Painted Skins

by Matt Hilton

  The disgraced marine had been released two days prior to Jasmine Reed’s disappearance, and the coincidence was too much to ignore, considering Hopewell had since turned up in his hometown for nefarious purposes. Had he somehow contacted her and placed the fear of God in her concerning his imminent return? Did he feel he had unfinished business with his once foster-sister, a debt he now wanted to cash in now that the truth about his nature was out?

  She found two photographs of Hopewell online. One where he stood proudly in his dress uniform, clean cut and happy, the other from a newspaper reporting on his arrest where he was dishevelled and sullen. From the brief glimpse she had of him as he’d driven away from outside the autoshop, she was sure he was one and the same. But for full confirmation, she printed the photos with the idea of showing them to Mrs Ridgeway. Sadly her shopkeeper neighbour had called it a day, as she recalled.

  As she stood in her living room, staring down at the images in her hand, the power went out.

  There was no flicker of warning, no dimming of the overhead lights she’d turned on against the gloom. Her computer screen went blank. The background hum of machinery in her kitchen ceased, not that she was immediately aware because of the constant drumming of rain and the rattle and moan of the wind through the eaves.

  Tess stood with her mouth open. Listening. Caught out by the loss of a basic necessity to modern life. Thankfully it wasn’t full dark, so she hadn’t been plunged into momentary incomprehension. But she was still grasped by indecision.

  The storm was to be blamed for the loss of power.

  Had to be.

  She went to her window, peering out through the blinds at the buildings on the opposite side of the street. They had power; she saw lights burning behind various windows. So the problem wasn’t to do with the grid, but her house. The shop downstairs was on the same electricity supply, but both the shop and her private quarters had separate breaker boxes and meters. Hers was in a closet in the hall. Had the rain found its way inside, shorting a wire and tripping a fuse? She was about to go check when her gaze was drawn back to the street. A rain-washed figure stood on the sidewalk below her window, staring up at her.

  The instant she saw him, he turned quickly and walked away.

  He’d been wearing a ball cap pulled low on his head, a padded anorak with the collar up, and a scarf wrapped around his lower face. The rain was battering down, obscuring everything. By all rights she shouldn’t have recognized him, but she was under no illusion whatsoever. The violent would-be rapist, and disgraced military officer, Calvin Hopewell was right outside.

  Her first instinct was to ring the police, but she didn’t reach for her phone. She leaned closer to the window, plotting his direction, but already Hopewell was out of sight, and again she was under no illusion. He’d gone round the side of the building, alongside the small yard servicing the shop downstairs. Tess rushed across the living room, through the small vestibule, and into her bedroom. She leaned against the window, peering out. Droplets the size of bird eggs pummelled the glass, washed out the scene below, but she caught a flicker of movement, low down alongside the back of her house.

  Steps led up the side of her building to her front door, but fire-safety regulations dictated that a fire escape must be provided from the rear. Tess rarely checked the fire escape, had never used it. Hopewell was down at the base of the ladder, assessing it as an entry route to her home!

  The power cut took on a more sinister possibility. Had he cut the mains where they fed from the junction box to the house? What was his intention: to stop her calling for assistance? Didn’t he know that a landline telephone worked whether the power was on or off? And hadn’t he heard of cellphones?

  She should call the police immediately.

  But she didn’t. She went directly to her bedroom closet and pulled down a sturdy lock box from the top shelf. She dabbed her grandfather’s birthdate on the keypad, and pulled open the lid.

  Inside the box was her grandfather’s old NYPD service revolver from when he was a patrolman, plus spare ammunition. Although she was familiar with the Ruger .38 Service Six, she fumbled it, her fingers shaking with anxiety as she fed the shiny brass shells into the six chambers. The gun was licensed for home defence, and if ever there was a time to put it to use, it was now.

