The Nightmare Girl

by Jonathan Janz

  Joe actually had three beers, and it wasn’t until he’d begun to feel a pleasant buzz that he realized he’d never had supper either.

  Sitting at the kitchen table with Copeland and Michelle, Joe said, “You want something to eat?”

  “About time you asked me,” Copeland said. “I’ve been staring at those Nutter Butters in your pantry for forty-five minutes now, hoping you’d offer me some.”

  Michelle got up, went to the pantry. “Why didn’t you just ask?”

  Copeland shrugged. “It seemed impolite.”

  Joe said, “It’s impolite to scratch your balls in front of a woman, too, but you’ve been doing that since you sat down at the table.”

  Copeland looked sheepish. “Can I use the excuse about not having supper again?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Joe’s got a point,” Michelle said as she placed the Nutter Butters before Copeland. “Way you’ve been digging down there, I thought you were scratching off lottery tickets under the table.”

  Copeland bit into a cookie, looked at her. “You’re as much of a smartass as your husband.”

  She smiled. “More so, actually.”

  “She’s right,” Joe agreed.

  “That why you married her?”

  “I took pity on him,” she said.

  Copeland chewed his cookie. “That I can believe.”

  “So, what are we gonna do about the murders?” Joe asked.

  Copeland stopped chewing. “What’s this ‘we’ stuff? Only ‘we’ in this is me and my people. And the county sheriff, who have more to do with it than anyone.”

  “You’ve got cookie on the side of your mouth. They killed her because of what happened with Angie. And because Harold and Sadie wrote letters explaining why we’d be good parents for Little Stevie.”

  “Do you have to call him that?” Copeland asked. “Every time you say it I imagine the little boy in his diaper sitting in front of a piano singing ‘My Cherie Amour.’”

  Michelle leaned forward on her elbows. “You do have to admit the timing is pretty suspicious. The Hawkinses, who don’t have any enemies—”

  “That we know of,” Copeland cut in.

  “—write letters of testimony about the child coming to live with us, and around that same time, someone comes in and murders them in a ritualistic way?”

  “How did you know it was ritualistic?” Copeland asked. He glanced at Joe. “Man, you told her all that gory shit? I thought you had better judgment than that.”

  “I trust her enough to be honest with her,” Joe said.

  Copeland narrowed his eyes. “And I suppose you told her about the picture on your cell phone too?”

  Joe cringed.

  Michelle stared at Copeland. “What picture?”

  Copeland bit into another cookie. “So much for trust.”

  Joe shifted in his chair. “You didn’t have to—”

  “What picture is he talking about, Joe?”

  Joe told her. And though he knew there was no real way around it, his heart still hurt a little at the way Michelle blanched.

  He forced a smile. “I probably just left it on, honey.”

  “Your phone doesn’t stay on that long,” she said in a small voice. “You said you were in the house for twenty minutes.”

  “Yeah, Joe,” Copeland said. “What about it?”

  Joe glared at him. “You don’t have to pile on.”

  Copeland put up his palms. “Hey, I’m just glad it’s not my ass being reamed for once. I’ve been barked at so many times today I started to feel like I was the one who’d scared Sadie to death.”

  Michelle looked at Copeland. “You think that part is true?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But it’s pretty hard to ignore the look on Sadie’s face,” Joe said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Copeland eyed him. “If someone held a lighter to your fingers, wouldn’t you be scared too?”

  “How’d her arms and hands get frozen in the air like that?” Joe said. “Poor woman looked like she was doing the ‘Thriller’ dance.”

  “Rigor mortis does some weird stuff,” Copeland said, but Joe could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Copeland swallowed, massaged the base of his throat. “Could I trouble you for some milk, Mrs. Crawford?”

  “We’re all out,” Michelle said. “Unless you want some of my breast milk.”

  “I don’t think our relationship is at that stage yet.”

  “I meant from a bottle.”

  “I still don’t think we’re there.”

  “How about water?”

  “I can make do with that,” he said, looking crestfallen. “It ain’t the same as milk, but it’ll do.”

  Joe gave him a wry look. “You’re pretty particular for a guest eating someone else’s cookies.”

  “I spent the day with two dead people. I think I’m entitled to a few amenities, don’t you?”

  Joe couldn’t argue with that.

  Michelle came back with the water, placed the glass in front of the big cop. Sitting down next to Joe, she said, “So what’s the plan now?”

  “I’ve been thinkin’ about that,” Copeland said after gulping half the glass. “I think it’s time to take a proactive approach.”

  Joe watched him. “You mean spend your time solving the murders?”

  “No, asshead, I mean preventing others.”

  Joe exchanged a glance with his wife. She looked like she was about to speak, but Copeland went on. “There were enough ominous events before today to make me think bad times were coming. But slaughtering two old people in cold blood—”

  “Two good people,” Joe added.

  “I don’t know I’d go as far as that.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean? Harold and Sadie were—”

  “Sadie was a neat old gal,” Copeland broke in. “I’ll grant you that much.”

  Joe paused. “What is it you’re not telling us, Darrell?”

