by C. A. Shives
No, Pittman wasn't a smart man.
But nor was he stupid.
“Tammi rented the room,” Pittman said.
“Shit,” Tucker responded, blowing out a sigh of exasperation.
“She rented that room most days,” Pittman said. Once the words started flowing, he couldn't stop them. “Room 9 was her favorite. I kept it available for her. It's not like I'm ever completely booked here.”
“And what did she offer you in return?” Herne asked.
Pittman waved his hand. “A blowjob. A fuck. Whatever I wanted.” He glanced at Tucker. “I wasn't payin' her cash money or anything,” he said. “You can't get me for that.”
“Jesus, Pittman,” Tucker said. “You've got a fucking corpse in your hotel. Do you think I give a shit if you were getting your cock sucked by the town whore?”
Herne looked at Tucker. “Where can I find Tammi?” he asked.
“She spends a lot of time at Harold's Tavern,” Tucker said.
Pittman scrunched down in his office chair as the two men talked. He was glad to no longer be the focus of their attention. In fact, Pittman thought as he glanced at Herne, I'll be glad if I never get the attention of that scary bastard again.
CHAPTER 8
NOVEMBER 5 – MONDAY AFTERNOON
She knew it was daytime because of the hint of light that spilled through the crack in the black paint on the basement windows. But she wasn't sure exactly what day of the week it was. She wasn't certain how long she had been in Trout's basement. The bitter cold and constant darkness seemed to blur the time, so that the minutes felt like hours and the hours felt like days.
It seemed like she'd been his prisoner for an eternity.
No matter how long she'd been held captive, Charlotte knew one thing: she was isolated.
During her time in Trout's basement, she'd heard nothing. No voices. No cars. No barking dogs or cawing birds. Only empty silence surrounded her, and only empty silence responded to her screams for help.
Either this basement is soundproof, she thought, or he's got me someplace very, very private.
She clawed at the collar around her neck, tugging it away from her tender flesh, hating it with her entire soul. Every so often, she rattled the cable that kept her tied to the wall, shaking it with resentment and anger and impotence. She now understood why the ghosts in books and movies rattled their chains. It wasn't to scare their earthly hosts. The rattling was borne of frustration and torment.
Her body ached from the beating he had given her. She couldn't see the bruises in the dim light, but she could feel the tender spots on her flesh. Her legs felt as if she'd walked a thousand miles. They ached when she moved with a deep, heavy pain that seemed to sink down to her bones.
He'd only beaten her a few times. Just a few swats with the soap in the sock. Enough for her to feel his power. Enough for her to know who was in charge.
Charlotte fell back on the mattress, exhausted from both physical agony and emotional distress. She winced as the sharp edge of a metal spring stabbed the meat of her thigh. It was one more pain—one more torture—she couldn't avoid, and the injustice of it made anger squeeze her heart.
The basement door squeaked as it opened, and a click of the light switch illuminated the bare bulb on the ceiling. The heavy thud of his footsteps on the stairs filled her soul with dread, but she pushed away the emotion. Her heart thumped when she saw the splattered stain of brown blood crusting on his tee-shirt, but she said lightly, “I see someone's been keeping himself busy.”
“Well, you weren't the only one who treated me like shit in high school,” Trout said. “You aren't the only one who's getting a little payback.”
Charlotte examined her fingernails as if unconcerned about the anger in his voice. “Sometimes you're the windshield, sometimes you're the bug. That's the way the world works, buddy.”
Her stomach recoiled when a satisfied grin spread across his face. “That's right, bitch. And guess which one you're going to be today. Do you think you're going to be the windshield? Or the bug? I'll give you a hint.”
He pulled a sock from his pocket and dangled it in front of her face. Furious, Charlotte lunged for it. But the collar and cable stopped her forward motion, yanking her back as if the cable was a spring. He laughed.
“I'm glad to see you still have plenty of strength left,” he said. He pulled an apple from his pocket. “But you're probably hungry, right? I don't think I've fed you since yesterday.”
