Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set

by Ellery A Kane

  “I figured,” she said with a grin. “Gene Simmons is my favorite. He’s so wild, ya know. Like he doesn’t care what anybody thinks of him.”

  “Cool.” I hoped I sounded distant. Smooth. But inside, my heart flip-flopped like a fish out of water. Gwen liked KISS? She’d obviously wandered straight out of one of my wet dreams. “I just bought an autographed Love Gun LP,” I bragged.

  “Awesome. I love that album. Maybe I could see it sometime.” I just shrugged, noncommittal. What she didn’t know—and wouldn’t ever—is that it hung above my bed at the Blue Bird.

  “Alright, well I got a spot for us down there.” Gwen pointed toward the small beach, where the mossy green lake met the shore. Then she dropped her hand to her side and linked it with mine as we walked. “I hope it’s okay that I invited Cherice and—”

  “Cherice?”

  “Cherice from Port in a Storm. From yesterday. We hang out sometimes. She’s twenty-one, so she can buy us alcohol. She doesn’t like to do it, but I can usually convince her.”

  “Oh, right. That Cherice.” The Cherice who’d seen me run out of a room full of kids like my pants were on fire. The Cherice who Gwen told me had grown up in an orphanage herself. The Cherice who’d probably seen right through me, recognizing me as one of her own.

  “And her new boyfriend, Matthias.”

  “Matthias,” I repeated, making a face. “Sounds biblical.”

  “Yeah, and don’t call him Matt or Matty. He hates that. Cherice says he’s kind of uptight about it. I guess some of the kids at school used to tease him or something.”

  “Got it. No Matt. No Matty. No Matthew.” I gave her a little joking salute. “Any other instructions, ma’am?”

  “One more thing.” She lowered her voice. “They don’t exactly know that my family is well-off. So can we keep that our little secret?”

  She didn’t wait for me to answer, just tugged me along, already waving to Cherice. I tried to hide my disappointment. I’d been hoping to have Gwen and her red bikini all to myself. But, seeing Cherice, splayed out on a towel and slathered in baby oil—her body curvier, more womanly than Gwen’s—I started to think I had died in that crash. And this, this place was heaven.

  ****

  Gwen was right. She’d easily twisted Cherice’s arm—C’mon, don’t be a stick in the mud. It’ll be fun—and the four of us were back at Grizzly Peak, sucking down Bacardi and sharing my pack of Marlboros on the hood of the ’Cuda. Even in the dark, Matthias’ secondhand pickup truck seemed pathetic parked beside it—a hunk of scrap metal—and I felt bad for him. His ride was lame, and he had to deal with all the guys side-eyeing him for dating a black girl. But, then again, he looked tougher than me with his white-blonde buzz cut and that iron-cross tattoo between his muscled shoulder blades. And the way Cherice ogled him, they’d definitely done it. Plus, he was the assistant manager at Barky’s Pet Store, whereas I had no plans beyond the Blue Bird. And Gwen. In less than seventy-two hours, she had become my plan. The shining star where I’d hitched my wagon.

  “So, Calder, a lot of the girls have a crush on you now,” Cherice said, snickering as she elbowed Gwen. “Since you rescued our little Evie yesterday.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a rescue.”

  “Well, she did. She told everybody you scared off a big, angry Doberman that had her cornered in the yard.”

  “She did? Uh, yeah. I guess. It was more like a Chihuahua though.” I felt satisfied imagining that asshole, Trey, as a tiny yapping dog I could’ve kicked across the yard if I’d wanted to.

  “That’s what I figured. Evie has a loose relationship with the truth. That’s why the other kids pick on her. Well, that and…”

  “And?” It wasn’t my business, but I liked that Cherice was talking to me. That she noticed me. She’d spent half the afternoon with her nose in a book and the other half dog-paddling in the lake with Matthias. And to be honest, I hoped Gwen would notice her noticing me.

  “I shouldn’t really be talking about this. I could get in trouble at Port in a Storm if anybody found out. They fired the last house manager for breaking confidentiality.”

  “My lips are sealed. Tight.” I heard the alcohol in my exaggerated whisper.

