Under The Blade

by Serafini, Matt

  It felt like a long time to wait.

  Melanie sighed and fished her keys out from the Guess bag beside the bed. They jangled in the palm of her hand as she aimed the key chain alarm outside, deactivating the car’s cries with a double beep.

  Then she was alone in the room. Her posture was frozen, as if moving might tip the lurker to her presence—one he was already well aware of.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  She pushed a hand to her mouth, expressing disbelief. The door wasn’t that sturdy by any means and if it was him, then he probably already killed Desiree, leaving her alone in here.

  Trapped.

  The knocks intensified, morphing from casual inquiry to aggressive hammering. It wasn’t someone asking to come in. It was someone trying to freak her out. And it was working.

  Her trusty baseball bat was a few hundred miles away at home and it didn’t look as if Desiree stocked a suitable replacement. If anyone broke inside in the next few minutes, she was going to have to use her hands to fend them off.

  The knocks grew and the door bounced up and down in the frame. It looked like it was taking deep breaths, expanding outward before sucking back in. Behind it, she heard an aggravated growl that was more animal than human. It wasn’t even someone knocking anymore, arms and legs slapped against the wood in a complete tantrum.

  Careful steps took her into the bathroom. Her legs shook and her mouth fluttered as her feet fell onto the cold tile. Two-inches of wood separated her from a maniac and she had to find a weapon. She scanned the room while imagining the six-foot-two form of Cyrus Hoyt out there. His sharp breaths and sharper odors staining Desiree’s impeccably kept décor.

  An onset of panic was coming. Her breath tightened beneath her ribs, and unfulfilling bursts of air filtered into her lungs. Pins and needles stabbed her fingers as she realized there was no way to fight him off. She wondered if Desiree really was dead and felt sick because that meant it was her fault. Things had been quiet here for years.

  Did I somehow will this bastard back into existence?

  The battering stopped and the room fell into the kind of silence that felt like a prelude to something worse.

  The dispatcher asked if she was still there and Melanie responded by asking the police to hurry.

  Then her car alarm went off again.

  She banded across the room and aimed her keychain like a craven gunfighter. The alarm beeped another acknowledgement before ending.

  “Get ahold of yourself,” she whispered in between breaths.

  There was a knock at the door. This one accompanied by a familiar voice. “Melanie, are you okay in there?”

  Melanie’s cheeks were flushed and completely soaked. She didn’t bother to wipe the tears away, and instead, stared with confusion. Her first instinct was to scream for Desiree to get away. To warn her about Hoyt. But the woman was in her eighties. Escaping Hoyt wouldn’t be feasible.

  The frail knocks continued so Melanie crossed the suite and cracked the door. When everything looked clear, she opened it wide and peered into the hall. It was just the two of them, and Desiree looked absolutely miserable. Over her shoulder, the landing window was open, leaving curtains fluttering in the air.

  “I thought it was raining hammers and nails up here, hon. And what’s going on with your car?”

  “You weren’t knocking a minute ago, Desiree?”

  The old woman patted herself across the chest of her formless nightgown. “You mean that racket? I couldn’t make that if I tried.”

  “Someone was beating the hell out of this door.” Melanie remembered the watery footprint. “It wasn’t you?”

  “I was working up the muster to get out of bed on account of it.”

  “It was just before that. Someone climbed up these steps and…”

  “And what?”

  “Well, nothing, I guess. Then my alarm went off. Twice.”

  “Animals? Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard it happen.”

  Melanie shook her head. There were way too many coincidences of late. “I called the police so I guess we’re waiting for them now. Do you want a cup of coffee? No way I’m getting to sleep tonight.”

  “Let’s have some.” Desiree smiled and shuffled inside. Melanie felt her nerves steady in her presence. Any kind of company felt good, and maybe it was time to let her off the hook for the footprint from last night.

  But she hated to consider what that meant.