Like one of Pavlov's dogs, Charlotte's mouth salivated at the sight of the round, red fruit. Her stomach sank as she watched Trout slip the apple into the sock.
“Too bad,” he said. “Because I have a feeling that this apple is going to be too mushy and bruised to eat by the time we're through with it.”
Hunger and fatigue and fear had dimmed her senses. She didn't see the sock swinging toward her until it was too late. It felt like a rock smashing into her shoulder. She gasped and grabbed her body, too enveloped with pain to scream. Before she had a chance to catch her breath—before she could even think about what would happen next—she felt the searing pain again, a thunk of anger and bitterness and revenge that felt as if it might shatter her hip.
She slipped to the floor, the agony too searing for her to notice the cold, hard concrete against her bare flesh. She curled into the fetal position and sobbed, wondering how long he would continue to strike her.
As if hearing her unasked question, he responded, “As long as I want, bitch. I'm going to hurt you for as long as I want.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Pennsylvania had long ago passed a law forbidding smoking in a public place, but the air inside Harold's Tavern was thick with smoke and ash. Lynard Skynard played on the jukebox as Herne slid onto the bar stool, almost catching the denim fabric of his blue jeans on the splintered wood. The bartender, a middle-aged woman with breasts too large and perky to be anything but fake, sidled up to him. Her grin exposed nicotine stained teeth, one of them missing from the bottom of her mouth. Her long, red fingernails contrasted brightly against the white bar towel in her hand.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” she said. “I remember all the handsome fellows. So what can I get you?”
Herne grimaced, hating her automatic come-on. He knew there was nothing handsome about his shaved head, his crooked nose, or the bitterness that spilled from his gray eyes.
“Nothing,” he said through gritted teeth. Years before, bars like Harold's Tavern had been his home. His haven. After Maggie died, he drowned himself in booze, numbing his mind and his body until little was left of either. He climbed out of the hole eventually, but he knew it would take only one push—one little nudge—to send him careening back into the darkness.
The bartender frowned and shook her head, her brassy blond hair catching on the corner of her bright red lips. “Sorry, mister,” she said, all traces of flirtation gone. “You wanna rent space on that stool, you gotta pay for something.”
“Jack Daniels. Neat,” he said. I'll just buy it and leave it here, he thought. I won't touch it. I won't even sip it.
He tried to believe the lies he told himself.
Tammi Greene would have been easy to spot even if she weren't already a local celebrity with the starring role as Hurricane's only professional prostitute. She leaned against the jukebox, her black mini skirt so short that it almost showed her panties. The neon green shirt she wore was barely more than a bra—it covered her breasts, but exposed her shoulders and midsection, which was a little too plump to be perfect. Bright blue eyeshadow and pink lipstick decorated her face, and she wore the look of a woman who's been backed into a corner by life.
Herne picked up his drink and walked over to her. She saw him coming and tried to move away, but he pressed his weight against her body before she could escape. To any witnesses, he looked like another sap negotiating with a whore.
“I ain't talkin' to you,” Tammi said. “I know you're a cop. I've seen you around.”
> “I'm not a cop, Tammi,” Herne said. “I'm just a regular man. You've got some information I want, and we're gonna talk about it.”
Tammi shook her head. “No way. Ain't happening. I got nothin' to say. Now get the fuck off of me. I don't give away feels for free.”
Herne kept his body pressed against hers as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his silver money clip. “How much to talk?” he asked.
Tammi pressed her lips together, accentuating the fine lines that gathered around her mouth like carvings etched in flesh. “You can't pay me enough,” she said.
Herne pulled out a hundred dollar bill. He saw Tammi's eyebrow twitch.
“This is my final offer,” he said, pulling out another fifty dollars.
“You got a place where we can talk?” she asked.
Herne led her out of the tavern and into the parking lot. He opened the door of his truck for her and she giggled. “Been a long time since a man opened a door for me,” she said.
