by Wayne Tripp
“I’d love to, Kat, but it’s impossible tonight.” He tried really hard not to look at her, but he caught her disappointed sigh, and his gaze naturally drifted her way, and stayed. Kat O’Hara was lovely, plain and simple. She stood there less than three feet in front of him, with a questioning look on her pretty face and her bare arms crossed behind her back as though she were a perp in custody. Her innocently seductive pose suddenly sparked a guilty image of another face belonging to a very reluctant captive. Shit. “Rain check?”
“Yeah, Mr. lover-boy here has a hot after- school date with his Latino lover. I can make it though, Kat, my sweet. Be there with bells on my toes.”
“Lacey’s only part Latina. Besides, it’s not a date keeping me away. I’m not seeing Lacey tonight.” It seemed strangely important to Jamie that he make sure Kat knew that. “Actually, she’s a little pissed at me because of that. I will come see you, Kat. Just not tonight. Sorry. I’d really like to hear you sing.”
“That’s all right. The weekend maybe? Bring Miss Rodriguez along if you like. Oops–where’d the time go? I’d really better go get into my uniform.” Kat turned to go, her large eyes filled with disappointment.
As she turned, Jamie noticed what she’d worn into the station. Soft brown high-heeled boots, a flounced granny skirt and some sort of ribbon thing in pink and white lace. He thought she looked really hot. In fact, if he could’ve gotten rid of White on a donut run or something, if he wasn't already in a relationship, he'd be tempted to chase her round the squad room. He fantasized throwing her down on the desk and devouring her right there. Somehow he sensed, she wouldn’t have minded.
“Hey, so Kat. I’ll see you tonight at the pub,” said White.
“T-that’s great. We go on around nine.”
“Maybe you can sit on my lap and sing me a lullaby?”
“In your dreams, Larry. In your dreams.”
* * * *
Barnes and Costa ambushed MacLeod when he walked out of the squad room seconds later. They whisked their buddy into the men’s’ room and let him in on their discovery.
“Hey MacLeod, have we got some Intel for you! While you two was screwing around out at Lost Hope, Barnes and I did a little top-notch police work ourselves and checked up on this new partner of yours. By the way, you get any? I know you’re seeing that school teacher and all, but O’Hara’s one hot babe in spite of what we found.”
“No, Eddie, I didn’t get any. We talked. Try it sometime. Preferably with your wife. Kat’s nice. A real decent lady and fellow officer. I treated her as such. Now, what’s so important?”
“Well, aren’t we high and mighty all of a sudden? Your “lady” there has her own deep dark secret. Did you two “converse” about that? I’d watch my back if I was you, MacLeod. That kid she’s so proud of, always talking about?” Costa smirked, spraying sour spittle across the room. “Well, he died two years back. In New York. She was a bit heavier then. Probably left over from her pregnancy, no doubt. MacLeod, she rolled over on the kid. Smothered the little shit. He was under a year old at the time.”
“No! Damn–that sucks. And you two assholes think what–it was her fault? They blamed her? What a thing to have to live with. Damn, that really blows!”
“MacLeod! The bitch killed her kid. He’s dead, jerk-off. Only O’Hara don’t seem to know it! I’m telling you, you’re working with a nut case!”
Chapter 8
At the same time that MacLeod was lying about his night with Lacey, she was dealing with the cold reality of being a teacher stuck in a small New England town who’d just shown up for class with reddened eyes. Within minutes of her entrance, the entire school knew. When the questions began, she’d tried to be creative, still fighting back the occasional sprinkle. Actually, all she really wanted was to avoid talking about it completely. She ended up claiming she'd just learned a favorite aunt down in North Carolina was dying. Nobody really believed her; the rumors flying about were much more popular. Only Eric Standish came near the truth; he fingered Officer Macleod from the get-go for upsetting her. He'd never liked the cop. Miss Rodriguez was way too good for him.
