by C. A. Shives
A whip-thin man sat in the lobby, his legs crossed as he slouched against the hard plastic chair. Black hair fell over his brown eyes, which were crinkled from sunshine and cigarettes. His sardonic grin flashed nicotine stained teeth. He stood as Tucker and Herne approached, reaching to shake their hands. “I'm Matt Montgomery,” he said. “Foreman for Hayes Construction. Although now that Jason's dead, I guess it might not be Hayes Construction anymore.”
The second man in the room, a chubby redhead whose fair skin had been burned the color of a ripe apple, nodded as he twisted his hands. “First Gabe, and now Jason,” he said. “Tell me the truth, Chief. Are we next?”
“Don't forget,” Matt said before Tucker could speak, “Charlotte is missing, too.”
“Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.” The redhead paced the room, his jittery steps. To Herne, it looked as if every part of the man twitched. His eyelids. His fingers. His chubby belly. Twitch. Twitch. Twitch.
“That's Bill Fuller,” Matt said, nodding in the redhead's direction. “He's a little nervous.”
“A little nervous?” Bill said. “I'm freaked out. Someone's killing everyone who works for this company, and you and me are next on the list.”
Tucker raised his hands. “There's no evidence to suggest anyone is specifically targeting the employees of Hayes Construction,” Tucker said. “It might be just a coincidence. But it would help if you could tell us about anyone who might have had a grudge against the company.”
“Hell,” Matt spat. “Half the tree huggers in town had a beef with us. They were always shouting about preserving the land and shit. Some dickweed even chained himself to a tree when we were starting the Cloverfield development.”
“This is the first I've heard of it,” Tucker said. “You didn't call the station when it happened.”
Matt shrugged. “Why would I? That idiot was going to have to shit or eat at some point. And that's exactly what happened. We had record temps of 103 degrees that day, and by midafternoon he was gone. Probably sipping some pansy juice from a fancy coffee shop.”
“It's Bobby Flynn,” Bill said suddenly. “It's gotta be. Bobby or Eric.”
“Who’s Bobby Flynn?” Herne asked, as he leaned against the wall. He kept his tone casual, but he knew there would be something valuable in the answer to his question.
“We killed his daughter,” Bill gasped.
“Jesus, shut the fuck up,” Matt snarled. “We didn't kill his daughter. He just blamed us for the kid's death.” Matt looked at Tucker, his brown eyes hooded. “We built Flynn's house for him on Bradley Street. Lots of the job we hire subcontractors for, you know? Hayes was a small operation. The four of us—Jason, me, Gabe, and Bill—we'd do some of the smaller stuff ourselves. Pour concrete. Hang drywall. Paint. Lay floor. So we'd been using this company called Klingman Manor to make all the framework. They'd build the frame offsite, and then we'd haul it in and put it up. The frame basically holds the weight of the house, you know? So everything was fine, until a few months after the house was built, the frame just collapses. Whoosh. Down like a house of cards. And his little girl was inside. She was killed by a falling beam.”
“I remember that,” Tucker said. “It happened five years ago. A real tragedy. Flynn and his wife were divorced, and the daughter was staying with him for the weekend. She was only three years old. But as far as I recall, Flynn's complaint was with Klingman Manor. It was discovered that they were using substandard materials. He sued and won, I believe.”
“Yeah, he tried to sue us, too, but the judge threw our part of it out of court. Said that Klingman Manor was responsible alone, because we had every reason to have good faith in them or something. But one day he came in here all drunk. It was the end of the week, and we were all here getting our paychecks and talking about hitting the bars. Well, Flynn wanders in looking like something off the streets. He starts ranting and raving about how we were just as guilty as Klingman Manor and we were all gonna get our comeuppance someday.”
“You didn't call me that day either,” Tucker said with a scowl.
Matt grinned. “There were four of us. And even though that sorry bastard is big, he was drunk. We tossed him out and went on with our weekend.”