She climbed into the passenger seat, exposing a worn purple thong as her skirt rode up her thighs. But Herne barely noticed.
Like most of the belongings in Herne's life, the truck was old and worn. The threadbare seat sagged beneath his weight. He placed his hand on the steering wheel as if preparing to drive, a habitual motion he barely noticed.
“Tell me about it,” he said.
Tammi crossed her legs and her foot—clad in green high heeled shoes—jiggled rhythmically.
“I hate this shit,” she said. She bit her bottom lip with her nicotine-stained teeth. “When a girl starts talkin’, she’s likely to get herself killed. Or at least lose customers. My customers need to know they can trust me to keep my lips zipped.”
“You’re not ratting out a customer,” Herne said. “You’re helping me catch a killer.”
Tammi remained silent.
“You were there before Vanderbilt was killed,” Herne prompted.
“Yeah,” Tammi said. “Gabe was a weekly regular. He liked to get his rocks off on Sundays while the wifey and kids were at church. He paid good.”
“Did you always meet at The Keystone Motel?” Herne asked.
She nodded. “Darren kept the room open for me.”
“What happened on Sunday?”
“Well, I handcuffed Gabe to the bed, as usual, and started swatting at his little pecker.” She cast a glance sideways, her green eyes narrowed. “Do you want to hear all the dirty details?” she asked.
Herne shook his head. “I'll let you know what I want to hear. Just keep talking.”
“I had him blindfolded and tied up—it was his thing, you know? And then I felt a knife on the back of my neck.”
“Didn't you hear anyone enter the room?” Herne asked.
“Gabe liked heavy metal music and dirty talk,” Tammi replied. “I didn't hear anything.”
“What happened next?”
“The guy with the blade on my neck told me to get out and not look back. So I did.”
Herne leaned back in his seat, pressing his hands against the steering wheel. It wasn't much information. Barely more than a crumb. “What can you tell me about the guy?” he asked.
Tammi shook her head. “Nothin'. He told me not to look back. And when someone's got a knife on me, I ain’t askin’ questions.”
“Did you feel anything else?”
“Fuck no, mister,” she said. “Some dickweed had a blade against me. You think I’m worried about anything else other than saving my own skin?”
Herne sighed, exasperated. “Listen, Tammi,” he said. “I know you're scared. I know you're worried. And I know you're probably trying to forget what happened in that motel room. But I need you to close your eyes and think. Think hard. Did you smell anything? Feel anything? Sense anything? Did you catch any glimpse of the man at all? Just close your eyes and think.”
Tammi obeyed. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands in her lap, like a penitent Catholic schoolgirl who'd been sent to the principal for a missed homework assignment. It was probably a role she played many times while working.
The truck filled with silence. The scent of Tammi’s cheap perfume tickled Herne’s nose. Then her eyes snapped open.
“Peanut butter,” she said. “I smelled peanut butter.”
“Good,” Herne said. “What else?”
“I think I caught a glimpse of him as I ran by him. He was big. Not fat, but big. And his face was so white, like someone who never got out in the sun. I think his nose might have been big, too. Not crooked like yours. Just big. But I can't really remember.”
“Did you see his hair? Any tattoos or piercings?”
She shook her head. “That's it, and I'm not sure I'm right anyway. I was scared outta my fucking head. I didn't stop to take a picture.”
Herne pulled an old store receipt from his pocket and scribbled his phone number on the back of it. “If you remember anything else, you can call me here,” he said.
Tammi slipped the paper into her cleavage and opened the truck door. As she slid to the ground, Herne grabbed her arm.
“You got anywhere you can go?” he asked. “You're the only person who's seen Gabe's killer. You may want to go somewhere safe.”
She shook her head, her bleached blond hair spilling over her eyes. “I can't go into hiding,” she said. “I gotta work if I want to pay my bills. Thanks for the easy money tonight,” she said as she sashayed away.