After the first hour of buzzing rumors, Lacey figured she’d survive the day. One or two of her female friends had actually shown real concern. She suspected that at least Julie Parker or Alice Barnes had pieced together the truth. She hoped the redness under her eyes and persistent tears would be gone by nightfall. This wasn’t at all like Jamie. She couldn't believe he'd lied to her; had seemed in a hurry to get out of her presence. Normally he was so gentle and honest. So loving and considerate. She remembered a time late in the summer when she’d been standing on the school playground with the other teachers. A woman from the office, Mrs. Costa she thought, had approached the chaperoning trio of teachers with a big bouquet of red roses. As all the students gathered around babbling, the other teachers’ mouths working in blatant jealousy, she’d realized the flowers were for her, from him. Her James. No one had ever done that for her before. She melted, her happy tears streaming unchecked down her burning cheeks. She’d been embarrassed, but so thrilled. He loved her. The wild and passionate love they’d made that night had proved it. What happened? Was he growing bored? When had he started to drift away? He’d never hurt her like this before. He had to know she'd find out. He'd seemed so loving and eager to please her at first, but then he'd acted like he couldn't get away from her fast enough. Was he tired of her? W-was it over? God, more tears. She was such a cry-baby! Was it after she’d confessed to falling in love with him; was he so opposed to any commitment that he felt compelled to put her off? What did you expect, you silly goose? He’s never actually said he loves you. Men today shy away from any permanent attachment. He is a really hot looking stud–he could get any woman he wanted–not just some mousey four-eyed school teacher. Face it girl, you can come across as a pretty timid frump. Jamie probably thinks of you as nothing more than a good lay. Maybe, he doesn’t even think you’re that. More tears stung her eyes; she made an excuse, fled to the ladies room, knowing new rumors would follow her down the hall. She didn’t care. Worse than her red, puffy eyes and torrents of tears was the internal damage. Her breaking heart. To make matters worse, there’d been the call from her snooty mother back in Charleston. Jessica Devonshire–mom had reverted to her maiden name; couldn’t stand to think that some of her friends might think of her as that Puerto Rican woman, even though she had no problem living off poor dead daddy’s money. Mom couldn’t understand why a woman with Lacey’s intelligence was wasting her time with somebody who didn’t make six figures. Self- defensive words like kind, thoughtful, or romantic just didn’t cut it with mom. In fact if she could see her daughter now, she’d probably rocket out of her expensive lawn furniture, choking and sputtering on her Southern Comfort as she staggered across her immaculate lawn. She might even kick one of the peacocks, or yell at the pool boy. She’d screech into her Blackberry what a complete idiot Lacey was. Then she’d dial up the paramedics–they’d have to be buff and cute, of course–to come patch her broken heart. Lacey was such a disappointing daughter. Lacey knew there was no point in trying to explain to mom that she’d fallen hard. She was completely, hopelessly, in love with James MacLeod. The man who didn’t care; or if he did, just didn’t care that much. She locked the Teachers’ lounge door and found a dark corner in which to have a good cry.
Miss Rodriguez didn’t return to class for a good three-quarters of an hour.
* * * *
After the last bell, Lacey gathered up her belongings and met Julie Parker for a ride home. The two teachers were walking down the corridor that led to the faculty parking lot when Principal Sweetling caught up to them. The large man creeped out Lacey. Whenever she noticed him looking at her, he always seemed to be undressing her with his small piggish eyes.
“Miss Rodriguez. A word please, before you go,” he commanded, coming to an
abrupt halt well within Lacey’s personal space. “I’m sure Ms. Parker will wait for you in the parking lot. Won’t you, Julie?” Towering over Lacey, the intimidating man began tapping one of his large oxblood wingtips and whistling his usual off-key nonsense.
“Of course, Principal Sweetling. I’d be happy to.” Julie flashed a knowing smirk at her friend, and disappeared down the hall toward freedom. Principal Sweetling continued his annoying whistling until he saw her disappear through the door, and then abruptly turned on his apprehensive underling.
“Miss Rodriguez, I notice you seem to have sustained some sort of . . . emotional breakdown. I must say you’ve caused quite the uproar among the students and faculty today. What you do on your personal time is none of my concern…except, when it affects the school environment and your abilities to perform your duties. I have a report that you left your classroom unattended and disappeared into the Teachers’ lounge for an hour! Is this true, Miss Rodriguez?”
