The Nightmare Girl

by Jonathan Janz

  Joe checked the rearview mirror to see if the Camaro was going to give chase, but apparently the men had decided to save it for another day.

  Joe concentrated on his driving. He suspected he’d be okay as long as he kept the truck on the road and didn’t make a move out of panic. He was rattled, sure. Who wouldn’t be rattled after being attacked by a bunch of freaks?

  As the pickup emerged from a dense thicket of country road, Joe thought of the faces in the Camaro:

  One of them, the driver, was a plump man, very pale. He didn’t look dangerous, but then again, you put a gun in someone’s hand and he could get dangerous pretty fast.

  The other one…he was the one who spooked Joe worse than the others. The bald guy with the leathery skin. The one whose muscles were abnormally large and whose square-jawed stare was abnormally hostile. The bastard looked like he’d kill you as soon as look at you, and when he killed you he’d make it nice and slow so he could exult in your anguish.

  Gritting his teeth, Joe guided the pickup around a corner. The road straightened out, and when he was sure there weren’t any more crazed drivers ahead of him, he checked the rearview mirror to see if he was being followed.

  So far, he wasn’t.

  Michelle met him in the driveway. It wasn’t until she pointed it out to him that he realized he’d been gone for three hours, a good bit of that time explaining to Copeland what had happened on Tomlinson Bridge. She could see he was still rattled from the experience, and of course she could see the starred passenger’s window, and perhaps that was why she was so solicitous of his wellbeing. Or maybe she just felt bad about their argument. Joe sure as hell felt bad about it.

  She moved with him up their long sidewalk, a hand on his lower back. Her touch felt good, though his muscles ached from the skirmish.

  “And what did Copeland say?” she asked him as he finished the story and told her he’d gone straight to the chief to file a complaint.

  “Lots of things, actually. Where’s Lily?”

  “Watching Thomas,” Michelle said, nodding toward the illuminated basement window. Kid loves her trains, Joe thought. He felt a pang in his chest at the thought of his daughter. It’d only been hours since he’d last seen her, but man did he miss the kid. “What did Copeland tell you?” Michelle asked.

  “For us to invest in a gun, for one thing.”

  Michelle furrowed her brow, and Joe couldn’t blame her. By mutual consent they’d decided on not having a gun in the house on the off chance Lily ever found it and had an accident. Plus, Joe had always suspected he’d do more harm than good with a gun. He had visions of mistaking a friend for a home intruder, of killing someone he cared about, or even harming his wife or daughter.

  Michelle looked up at him. “Are we?”

  Joe stopped on the front porch but didn’t go in. “We should make that call together, don’t you think?”

  Michelle moved past him, leaned on the black porch rail. “Darrell can’t arrest them?”

  “There are a couple problems with that,” Joe said, pocketing his hands and staring out across Hillcrest Road. “For one, it’s my story against theirs, and I seriously doubt they’ll tell the same story I will.”

  “But Darrell knows you.”

  “That doesn’t make my testimony any better than anyone else’s. And in some folks’ opinions, it might make mine worse.”

  Michelle shook her head. “It’s just like when Sharon Waltz was here.”

  “At least Sharon didn’t try to kill me.”

  “Yet.”

  “Now that’s a cheerful thought.”

  She hung her head, scuffed the porch with a tennis shoe. “I’m sorry, Joe. I feel like all of this is my fault. Like it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t forced you out of the house today.”

  “You didn’t force me anywhere. And I’m sorry about the hormone comment.”

  “Don’t forget the part about the cramps.”

  Joe winced. “Don’t remind me.” When he saw the look on Michelle’s face, he said, “Okay, you can remind me. I wish I could take it back.”

  Her eyes rose to meet his. “Thanks.”

  “Darrell said because they were the ones who got injured, as well as the fact there were no other witnesses means that it’d be tough to make any kind of charges stick. Plus, he doesn’t know if they’ll even find the guys.”

  She glanced down the hill at the truck. “Will insurance at least take care of the window?”

  Joe shook his head. “Deductible’s too high.”

  “Even if we say it was an act of God? Like a rock flung by an oncoming car?”

  Joe grinned. “That wouldn’t be honest.”

  She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too. She wrapped her arms around his waist, pushed into him. “You’re obstinate as hell, but I do respect you.”

  He wrapped her up, stared down at her brown eyes. “That’s about the nicest thing you could say to me right now.”

  She rocked up on her toes and kissed him. It lingered, and Joe eased her down, moved her gently to rest against the porch railing. As he kissed her, he felt a good deal of his worry and frustration melt away.

  When she finally broke the kiss, she said, “Lily’s been waiting for you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “She says I don’t do the train voices right.”

  He reached back, opened the front door for his wife. “I am good at the voices. Gordon, Salty…you should hear my Harold the Helicopter. I’m great at a British accent.”

  “She’s two, Joe. She has low standards.”

  “That’s jealousy talking.”

