“It’s fine,” he said. “I was a New York cop for nearly ten years. Worked my way up to sergeant in 2010 and my command was a bunch of detective investigators on the terrorism beat. We were looking into two college students from Qatar—little bastards were planning to make a statement by detonating explosives on their campus.”
Hearing that freaked her out and she wondered if she was any safer at work than in Forest Grove. Evil was everywhere and it had probably always been that way.
“These guys were tied to a failed subway bombing in Brooklyn a year earlier and their names showed up on a list of prospective bomb material buyers. Because of that, we knew it was time to catch ‘em in the act. I went along with a few of my men…always liked to have a handle on how they operated. Anyway, someone in the building must’ve tipped them off, ‘cause they ran like hell before we even landed on their floor.
“Sellers took off and the suspects went running. We pursued and I found myself on the ninth floor with one of them. He drew on me and shots were fired…his nervous shots went high and I wasn’t going to give him another chance to miss. I returned fire and sent two rounds into the door he was ducking behind. Only I didn’t only hit him.”
Nate’s face was distraught and he turned toward the forest. Melanie searched for something with which to fill the awkward silence, but everything she could offer felt moot and selfish.
What a whiney little self-absorbed fool I’ve been.
The chief cleared his throat and continued. “His, uh, thirteen year old sister had wedged herself between him the door. She was trying to tug him into their apartment. I didn’t know she was there, and when I fired back in self-defense, one of my rounds struck her right in the head. She was dead instantly and the same shot nailed him in the throat. He bled out looking into his sister’s dead eyes.”
“If your suspect hadn’t run, hadn’t shot at you from his doorway…”
“Doesn’t make living with it any easier. I see those terrified brown eyes in my sleep. A kid’s eyes. I couldn’t think about lifting a weapon for months. It went to trial and the jury agreed that it was a tragic accident, but the political blowback was too much. The official word was that I was stepping down. Unofficially, it was either that or waste away on shit details for the next 30 years.”
Nate’s eyes were moist and Melanie resisted the urge to step close and wipe them. It wasn’t her place, though his body language hinted at welcoming it. He might’ve welcomed more, too, and Melanie wanted badly to pull him close and hold him.
She needed this reminder that life gave out raw deals to others as well. It wasn’t that she couldn’t empathize, just that she’d been on her own and out of practice for a long time. Her own pain wasn’t a concern now, only Nate’s.
“I don’t mention this for your sympathy, Melanie. Shit, I never mention it at all. I just want you to know that I understand. It’s easy to let your life be ruined by the past.”
The shadow of Hoyt loomed large over hers, but that was preferable to having the blood of an innocent child on your hands.
“Nate, I…”
“Sorry,” Nate said. “I know you probably don’t want to hear about my problems.”
“You’ve listened to more whining than anyone should have to stand, I owe you a lot more than just my ear.” It was more forward than Melanie intended, although she let it ride, curious to see how he might react to it.
“That’s my job,” he said and ignored all other implications. “Yours isn’t to play therapist to a damaged police chief.”
“I still want to hear more about you, Nate.” Her eyes fell to his wedding band and she remembered Trish again.
Dammit.
“I should go.” She didn’t want to, but knew she would hate herself if this continued. She started for the door when Brady called after her.
“Why don’t we wait until my guy gets here, okay?”
“It’s fine. Desiree will be up…I didn’t get home in time for dinner so she’s bound to be annoyed with me.”
“She’ll get over it. And I would feel better if you waited. Didn’t you want a beer to take that edge off?”
Tempting. Nate was good company, and at the very least, made her feel safe. She hated having to depend on him but what else could she do in this situation? Besides, she liked him a lot, even if that admission made her feel like a terrible person.
He’s not happily married.
That thought made her feel guilty. Where was this ridiculous confidence coming from and why would she think that Nate was interested? He was doing a job, nothing more. And Cyrus Hoyt was still out there, so why was she acting like a love-struck teenager?
Nate hurried to the cruiser’s trunk and popped it.
“It’s a hell of a thing,” he said, taking two bottles out of sloshing ice and handing one off.
“What is?”
“You think you know the people in this town…hard to get far in this line of work if you’re not a good judge of character. There’s bad apples everywhere, sure, but I can’t imagine why anyone would promote the façade of Cyrus Hoyt.”
“Like you said, a few bad apples.” She ignored the façade comment. Hoyt was real and they would learn that soon enough.
“More than just him, though. My wife hasn’t been honest with me since we moved here.”
She saw he regretted saying it.
“Shit,” he grumbled. “Forget I said anything.”
“It’s fine. If you need someone to talk to…”
“Probably for the best we drop it. I’ve already blurred the line, haven’t I?”
“I don’t mind.” She put her beer down on the cruiser’s trunk and wrapped a trembling hand around his arm. “You can talk to me.”
Brady moved close and Melanie held her ground. They stood face-to-face while her heart raged and belly fluttered. This was wrong, but she wanted it. Nate had to want it too—desire raged behind his brown eyes and he looked like a man about to take what he needed.
Only this couldn’t happen. She wasn’t a villain or home wrecker. She repeated those assurances in her head like a mantra. No way could she do this to Trish. Hell, she wouldn’t even do this to Dennis Morton.