“Y-yes sir. I’m sorry, Mr. Sweetling. It won’t happen again.” Lacey felt her knees grow weak and her stomach churn. Her face felt on fire, her skin slick with sweat. Not that she felt shame or apologetic–it really was none of Sweetling’s damned business–but he was so creepy. Moving closer to her, she saw his beady eyes looking down at her breasts, and it made her feel like she had spiders skittering all over her skin. Twice she narrowly avoided his hands when he reached out to hold hers. He settled for plunking one massive paw on her shoulder and leaning in closer to deliver his final warning. The stench of his expensive cologne was smothering.
“See that it doesn’t. Some of the rumors circulating make one wonder if you're a good role-model for our children. That’s all. You can go, Miss Rodriguez.” He thumped his beefy mitt down on her shoulder, bruising her soft flesh. As he dropped his arm and turned away, Lacey could have sworn his fat fingertips grazed her chest. She wanted to slap and kick him, shriek at him in her grandmother’s tongue and tell him what a complete asshole he was. Instead, she turned on her heel and scurried toward the parking lot, a little of her stifled anger bleeding out through the loud staccato tapping of her heels.
Chapter 9
Eric Standish leaned back in his battered old chair and admired his handiwork. The latest little additions he’d added to the classic plastic model really brought the monster to life. The flexible fins, translucent teeth, and especially the eyes, made the Creature from the Black Lagoon suddenly pulsate with disturbing realism. Pushing his plastic glasses up his slick nose, Eric allowed himself a satisfied grin. He didn’t want to brag, but he was getting really good. Maybe a career after college working for one of the better FX teams wasn’t so far-fetched after all. At least at thirteen and a half, he had a little time to think about it and plan.
Putting his model on the shelf amidst the nest of other monsters, Eric swiveled, rose out of his chair, and walked toward the apartment’s kitchen, taking a quick look out the window at the lousy weather. The howling wind rattled the window frame like a frustrated predator trying to force its way in. His sister, Abby, should be home from watching Officer O’Hara’s kid in a few minutes unless the town cop was held up by the nasty weather. It was pouring out there, another one of those miserable icy nights. Pretty soon, Abby would whiz down here, wolf down her supper, grab her homework and then rocket back up to watch the O’Hara kid again while his mommy went out to do her Celtic thing. Sad. It’d be almost laughable if it wasn’t so damned pitiful that Kat pretended her dead son was still alive. Well, it was all right with him if she wanted to forget. It brought her comfort and Abby and him some extra cash. Since Mom and Dad died on Break Neck Road last June, they needed all the money they could get just to get by. Miss O’Hara was pretty nice for a crazy lady. She never called him a geek or anything. Besides, she was really nice to look at. He shot a quick glance at his little shrine to his favorite teacher. “Not as pretty as you, babe.”
He got the Mac and Cheese going on the stovetop, and then threw two hefty burgers in a skillet. He returned to his room, sitting at his battered work desk, totally unconcerned about burning their supper. He could watch the stovetop easily from his doorway eight feet away. The miracles of cooking had long since become tediously blah.
Eric slouched in his chair, giving it a slow turn with his gangly legs, drinking in all the details of his private Shangri-La. It was a fairly typical teenage boy’s lair, especially one not gifted with a jock's genes. Crammed with books, DVDs and toys from a fairly solitary childhood. Action figures and toy soldiers marched across his shelves, off to do battle with the cluster of plastic monsters lurking in the corner. An old TV nestled next to a Close and Play; crowding his HO trains and an unused baseball glove. Chaotically strewn geek’s clothes, his artist’s tools and his new camera completed his inventory of possessions. Unless you counted the shrine to his favorite teacher, Miss Rodriguez. Drawings and curling photos paid homage to her beauty. Every kid his age had a teacher crush. His was just a little stronger.