  Melanie closed the door and wedged the back of a chair beneath the knob. Her cell phone buzzed to life in the palm of her hand. She turned it over and saw a text from an unrecognized number. With a swipe of her finger, the phone unlocked in order to see the whole thing. The words broke over her as she read them again and again.

  YOU’LL DIE THIS TIME.

  ***

  Brady got home just before ten and was loosening his uniform as he walked across the driveway. All he wanted to do was get some sleep. He hadn’t had any in over twenty-four hours and tomorrow was going to be another stressful one.

  As would be every day until this missing person case was solved.

  There wasn’t anyone in his command that he trusted with staying on top of the abandoned Audi. He was taking point because the mayor hated the idea that a New Haven college boy might’ve died in his back yard. The unofficial line was that Brady should try to make it seem like it happened outside of town limits—provided anything had happened at all.

  Brady had been around long enough to know that a missing car wasn’t good news, and New Haven P.D. was doing its due diligence in working with Forest Grove. There was nothing to report yet, but he had to check back in the morning, which was great since he owed the mayor a status report first thing.

  If I wanted to be micromanaged, I would’ve taken a corporate job.

  For now, all he wanted was sleep.

  “I’m home,” he called out and removed his police shirt, draping it over the kitchen chair. He unbuckled his kit belt, sprawled it across the table, and then stripped down to his boxers. He was careful not to crease the slacks as he hung them over the shirt.

  Trish didn’t respond to his call. She was rarely asleep this early so she must’ve been in the basement unpacking.

  A good sign. Maybe she’s finally settling in.

  He pulled the cellar door open and listened. The furnace’s hum was the only sound that greeted him.

  He went to the kitchen and pulled the one remaining beer from the top shelf of the fridge. He twisted the cap and waited for the inevitable nag. Even on nights when Trish wanted nothing to do with him, she rarely missed an opportunity to get in a really good cut. Her affinity for that was one of the things he loved most about her—the fighting spirit was incredibly sexy, even if being a receptacle for her frustration wasn’t all that amazing.

  Brady took a few more sips once the coast was clear, making his way upstairs.

  Trish was in front of the bathroom’s vanity mirror, dressed in a tiny t-shirt that ended well above her midriff. A small pair of purple striped panties covered her lower half. She stared at herself—through herself—with pained eyes and rubbed her stomach with an open palm.

  “What are you doing,” Brady asked and slipped a hand across the small of her back. Her milky flesh was soft, smooth, and pleasing to touch. He loved the feel of his wife and lamented how much he missed her. To his surprise, she didn’t resist his tiny massage, so he pushed against her cheek with a long and hard kiss.

  Maybe tonight won’t be so awful, he thought. Was that a shift in his pants?

  “Flossing, genius,” she pulled a dental sick from her mouth and shook her head. She pecked him back and her eyes fell to the bottle in his fist. “And beer? I thought we were going to make ourselves sexy again. By cutting out carbs. ALL carbs.”

  “After the kind of day I had, this won’t hurt me.”

  “Right.” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t pull your usual, ‘Jeeze, I don’t know what happened.’ once the beer gut comes
back.”

  A stupid concern—Brady was on his feet for at least half the workday and usually more. When he wasn’t bolstering the flow of bureaucracy by shuffling papers, he stayed active. He took walks on the downtown strip to increase his presence, and responded to all emails through an iPad while on his feet. A beer or two wasn’t going to resurrect the beer gut that had poked out over his belt while he was between jobs.

  Trish was determined to slim down, although she always looked perfect. Those hips were curvy and her stomach was trim. Her tiny breasts were a nice shape and always perky. He never missed an opportunity to remind her of her beauty, but his words seemed to ring hollow in her mind. Her response was usually a wrinkled brow, and an uncomfortable ‘yeah, sure’ gesture.

  Maddening, since confidence had always been her strongest suit.

  Brady patted his own stomach beneath his tee. “No gut here, I think you’ll agree. And I missed you,” he said. “Tried getting out at a decent hour today but that damn car…”

  “Still nothing?”