  As they moved through the house and down the basement steps, Joe heard the sounds of Alec Baldwin narrating one of Lily’s favorite episodes. He imagined his daughter sitting in the middle of the couch, her favorite blanket in her lap, her green pacifier bobbing ruminatively. God, I miss that girl, he thought as he came round the corner, and when he saw her it hit him again, his debilitating love for her. It knocked his wind out, made him weave a little as he crossed the room and knelt beside her bare, soft legs. Joe wrapped his arms around her waist and rested the side of his head on her plump thigh.

  “Hi, Daddy,” she said and put a hand on top of his head. Her little paw, it was so tiny.

  Please, God. Let me protect this little girl. Please let me be the dad she deserves.

  Lily was absently stroking his ear and the hair above there, which oddly enough didn’t tickle. It just felt nice. Joe inhaled deeply, caught the powdery scent of her skin, the slightly oily smell of her blanket. It’d need washing soon, but the problem was there was never a good time to do it. You couldn’t wrestle that blanket away from Lily when she slept, and you sure as hell weren’t going to take it from her when she was awake.

  “Can we play Thomas, Daddy?” she asked.

  Joe grinned up at her. “Right after I find the woogedy-boogedy.”

  He lunged toward her neck, and she squealed with laughter. The woogedy-boogedy was an object of indeterminate size that grew on her neck or arms and could only be removed by Joe pretending to eat it. It was one of Lily’s favorite games.

  When the woogedy-boogedy was tended to, Joe shut off the TV and started pulling Lily’s trains, tracks, and assorted railway paraphernalia out of the big wooden trunk.

  Standing at the foot of the stairs, where she’d apparently been watching for a few minutes now, Michelle said, “Can I play too?”

  “Let Daddy do the voices,” Lily cautioned.

  Michelle looked at Joe, who shrugged and commenced setting up the big hill for Lily.

  They played on the floor for the next hour, and when it was time for bed, Lily allowed Joe to read to her. Their daughter usually preferred to be put to bed by Michelle, so Joe was especially glad to get to read Lily to sleep.

  It gave him somethin
g to think about when everything went to hell.

  Chapter Eleven

  Joe and Copeland were striding along Hillcrest Road. There weren’t sidewalks to tread on, but as usual the traffic here was very infrequent. They passed through the intersection at the bottom of the hill and began trudging up the long rise.

  “I don’t know why we had to go for a walk like some old married couple,” Copeland said. “Neighborhood’s so hilly we might as well be in the Swiss Alps.”

  “Better here than Easter’s Tavern.”

  “What’s wrong with Easter’s?”

  “Don’t you worry people will get the wrong impression, the police chief slumming at the local dive?”

  Copeland’s breathing sounded labored. “First of all, I find Easter’s decor to be really cosmopolitan. Secondly, it’s not like I’m puking all over the tables and passing out on the floor.”

  Joe slid his hands into his hip pockets. “So you don’t think there’s anything peculiar about the Martins being connected to Sharon Waltz?”

  “It’s a small town,” Copeland said. “Go back far enough, and damn near everybody’s probably related in some way.”

  “It’s such a small place, why don’t you know more about the people?”

  “I’m not the town historian,” Copeland said, scowling. “You act like I’m some guy with a long white beard sittin’ in a rocking chair down at the barber shop telling stories about how Calvin Coolidge once rode through the courthouse square in a horse and buggy.”

  “He would’ve ridden in a Model-T.”

  “Man, don’t challenge me on historical stuff. Guy like Coolidge, he would’ve ridden in a Duesenburg. Let me rest for a minute.”

  Joe regarded Copeland, the plump beads of sweat on his smooth brown forehead. “You ever find those guys that cornered me on the bridge?”

  “Still looking,” Copeland said. “Like I told you, they’re not from around here, else I’d have heard of them before. Guy stands six-foot-six, got a face with so many scars it looks like he’s been raising feral cats in his spare time, he’s not easy to miss. And the other guy, Shannon? He sounds like he’d stand out too. There are plenty of men with tattoos around here, but very few of ’em have their whole arms covered with ’em.”

  “So we just sit around, hope they don’t show up?”

  “You take my advice yet?”

  Joe scuffed the ground. “I picked it up yesterday.”

  “What kind?”

  “A Ruger.”

  “Caliber?”

  “.38.”

  “Good boy. That’s the kind I favor, only mine’s a Smith & Wesson.”

  “I haven’t fired the thing yet. Michelle, though, she already signed up at the shooting range.”

  Copeland grinned. “You better behave yourself, Joe.”

  “She doesn’t need a gun. Michelle gets angry, she’s scary enough.”

  They were halfway up the hill. Though overcast, the day had warmed up considerably. It was sixty-five at least, the sweat making Joe’s long-sleeved red flannel shirt cling to his arms.

  He glanced across the valley. “I better be getting back.”

  “You need to hire better workers.”

  Joe frowned at Copeland, who was now grimacing from the exertion, runnels of sweat streaming down his neck and darkening his brown collar. “What’s wrong with my guys?”

  “There aren’t enough of them, first of all. A job that size, you need at least six or seven workers.”

  “That’s not what you meant.”