* * * *
He couldn’t believe she’d been offended by his drawing. She’d found it scrunched up in her bag when she went hunting for a hankie or something. She’d obviously been crying. He’d never seen her with mussed-up eye-make up before. It made her look like a sad raccoon. That bastard MacLeod. She wasn’t really upset about the drawing; it was the lousy cop. Eric thought he’d caught a pretty good likeness of her lovely face. He couldn’t believe it when she’d asked him to stay behind for a little talk. Once the last bell had rung, she’d actually crossed the classroom and pushed her door further open. What did she think he would do? He idolized her. He’d never do anything to hurt her. He loved her. Ever since she’d started teaching at Constance Paine and he’d discovered the existence of the opposite sex, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. He day-dreamed about her, fell asleep nightly fantasizing that she’d grant his wish. Closing his eyes and allowing the fantasy to flow, he could see her standing before the class in that flowery print dress he liked. She’d call him up in front of all the kids, and reaching upwards–he was already a little taller than her–place one of her slender hands on each of his shoulders, draw him down towards heaven. Offer him a kiss. After all, she kissed that police officer. Eric had the photo to prove it. One little bitty kiss, that was all he wanted. He scrunched his eyes up behind his glasses, trying to visualize the passion-drenched moment in every detail. She drew him down, closer, puckering her full lips. Stop! He needed to admit she’d probably never kiss him. He probably creeped her out. Look at her reaction to his drawing.
That wasn’t exactly fair. Miss Rodriguez had never actually said anything bad about it. In fact, she’d actually been quite nice, saying how she didn’t think she was that pretty, adding he was quite talented with perhaps a remarkable future in art, and finally, almost reluctantly, that she didn’t think she was an appropriate subject for his talent and would he please stop. He’d agreed. How could he not? She was so beautiful. He thought there was still hope. Maybe one day he would get that kiss. After all, Miss Rodriguez was no prude–he thought that was the word–he’d seen her kissing Officer MacLeod and he'd wrapped both his hands around her waist, massaging her bum. No wonder they called cops pigs. She’d looked nervously around, never noticing Eric. He was well hidden. Then she’d just blushed and smiled at her boyfriend; but she’d never slapped his hand away. Yes, definitely, there might be a kiss in Eric’s future.
Chapter 10
Armed with a mug of Captain Morgan’s and a good book, Jamie had just settled into his favorite chair for a dull evening of dozing and drowning his stress. He was hoping to avoid dealing with the Lacey problem, at least for the night. Although quick to admit he cared for the teacher a lot, he was unsure he was ready to make a life-long commitment. His attraction to Kat was a prime example. Initially a sexual attraction, he wondered if it might develop into an emotional attachment as well. Then there were t
he secrets he’d kept from Lacey; if she suddenly knew them, she’d probably drop him like a scalding brick. Lacey was a beautiful, sweet, intelligent woman–she deserved far better than he could ever hope to offer her. He’d miss her. Shit, he missed her already. Gulping a hearty swallow, he put his rum down and sat up, listening to the heavy rain hammering on his roof. Moon was pretty bright tonight. Of course! Shaking his head, he’d just slouched back in his chair and reopened his book when his cell rang. Lacey. Instinctively moving to answer, he stopped himself, deciding to ignore her call. He was exhausted; they were getting nowhere tracking down this serial killer. He just didn’t want to deal with it, deal with her now. Two Chapters into his book about local pirates, his cell chirped at him. She was text messaging him. Killing the beep, he glanced at her message. Would he call her? It was important. She needed to talk to him. See him. Please. She sounded desperate. He didn’t like desperate clingy women; it made him feel trapped. As if he didn’t care.
When his cell rang the third time, he closed his book. Persistent, wasn’t she. He swilled the last of his rum, and decided he’d risk going out after all. Feeling bad about dodging Lacey, he decided he needed a change. Moons had a bad habit of ducking behind clouds—he wasn't going to take a chance endangering her. But he'd risk going to the bar, give himself a break. Giving himself the injection he'd forgotten the night before. How could he have been so stupid? Well, it was too late now; he wouldn't risk her safety again. There should be no problem in the bar—nobody he really cared about enough to stir things up. He pocketed the phone, and went in search of his car keys. Elusive as ever, he’d walked through six rooms of his 18th century waterfront home before he found them. Headed for the door, he ignored the framed marine paintings in his living room, the tattered original rattlesnake flag hanging in his den next to his collection of well-used swords. However, he did glance at the small locked door beneath the stairs that led down to a secret chamber and hell beyond. As he raced for his Escape, he prayed he’d never need to open it. Five minutes later, he was on the road to Grim Island’s harbor.
