Under The Blade

by Serafini, Matt

  “Melanie? Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine. But you should…”

  “Did they catch him?”

  “No. But we will.”

  “Dad…let Nate take care of this…”

  “Steve was one of mine before he was one of his. No way I’m sitting this one out, girly. You just make sure that your place is locked tight.”

  It always was. The career policeman in her life had equipped it with state-of-the-art motion sensors. She glanced up at the control hub on the bedroom wall. The solid red light indicated that everything was as it should be.

  She hung up and found herself more shaken and depressed than ever. In dire need of comfort, she swallowed her pride and dialed Nate.

  ***

  The hospital waiting room was empty, save for Brady and the mayor.

  Mayor Cobb looked haggard in these early hours. His three-piece suit was tattered at the shoulder blade, like he’d outgrown the tailoring years ago. The white button-down beneath the coat was littered with coffee stains and his belt cinched his pants without being properly looped through all the holes. His thinning hair receded to the point where there was nothing atop his skull save for a few greasy strands of sole survivors.

  On top of everything else, his breath was like skunk spray. Halitosis didn’t quite cover it. Something must’ve died in his mouth and was still rotting beneath his tongue.

  Mayor of Forest Grove, Brady thought as he continued to grit his teeth through the official lecture.

  “This town is coming apart at the seams on your watch. You’ve got a man down, a wounded girl, and three missing college kids. I’m real sorry about Maylam, but unless you convince me that you’re able to get a handle on this situation, I’ll look elsewhere for resolution.”

  Brady felt as he had back in New York after the shooting: responsible. There wasn’t a trigger to pull this time, but Steve’s death was on him all the same. He wasn’t half a mile away when his man got his throat slashed. It meant that the killer was in the woods, watching him and Melanie speak. If only he’d been more attentive, this might’ve been averted.

  He’d driven to the Maylam residence to break the news to Missy. It was the sort of thing he never expected to have to do here—look a young wife square in the eyes and tell her that she was a widow. The onslaught of tears and hysterics was devastating, and he sympathized as best he could. He tried making assurances that she and her family would want for nothing, but it felt so futile in the wake of her loss. And there was something in her eyes that he would never forget. In between the sniffles, he saw it. Disdain.

  A glance that said, why wasn’t it you?

  A fair question.

  “You’re not wowing me with your problem solving skills so far, kid.” Mayor Cobb had his hands on his hips doing his best authoritarian impersonation. “Unless you’re trying to tell me that nothing is what you’ve got.”

  “We’re going to crucify this guy, mayor. He’s wounded, according to Holden. We’ve got law from six towns, plus the sheriff and the staties. There’s a perimeter around Forest Grove and my guys are right in the thick of it.”

  Brady’s personal cell phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and ignored Trish’s call.

  “Someone attacked our star tourist. Bet your ass that goes in her book. Our town doesn’t come back from this. No matter what we do, we’re bloodstained. I’ve got to go clean up and start talking to the goddamn press. As you can see, I don’t do so good when I’m lured from my beauty sleep. Ripped my suit trying to put it on in the dark. Now, resolve this today, Nate, and maybe it’s not too late to save some face.”

  Brady didn’t give a shit about the town’s long-term reception. Not now. “I’m going to say this once, Barney. This is my town. What happened here was my responsibility and I’m handling it. If you even think of going over my head…”

  “You know what, Brady? You’re a punk. When your father-in-law put in a good word for you, I knew I should’ve said no. Christ, when a man like Ron Sleighton tells me his son-in-law needs a gig, and that he’s got his shit together, I trust him. So I grease some wheels and bring you in. Then you drop the ball all over the place. No wonder New York didn’t want spit to do with you…”

  Brady might’ve knocked the mayor flat, but chose to leave him spinning his wheels alone and grumbling obscenities.