“Were you guilty?” Herne asked. “Did you know that Klingman Manor was using an inferior product?”
Matt's eyes flew open for a moment before he hid them in his sleepy gaze again. “Nah,” Matt said. “We'd been using them for years. Klingman Manor had hit some hard times and was cutting corners. We didn't know it.”
“Who's Eric?” Herne asked. “Bill mentioned someone named Eric.”
“Eric Barber. He used to work here,” Bill chattered. His fingers twitched as he paced the room. “He was another guy on the job. But after everything happened with the Flynn house, Jason needed someone to be the fall guy. Eric was the one who handled most of the framework, so he got canned.”
“How did Eric respond to that?” Herne asked.
“He was pissed,” Bill said. “Really pissed. We all went to high school together. We've known each other a long time. Eric felt that Jason was throwing him under the bus. Really giving him the shit end of the stick.”
“Has he made any threats?” Herne asked.
“He's always making threats,” Bill answered. “Every time he sees us around town he's always calling us assholes. He threw rocks when I was getting in my car at Windy Grove Grocery last month. Jesus. I had my kid with me. He could've hurt her.”
“After he got canned, Eric went off the deep end,” Matt said. “He's been on unemployment ever since. I don't think he's even looking for a job. He's too busy blaming us.” Matt checked his watch. “Look, I gotta blow. I got a job interview today. Now that Jason's gone, who knows what's going to happen with Hayes Construction? I got to find myself some work.”
After he left, Bill turned to Herne. “Is there any way you can have a cop watch my house?” Bill asked. “I'm worried this guy is going to come after me.”
“There's no justification for putting a man at your house,” Tucker said. “Use good sense, be careful, and watch your back.”
“Jesus,” Bill muttered as he walked out the door. “You cops are no help. You don’t care if someone kills me or not. I'm a dead man.”
“Think we should call the state boys?” Herne asked after Bill had left.
“No,” Tucker said. “This is Hurricane business. This is happening in my town, and everyone involved is local. Fuck that. I'm going to catch this bastard myself. Jason's wife inherited all of his assets, including Hayes Construction. She told me we could search this place from top to bottom if it would help catch her husband's killer. Johnson will be here shortly. I'm going to have him help me review all the files. Maybe we'll find something that will help us pinpoint the killer. Where the fuck are you going? Don't you think we should put our heads together?” Tucker asked as Herne stepped toward the door.
“My responsibility is to Charlotte,” Herne said.
“Bullshit, Art,” Tucker spat. “Charlotte and my wife may have been the catalyst that brought you on this case, but you've been sniffing around these murders. You can't resist this investigation any more than a high school kid can resist cheap pussy. Besides, you know that Charlotte's disappearance and these homicides are tied together. They have to be.”
“Probably,” Herne admitted. “And that's why I'm going to dig a little deeper into Bobby Flynn’s past. And I’m also going to talk to Eric Barber. Maybe he knows something about Charlotte. There's still a chance she's alive.”
“Do you really think so?” Tucker asked. “Jesus, Art, how naive can you be?”
Herne didn't reply. As he walked out the door, he felt the familiar twisting of his gut. In his mind all he saw was the bruised and battered body of his little sister, bloated from death on the bank of Schuylkill River. He wanted to believe that Charlotte was alive. Wanted to hope that she hadn't yet become a discarded corpse. But his past ate at his heart. A past that told only one truth.
Those who went missing were never seen alive again.
~ ~ ~ ~
Charlotte lay on the thin mattress. The coiled springs pressed into her back, sending fiery pain through her body wherever they touched her bruised flesh. She knew that her entire body must be a rainbow of black and blue and green and purple, her skin a mottled abstract painting of damaged tissue.
The air no longer smelled of urine. She’d finally succumbed to the needs of her bowels, and Trout had immediately noticed that the bucket had been fouled. He had carried it away without comment, bringing back a clean bucket in its place. It was the only sign of humanity she had seen in him.