  Copeland leaned back, munching another peanut-shaped cookie. “Well, hell. I guess I’ve told you too much to hold back now, Joe. You look at me with those puppy dog eyes, and I can’t keep secrets from you.”

  Michelle said, “You two want some time alone?”

  “We went through Harold’s things,” Copeland said, “and we found some interesting stuff. It turns out Harold had a different kind of life before he met Sadie…kind you’d never have expected just by lookin’ at him.”

  Something tickled at Joe’s memory, but he couldn’t quite grab hold of it, drag it into the light.

  “When you were out there the other day with Sadie,” Copeland said, “did she say anything about an Antonia Baxter?”

  Joe drummed his fingers. “As a matter of fact, she did.”

  “And you didn’t tell me about it because…?”

  “I guess I thought it was ancient history.”

  “How ’bout you fill me in now?”

  So Joe did. Copeland and Michelle listened with what looked like mingled dread and consternation as Joe recounted the tale of the red-haired woman who incinerated her kids before burning herself alive. More than once Copeland or Michelle interrupted him by asking why he hadn’t mentioned it to them. Joe didn’t have a good answer because he didn’t know himself. Maybe he’d been so creeped out by it all that he didn’t want to think about it any more than he had to.

  When Joe finished, Copeland sighed and said, “Well, that certainly fills in a lot of blanks.”

  “Like what?” Joe asked.

  “Like why Sadie hated Antonia so much.”

  Joe shrugged. “I don’t see how that answers anything.”

  Copeland said, “How ’bout we let your better half answer that one?”

  “How would she know?”


  In a distant voice, Michelle said, “Harold Hawkins was Sharon Waltz’s grandfather.”

  “Bingo,” Copeland said.

  Joe stared at her. “How the hell did you know that?”

  “There’s a lot I know that you don’t.”

  “Like where you’ve been going when Lily’s home with a sitter?”

  Michelle didn’t answer, but she didn’t look displeased either. Joe stared at her, waiting, but Copeland was going on.

  “So I propose a change in our approach. I’ve been feeling like that little Dutch boy, one that put his finger in the dike?”

  “If either of you turns that into a joke,” Michelle said, “I’ll kick you in the nuts.”

  Copeland continued, “See, I’ve been like that boy, only instead of plugging one hole and then plugging up the next one that springs open, I’ve been staring up at that dam and just hoping and praying it doesn’t give way.”

  “I guess the dam broke today,” Michelle said.

  Copeland shook his head grimly. “That wasn’t the dam, Mrs. Crawford. It was a mighty big leak—that I’ll admit. But it wasn’t the dam. No, what’s coming is gonna make what happened today look like nothing. Unless we put a stop to it.”

  Joe sat forward. “What’s on your mind?”

  “We find someone to tail and let him lead us to the killers.”

  “Makes sense,” Joe agreed.

  “There’s only one issue,” Copeland said.

  “And that is?”

  “We don’t have anybody to tail.”

  “Sharon?” Michelle asked.

  “She’s a candidate,” Copeland allowed. “But she’s got too much sense to let herself be followed.”

  Michelle looked incredulous. “Sharon Waltz has the brain of a mentally challenged squirrel.”

  “I’m not talking about brains,” Copeland said. “I’m talking about jungle instincts. Radar. A woman that nasty, she’s gonna expect others to act as horribly as she does.”

  “You’ve got a point,” Joe said.

  “I know I do,” Copeland said. “What we need is somebody who doesn’t expect to be followed. Someone a lot dumber than Sharon. Or at least with less-developed survival instincts.”

  “I know who,” Joe said.

  Copeland and Michelle looked at him.

  “Kevin Gentry.”

  “I thought he was just a pervert,” Copeland said.

  “So did I,” Joe answered. “At first. But when I fired him, he said some stuff that has me reconsidering my assessment.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  Joe told them. When he’d recounted all he could remember, he said, “So I figure we tail Gentry until he takes us to more of them.”

  Michelle looked at Joe. “Shouldn’t you let Darrell take care of this?”

  “Not if he lets me be a part of it.”

  Michelle glanced at Copeland, but his expression was impassive. She said, “Why take any chances, Joe?”

  “Because I’ve been feeling the same way Darrell has. Only I haven’t been standing under a dam, I’ve been out on my lawn watching a violent storm approach. I’ve been trying to protect you and Lily, but the storm just keeps getting closer and closer.”

  “We’re fine, Joe. No one’s going to come near us.”

  “Someone already has.”

  Her face darkened with fear. “What do you mean?”

  And Joe told her about the corn dolly in Sadie’s woods, told her all about how he’d found Belle’s dress gone from Lily’s room and the same dress on that accursed cornhusk doll. Michelle’s eyes grew more and more frightened, and though Joe hated himself for it, he decided to make it sound just as bad as it was.

  “Oh my God,” she said when he’d finished.

  “So the storm’s already been here,” Joe said.

  Copeland shifted uneasily. “I think you can drop that whole storm metaphor, Joe. You’ve got the missus good and scared.”

  “And that’s why,” Joe went on, “you and Lily are going to stay with your parents in Indy for the next several days.”

  Michelle folded her arms. “We’re not leaving.”

