Under The Blade

by Serafini, Matt

  Because you’ve done well, so far, she thought. “Thanks.”

  “I get your apprehension, but you’re safe here.”

  Melanie stifled a laugh over the absurdity of the comment. “I am? No offense, Chief Brady, but just because you say something doesn’t make it so.”

  Brady lifted the coffee mug and sniffed the rim before taking a sip. “When I was younger, my family and I took off to Disney World for a week. My dad had been saving up for the trip for an eternity. My brother and I, well, we were a little too old to feel the magic of the place, but we didn’t have the heart to say we weren’t interested.

  “Pop had a rough go of things and couldn’t give us as much as he’d wanted to when we were kids, and it wasn’t until we were in junior high that the Bradys could afford the trip. So my brother and me figured what the hell. Riding the rollercoasters, hoping for glimpses of wet t-shirts in the aftermath of Splash Mountain. Teenagers, ya know?”

  Melanie offered a polite smile but her mind was miles away. That text message had chilled her and she couldn’t stop thinking about who would send something like that. Or why.

  The chief continued unabated. “Turned out to be a great trip. We had fun and dad seemed so…proud. Looking back on it, I see what a triumph it was for the guy. But the victory was short-lived because we got home only to find it broken into. We had a walkout basement and someone had slashed the screen door open and jimmied the lock. Nabbed all my mom’s jewelry, my lifelong collection of baseball cards, and whatever electronics could be smuggled out. My Sega Genesis for one. That burned the most because I hadn’t yet beaten Sonic the Hedgehog 3.”

  The chief must’ve noticed her marked impatience because he stuttered to get his words out quicker. “I’m long-winded, right? My point is the terrible feeling you have when something like this happens. We felt violated. Vulnerable. Every time we left the house for the rest of that summer, we wondered if the thieves would come back. It’s common. People in car accidents are terrified to get behind the wheel for fear of another mishap. The worse the accident, the greater the reluctance.”

  “I know the violation you’re referring to, Chief Brady. I wish it was simply because someone had stolen my jewelry.”

  Brady went quiet, looking everywhere but at her. Hopefully, because he understood how patronizing his story was. Melanie realized that it was intended to quell her fears, but it was a gross simplification…one that did not make her feel any better. Especially because he failed to make his point by, assumedly, telling her that the thieves never came back and their vulnerability eventually faded.

  But she wasn’t about to ask for an epilogue.

  “Ma’am.” Brady paused, as if collecting his thoughts. “I see now that I misspoke. I’m sorry about that. All I mean is that I understand why you feel the way you do, but you will be safe here.”

  “I shouldn’t worry about someone trying to scare me to death? After Hoyt killed my friends? Jesus Christ, why am I here?”

  “Cyrus Hoyt is dead and buried…that’s why. I’ve been to his grave many times, ma’am, so I can attest to that. If you want to leave town, I get it. But you’ve got twenty-four/seven protection from me and mine for as long as you stay.”

  “That’s not necessary, chief. Jeeze, I’m already a disruption. Not sure I can handle being a drain on your resources, too.”

  “Believe me, my guys could stand a little more to do around here.”

  “Why do you care if I stay, chief?”

  Brady went to the nearest window and looked down at the yellow parking lot glow. He sipped the steaming mug with loud smacks of his tongue and Melanie watched with curiosity. He was an attractive guy on the surface, and had no trouble filling out that uniform. His tanned pants were tight, accentuating shapely buns, while bulging arms continued to impress. The real tragedy was that there didn’t seem to be much happening above those wide shoulders, though.

  His radio crackled.

  “All set down here, chief. Want us to leave a man behind, like we talked about?”

  “No,” Brady said. “Take off. I’ve got first watch.” When he was finished, he went to the door and opened it. “I’ll give you the whole of it, Miss Holden. I just wonder if you wouldn’t accompany me downstairs so I can set up shop.”

  “Why not,” she said. After the scare, she wasn’t going to do any more writing tonight. It was better to be in the company of a socially inept buffoon than to lie up here alone and petrified.

  They went downstairs in time to catch the last of Forest Grove P.D.’s taillights disappearing down the country road. She followed him to his patrol car, dragging her feet in the gravel. Brady popped the trunk and looked back with a lopsided grin. “Drink?” he smiled—obviously pleased with himself.

  “What?”

  He slid the top off a Styrofoam cooler, revealing twelve bottles of Blue Moon. “The wife seems to get agitated when I crack a beer so I’ve no choice but to keep my stash here.”

  “So you’re an alcoholic chief of police? Great.” Melanie wasn’t sure why she said it. Brady looked far too healthy to be suffering the throes of alcoholism. For some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to let the guy off the hook, despite his obvious efforts to put her at ease.

  “No, that’s not it at all. I just keep ‘em hidden ‘cause my wife bitches.”

  “And you don’t bitch back?”

  “You haven’t met my wife.”

  “Ah, one of those.”

  “Not really. I guess I’m just a kid gloves kind of guy…avoid marital conflict wherever possible, ya know? Trish grew up here. She wasn’t thrilled with returning...you two have that in common. Her mom died when she was really young, and her dad did this gig before me. So all the important men in her life have juggled her with their responsibility to the grove.”