She wept the tears that she wouldn't shed in front of him. Her cries were borne of frustration and anger and pain, and the sobs that shuddered her body only incensed her. The injustice of it—the unfairness—consumed her mind. She'd made mistakes in her life. She'd done some bad things. But she didn't deserve to be tortured.
Her tears dried and she rolled on her back, groaning as the hard springs rubbed against her tender shoulder. She didn't think about her husband. Or her lover. She thought about her dad. She’d heard his voice, and now she remembered why.
They'd been in the garden together. Her about five-years-old, hair in pigtails, feet bare. Him with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He attacked the weeds with his garden rake beneath the sweltering summer sun. She worked quietly and happily next to him. For her birthday that year they'd given her a real rake just like his. It was child-sized, but made of heavy metal. It was not a cheap plastic toy, but a real rake for real work. She'd been so proud.
And then, in the clumsy motions to which young children are prone, she'd stabbed through her toe with one of the rake tines. She'd screamed—the frightened wail of a hurt child—her screech bouncing through the hills that surrounded their country home. Her father had scooped her into his arms and ran for the garden hose, and cool, clear water rinsed away the dirt and blood that coated her foot. The rake tine had gouged deep into her flesh, and she could see the bone through the parted muscle of her toe. She screamed again and wept, writhing in her father's arms like a gasping fish that’s been tossed to shore.
“We're going to the hospital,” he said to her. “You're going to need stitches, and it's going to hurt. Now stop crying. Be strong. There's no dignity in crying, and it only makes you look weak. There's no honor in weakness.”
Through the haze of pain her immature mind didn't understand his words. But she understood their meaning. She sealed her lips tightly, choking down her small hitches of sobs until they subsided into nothing.
“Good girl,” he said as he carried her to the car. “Always act strong, even if that's not the way you feel. Don't ever let them see you cry.”
Now, in the cold basement, Charlotte gritted her teeth.
“You're not a damn quitter,” she said to herself. “You're not going to lay down and roll over like a dog for this sick bastard. You're going to get up and fight back, dammit.”
She used her arms to push herself up into a sitting position, wincing as the sharp edge of a mattress coil poked into her palm. Cursing, she examined her hand. A drop of blood spilled from the spot, slipping down her palm and painting one red dot on the dingy gray mattress. Charlotte touched the tip of the metal spring with her finger. It didn't feel particularly sharp.
But maybe I could make it sharper, she thought. The coil wasn't very thick. To Charlotte, it looked to be the same size as the stems of the roses her lover would sometimes lay across the bed. But as she pressed on the mattress, she realized the springs were very strong. And very hard.
Maybe, she thought. Maybe.
And for the first time in days, hope flared in her chest.
CHAPTER 15
NOVEMBER 8 - THURSDAY AFTERNOON
Herne sat behind Tucker's desk, his thick frame filling his friend's chair, sipping the vile coffee prepared by Sheila, the dispatcher. The remnants of his lunch—fried chicken, French fries, and fried hushpuppies—seemed to coat the air with grease. Herne rubbed his fingers across the denim of his jeans to clean them, even though he’d eaten his meal with a fork.
Since Herne had no official standing, he had asked Officer Miller to request Eric Barber’s presence at the police station. Now Barber sat across from Herne, his eyes downcast and his lips pressed together. Years of labor showed themselves on his body, taking the form of broad shoulders, muscular arms, and heavy legs. He's built like a tree, Herne thought. A big tree.
“Yeah, I had a beef with Jason,” Barber said. “I had every right to have a beef with him. He sold me out. That doesn't mean I killed him.”
“Weren't you the one responsible for dealings with Klingman Manor?”
“Of course not,” Barber said. “I wasn't a business man. I was just a grunt who worked his ass off for Hayes Construction. Maybe I found Klingman Manor. Maybe I recommended them to Jason. But I didn't have anything to do with the contracts or business dealings.”
“So why did Jason choose you as the fall guy?”