  He walked down the quiet hall and asked the duty nurse where he could find Melanie Holden. The African American woman flashed a far more pleasant smile than 3 AM deserved as she keyed the name into the computer.

  Melanie was in a room right around the corner.

  Brady headed for it, wondering when everything went so wrong. Forest Grove was supposed to be a new beginning for the Bradys. A quiet place to start a family. At thirty-one years old, it was high time to begin growing one. He would be happy with any child as long as they were healthy, but in his quietest thoughts, he imagined a son. Someone to share in his mutual love of football and video games. That way he could enjoy both in the name of bonding.

  But the dream was getting away from him. The continental divide between he and Trish was growing, and Forest Grove wasn’t the picture perfect place he once imagined it to be. Some bad shit happened here and the grove had come to be defined by it. Almost by choice.

  And then there’s her.

  Melanie was awake when he poked his head in. Her blue eyes lit up and she propped herself up against the pillows.

  Brady couldn’t help but cross into the room’s threshold when he saw that smile. “I’m not sure what to say.” He didn’t know if he was referring to the almost-kiss or her attack. Either way, he felt like an asshole.

  “Not your fault,” she said. Her voice was quiet and a little croaky.

  “I talked to the doctor and you’re getting out this morning. You’ve got minor head trauma. He wants to touch base before you’re released, and they may take some blood. Your heart rate is high and ditto your blood-pressure.”

  “Used to it by now,” she said. “Panic attacks are a way of life for me.”

  “I didn’t realize you had them.”

  “I don’t make a habit of telling people.” Her brow wrinkled. “Why give anyone another reason to think I’m abnormal?”

  “You’re not.”

  “Once you hit forty and you’re unmarried, people start treating you like damaged goods. You get those unconscious looks from them wondering why you’re still single. As if that’s the only way to measure one’s normalcy. I just want to move on. This…hell is never going to stop, is it?”

  Brady couldn’t take another helpless woman. Not after Missy. Melanie’s face was accented by desperation and tears. His urge was to comfort her, and there were other thoughts as well, but he ignored those. Instead, he tapped the edge of the bed in a pointless gesture.

  “I know he got Maylam. I’m sorry, Nate.”

  “I am too. He was a good man.”

  “He was there you know…”

  “Who?”

  “Cyrus Hoyt,” she said. Her voice fissured at the mention.

  “You know it wasn’t him. Even if he were alive, that animal wouldn’t have the good sense to wear a ski mask, nor would he have a use for it. Our killer is someone who needs to hide his identity.”

  “Someone else might’ve killed Steve and attacked me. But Hoyt was there. When I went inside, I heard someone that wasn’t Desiree. Footsteps that were heavier and healthier than hers...running. While Maylam was getting killed outside, Hoyt was in there…coming for me.”

  Brady wasn’t going to tell her that the Rosemott woman was dead too. Not now. He wanted to contest her claims about Hoyt, but that wouldn’t do any good. Her mind was made up and he understood why. The only way to change it was by proving that Hoyt had been dead for twenty-five years. At least maybe then, she could move on.

  Forest Grove had a killer, but it was someone who walked among them.

  “I want to help,” he said. Sending Melanie home with some placidity wou
ld do that. If he could ease this tortured mind, he wouldn’t be an abject failure. Not to everyone, at least. “I’m going to prove once and for all that your boogeyman is nothing but a pile of bones.”

  ***

  Sleighton took a sip of piping hot coffee. It steamed up from the center slice in his thermos, fogging the windshield of his pickup.

  He’d been sitting outside his daughter’s house for the better part of an hour, glancing occasionally at the .44 Magnum pistol resting in the empty passenger’s seat.

  It was almost impossible to know who had called him earlier, but something like that had happened once before. Four or five years after the incident at camp. A wealthy family from New York City had stumbled across their little berg, deciding that they were going to make the grove their picturesque home.