  “We know who it belonged to. No trace of him.”

  “Maybe you should go and see dad,” she said. “Pick his brain.”

  Brady shook her suggestion away and he went into the bedroom. He dropped onto the bed and fished around for the TV remote while Trish came in and flicked the lights off. Her back to him, she pulled off her top and cast it aside. Her slender back was bathed in gentle blue from the television’s glow, revealing just a hint of breast as she turned.

  Brady thought of one way to cap this evening, and set the beer aside. He got to his knees and crossed to her side of the bed, pulling her close.

  “Nate, no.” Trish wriggled free and crossed her arms over her breasts as though he were a stranger.

  “You’ve got to be kidding, Trish.”

  “I do? Why’s that, oh darling husband—because I might not be in the mood tonight?”

  “Tonight? Try the last two months.”

  “Awww, you backed up?”

  Trish crossed the room to her bureau mirror and brushed her cropped black hair. “It hasn’t been that long,” she said at last.

  It had. He’d been counting. Their sex life, raucous and healthy while in NYC, had taken a beating in the wake of their relocation. Trish used to wake him up in the middle of the night sometimes—half asleep, but horny as hell. She’d growl, shout expletives, and demand to be satisfied. Brady had zero qualms with that kind of assertiveness, especially because she never stopped until he was equally fulfilled. A confident partner was the only kind worth having, and it felt like a lifetime ago since he’d had one.

  “Just ask yourself if you can remember the last time we did it, and let me know what you come up with.” Brady didn’t want to argue. He was too tired for it and would rather spend the night making love to the only woman he ever loved. He crawled back to his side of the bed and climbed beneath a thin sheet.

  “Could you make me feel any fucking worse, Nate? I mean, honestly.”

  “How am I doing that? By trying to have you? What a terrible husband I’ve become, huh?”

  “You said it.”

  “Jesus Christ, you’ve been an insufferable bitch…”

  “There it is.” She snapped her fingers. “How long have you been waiting to say that? Last night you mocked me, and now you decide to tell me what a terrible person I’ve become. All because I’m unhappy about living here again.”

  “I never said you were a bad person. Christ, I married you. I love you. But lately…”

  “Alright, since you’re convinced I’m a bitch let me tell you about my idea. I figured out something to do around here…short term.”

  Brady paused. This sounded promising.

  “I’m going to get Forest Grove to lift its ban on high school dances. I want to help those kids who found me in the woods the other day throw a party.”

  He didn’t know what to make of this. How was Trish this selfish? If he positioned that question to her, he was going to be the selfish one. No winning here. Not in the kind of mood he was in—tired, horny, and now, irritable.

  “I can tell you’re not happy, Nate. Why?”

  “Are you forgetting my part in this little drama? As the new chief of police, I’m trying to keep the balance between your father’s old regime and my new one. How is it going to look when my wife starts trying to strike down a twenty-five year old law?”

  “I don’t give a shit how it looks, Nate. This town wants to hide behind this ‘law’ and complain about my music while making the lives of those kids miserable…the whole thing sucks. And if I have to live here, I’m not going to sit around and let it continue. It impacts me, and it’s going to impact our kids…if we ever decide to have them.”

  This was the first time since moving here that Trish had acknowledged a desire to start a family, and Brady wasn’t going to press that issue any further. It could’ve been a calculated move to bring him over to her team, and it might’ve worked.

  He motioned for her to get into bed. Her steps were reluctant but she came at last, slipping beneath the covers.

  “For the first time in my adult life, I feel like I can do something good.”

  “And this is for the good of the town?”

  “Hell no. This is for me. It’s revenge. That the kids in this town are going to benefit is just a welcome side effect.”

  “If you’re serious about this…”

  “I am.”

