by Rachel Caine
Watching the sick parade of trolls and their dark, inventive ways to hurt her . . . I’d like to say that it surprises me. It doesn’t, exactly. It feels all too horribly familiar.
By the time we’re halfway through, I’m numb to most of it. I’m sure that’s her default these days. We agree to cherry-pick the worst offenders and take them in tomorrow to Norton PD; at the very least, Kezia Claremont will be on our side, and Detective Prester, while not the warmest man I’ve ever met, is fair. He feels a little sympathy for Gwen’s situation, and that counts. We should make best efforts to have law enforcement watching our backs right now.
Our little community at Stillhouse Lake doesn’t have its own police force, except informally in that Kezia Claremont moved into the neighborhood up the hill and across the lake from us, not far from her dad’s place. Ezekiel—Easy, to his friends—Claremont is a charming, feisty old guy who needs the help, though he still insists he doesn’t. I stop in every other day or so, have a beer with him down on his jury-rigged and likely illegal deck, pick up things he needs. He’s been up on this hill for a long time, no doubt resented by all his rich, white neighbors until the economy tanked, and most of them moved away. We came in after that . . . Gwen, to rehab a trashed house and make it her own. Me, to watch her and prove she wasn’t what she said she was.
Except I was wrong. Gwen is exactly what she appears to be. She is one of the most fierce, honest women I’ve ever met. That wasn’t a simple adjustment to make, realizing that, but once I did it, I felt . . . free. Like the rage that had possessed me for so long had lifted.
It scares me to think it might not have left . . . just circled. Maybe all that anger I let loose in the world is still out there, and headed straight back for us.
In the morning, we head for the police.
Norton’s a typical southern small town a few miles from Stillhouse Lake, and it’s clinging to the edges of an economic hope and prayer. The boarded-up stores tell a story. So do the potholes in the roads. Nobody fools themselves into thinking this town’s got a bright future, but they’re grimly determined to make it work. I personally like Norton; I like the preservation of the buildings, even if they’re standing empty. It’s a place that has some style, even if Gwen often thinks of it as a lost cause. She tends to see the darker side. I try to look for the light, or at least, I’ve been making it a mission lately.
The police headquarters hasn’t been substantially remodeled since the eighties, and it’s due for it, but at least the parking is generous. When we walk in, we immediately get the look from the woman behind the desk, or rather, Gwen does: blank and suspicious. It isn’t that Gwen’s a stranger. It’s that she’s Gwen, and the woman on the other side of that desk knows all about her past.
I lean in and interrupt the staring contest. “Hi. We’re here to talk to either Detective Prester or Detective Claremont.”
The woman shifts her stare to me. It warms slightly. “And may I say why?”
“It’s confidential,” I say, and give her a smile. It seems to work. She picks up the phone and dials. Gwen looks at me and rolls her eyes. I shrug. Not everything needs to be a dramatic face-off, particularly not with people we’re actively trying to recruit as allies.
In about a minute, Kezia opens the door between the counter and the rest of the police station, and waves us through. She’s a polished young African American woman who’s lately taken to wearing her hair in a thick, natural Afro around her head, and it looks proudly spectacular, especially out here in the sticks. The individuality of hairstyle contrasts sharply with the conventional tan pantsuit she wears; it almost conceals the shoulder holster. Her badge flashes on her hip as she turns, and I hold the door for Gwen as she follows Kez into the detective area.
It isn’t impressive—not surprising, considering the size of Norton. But as in all small, rural towns, this one’s battling drug cooking, addiction, and the associated crimes. It doesn’t prepare her for the discussion we’re about to have.
“I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.” Kezia gestures us to the worn chairs on the far side of her desk. “About the snake?”
Gwen sighs. “Not entirely. You saw the Howie Hamlin Show.”
“Yeah,” Kezia says. “They kneecapped you live on air. I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
“This documentary they were talking about . . .” Kezia leans back for a moment, considering. “They’ll be coming here. You get that, right? They’ll want town footage, local interest, probably talk to some of the locals who aren’t your biggest fans. And there’s nothing we can really do about that. You might go to the city and try to get some kind of injunction, but I doubt it’ll work.”