“Because he could,” Barber said. “I was a nobody. Those other guys were buddies. You know, real tight. I went to school with them, yeah, but I didn’t run with their crowd. So I was just another employee. And I was a laborer, too. Pretty easy to replace me if they wanted to. Of course, business slowed down after the Flynn house collapsed. So they didn't need to find themselves another guy.” Barber shrugged. “It's fine. It's over. I've moved on.”
“Bill said you threw a couple of rocks at him last month.”
Barber laughed. “Bullshit. Bill's a squirrelly, paranoid fellow. He's more dramatic than a woman. I was driving. I was in a hurry. I pulled out of the parking lot fast and kicked up some pebbles in his direction. That crazy bitch thought I was pitching stones.” Barber’s laughter boomed through the small room. “That idiot sure does whine like a girl.”
“Do you know Charlotte Allen?” Herne asked.
“Yeah, I know Charlotte,” Barber said. “She went to school with us. Worked for Jason. Pretty girl. Headstrong, too. More than once I saw her give some lip to Jason because she didn't like the way he was handling things. He wouldn't have taken that from any of us guys, but he took it from her because she was a sweet piece of ass.”
“You close to her?” Herne asked.
“Nope,” Barber said. “We'd say hello and stuff whenever we saw each other, but she was an office girl and I was a site worker. We didn't see each other much. And she didn't socialize with us. She was kind of standoffish, actually.”
A flurry of activity in the main room of the police station caught Herne's attention. Lori Sims from TV News 4 walked in with a cameraman. Officer Miller blocked their path, his feet spread solidly on the ground and his hands held up to prevent them from reaching Tucker's office.
Herne nodded to Barber. “Stay here,” he said as he left the office.
“Artemis Herne,” Lori called across the room. “Are you consulting on this case? There have been two deaths in Hurricane. What can you tell me about this?”
Miller moved his bulk aside as Herne stood in front of Lori. “We're keeping this under wraps,” he said. “No news for the press.”
“Give a girl a break,” she said, leaning close to his body. He felt her soft breast brush against his arm. “There are rumors flying around town, but everyone's keeping their lips sealed.” She batted her eyes and flashed a smile of even, white teeth. She stood so close that her blond hair, professionally styled, grazed his cheek.
She probably thinks she's being provocative, Herne thought. But she reeked of a desperation that overshadowed her flawless skin and full, red lips.
Herne knew that the press could be a friend or an enemy. As an ally, Lori Sims could help him shape and guide the perceptions of the public. She might even unwittingly help him trap the killer. He nodded his consent.
“Great,” Lori said. She grabbed her burly cameraman by the arm and positioned him in the doorway. The camera zoomed in on Herne's face as Lori s
hoved a microphone beneath his mouth.
“Artemis Herne,” she said. “What can you tell me about the recent deaths in Hurricane?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I'm not involved in a homicide investigation.”
Lori furrowed her brow, an expression not captured by the camera that remained focused on Herne. “Then why are you questioning suspects in the Chief of Police's office?”
“I'm investigating the disappearance of Charlotte Allen,” Herne said. “She went missing on November second.”
“Is her disappearance connected to the deaths?”
“We have no solid evidence to connect her disappearance with anything,” Herne said. “At this point, she is a missing person whom we are trying to find. Anyone with information about Charlotte's whereabouts should contact the Hurricane Police Department.”
“Do you think Charlotte was kidnapped?” Lori asked.
“Foul play is the most likely possibility,” Herne said. “She was a local resident with ties to the area. She had friends, family, and a church. She volunteered with area charities. Her car was found in the parking lot of Windy Grove Grocery. There's no evidence to suggest that she left town of her own volition.”
“Do you have hopes of finding her alive?” Lori asked.
“I don't investigate on the basis of hope,” Herne said, his voice a low growl. His gray eyes darkened as he looked into the camera lens. “I'm looking for Charlotte. And I'm going to find her. If there's anyone in this case who needs to hope, it's the man responsible for her disappearance. Right now, he should be hoping I won't find him.”