  Brady remembered how supportive Trish had been in NYC on the day he came home from the hearing—once he was no longer with the NYPD. They drove thirty-three blocks in silence, and as soon as they got home, she threw herself at him. Kisses up and down his face while whispering assurances in his ear: “Everything will be fine. We’ll be fine…”

  “Okay,” he said. She deserved the same encouragement, if not more. “What do you have to do?”

  “Collect signatures. I start tomorrow. Get enough of them so I can drop it on Cobb’s desk and ask that the city council vote be overturned.”

  “Then I support you.”

  She rose up and kissed his forehead, but retreated back to her side of the bed before anything else could happen.

  “One more thing, Trish.”

  Her eyes flickered in the TV light.

  “What happened the other day, out in the woods?”

  “I have no idea. I guess I blacked out?”

  “I know your father already asked you, but I gotta do the same. You’re not…using again? Are you?”

  Trish took a few breaths, each of them sounded more frustrated than the last. “Because you’re my husband I know that you have to ask that. So I’m not going to freak out. Instead, I’m going to tell you what I told him. I haven’t done a bump since 2007.”

  “Never seen you black out, though. I’m just worried that…”

  “That it’ll happen again? I don’t know what to tell you, Nate. Maybe I was hungry, or dehydrated.”

  “Doctor said it wasn’t dehydration. He had no idea what the hell was wrong with you.”

  She shook her head. “MRI found nothing.”

  “You know that if you slipped off the wagon…” he reached for her, but Trish recoiled. Any further and she’d fall off the bed.

  “Nate, you don’t get to treat me like a child. I made mistakes when I was younger, and I’ve been paying for them ever since. I’m clean. I know you’re trying to be the supportive husband now. It’s just that, this damn town…”

  “I get it.”

  “You don’t. Life is hard when you’re struggling to find your place.”

  “Your place is here,” he said, “with your husband.”

  “I’m not a fucking housewife. And I’m more than your woman. Maybe I’m floundering around trying to find my own thing, and I’m pissed that I can’t even listen to loud music in my own home. I’m stressed that this is going to be my teenage years all over again.”

  “Stress? We’ve all got it. Only mine’s worse now because I c
an’t spend a night in bed with my gorgeous wife without her acting like I’m a creep when I try to touch her.”

  “Creep? I’m not in the mood. Sorry our disagreements don’t get me all hot and bothered.”

  He rolled over and took a long pull on his beer. No sense in talking about this now. Tension was palpable and he guessed she felt it as well. They could’ve been fucking it away, but she apparently wanted to prolong the misery.

  They laid in silence until his phone buzzed. There was a problem with the Holden woman out at Desiree’s place.

  He was almost relieved he didn’t have to spend another second here.

  ***

  “Can I be frank with you, Chief Brady?” Melanie felt scared. But more than that, she was pissed off about feeling scared.

  The police chief had taken her up to her room, away from everyone else so that they could talk.

  Desiree insisted upon brewing some fresh coffee and handed the chief two mugs on their way upstairs. He placed them carefully on the table and closed the door so that it was just the two of them.

  “Please,” he said, “be as frank as you want.”

  “I know how this sounds…all of it. But I think it’s pretty clear that someone out there wants me to leave town. You can think I’m crazy all you want, but I never saw Cyrus Hoyt die.”

  “If Hoyt were alive, he wouldn’t know how to send a text.” Brady reached out and tapped the screen of her phone that was sitting on the kitchen table. “You killed that mad dog before email.”

  “I was scared to death about coming here. When you pulled me over the other day, you probably noticed my jitters. This morning at the camp, someone was in the cabin with me. Now there’s pounding at my door, my car alarm goes off and then that.” She batted the phone across the table. “Someone doesn’t like me being here. And who am I to tempt fate?”

  “Let me do my job. For starters, that little incident in the woods today…case closed. It was a local guy named Henny Yurick. He steals rusted cutlery from the camp to sell on the Internet. Sadly. Now that text you got tonight, I have a feeling I’m going to find out it was sent from a disposable phone, but this department is going to find whoever’s bothering you, ma’am.”