  Gwen kissed me, then, without warning, right there in front of them—sloppy and open-mouthed—like she was marking her territory. Maybe she was jealous. And she tasted amazing. Like rum and watermelon and a hint of smoke. “Did someone say lips?”

  “Get a room,” Matthias said, rolling his eyes in her direction.

  She rolled hers right back at him and kissed me again, harder this time. “Apparently, Matthias is kind of a prude.”

  I started to rib him—what guy in his right mind wouldn’t want Cherice all over him?—but he looked too serious for that. Besides, his eyes were set on Gwen. And now I was jealous.

  “And Gwen is kind of a…” He smirked at her, daring her to fill in the blank. And I took another swig to quell the heat in my chest while she draped her arm around my shoulder and fired back.

  “Bombshell? Stunner? Knockout? Goddess? What do you think, Calder?”

  All of the above. But I only nodded at her, feeling out of place. Like I’d stumbled into somebody else’s party.

  Mercifully, Cherice ignored them both. “Anyway, don’t say anything, okay? About Evie.” I nodded. Whatever Evie had been through I doubted it was any worse than anything else I’d heard. Than the things I’d lived through myself. “Her mom was a junkie and a prostitute. Evie found her dead with a needle in her arm. She sat with the body for a whole day in a motel room till somebody found them.”

  No wonder I’d felt like she needed protecting. Like we were kindred spirits somehow. “Jesus. Kids tease her about that?”

  “You know how kids are. They think it’s weird she didn’t go for help. Like she wanted her mom to die. They call her Evil Evie.”

  “Is she the one with the spooky green eyes?” Matthias asked Cherice, freakishly widening his own baby blues with his fingertips. “They were practically glowing at me from the porch the other day when I came to get you. If you ask me, the name suits her.”

  Cherice scowled. “That’s not nice. The poor girl literally has no friends. I think that’s why she’s always sneaking out. Besides, you know how I feel about name-calling, Fatty Matty. Stop being a jerk.”

  “Fatty Matty?” Gwen’s laugh—sudden and cruel—made Matthias’ face blaze red, but he said nothing. Just slunk away to his pickup, brooding and lighting another cigarette.

  With an over-it sigh, Cherice turned away from him. And Gwen. Back to me. I dug that more than I should have.

  “Fatty?” I mouthed, disbelieving. The guy was ripped.

  “He was a chubby kid, apparently.” She pointed me to the scar on her cheek. “Scarface. That’s what they used to call me.”

  “The Schnoz,” I said, tapping the nose I had my father to thank for. “Before I grew into it. At least I hope I did.”

  “You’re funny, Calder. I think your nose is—”

  “I’m bored,” Gwen whined, grabbing me by the hand and pulling me toward her. She silenced Cherice, her opinion of my nose destined to remain a mystery. “Let’s get out of here.” Gwen breathed the words into my ear, and you already know what that did to me.

  “Okay.” I was way too drunk to drive, and I had no clue where we’d go. Her parents were entertaining guests on the veranda. That’s how she put it. What the hell is a veranda? I wanted to ask. And my place? Completely out of the question. Gwendolyn Shaw would not set foot—or any other part—in the Blue Bird. Still, it was all small potatoes to me. Because I had my eyes on the prize, and I couldn’t tell her no.

  ****

  Gwen kneeled on the passenger seat as I drove, arms raised in the air, wind whipping across her face. “I’m not drunk enough,” she yelled.

  “Um…re
ally? Cause you had a lot of the—” I bit my tongue. I sounded like a goddamn camp counselor. I wanted her drunk, didn’t I? Hell yes, I did. Drunk girls are easy. That’s what Wade always said. And I believed him, because the farthest I’d ever gone with a girl—Jackie? Jill? Julie? with the red hair—she’d already downed half my beer and two of her own.

  “Do you think Cherice is pretty?” Her eyes were closed; she faced straight ahead, making it impossible to tell what she was thinking. Her hair flying behind her like the mane of a wild mustang. I’d wanted her to be jealous but that question wiped my brain clean. Totally clueless. The way I’d felt in continuation school when Mr. Whitecotton asked me to identify three major themes in To Kill a Mockingbird. The book had sat in my locker all weekend while I’d gone MIA from group home number two. “It’s okay if you do. I just wondered with her scar and all…”

  “Uh…she’s alright, I guess. Why’d you lie to her about your family being rich?”