Herne's mouth pressed into a grim line. He knew Tammi's money would be hard-earned if the killer decided that she had seen too much.
CHAPTER 9
NOVEMBER 6 - TUESDAY MORNING
Herne had spent the night staring at a bottle of whiskey, willing himself to resist the temptation of the acrid liquid. Sitting at his kitchen table, his thick fingers wrapped around an empty glass, he stared at the seal on the bottle. He awoke to find his head on the table and his hand still on the glass, but the seal remained unbroken.
He could feel the ache in his neck and shoulders, a reminder that his days of sleeping in awkward positions without consequence had passed. His Ford pickup bounced on the uneven road, sending shots of pain across his back.
Faith Montgomery lived on the outskirts of Hurricane. Her small farmhouse seemed to be merely a dot on the spacious countryside. Herne drove his truck down the long, gravel lane, noticing a small pumpkin patch in the front of the house.
The wooden house needed a fresh coat of paint and a new roof. Three chickens pecked in the front yard, and a duck waddled toward a small creek. Herne circumvented the animals and stepped on the cracked sidewalk. He found peace in the solitude of rural living. But he had lived in the city for many years, and farm animals were something he ate, not something he petted.
He stepped over a broken front porch board, worried the wood would crack beneath his weight. Not seeing a doorbell, he thumped on the screen door, which rattled and shook beneath his fist.
"Yes?" The woman who opened the door eyed him warily, her sturdy frame blocking his view of the interior of the house. She wore the clothing of a woman who knew a life of work: blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and brown muck boots.
"Mrs. Faith Montgomery?" he asked.
The woman nodded. Her long, brown hair had been tied in a tight bun on the back of her head, and small wisps of hair framed her round face.
“My name is Artemis Herne. I'm a police consultant with the Hurricane Police Department. I'm investigating the disappearance of Charlotte Allen."
Faith opened the door and took Herne's calloused hand into her own. "Glad to know someone's bothering to look for Charlotte," she said. "Someone else from the police—I think an Officer Miller—was here asking questions the day after Charlotte disappeared. But he didn't seem too interested in knowing much about Charlotte. And I haven't heard anything since. I've been worried about Charlotte. I've called Thad a few times, but he doesn't know anything either."
She led Herne into her living room and gestured for him to sit on the sofa. The worn,
floral couch had faded to gray in the sunlight, contrasting with the bright green throw pillows and the white lace curtains on the windows. The home smelled like a mix of peppermint candy and fresh hay.
"Would you like something to drink?" Faith asked. "Coffee? Lemonade? Hot tea?"
Whiskey, Herne thought. But he said, "No.”
She settled into a chair and leaned forward, her brown eyes wide and earnest. "So are you any closer to finding Charlotte?”
“We're making progress," Herne lied. "I understand you were her friend.”
"Her best friend," Faith said. "I've known Charlotte since we were kids. We were about five or six, I guess, when we first met. She stood by me through everything: my parents' divorce, my first boyfriend, my choice to live on a farm. And when my husband died last year, Charlotte was there for me. She's a good friend. Loyal."
Herne thought about Charlotte's husband and lover. He wondered if they considered her to be loyal.
“What was she like as a kid?”
Faith raised an eyebrow. “That's not the kind of question Officer Miller asked. He wanted to know when I last saw her. He asked how often we talked.”
Herne nodded. “Those are standard questions in a missing persons investigation,” he said. “But I want to know about Charlotte. I need to know what type of person she is if I'm going to find her.”
He didn't tell Faith that climbing inside the heart and soul of the victim was an integral part of his investigative techniques. He didn't explain that he needed to feel the victim's pain to understand the crime. He just waited for her to start talking again.
“She was strong,” Faith said. “A leader. Charlotte was the one who led the playground games. She was the one who gave everyone instructions. People looked to her for leadership, even when we were young. I never saw her back down from an argument or a fight. Not once.”
“Was she a fighter?” Herne asked.