  Her damaged wrist ached, more likely psychosomatic than actual pain. But her grip on the butt was firm, and her index finger held steady alongside the trigger guard. The last time she’d fired the gun she hadn’t felt at ease pulling the trigger, but hopefully her aversion to shooting was behind her now. Not that she intended killing Hopewell, just using the gun to hold him under arrest until the police arrived: but if she had to …

  She returned to the window. The storm still thwarted her view, the rain cascading heavier than ever. She listened, and could hear the metallic thrum of rain impacting the escape ladder, but no indication anyone was climbing it. So Hopewell had assessed but given up on the fire escape? The only other ways into her house were via her front steps or the narrow stairwell within the building at the rear of the antiques shop: the doors at top and bottom were kept locked to ensure her and Mrs Ridgeway’s privacy, but the locks were cheap and the doors flimsy, psychological barriers at most. She padded through to her living room, checked out the front window but there was no sign of her stalker. She approached the main door, listened, the revolver held ready by her side.

  There was too much noise to distinguish the creak and rattle of the stairs from footfalls. She went back to her work station and snatched up her cell.

  There was a text from Po:

  BACK SOON

  Not soon enough, she thought and tapped in a reply:

  NEED YOU NOW

  Again she thought about summoning the police, but they’d respond on lights and sirens, alerting Hopewell, and he’d flee. That should be the best option, but the man was up to no good, and she wanted to find out what he wanted from her and why. If he were arrested and taken away he’d be charged for car theft and for the assault on John Trojak, but she’d never learn his reason for being back in Portland so soon after Jasmine went missing.

  She’d been a Sheriff’s deputy, and was used to dealing with dangerous individuals, but she could not forget that Hopewell, for all he’d been disgraced and drummed unceremoniously out of the military, was a trained marine: he might not prove the easiest man she’d ever arrested. Show caution, she reminded herself, not fear. He’s only a man, and the gun in your hand makes the difference – unless he’d armed himself appropriately.

  Where the hell was Po?

  She had to occasionally remind him that she didn’t require his constant protection, but there were times when she preferred he was there, even if in his usual silent capacity. Now was one of those times.

  ‘It’s down to you, girl,’ she whispered under her breath. But the caution she’d so recently counselled pinged a warning.

  She hit Alex’s number even as she again returned to the door and stood close enough that she’d spot any movement through the frosted glass, but would stay hidden from observation.

  ‘Whassup, sis?’

  ‘Alex,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t want you to go overboard on this, but the guy from last night is back.’

  ‘The one who burnt the car and …’ His voice had risen an octave.

  ‘Calvin Hopewell,’ she said, realizing she hadn’t yet shared her discovery with anyone but Margaret Norris. ‘I just spotted him outside my house. Alex, I think he’s trying to find a way in.’

  ‘What? Who’s there with you now?’

  ‘I’m alone.’

  ‘Where’s Po?’ His usual passive criticism of Po’s relationship with his sister was suddenly replaced by anger because Po wasn’t around when he was goddamn needed.

  ‘On his way back,’ Tess assured him, ‘but I don’t know how long he’ll be.’

  ‘Forget him. I’m on my way,’ said Alex, but with no hint of where he was travelling from.

  �
��Stealth mode, please,’ said Tess. ‘We don’t want to frighten Hopewell off.’

  ‘Keep your doors locked, and your phone on,’ Alex huffed out, and she realized he was running to reach his patrol car.

  Tess laid her phone aside on a nearby table, the line still open to Alex. Obeying one out of two of his instructions wasn’t bad. With her revolver held ready, she undid the lock and teased open the door. Immediately icy drops of sleet spattered her, and her face pinched against the assault. She forced her eyes to remain open, as she scanned first the stairs, then the ground to the rear of the landing. There was no sign of Hopewell: had she only imagined the movement near the fire escape? Had he sloped off once he’d realized she’d spotted him out of the window? She had to make sure. She grabbed her coat and pulled into it, juggling the revolver but reluctant to put it aside while she dressed. She thought she heard Alex’s voice from her phone, but didn’t catch what he was saying. ‘I can’t see him at the moment,’ she said loud enough for her voice to carry to the phone, ‘I’m going to take a look around.’