  “Oh, you know how it is. Once people find out, that’s all they can think about you. That one thing. Like they already know everything about you.”

  “Right. You’re totally right. I hate that.” The hole I’d dug was halfway to China, so why stop now? “Did you tell them that I’m…that my family is…?”

  She grinned, sliding one hand along the ’Cuda’s smooth black paint while the other—God help me—rubbed my thigh. “I’m pretty sure they figured it out.”

  I would have said anything to keep her hand moving, true or untrue. To feel it rest on my knee, each of her fingertips points of heat. “You’re amazing, Gwen. Cherice has nothing on you.” True and untrue.

  “What about Matthias?” she asked.

  “What about him?” Her hand restless again, slipped under the hem of my board shorts. I gulped a breath, and she giggled.

  “Do you think he’s really into Cherice? They’re kind of a mismatch.”

  I shrugged, censoring the truth as I saw it. He’s into you. Because I was afraid she’d like it.

  “Pull over there.” She pointed to the all-night mini mart at the base of the Hills. “I’ve got a plan to get us drunker if you’re game.”

  I followed directions like a schoolboy, parking the ’Cuda in the empty lot, and letting the engine idle. The gray-haired cashier spotted us through the window, and Gwen waved to him. I tried to see her as he must. A carefree girl out for a ride with her boyfriend. Boyfriend! I could be Gwen’s boyfriend. I was definitely game.

  “Stay here.” I watched her walk to the door, hips swaying in her little cut-off jean shorts, the way a man would eye a tornado. Or a hurricane. Some kind of fearsome natural disaster that awes you and scares you shitless at the same time.

  When she returned, she held a pack of watermelon bubblegum—already opened—and flashed a cat-that-ate-the canary grin that left me weak in the knees. “He wouldn’t let you buy it?” I asked.

  She chewed quietly, saying nothing, until we were flying down the freeway, speed limit be damned. “I didn’t ask his permission.” I saw it then, in her purse. A bottle of Hennessy. Pilfered by the girl who looked like an angel and played the viola. I’d stolen before—under the cover of darkness, sneaking in through a broken window, jimmying a lock—but never like that. Blatant. Right in that old man’s face.

  What I could’ve said: “I’m not seventeen anymore. That means I could go to jail—real jail—for a stunt like this.”

  What I should’ve said: “It’s been great knowing you, Gwen. Have a nice life.”

  What I actually said: “Sweet.”

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  Evie

  January 14, 2017

  Saturday

  I circle the block again, waiting for a spot with a view of the police station. I can hardly stand the tightness in my chest, the grip of anticipation. But what am I expecting? The faceless man flanked by police, hands cuffed behind his back? The body—so much like Cassie’s—wheeled into the morgue? My thirteen-year-old self running past on her way to God knows where, scattering the memories of that night behind her like breadcrumbs? I finally concede there’s nothing to see here. I’m just delaying the inevitable. That being Detective Olivia Munroe and the questions I don’t want to answer. Another thing about my job—I’m always the one asking the questions. And that’s how I like it.

  I sit in the waiting room folding and unfolding the corner of Detective Munroe’s business card until it’s worn thin enough to tear and watching the minute hand slog around the face of a clock that looks about as old as I feel.

  “Evelyn Maddox?” My name comes out in a burst of breath, and she wipes beads of sweat from her forehead on the wrinkled sleeve of her shirt before she extends her hand and introduces herself. “Sorry to keep you waiting. It’s been one of those mornings.” I imagine her under the hanging tree, hunched over, examining the victim, the body small and broken. Combing the wet grass for clues. Skirting the media vultures circling outside. To get to me. The Hitchhiking Shrink. God knows what the officer already told her. No wonder she looks exhausted.