  “And did her father teach you the cooler trick?”

  “Okay, forget the beer.”

  “Let’s not do that,” she said and stepped closer, feeling guilty about berating him. “A beer sounds like the first good thing that’s happened to me today.”

  He watched her suspiciously and Melanie eyed him back with newfound confidence that surprised her. She extended an expectant hand. “Let’s have it.”

  Brady cracked one and passed it along. “If you haven’t been able to tell, I’m pretty new to this chief thing.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed,” she said. It was true. Brady was a little awkward but he looked the part and acted it even more. His tone was friendly but authoritative.

  “That’s kind of you, ma’am…”

  “Okay, enough. My name’s Melanie. Call me Melanie.”

  “Melanie. Alright. Well I’m glad to hear that. I was a city cop—NYC—for almost all of my twenties. Four years in the corps right out of high school led straight to law enforcement—like my father before me and his father before him. Made detective four years after that. Two years later, I got the bug for small town living. Wanted to start a family behind white picket fences…all that good stuff.”

  Melanie took a sip of the Belgian ale. It was light and surprisingly tasty. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had a beer.

  “Anyway, I got this job. Only been at it a few months and it’s been…challenging. The politics of it, man, I swear to God it’s a full-time job before you even consider the policing.”

  That comment was like a knife to her gut. Melanie should’ve assumed every career was bogged down in political mire, but the grass never failed to look greener on the other side. The fact that Chief Brady had his own Dennis Morton both depressed and relieved her. If everyone had one, maybe she had no right to feel so miserable about it.

  “I know you didn’t come here for my life story. So onto yours. We get a steady stream of crime enthusiasts out here and the mayor thinks we should discourage people from visiting for that purpose. We can always spot them from the second they land in town: twenty-somethings stop at the gas station asking for rolling papers and directions to t
he camp. Mayor Cobb’s worried that your book’ll cement that reputation once and for all. Now, we understand what happened to you, and to be honest ma’a—Melanie, I think you should write whatever the hell you want if it helps.”

  “And you’re supposed to keep me happy. That it?”

  Brady shrugged and took what looked to be a nervous swig of beer.

  “I can appreciate that.” If only he’d leveled with her right off, she might’ve toned down the ice princess act. Brady was being a team player. Melanie knew that song all too well—especially how it turned out.

  “Now that we understand one another, how about calling me Nate?”

  “Very well. Nate. I’ll tell you what. Help me with a few questions I have about Forest Grove and I’ll make sure my book has only flattering things to say about this town’s finest.”

  “Done.”

  Melanie smiled. As shaken as she was, as much as she didn’t want to be alone, she wasn’t going to let Dennis Morton see her fail.

  “Why, thank you, Nate,” she smiled. “Now why don’t we have another beer?”

  ***

  The night was deep and he moved through it with confidence.

  From where he stood, the streets of Forest Grove had not changed much since his last visit. Things were cleaner and looked newer. He didn’t care for the feeling that the town had moved on. It used to fear him. Did it even remember now?

  Hoyt saw the downtown strip from the forest and when he was certain that there were no prying eyes, he stepped from cover and continued on. The walk from home was quicker than it used to be because he was faster now. Stronger. Finally, he controlled his body again.

  Main Street was quiet, although he avoided the road just to be safe. He walked across the rear parking lots, keeping to the shadows whenever possible, determined to stay a secret.

  Because once he killed her, everyone would know he had come home.

  When he found the shop, he knew that he was going to have to slip around to the front and risk being seen. The alleyway between buildings was so narrow that he had to turn and shuffle his way to the sidewalk. The hardware storefront offered a bunch of tools that he did not recognize, much like the electric device he used back at the garage, but knew they would have what he needed all the same.

  When he was much younger, he recalled sneaking into a home to prepare for the coming winter. The resident, some kind of solider just returned home from a war, put up a real struggle. Hoyt had barely managed to get the better of him, and only because a corkscrew had spilled onto the floor during their fight. He jammed it up through the bottom of his jaw while throwing all his weight against him to keep him pinned against the wall.

  When the killing was done, he had a coat, some knives, a pair of boots, and a welder’s mask. The later was to protect his face while on the hunt, because occasionally, his prey fought back.

  So he needed one now. The last time he tried killing Melanie Holden, she fought back. He remembered collapsing into the mud on that riverbank, certain that he was going to his grave.

  But somehow, I’m alive.

  He knew he was going to have to be fast about this. These buildings rang loud when the glass broke, unleashing a startling noise. He much preferred the sights and sounds of the forest. He was in control out there.

  Nowhere to hide here, he thought as his hands curled around the iron bar he had fished from the dumpster. He watched the nearest buildings from alley shelter until satisfied that he was alone—that the town had packed it in for the day, and crawled back to their suburban dwellings for the evening.

  The window glass shattered as the bar flew through the pane. Fragments scattered across the sidewalk as he stepped up and over. The alarm was already blaring, and he was halfway down the aisle before the glass stopped falling.

  The welder’s masks dangled on a hook at the back of the store. He grabbed one and headed off, a glint catching his eye as he passed a row of steel knives.