Both she and Nate stepped away and it was hard to tell who made the first move. It was as if their consciences reached the same conclusion at once, deciding mutually to reject the magnetism.
Nate cleared his throat as another cruiser roared into the parking lot. Sergeant Maylam climbed out, a riot shotgun cradled in his arms like a small child. He was almost Brady’s size, though he looked a bit older.
“Figured this is going to be a long night,” he said. “With our guy still out there, I thought I’d come prepared.”
Melanie headed for the front steps, ashamed of what nearly happened. Things were complicated enough without this. She had exactly two friends in this town and nearly became the wedge between them.
“I should go synch up with the boys,” Brady said.
“Real sorry this is happening, miss,” Maylam said. “I’ll be right in. You need anything, you just open your door and holler.”
“I’ll do that,” Melanie said before escaping. She stumbled into the lobby and the lights were off. She started for the steps, thinking all that remained was to crawl beneath the covers and die of embarrassment.
But not before taking an ice cold shower.
She didn’t trust herself not to fall in the dark, so she fumbled for the switch and turned them back on. Thought about apologizing to Desiree for skipping out on today’s meal, but it was late and the old woman was probably asleep. No point in waking her for something that could wait until check out.
Melanie started up the stairs when the floorboards overhead creaked.
“Desiree?” she called out.
Calm footsteps came but there was no response.
Outside, the departing sound of Brady’s cruiser.
More creaks.
Her heart felt primed to explode when the curling wood became aggressive footf
alls. She ran, hoping to reach Maylam. The screen door was wobbly as she darted into the parking lot.
The cruiser was empty.
She called for him but there was only her echo.
The parking was shadows and dead silence. Melanie ran to the far side of house but there was no sign of her supposed guardian.
Inside, footsteps descended the main stairs.
Melanie bolted for the cruiser and pulled at the driver’s door like her life depended on it, stubbing her fingers against the handle in a clumsy grip. She pulled them back in recoil, waving off the numbness.
At her back, the screen broke open with a thunderous crack.
She whipped around to face the assailant.
No one there.
The door fell against the jamb and the porch was as empty as the parking lot.
She sprinted for the road. Another car would happen by before long.
An arm shot out from behind the nearest tree and took hold of her. With a pull, she stumbled back as Maylam lurched forward from the brush. He knocked her off balance and to the ground, blood falling on her face like the day’s rain.
Then he dropped onto her.
In the moonlight, she saw his throat gashed wide. She wiggled out from under him as his slicked fingers touched his wound, pressing it shut while desperate eyes begged her for help. There was nothing to be done. Melanie struggled to her feet as the sergeant writhed in death spasms, leaving a bleeding sack of stoic flesh leaking into the dirt.
Before Melanie could process this, a blade slashed forward and someone lunged for her. The knife fell through the air with an empty woosh that brushed past her cheek.
It didn’t deter the attacker. His ski mask-covered head smashed her nose.
Melanie swung a balled fist and landed a blow just above the outline of his ear. He doubled over and created an opportunity to inflict more damage. One she wasn’t going to waste. She brought her knee up into his jaw. There was a grunt before he dropped to the dirt beside Maylam.
Her eye caught the dirty blade resting on the ground. She squeezed the hilt in her fist and lifted it high.
The killer glanced up and his eyes winced in the moonlight.
She stabbed it through his shoulder with a loaded scream.
His cry was shrill, like a baby’s, as the knife tore into him with a slurp. He rolled onto his back and scurried away in a frantic crab-walk that might’ve been funny in another situation. Once there was some distance between them, he scrambled to his feet and bolted into the trees. His whimpers trailed like vapor streams.
Melanie watched in disbelief. She fished her phone out of her pocket and fumbled for Brady’s number.
He answered on the first ring. Again.
Then she dropped into the dirt and lost consciousness.
***
A flash of lightning turned the darkened living room to brilliant white. It happened again and this time his eyelids fluttered. He was awake now, and there were questions.
Like what the hell time is it?
Ron Sleighton flung the afghan off his lap. Even in the summer, he got chilly at night. He shivered as he rose from the recliner.
His back ached from being in the same position for half the night and his senses fought to adjust to the rude awakening. That’s right, he’d fallen asleep to an On Demand movie, leaving only the repetitive preview guide to run its mini programming over and over on the other side of the room.
Full consciousness came back—a feat in and of itself at sixty-six years. It wasn’t the lightning that had woken him.
The phone was ringing.
“Chief Sleighton.” The voice was quiet and raspy. Nothing about it was identifiable. “Make your kin understand…so that she knows.”
The words passed through him like a frozen zephyr. In all his years here, ‘they’ never spoke to him, and he knew enough to leave things be. Whatever business they were up to happened outside the grove. That had always been the understanding. He never would’ve allowed his baby girl to come back, otherwise.
When Trish floated the idea of moving out of the city, back home, it didn’t sit right. But her husband had gotten himself in some shit, forcing him to do the fatherly thing and help out where he could. He was a lonely old man, after all, and the idea of seeing his daughter more than twice a year was a powerful lure.