  Copeland blew out breath, started back down the hill.

  Joe caught up with him. “Darrell?”

  Without looking up, Copeland said, “It’s that Gentry dude. I don’t trust him.”

  Joe tried to look affronted, but found it too difficult. “He’s a little coarse, sure, but he’s a skilled worker.”

  Copeland raised an eyebrow. “He looks at every woman like she’s a succulent cut of steak.”

  “What, did he eyeball your ladyfriend or something?”

  “I don’t have a ladyfriend,” Copeland said. “And it was yours.”

  Joe stopped. “Darrell, what the hell are you talking about?”

  Copeland halted, hands on hips. “I wasn’t gonna say anything, but sometimes a guy needs to, you know?”

  “Louise Morrison says you’re the biggest gossip in town.”

  “Louise can suck it. What I’m tellin’ you, I’m tellin’ you as a friend, all right?”

  Joe waited, a restless snake of dread slithering in his guts.

  “Couple days ago, I was driving by your house. I don’t trust that bitch Sharon Waltz any more than you do. And I still worry about the assholes who tried to hurt you on the bridge. I was going real slow, moving up the hill and watching your house. Seein’ if there was anybody scattering ashes on your doorstep.”

  “I still don’t see why you can’t arrest her for that.”

  Copeland went on as though Joe hadn’t spoken. “I’m so focused on your house, I almost miss it, the guy standin’ outside the Baxter place, at the northwest corner of the property. Back in the little pine grove?”

  Joe found he was holding his breath.

  “And there’s Gentry, nestled between two pine trees, tucked away like. Where he thinks nobody can see him.”

  “Darrell, I don’t think—”

  “He’s back there with his hand down his trousers, strokin’ himself. His dick ain’t out, probably because he’s afraid of getting caught. You being right inside the Baxter house and all.”

  Joe turned away from Copeland, as if in doing so he could evade the rest of it.

  But Copeland shuffled with him, his big eyes so riveted on Joe’s that Joe found it impossible to look away. “He was lookin’ up at your office, Joe.”

  “That doesn’t mean—”

  “I didn’t wanna look,” Copeland overrode him, “but I needed to be sure, so don’t go getting all pissy with me because of this. When Gentry saw the cruiser, his hand shot out of his drawers like his dick had caught on fire and he’d just been burned. Bastard scurried around the corner and didn’t come out. I know because I parked outside and waited, thinking maybe the moron would show his face again. I was so nettled, I was ready to knock those shiny teeth of his out.”

  Joe stood mulling it over, not wanting to ask the question but knowing he needed to anyway. “Was Michelle…”

  “She was near the window,” Copeland said. “A little ways in. She was sitting there in her bra, looking at something.”

  Joe’s voice was barely a croak. “That’s where the computer is.”

  “Well, I didn’t take the time to figure out what websites she was on. It was embarrassing enough seeing her there wearing hardly any clothes.”

  “You don’t think she knew Gentry was there?”

  Copeland took a step back from him, his expression aghast and more than a little irate. “Man, don’t you have any faith in your wife? Of course she didn’t know she was being gawked at. The hell kind of question is that?”

  Joe blew out disgusted breath, took a couple steps into the road. “Man, I’m an idiot. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me.”

  But Copeland’s voice was not unkind. “What’s wrong with you is you’ve been through a terrible ordeal, and you need some time to get your head on straight.”

  “I feel so damned paranoid. I mean, to think Michelle…”

  “It is stupid, but at least you know it’s stupid, right? I’d be worried if you got all angry at her, started going through her things to make sure she wasn’t cheating.”

  Joe chuckled softly.

  Copeland tilted his head. “You aren’t going through her things, are you?”

  “Man, shut up.”

  Copeland put his palms up. “Just checking
.”

  They moved in silence down the hill, then up the long rise toward Joe’s house, outside of which sat Copeland’s cruiser.

  Opening his door, Copeland said, “Guess I don’t have to do my twenty minutes on the treadmill today.”

  “Hold on,” Joe said. He came closer to where Copeland stood, his hand on the top of the open cruiser door. “Thanks for telling me. It’s just not what a man wants to hear, you know? That someone who works for him…someone he considers a friend is…”

  “Ogling his wife?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No problem,” Copeland said.

  “But you still haven’t explained the connection between Sharon Waltz and the house.”

  Copeland shrugged. “Why does there have to be a connection?”

  “The timing is too convenient. That place has been vacant for decades, and less than a week after Sharon’s daughter dies, someone who attended the funeral buys the place and hires me to renovate it?”

  “Like I said, Joe. Small town. Not too many people. They’re bound to be connected.”

  “The Martins are from Indy.”

  “Which is only an hour away.”

  “You don’t think the Martins have anything to do with it?”

  “With Sharon Waltz?”

  Joe waited.

  Copeland shook his head. “They’re not exactly cut from the same cloth, you know?”

  Joe glanced up at the Baxter house. There was no sign of Kevin or Shaun.

  The big cop plopped down in his seat, pulled shut the door, and rolled down his window. “Good luck.”