  “I hate to sound like one of those guys who expects his woman to behave like the hired help, but I’m sorry, honey—yes, you are.”

  Michelle’s nostrils flared. “Where the hell do you get off—”

  “Where I get off is I’m the one who loves you and who loves Lily and who doesn’t want either of you to get hurt. I can’t do anything about this if I’ve gotta constantly worry about something happening to my two favorite people.”

  Michelle looked slightly mollified, but her frown told him there was still work to be done.

  He said, “Darrell and I’ve got a good plan, but we’re outnumbered. Even with his officers, it’s at least, what? Thirty ghouls to five sane people?”

  “Where do you get thirty?” Michelle asked. “There’s Sharon, the guys from the bridge, whoever murdered Sadie and—”

  “There were thirty or so at the funeral,” Joe said, “and I’m going to assume that every one of them is a psychotic cult member.”

  Copeland said, “Would that include your current employers?”

  Joe’s stare was level. “The jury’s still out on the Martins. I think they’re all right, but Bridget’s starting to worry me a little.”

  “Why you say that?”

  “Because,” Michelle cut in, “she’s been flashing her nude breasts at my husband.”

  Copeland glared at him. “Hey, why haven’t I heard about this? That’s some juicy stuff, Joe.” When he saw Michelle’s look, he added, “Sorry, Mrs. Crawford.”

  Joe put his hand over his wife’s. “I’m asking you respectfully, honey, I’m not telling you. But will you please go to Indy? So I’ll know you and Lily are safe?”

  Michelle exhaled pent-up air. “I suppose so. But only for a few days.”

  “A week?” Joe asked.

  “Don’t push it.”

  Joe lowered his head in surrender.

  “Hot damn,” Copeland said. “I finally feel okay about life.”

  Michelle gave him a rueful look. “Why, because you’ve eaten half a bag of cookies?”

  “Uh-uh,” Copeland answered. “It’s because I don’t feel aimless anymore.” He looked at Joe. “Six A.M. good for you?”

  “Better make it seven,” Joe said. “Gentry’s a late riser.”

  Copeland left soon after that, and Joe followed Michelle toward their bedroom. But before he went in he decided he better check in on Lily. He moved up the steps fearing he’d smell ashes, but he made it all the way into her room without smelling anything other than the normal odors. Baby powder and a vague tinge of urine from her nighttime diaper.

  Standing over her crib, he thought about their plan, such as it was, and wondered if they were doing the right thing. Surely Michelle and Lily would be safe in Indianapolis, wouldn’t they? Surely the members of Sharon’s cult wouldn’t follow Michelle’s car all the way down to the big city.

  Uneasily, Joe peered down at his daughter. She was evidently dreaming, her little eyeballs twitching under closed lids. He longed to comfort her, but if he touched her now, he might wake her all the way up, and then it could be hours getting her back to sleep again.

  He’d crept halfway to the door when she suddenly sat bolt upright in her crib and said, “Daddy?”

  He came back to her, cursing his inability to move stealthily. He hadn’t thought he’d been loud, but apparently the noise he’d made had been enough to rouse her from whatever scary dream realm she’d been inhabiting.

  He put on a smile. “Hey, sweetie. You okay?”

  In the light from the hallway he saw her face crumple, her eyes gleaming with tears. “They were hurting me, Daddy!”

  Her words took
his breath away. He wrapped her up and lifted her out of the crib. “Shhhh,” he said. “You’re safe, sweetie. You’re safe.”

  She sobbed into his shoulder and gibbered about bad people and scary faces and someone hurting her, and though her words imbued Joe with a dread so profound it made his bones ache, he concentrated on soothing her, on being strong enough to thwart her terror. “It’s okay, sweetie. You’re safe. We’re safe. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

  It took a while, but after perhaps twenty minutes of carrying her around the room and whispering calming words, her body resumed its drowsy, boneless state. He lowered her into her crib and told her how much he loved her. He told her she was safe. He hovered over her crib, caressing her and speaking to her, until she was soundly asleep.

  “You’re safe,” he whispered as he moved through the doorway and started down the stairs. “We’re safe.”

  He wished he believed it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A quarter mile down from Kevin Gentry’s gray modular home, Joe and Copeland sat in Copeland’s white Acura sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups.

  Joe grimaced. “How the hell you drink this swill, Darrell? This is so bad I bet the prisoners complain.”

  Copeland sipped his cup. “I don’t pay much attention to the taste.”

  “I gathered. It’s like vinegar and motor oil.”

  Copeland ignored that. “I just like the caffeine rush. In fact, I think I’d die without it. Or at least be like one of those movie zombies for the better part of the morning.”

  “You have something against zombies?”

  “Oh that’s right. I forgot. You like that gory bullshit. Probably watch that TV show too. One with the crossbow guy, squints all the time?”

  “Not all of us can read Nicholas Sparks novels and have a good cry every day.”

  “Keep talking, I’ll come over there and show you a good cry.”

  Joe grinned and sipped his swill. Man, it really did taste awful.

  At length, Joe asked, “So what happens when we follow Gentry and find one of his confederates?”

  “This ain’t the Civil War.”