  He snatched the nearest blade by the hilt and gripped it against his palm, punching the depressor on the back door and running into the parking lot.

  Hoyt was in the safety of the forest by the time he heard the siren’s wail—the second time he avoided the policemen today. A thought that made him smile. He really was getting back to his old self.

  He pulled the mask over his head. It was an awkward fit and he slipped it over ruffled hair, adjusting it against his face. It covered his features, giving him the confidence he needed. That’s all that mattered.

  A much better face than the one underneath.

  He was on his way to thank Melanie for that.

  SIX

  It was raining when Melanie got into town.

  She zipped her sweatshirt and pulled the hood over her frizzy blonde matte in an effort to shake the morning chill from her bones. The door-to-door investigation wasn’t going well.

  Six stops, ranging from the local diner to the town clerk’s office, and no one much wanted to discuss Cyrus Hoyt. Certainly not Ennis, the grizzled cook whose breath was rancid with stale cigarettes when he huffed, “forget all about that psycho.”

  From the diner, it was a brisk walk to City Hall. Her conversation with Cindy, the clerk office administrator, had been a carbon copy of the one with Ennis. The middle-aged woman’s hands were clasped neatly and rested on the counter offering a wide-mouthed smile. That was until Cyrus Hoyt came to topic. Melanie asked if Hoyt had any living relatives and Cindy’s tone became irritated. “Why don’t you let those demons be? No one wants to live that hell again.”

  The rest of the local businesses weren’t any chattier. Tom the barber and Cosgrove Real Estate weren’t interested in speaking. The guy behind the register at Earl’s general store laughed at the question and tried selling her some schnapps in a truly baffling non-sequitur.

  There was trouble at the hardware store as she continued her walk. Two officers stood in front of a busted out window front speaking to the visibly harried owner.

  One of the cops followed her with a slow turn of his head as she crossed the street—the same one who had been stationed outside of Desiree’s place this morning. She thought his name might’ve been Alex Johnson and he looked young enough to be one of her students. He had offered her a ride when she was leaving on her jog, but she declined, preferring to clear her head with a morning run. Instead, he rolled behind her in his cruiser like he was protecting the First Lady, until speeding off to answer some call of duty.

  A break-in at the hardware store, apparently.

  The rain was thick and heavy as she thrust her hands deep into her pockets while the air cooled. Her sweatshirt was soaked through and the flimsy tee underneath didn’t retain any heat. To get out of the downpour, she ducked under the closest awning, realizing it was the used bookstore she wanted to check out. Not a bad way to kill some time while waiting for the storm clouds to pass.

  It was dead inside, complete with musty air and thick silence. She inhaled it, savoring the joy delivered by that irreplaceable book smell. The clerk was a heavyset man with loose strands of oily hair. He was speaking to a younger woman with cropped black hair, raven dark lipstick, and with a clothespin piercing jutting out from the corner of her mouth.

  It looked like a cold sore from where Melanie stood.

  “Sure, I’ll sign it,” he said with a laugh and scribbled something on a sheet of paper. “What do I care if the kids around here throw a dance? What the hell else are they going to do?”

  “Nothing,” the outcast girl said. “That’s the problem. I wish everyone had your outlook.”

  “Whatever you say,” the counter jockey said, burying his nose in a paperback that showed a burning earth and some squid like mechanical creatures hovering over it.

  Melanie headed past the register and the girl’s eyes bugged. They looked far too large for her tiny head. “No way,” she said and stuffed the sheet of signatures into her side satchel. “Melanie Holden?”

  Melanie offered an uncomfortable smil
e and averted her eyes. She didn’t need any more passive-aggressive taunting today, especially not in the sanctity of a bookstore. There were few places that relaxed her as much as these.

  “You here to do some research? To get a feel for how the other writers did it?”

  “Trying to get out of the rain,” Melanie said.

  “I hear that. Heard you’re back here to set the record straight or some shit.”

  “Some shit,” she agreed and stepped past the girl. “Excuse me.”

  But the younger woman wasn’t having it. She took a few steps back and raised her arms in mock surrender. “Aw shit, I probably came off wrong. Look, I’m not like the rest of them. I think they’ve all got chips on their shoulders too.”

  The bookstore clerk cleared his throat without lifting his attention from the book.

  “No offense,” the girl said, and looked at Melanie with a smirk. “He’s cool. Signed my petition and everything.”

  “Petition?”

  “Yeah, I’m collecting signatures on behalf of the high school. Hoping that the city council will reverse its decision to prohibit dances and gatherings. Been that way since…”

  “Right,” Melanie said. She should’ve been uncomfortable with the topic but there was nothing accusatory in the girl’s speech. Instead, her attitude was refreshing. She didn’t seem to belong here any more than Melanie did, which practically made them friends. “But you live here in town?”

  “Unfortunately. I grew up here. Got out for my twenties and then got pulled back kicking and screaming.” She held up her hand and wiggled her wedding ring with her thumb.

  “Hard place to leave, no matter how far away you get.”

  The girl watched Melanie with raised eyebrows—a curious expression that asked what’s your excuse? “I thought coming back would jog some old memories.”