Now these bastards were threatening her.
“That won’t be necessary,” Sleighton said. It wouldn’t be enough for Trish to back down on her stupid crusade. Not now. No, she was going to have to leave this place for good.
It was his fault for ever letting her come back.
“Speak to her, Chief Sleighton. If you do not, she will be forced to repent and submit.”
The line clicked dead leaving him alone. This was what he deserved for thinking things could’ve been any different.
SEVEN
There were woods and a path. She walks it with confidence and familiarity. There’s frustration inside of her but she doesn’t remember the root cause. Only that she needed to come out here. Almost as though she had done this before. The trail was long and windy. It brought her to the mouth of a cavern so dark she thought something was wrong with her eyes. Staring into this nether, there is only blackness.
But no, there is a man inside. She doesn’t know him and can barely see him. Her eyes squint, wishing for a better view. When nothing comes, she begins to move on. That’s when icy fingers crawl about her neck. A gust of rancid breath sprays hot air down her back and her flesh stands on end.
She’s naked now. Turning around, so is he. And now that he is outside the nether, she finds him a disgusting sight. With flesh that is both scabbed and rotten. Both nipples are gone, sliced away with indiscriminate precision. Vertical gashes rake across his abdomen, but the wounds have long since dried. His penis is flaccid and barely noticeable, though the enthusiasm on his hideous face is enough to invoke disgust.
His lips part, revealing gingiva that is enflamed and bloody, overlapping his remaining teeth with swollen, misshapen bubbles. The center of his face is a recessed cavity lined with jagged chunks of flesh where his nose had been. One of his eyes is a rotted socket while the other looks on with wide-eyed glee. He takes hold of her in an embrace that’s almost—loving.
Before anything can happen, the void swells around them, slipping out of the cave and enveloping the forest until they’re engulfed. He dissolves into darkness, and it takes a moment for her to realize that she’s gone with him.
Trish sprung awake lacquered in cold sweat. Nightmares—two nights running. The details never changed, though. Like re-playing a scene from a movie, they remained constant.
She stretched her arm out and felt nothing but empty sheets where her husband should’ve been. Nate wasn’t around much these days and the way their marriage was going, she wasn’t sure she blamed him.
Rain lashed against the bedroom windows like splashes from a hose. She shook off the unease and sat up, cradling her head in outturned palms. Behind her breastbone, her heart hammered so heavy that it almost hurt.
These last two days had been empowering, so why was she drowning in fright? The signature collection was coming along nicely, with nearly two hundred and fifty votes against the dance ban. Rafe, Tanya, and their friends were going door-to-door tomorrow to collect even more, and she expected to be able to take all of this to the city council before long.
And yet she couldn’t shake the crushing feelings of despair and hopelessness that lingered after those dreams.
An empty bottle of Maker’s Mark sat on her bed table. Trish smacked her lips together, realizing that her mouth was drier than sandpaper. Nate hated when she drowned her sorrows in the bottle. It was a holdover from her punk rock days, and old habits—well, they never died at all. The plan had been to suppress the nightmare with copious amounts of whiskey. It was worth shredding her liver if it meant avoiding that rotted face and those fucking woods.
Her head throbbed with pain that pushed
against her skull. She went downstairs wearing nothing but panties—too much effort to fumble for a shirt when all she was after was ice water and Aleve.
Not that she was in a rush to get back to sleep with dreams like that.
Trish guessed they were a manifestation of recent frustrations: the forest where she passed out and the ugly oppression of a murderous local resident were easy to identify. The truth of it was that she had to stifle an urge to gut some of the locals with a hunting knife after their hostility this morning. The scariest thing was realizing how much she meant it.
Kind of.
She chased the aspirin with a huge gulp of water and went back upstairs, sliding her thong down her thighs before stepping into the shower. The nozzle sprayed away the glossy sweat and lingering tension. She felt more relaxed once she stepped back into room temperature. In the bedroom, her cell phone vibrated against the wooden bed table.
It was Dad, calling at quarter to three in the morning.
“You okay?” he said.
“I’m fine. And awake, somehow. Why are you calling me in the middle of the night? What happened?”
“Just making sure my girl’s okay. One of the boys went down in the line of duty tonight.”
“My God, who?”
“Steve…”
She gasped and took a seat on the bed. Steve Maylam, gone? Poor Missy. Their son, Jack, wasn’t even seven months yet. Just last week, Trish offered a Saturday drive out to the Danbury Fair Mall for an all-day shopping extravaganza—a break from newfound motherhood. Steve was to spend some quality alone time with his son while finally learning how to change diapers.
He was an honest guy that genuinely enjoyed life as a public servant. Just like Nate. Steve had never forgiven Dad for slipping Nate into the position of chief, and there had been plenty of tension between the two men as a result. Despite that resentment, Steve had always been a good cop. Now he was gone and Missy was alone. A single mother at thirty-two.
How did this kind of thing happen in Forest Grove?
“Some sicko went berserk and started harassing the Holden woman. Whoever it was, he was waiting for her at Desiree Rosemott’s place. Guess Maylam got in the way, and he died for it.”
Under The Blade Page 15