  Only they weren’t crazy about living somewhere that was so “anti-culture” (their words). To them, the arts weren’t simply disrespected, but contempted. They couldn’t appreciate the still-fresh scars on the community then, and were agitated to discover that Sunday booze was off limits. It was worse still when they had to explain to their kids why there was no homecoming dance, no winter formal, and certainly no prom.

  Because the grove had decided that those were the kinds of circumstances that invited the tragedy that they were trying so hard to escape.

  This family—it had been so long that he couldn’t remember their surname—complained of harassment. They were money, and because of it, they thought they could sprinkle a little around and buy themselves a say in Forest Grove’s affairs.

  To them, the grove’s way of life didn’t make much sense. They spoke out against the “old fashioned” thinking that they claimed would shuttle this place back in time. It wasn’t surprising that they quickly found themselves the target of threatening phone calls promising bodily harm. Cars pulled into their driveway and honked the horn at all hours of the night. Once or twice, the women of the family reported that someone had been in their rooms, stroking their feet while they slept.

  No one in town had been willing to cop to it. And then he got a call, too. It was a throaty whisper, not unlike the voice that had woken him this morning. It didn’t have much to say, but its words echoed in high fidelity:

  “They’re gone.”

  Sleighton rushed there—it was probably the same hour it was now—and found the house in tatters. Windows were shattered, doors were broken down, while some others were smashed and splintered. It looked like there had been a siege on the place.

  He’d been certain that he was going to find murdered bodies, but there was nothing. A few missing bags made him realize that they fled in a hurry. It took him a week to track them down after that, and when he did, they were living in California with some in-laws. They refused to speak about what happened. They wouldn’t even acknowledge the damage to their home.

  They hired contractors to fix the place up while movers boxed up their belongings. The house was sold without them ever setting foot back in it.

  That family washed their hands of the grove, and there wasn’t much that he could do, legally speaking. Curiosity had the better of him then, and he was determined to prove that he remained the only law in Forest Grove. That it wasn’t up to lynch mobs to make decisions from the shadows.

  But no one would talk.

  The neighbors swore they hadn’t heard anything. Not just that night, but ever. Without any witnesses, his hands became tied. The whole thing sat in his gut like a pile of worms. There was no two ways around it—that was the moment when he realized he didn’t trust anyone in the grove.

  ***

  Melanie was thankful to Nate for bringing the change of clothes. A shame he left her make-up back at the bed & breakfast, though. The bottom of her eye looked like an artist’s canvas board—a swirling mixture of black, green, and blue. It brought more attention than she would’ve liked during the hospital discharge, with every passing gaze offering the same combination headshake and consolatory frown.

  She’d had enough of this place.

  The doctor diagnosed her with a mild concussion, ordering her to avoid further stress on the brain. That meant the book was on the backburner. She had to avoid bright lights and loud sounds like she was allergic, and that meant the only thing left to do was go home and curl up with Lacey for a few days.

  Good enough for me.

  She came into the hospital lobby wearing a short jean skirt and a formless dark tee—two articles that didn’t exactly create a seamless outfit. Still, Nate had done the best he could. Why the concept of outfitting was lost on most men was one of life’s greatest mysteries.

  Trish Brady waited for her, leaning against a pillar with her hands stuffed in the pockets of her black pinstriped pants. A meek smile spread across her tiny mouth, and she looked like a clown beneath her dark eye and lip liners. How could she expect anyone to take her seriously?

  Melanie chided herself for being so judgmental.

  “My dad told me you were here,” Trish said. “Heard about what happened and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  Melanie was fine—physically speaking—but it was hard to feel any lower about her desire to dip a toe in the Brady marriage pool. She felt as detestable as Jill Woreley at this point—only Professor Woreley never got anyone killed.

  Melanie didn’t have that much going for her since Steve Maylam’s murder was on her.

  “Anyway, I volunteered to come give you a ride to Stu’s.”