“Yeah, we didn’t come about that,” I say when Gwen doesn’t answer.
“I have news about the snake, though. We found a fingerprint, matched it to Jesse Belldene. Jesse’s one of those hillbillies I told you about, good at catching all sorts of critters. The problem is, Jesse says he didn’t do it, and a single fingerprint doesn’t get us where we need to be to charge him even for criminal mischief.” Kezia shakes her head. “The Belldenes are a nasty bunch, and it looks like they’ve taken a dislike to you. Any reason why . . . ?”
Gwen says she doesn’t know. I don’t immediately answer, because . . . I think I do. And I think it’s my own fault.
I clear my throat. Both of them look at me. It feels like two spotlights hitting me at once. “Belldene,” I say. “This Jesse. Does he happen to come to the shooting range much?”
“He did once,” Kezia says. “Then he got banned. He came in drunk a couple of weeks ago, and someone on the range took his gun away and laid him out flat when he tried to get it back. He didn’t file charges, but I heard they had to fix some teeth. Why?”
I slowly raise my hand. “I’m the one who slammed him face-first into the counter,” I tell her. “He was acting crazy and unsafe. Javier was up front or he’d have handled that better. I guess Jesse holds a grudge.”
“Wait,” Gwen says. “You mean . . . it wasn’t about me?”
I raise my eyebrows. I don’t remind her that not everything is. She gets the point, and puts a hand to her mouth to cover what I think might be a laugh. I’d told her about the incident when it happened, but when the mountain man—Belldene—had bolted out of the shooting range, I’d never gotten his name. And I didn’t know I’d broken his teeth.
Kezia must have caught the relief from Gwen, because she says, “Well, I wouldn’t get too comfortable, Sam. The Belldenes sure love to mess with people. I don’t expect this will be the last you hear from them.”
“Anything you can do about them?”
She shakes her head. “Catch them in the act. You’ve got surveillance, right?”
“Of the house, not the mailbox.”
“Point a camera that way, is my advice. If they mess with it, at least we’ll have evidence.”
I like that a lot better. But it doesn’t solve the immediate problem. “Thanks for that, but . . . it isn’t why we came. We came about the threats. You think the Belldenes might be behind those too?”
Kezia sits forward again. “Hit me.”
Gwen takes the folder out and slides it across. Kezia flips open the folder, and her instant focus is on the photoshopped picture. She studies it for a moment, then deliberately turns to the next page. That’s a death threat against Gwen for being Melvin’s partner. It’s long, and it dwells way too much on how they plan to exact justice.
The next accuses both me and Gwen of being some kind of fakes carrying out a government conspiracy to convince the public that serial killers are real. It threatens to kill the kids (also actors, apparently) if we don’t come forward and confess about the government’s secret agenda—which they then go into great detail about, including rants about the secret cabal of the ultrarich and the chips in our debit cards. That one is full-on unhinged, and clearly the work of someone with serious mental issues.
There are a lot of threats th
at Gwen’s gathered, and Kezia studies each one in silence before she closes the folder. “Wow,” she says. It seems like an understatement. “How long a period is this?”
“I just took the last weeks’ worth,” Gwen says. “I expect it’ll ramp up now that the Hamlin segment is available on the internet for people to pass around. That always cranks the crazy up several notches.”
“Uh-huh,” she agrees, and leans back. “So. I can put in for warrants and traces on these IPs, but you know how it is: not a lot of chance they’re doing it from an open account that’s easy to find, and if we do get them, there won’t be much in the way of charges. If there are charges, there probably won’t be a trial. So in the end . . .”
“Costs a shitload, is a ton of time and money to investigate, and probably doesn’t do any good,” I say. “So your advice is . . . wait until one of them shoots one of us in the head and there’s a real crime to investigate.”