  I follow her down the hallway marked Special Victims Unit. That’s what I am. A special victim. Special in the worst way. Because I can’t censor myself, even when I should. “I think someone was murdered outside my office. This morning.” It feels necessary to specify, though there’s no way Detective Munroe could know about Cassie. “Do you think it could be connected to what happened to me last night?”

  She doesn’t answer, just directs me inside a nondescript office with no signs of life. “Sit,” she says, pulling out a yellow notepad that can’t possibly contain the entirety of my story. “I’ve reviewed the report from last night, but I’d like to hear it in your own words. Tell me what you remember.”

  What do I remember?

  What do I remember?

  I remember waking up in the last seat of a Greyhound bus—woozy—the morning after I’d turned thirteen. I’d stumbled to the bathroom, retching in the toilet, until the world stopped spinning. Then I’d stood to examine the sore spots on the backs of my thighs, scrapes chafed red from the bark of the hanging tree. My throat just as raw, like I’d spent the whole night screaming. Irrefutable proof it had happened. Cassie was…dead. But the rest of the night had slipped away like a dream. “Where are we going?” I’d asked the lady across the aisle, ignoring her irritated frown. She’d waved her ticket in my face. “Oh. Right. Los Angeles.”

  “Dr. Maddox? Are you with me?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m with you. I was just…”

  “I know how difficult this must be. Especially in your line of work. It’s tough to be on the other side, I’d imagine.” So she’d Googled me. Great.

  “I just feel so silly,” I say. “Hitchhiking, I mean. It’s certainly not one of my finer moments.” I hand her the same half-truths I gave the officer, hoping she’ll go easy on me. Feel sorry for me, at least. The pathetic doctor. The cautionary tale. She nods along through most of the story, listening like I would if the tables were turned.

  “So what’s your friend’s name? The one who dared you?”

  “Melanie Lee.” I came prepared. Melanie rents 23A, the business suite below mine—Melanie’s Massage—and she owes me one for lying to her husband the last time he came looking for her and her new boyfriend. “She can call you if you need to check out my story.”

  “Is she thirteen?” Detective Munroe pauses for a beat then chuckles, oblivious to my silent freak-out. Cassie’s bright smile, her dancing brown eyes—I’m thirteen going on thirty—mocking me from the day I’d met her at the Willow Court swimming pool, which was really just a giant concrete hole that served as a makeshift dumping ground and a spot to do the sorts of deeds you weren’t supposed to be doing. “I’m kidding. It just sounds like something a teenager would do. A double-dog dare, you know?”

  “Yeah, Melanie’s like that. A little unpredicta
ble. This is the kind of crazy thing that usually happens to her. I’m the normal one. But, we’ve been friends forever.” I almost laugh when I say it. I hardly know her.

  “We’ll call you as soon as we have any information, Dr. Maddox.” Detective Munroe stands and heads for the door while I sit gaping at her back, her dark wiry hair escaping from a braid at the nape of her neck.

  “That’s all?”

  “For now.”

  “Can I go home? Do you think it’s safe?”

  “I wouldn’t,” she says. “Not yet. We’ve got an officer patrolling your apartment complex, but I’d prefer if you stay elsewhere, at least for the time being. Leave the address at the desk so we can reach you.”

  She opens the door, ushering me out, but I feel stuck to the chair, weighed down by all the things she doesn’t know. “What about the hanging tree?”

  I don’t even realize I’ve said it. I’ve spoken it aloud—blown up the wall between now and then, the one I worked so hard to build—until she tilts her head at me, confused. “Excuse me? The what?”

  “I mean, the tree outside my office. Something happened there, right? This morning? Or last night? It’s just a few blocks from where I was attacked. That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “I can’t discuss any other investigations with you, but suffice to say, we’re looking at all angles. DNA can take a while, but I’m pretty sure the lab will rush those samples we got from your fingernails given recent developments. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  That’s my cue, and I know it. I walk out the door, trailing behind her. “Detective Munroe? Can you just tell me one thing? How old was she?”

  Her face is stern, her voice a hammer. “Dr. Maddox, you know a bit about confidentiality, don’t you? Things like jeopardizing an investigation? Now, unless you’re hiding a badge under that sweater, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  ****

  Went to yoga. Be back soon. Eat something! And call me, please.