  Alex’s voice squawked caution, but Tess had already ducked outside again, her gun held up, ready for anything. The wind slammed her, buffeted her side to side. She steadied her feet on the slick boards of the landing, and peered around, again checking the space behind her, but was unable to determine if her stalker had taken shelter beneath the steps. There was only one way to do so, and it meant going down. She dashed moisture from her face, squinting as wet leaves swirled around her like wasps disturbed from their nest.

  About halfway down, she reversed on the steps, now checking through the gaps between the risers, watching for movement in the gloom in the recess beneath. Her breath caught, but only for an instant, because she recognized the flutter of cloth as from a tarp she’d placed over some garden furniture stored beneath the stairs. On quieter, sunny days during summer she occasionally grabbed one of the lawn chairs and sat out at the top of her drive, usually with a good book or her earphones on as she listened to the songs downloaded to her iPhone. This year, and despite the heat of the last few weeks, she’d never pulled out any of the furniture, too busy for lounging around. As she reached the ground, she made a quick sweep of the drive, before edging round the bottom of the steps. Hopewell could be crouching behind the stack of furniture. A brief check assured her he wasn’t.

  Come out, come out wherever you are, she thought, and took a quick peek around the back of the house. The deluge had turned the short strip of lawn to mud, from which stood brittle sun-blanched strands of grass, now fouled with the dirt splashing up. There were fresh footprints in the muck, but of the man who left them there was no trace. Tess tried to make sense of where he’d gone from the tracks, but they were overlaid too many times to make any sense of: Hopewell had paced back and forward as he surveyed the back of the house, seeking ingress, but then headed away. She glanced down near her own feet, but there was no hint of muddy footprints there, so he must have returned the way he’d come, round by the service yard.

  ‘Let him go,’ she advised herself.

  But she ignored good sense, and went along the rear of the building. At ground level the windows had been blocked from within, Mrs Ridgeway not wishing to offer a sneak thief a view of the goods she stored in the back rooms. The service yard was small, little more than a storage area for the trash cans until they were pushed to the kerbside on collection days. Along one side was a six-foot wooden fence, which didn’t offer any security but blocked the view of the junk for those in the next building along. At each end was a gate, but neither was regularly locked. The nearest was open, and Tess couldn’t swear if she closed it last time she dumped her trash, or even if the wind had rattled loose the catch. A single but indistinct footprint marred the ground inside the yard, almost obliterated by the teeming rain.

  So Hopewell had retreated back through the yard after checking out the ladder? The far gate looked shut, but her stalker could easily have closed it behind him as he left. She glanced down at the muddy print, now barely visible on the poured concrete that was awash with water sluicing off the ground to the rear. How long ago had Hopewell gone through the yard? Fifteen or twenty seconds at most. Which meant he could still be out front or …

  Tess spun around, expecting the man to come on her from behind the wooden fence. He didn’t, but she was no less alarmed. She’d left her door open when she’d come downstairs. Hopewell could have easily made his way around the front, waited until she’d gone off on her ill-advised search of the back of the building then slipped up and inside her home.

  She ran along the rear of the house and headed for the stairs, her teeth mashing her lips at her stupidity as she tried to see up to where her door stood ajar.

  She was distracted for barely a second, but it was all it took.

  From the alcove beneath the stairs, a figure lurched at her, and the impact of a palm against the side of her neck almost knocked her down.

  The son of a bitch had gone round the front of the house, but he couldn’t be sure that he’d make it inside in time to surprise her, so had hidden in a place she’d already checked for intruders! The thought flashed through Tess’s mind, even as she fought to catch her balance on the slick ground. The figure bore into her, two hands about her, grasping her neck, and she was lifted from her feet. Stunned, she forgot about the gun in her hand, and instead, clawed and clubbed at her attacker. His charge took her a few yards on to the hard stand where she’d parked her Prius, and her spine took the brunt of the collision with the hood of her car. What little air was left in her lungs exploded in a wheeze of pain.