“I didn’t say that,” Kezia says, and I recognize that she’s broken out her professionally soothing voice now. I must have sounded like I was taking it personally or something. “Look, I’ll do it. I’ll follow up. I’ll order more patrols around the lake for a while. But the fact is, none of this looks like the work of locals, especially the Belldenes.”
“So nothing’s going to happen to stop it,” I say. “We spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders. The kids grow up living in fear.”
“Sam . . . ,” she starts, but I’m not having it.
“No, Kez, don’t pour sugar on a pile of shit and call it breakfast. You’re leaving Gwen and the kids unprotected when people clearly want them dead.”
“Blunt question, then: What do you want me to do about it? Twenty-four-hour guards? Bring in the FBI? They’ve got a division that specializes in internet threats, but they’re 24/7/365 busy at it with a staff of probably less than a thousand people for the whole country, so those kids are gonna be grown by the time you get their attention. I’m trying to help. I’m also being honest. Lord knows, laws haven’t kept up with threats. But I’m a law officer. I can only do what the law allows.”
I’m angry. I hadn’t expected to be, but I wanted more out of this. Gwen, on the other hand, seems to be the one keeping her cool this time.
“Sam,” Gwen says, “she’s being practical. I didn’t expect anything different. And you know how brave the internet makes some people, at least when they’re behind a screen.”
She meets my gaze, and I look away. I used to be one of those anonymous angry people, typing rage at her through the vague haze of the web. We’ve never discussed any of it in detail, never identified specific screen names or threats or anything else I might have done during that dark, dark period. It’s easier to get past it when we don’t break open the scars. “Anyway. Thanks for your time, Kez. Really, I just wanted to make you aware of the situation so you can be prepared when something comes up.” When, not if. I note the sentence construction.
Kezia flips back to the first photograph, the one where Gwen and the children are perforated with fake gunshot wounds. “This one concerns me,” she says. “More than the others.”
“Why that one?” I ask. There are other photoshops in the packet. Many are worse.
“It’s different. Doesn’t waste time on ideology or fantasy.” She cocks her head and studies it closer. Picks it up and frowns down at the image. “Look, most of these assholes will draw a ton of wounds, right? The bloodier the better. It’s designed to shock and scare. But this one?” She turns the photo toward us. “What do you see?”
We’re both quiet for a few seconds. I finally say, “Kill shots.”
“Right,” she says. “Head and chest. Head and chest. Head and chest. And if you look at where the shots are located, they’re very nearly instant kills. Someone knows their stuff. I’m going to worry about that.”
“So am I,” I say.
Because there are very few things more dangerous than a sniper who knows what he’s doing.
“She’s probably right,” I say on the drive back. “They’re just desk warriors. But I want to reach out to Mike and send him the image just in case he’s seen anything similar, or can find something. I’d really like to know if this guy’s for real or just another shithead with a keyboard.”
Gwen’s not a desk warrior at all; she’s survived worse than most people can imagine. I’m not afraid of a fight either. But strength and courage aren’t a defense against a sniper bullet.
“Check with Javier at the gun range,” Gwen says, and the next second I’m kicking myself for not thinking of it first. “Snipers have to practice, right? Maybe he knows somebody local who’s putting in the time?”
“I’ll go now,” I say. “Drop me off at the truck. I should probably check a couple of job sites too.”
“Will you be back for dinner?”
“Depends. Is it meat loaf?” It’s a running joke right now; for whatever reason, Connor’s decided he can’t get enough meat loaf, and it seems he asks for it at every other meal. Gwen tries not to indulge him too much. But the kids have been through so much, a little excessive serving of meat loaf seems like a small price to buy some happiness.
“Not tonight,” Gwen says.
“Then I’ll be there.”
I lean over to give her a kiss before I slide out when she stops the SUV; it turns long, and sweet, and I start reconsidering going out to the range. But then I remember that every second I don’t track this down could put her in more danger.
So I go.