  The last thing Melanie wanted to do was accept Trish’s kindness. The hospital had two security guards on her room at all times, and they were standing around the information desk arranging transport to the garage for her. But to decline this gesture would be insulting, especially when she needed a lift back to town. It would be nice to relax in the company of a friendly face.

  She told the guards she was alright, but it wasn’t until Trish made it known who she was that they relented and ‘allowed’ her to leave.

  “I know Steve’s wife,” Trish said as they headed for her nondescript sedan in the visitor parking lot. “I was going to go see her, but she’s already flooded with sympathetic ears from parents and friends. They don’t want to see the one person dedicated to disrupting the norm around here. But you…well you’re the only one that might be less popular than me. So, of course I felt the need to check in.”

  “You’re sweet, Trish…”

  “I’m kind of an asshole.” She peeled out of the parking lot, a brazen, I don’t give a shit move that a police chief’s wife could afford to display.

  I’m an asshole too, Melanie thought. “I think Maylam might be dead because of me.”

  “He’s dead because someone in Forest Grove is crazy. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  Trish inquired about her bill of health and Melanie explained that it was in her best interest to take it slow. They pulled into Stu’s gas station and Trish shifted into park, letting the car idle. “All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t quit this. Not yet. You survived some bad shit, and that wasn’t by accident. You’re a survivor. Skipping town now would mean giving into the limp dick who....”

  “Who isn’t afraid to kill, Trish?”

  “I know. I don’t mean to sound insensitive. But there’s so many police around that it looks like a small army is invading the grove. They’re going to catch Maylam’s killer before he can do anything else. Trust me on this. Nate isn’t going to rest until…”

  “That doesn’t make me any safer.”

  “Of course you’re right. Shit. It’s just that I would hate to see you go. While you’re around doing your thing, I kind of feel better about my own crusade. You’re empowering, as corny as that sounds.”

  It didn’t sound all that corny. Melanie thought it might’ve been the kindest thing anyone’s said to her in forever. Hard to believe she was an inspiration, considering her greatest accomplishment was not dying during a summer camp killing spree.

&n
bsp; She offered a thank you before climbing out of the car. Trish waved it away, telling her instead to keep at it. “The grove doesn’t know what to do with us. It means we’re touching a few nerves.” She sped off leaving Melanie feeling conflicted. In the wake of an attack and a murder, Trish’s pep talk managed to confirm what the nagging feeling in her gut already knew. She couldn’t leave yet.

  Because the only thing waiting for her at home was failure.

  The garage was quiet. Melanie crossed the parking lot and the door was locked. Odd, considering it was past nine. She knocked on it and then peered through the glass. At least one of the mechanics had done an all-nighter to get the LaCrosse up and running, so it was possible that he’d fallen asleep on the job and forgot to open up the shop.

  Through a darkened window, there was an old battered pick-up truck.

  The office door clicked and swung open. Stu stepped out and squinted up at the sun like it was the first time he’d seen it in years. “I thought that was you, Miss Holden. Come on inside.”

  Melanie followed Stu while thanking him for his hard work.

  He tossed her the car keys without acknowledging it. “Go right through there. You’ll find your car out back and ready to go.”

  She looked through the door that lead into the darkened garage and glanced back at Stu. He packed tobacco into his corn pipe. This was forced free labor for him. Even if the town was reimbursing the garage, she wasn’t a regular. He didn’t care about her patronage and could afford to be a prick.

  She took an uneasy step into the shadows and told herself that she couldn’t be suspicious of everything. Just a few quick steps and she’d be out of here.

  The car was outside, parked alongside a chain fence topped with barbwire swirls. She climbed behind the wheel and started it, rolling around the building. A chain linked gate stretched across the small alley, preventing her from going any further.

  Is he joking?

  She honked twice, laying on it for a few seconds longer than necessary. After the terrible night she had, she was entitled to be a bitch. When no one came rushing, she got out and tried pushing it open. Then she noticed the padlock.