground his teeth as he drove. There were two idiotic officers that needed chewing out.

  ***

  Trish Brady read the text and tried not to feel disappointment: No can do babe. Home late. Duty calls. And calls. And calls…

  Another day all alone, she thought and dumped the frozen chicken back into the icebox.

  This was starting to feel like the high school summers of her teenage years. Waiting for a boyfriend to get off work by occupying her time with a little weed and whatever movies the video store ha
dn’t deemed “morally questionable.” The grove’s “think tank” had done away with most of the violent and sexual films on the shelves, but failed to understand how fucked up kids movies were in the 80s. Trish argued that Garbage Pail Kids: The Movie had done more damage to her than any horror flick, and she was grateful for it. Even the smallest thing, like a video store rental, felt like an act of rebellion in a place so quick to pass judgment.

  There wasn’t much else to do back then and times had scarcely changed. She pitied the kids of Forest Grove for having the misfortune of growing up in this oppressive environment, but they had it a little better. At least the Internet made the world a smaller place, and the yokels around here lacked the know-how to censor it.

  In her day—she laughed at the thought of sounding like a senior citizen at thirty—libraries destroyed F. Scott Fitzgerald and George Orwell, while refusing to carry any Richard Matheson for fear that literature might create another summer camp killing spree. And Trish had lived three decades without having gone to a dance because the denizens here thought it promoted debauchery. In their minds, it was practically daring another Cyrus Hoyt to make a move.

  It was all so fucking puritanical.

  If you asked Trish Brady a few years ago if she’d rather live out her years in Forest Grove or go to an early grave, she would’ve been first in line for a ride down the river Styx. The people living here weren’t actually living—not in her estimation.

  But love makes you do all kinds of crazy shit…

  She had come down into the basement to get tonight’s dinner out of the freezer and found herself staring at the sea of as-of-yet-unpacked boxes. They were going on four months in the grove, but she couldn’t bring herself to settle in. The minute that these boxes got unpacked was the admission that this place was now her tomb. She preferred to think of Forest Grove as a temporary stop, even if that wasn’t realistic. She caved on the issue and came back. It was Nate’s decision now.