My truck’s seen hard use bouncing over country roads, but it’s a real workhorse, and I love it . . . except when I get calls. Between the engine noise and the clatter, it’s a bad connection waiting to happen.
I don’t recognize the number that lights up my cell as I climb the hill toward the gun-range parking lot, but I recognize the area code. Washington, DC. I answer and raise my voice to be heard over the engine noise. “Yeah?”
“Changed my number,” says Mike Lustig. “Thanks for picking up, my man. Jesus, what are you driving, an F-15?”
“Beat-up Chevy,” I tell him. “Sounds about the same, right?”
“What? I. Can’t. Hear. You.” He overly enunciates all of it, but he’s just yanking my chain.
“Then you won’t hear me calling you an asshole who hasn’t been in touch,” I tell him. “How long has it been?”
“According to my call log? Four months, give or take.”
“My point exactly. Some friend you are.”
“Settle your pasty self down, I had an undercover assignment. You’d have liked it, I got to learn how to print money.”
“New retirement plan?”
“Way things are going around here, might just be,” he says. “Government service is never exactly fun, but it’s a special flavor of shit now.”
“Preacher says this too shall pass.”
“We got very different preachers.”
“So . . . you called? You just bored?”
“No,” Mike says. He sounds less light now. “Gwen just couldn’t keep her damn self off the news, could she? You realize what all that means now. Creepy crawlies coming out of the woodwork again for her, you, the kids. Damn, all she had to do was keep her head down.”
“You got any idea how much the press was on her? She needed to get in front of it and try to put it to rest.”
“And how’d that work out?” He pauses for a few seconds. “Miranda goddamn Tidewell was on there. Did you see her?”
“No.” I’m glad I didn’t. I haven’t looked at the YouTube footage either. I can’t.
“You don’t need me to tell you that you need to stay the hell away from that, right?”
“I don’t, in fact. But thanks for thinking I’m a first-class idiot.”
“Coach class,” Mike says. “No way your cheap flyboy ass pays for an upgrade.”
“Fuck off, my taxes pay your cushy government salary. Bet you don’t hear that often enough.”
H
e has a low voice, and a lower laugh; it vibrates the phone speaker. “Man, you can really channel your inner white boy sometimes. Listen, serious for a second: this thing you got with Gwen . . .”
“Don’t. Don’t start it.”
“Sam, it ain’t gonna go well. You have to know that. Sooner or later somebody’s getting hurt. Probably her. And we both know why, don’t we?”
By this time I’ve arrived at the gun range. I get out of the truck. I’m silent for a little while, leaning against the rough concrete blocks of the building. The parking lot’s crowded, but there’s nobody outside, just me and the frogs croaking somewhere in the trees. “Yeah, I know,” I say. “I hear you. But right now, she’s in trouble. I can’t just . . . go.”
“Gwen Proctor’s a survivor.”
“You think I’m not?”
“I think you used to be, until you let your guard down.” Mike hesitates for a few seconds, then sighs. “Listen, I gave somebody your number. Take the call, okay? It’s important.”
“The hell are you getting me into?”
“Nothing you can’t handle,” he says. “Be safe, Sam. I still care. Why, I’ll never know.”
“That’s sweet, but I’m still turning you in for counterfeiting. What’s that, a solid twenty in the federal lockup?”
“See, now you’re just being mean.” He hangs up. I replace his old number with the new one, and I stay where I am for another long moment. He’s right. Bad times are coming between me and Gwen; Miranda’s reappearance ensures that. And I really do need to consider what that can mean. But not now. The longer I can avoid that particular problem, the better.
I go inside and ask Javier if he’s seen anyone suspicious. It doesn’t make me feel better that he hasn’t. Too many targets on our backs, and not a damn thing I can do about any of them. The range is packed right now, not a single lane space open, so I just hang out. I like Javier. He’s a retired marine, still young, and he’s got that gravity that makes people pay attention when he talks, no matter how quietly. He can defuse tension on the range just by walking in; whatever disputes people are having, they generally vanish the second he appears.