  The next few seconds were a scrabble of panic and confusion that seemed an eternity. Her attacker forced his weight on top of her, and one of the hands clutching her neck was released to range over her body, between her legs even. The hand snaked up under her coat and pushed under her shirt, fingers digging into the flesh of her abdomen. What in God’s name was in the maniac’s mind? Was he going to try to rape her right there over the hood of her car?

  But then the hand was gone from her flesh and bunched in her hair.

  Tess realized her eyes were screwed shut.

  She forced them open as a hot wash of sour breath bathed her, and set her off blinking again. The sleet tapped her eyelashes and forehead, and she shouldn’t have been aware of the tiny sensations while her entire being was under assault.

  Tess pushed out at the face hovering inches from hers.

  A voice grunted a surly command, but the words were lost on her. Not that she’d ever succumb to obeying him.

  ‘Get the hell off me or I swear to God I’ll—’

  Sudden realization that she still held on to her grandfather’s Ruger changed her from squirming victim.

  She forced the barrel up and jammed it into the soft flesh beneath her attacker’s chin.

  ‘Do you know what that is, you sick son of a bitch?’ she snapped.

  The clutching hands released her and the figure moved backwards a few inches, as Tess forced the gun harder against his neck. His open hands lifted away from her, showing that he would be a good little would-be rapist now she’d taken back the power he’d had over her.

  Tess was still unbalanced, her butt on the hood of her car, but her feet elevated off the ground. She squirmed down the hood, her coat riding up her back, baring her against the chilly, wet metal. As her heels found the floor, she pushed up off the car, but was unsteady, and the barrel of her gun slipped from its target.

  ‘Hold it right there!’ she ordered as she sensed her captive tense for escape.

  He held his open palms out to the sides, bowing his head so she’d no clear view of his face between the peak of his cap and scarf. It didn’t matter if she got a good look at him: it was Cal Hopewell. She knew without question.

  ‘OK,’ she said, trying to force an officious edge to her tone. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them and turn around.’

  Hopewell ignored her.

  ‘If you don’t thin
k I’ll use this, you’re mistaken,’ Tess warned, with a wag of the gun barrel.

  ‘You’re not going to shoot an unarmed man,’ Hopewell replied, smug in the certainty he was correct.

  ‘An unarmed man who just tried to throttle me, and God knows what else!’ Tess settled her footing, held the gun an inch or so nearer to him. But she was also conscious of getting too close. Caught off guard, she knew a skilled fighter could disarm her before she got off a clean shot, and she trusted that an ex-marine had training in close-quarters combat.

  ‘You won’t kill me in cold blood,’ Hopewell replied and he took a step backwards, his hands still out to the sides.

  ‘One more move, you sick bastard!’

  Distantly a siren competed with the wind to be heard.

  Hopewell’s head snapped up.

  ‘Yes,’ Tess told him, ‘you hear right: I called the police. They’ll be here in seconds. Now do as I goddamn said and turn around.’

  ‘Shoot me, please,’ he said, as if he was requesting a coffee from a barista. ‘Go on. Do it.’ He curled his fingers, made a go-ahead gesture. ‘Otherwise I’m leaving.’

  ‘Stand there, goddamnit,’ Tess barked.

  Earlier, she’d asked Alex to come quietly, now all she wanted was the siren shrieking like a banshee and her brother running to assist in the capture, because Hopewell was right. She couldn’t shoot him in cold blood, and the smug bastard knew it. If she’d handcuffs or something else to secure him with she’d be in a better position, but just as she’d done moments earlier, Hopewell regained the power he’d momentarily lost. The gun no longer demanded fear from him.

  Alex, or another responding officer, was still a minute away. But another vehicle suddenly loomed out of the rain – a pickup truck, with the logo of Charley’s Autoshop. Two figures were indistinct behind the windshield.

  There was a shared instant when Tess and Hopewell glanced at the new arrivals, before their gazes snapped back.

  The balance of power had shifted again, and Hopewell knew it.

  He turned and fled, even as Po hurtled from the driving seat and charged up the drive towards Tess.