Killers Among

by S. E. Green

  Adam, Judge Penn’s nephew, and I had quite the roller coaster friendship to include each of us sharing the other’s vigilante ways. It was touch and go for a while, and at one point we even tried to frame the other.

  Now, though, we’re at a good spot. Adam is overseas in an exchange program, and we share periodic texts. His dog, Sally, is doing well. Surprisingly, Adam’s mom fell in love with her and decided to keep her.

  It’s the end of the day, and Penn’s likely closing down whatever case he’s hearing. Still, though, I go because I need a happy place right now.

  Penn sees me push through the back doors and gives me a slight nod of acknowledgment. I’ve been here a lot over the years, and he’s used to seeing me. But now he also knows me as Adam’s friend.

  As I slide into my usual spot along the back, his gavel comes down and an entire row of people sitting in front sob. A mousy-haired woman who I’d place in her forties shuffles from the defendant’s table and down the aisle. She’s wearing a dress two sizes too big, clunky black heels, and a black velvet headband holding back her stringy hair.

  I don’t know who dressed her, but the whole thing is just wrong.

  She keeps her head down, not making eye contact.

  A gray-haired man from the row of sobbing people shoots to his feet. He points a finger at the woman. “You’ll pay for what you did to my grandson. Do you hear me? You will pay!”

  The woman continues to keep her head ducked low. I expect Penn to hit his gavel and tell the room to quiet down, but he doesn’t. He simply watches her go, his face set into a hard line. He knows she’s guilty.

  If Penn knows it, then it’s true. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about him over the years, it’s just that. He knows when someone is getting away with their evil deed.

  What evil deed, though?

  Eventually, the room empties out, and I head straight into the hall where the docket for the day is listed on the wall. It’s the last case of the day, and I read the defendant’s name.

  Rachelle Gentry.

  Well, hello, Rachelle Gentry. Let’s see who you are.

  5

  “This is an injustice!” the gray-haired man says into the mic. “My grandson was molested by this woman. And, what, because he was drugged and can’t remember the specifics, because there’s no hard evidence, this woman, Rachelle Gentry, goes free? She stole his innocence and no one cares. No one!”

  Outside the courthouse, I shift to tuck in behind a column and listen.

  “He’s twelve goddamn years old,” the gray-haired man says. “Someone needs to care!”

  I care.

  He ticks off his fingers as reporters listen closely. “Rachelle Gentry is a convicted pedophile. She did five years for having an ongoing sexual relationship with one of her students. He was only thirteen! How is it, I ask, that this woman was hired to be a tutor upon being released from prison? How is it this woman was left in a room alone with my grandson? How is it she was allowed to leave campus with him and go to a motel? Who the hell dropped the ball on doing a background check?”

  The gray-haired man bangs his fist on the podium. “I want her to suffer in the worst way. She took his innocence, and he will never be the same. Never! You think she’s going to stop? Rachelle Gentry is a registered sex offender and she will do this again. Mark my words, she will.”

  Reporters yell questions at him, and the gray-haired man wraps his arm around a younger woman, probably his daughter, and the two of them walk down the courthouse steps.

  Biker Dudes Against Pedophiles—BDAP—pops into my mind. My intentions with Mr. Oily Nose, the pedophile I found lurking months ago around Justin, was to deliver him to BDAP, but, of course, I dealt with him in my own way.

  This Rachelle Gentry, though. I do believe she’s a perfect candidate for BDAP. She thinks she’s skirted her way out of this one, but she should be worried. Very worried.

  Life’s been busy. I haven’t had a chance to exercise that certain other part of me. That part that loves to deliver justice when the law fails. Yes, it’s beyond time to touch base with my extracurricular side. I’ll rough Rachelle up, this time not going as far as I did with Mr. Oily Nose, and then deliver her to BDAP.

  Yes, perfect.

  “We got a body,” one cop says to another as they pass by me going down the courthouse steps. “A woman in her twenties. I hear there’s a lot of blood.”

  “Suicide?” the other one asks.

  “Not sure, but I did hear one of the detectives say there’s some questionable evidence.”

  Stepping away from my spot tucked behind the column, I head down the courthouse steps, too. I need something new, and sometimes it just falls into your lap. Like this Rachelle Gentry woman, and now this questionable-evidence suicide.

  6

  If I could live in my Jeep, I would. It’s peaceful. It’s quiet. It’s all mine.

  No snoring roommate. No list of things to do at Patch and Paw. No angsty brother fighting with Victor.

  Just me, my iPad, homework, this tree I’m currently parked under, the brisk evening breeze blowing through my open windows, and thoughts of Rachelle Gentry.

  I love the internet. It’s the greatest invention ever, and nowadays you don’t need to be Reggie, my techy best friend at MIT, to find something out.

  Like the fact Rachelle lives thirty miles away in a mobile home park far from children. When you’re a registered sex offender, there’s only so many places you can live, and lucky for me, the mobile home park sits in the woods of Woodbridge and is fairly deserted.

  According to my search, there are twenty lots and only six have mobile homes on them. This will be perfect. I’ll do a little recon, get some homework done, and then I’ll sleep. I’ll go to my boyfriend Tommy’s place for that.

  Boyfriend. It’s odd thinking that word. Who would’ve thought, me, dark-side Lane, would have a boyfriend?

  Tommy’s working late stocking shelves at Whole Foods. I’ll shoot him a quick text. I’ll let myself in with his hide-a-key and crash. He won’t mind.

  But first Rachelle. At this time of day, it might take me forty-five minutes to get there.

  As I put my iPad aside and crank my engine, my phone rings. It’s Daisy. “Hello?” I say.

  She sighs. “Will you please talk to Justin?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Dad’s working late and I’m watching Justin, but he’s being a real butthole.”

  “I heard that!” Justin yells.

  Daisy lowers her voice. “I’m totally ready to let him rule this house just to shut him up.”

  “You know that’s not how it works. Put him on.”

  There’s a little back and forth between them and finally Justin’s voice. “What?” he snips.

  Taking a breath, I remind myself I love my little brother. “What’s the problem?”

  “Daisy won’t let me stay up and watch It. God, I can’t wait to be like you so I can do what I want.”

  Believe me, kid, it doesn’t work that way. “Justin, you are in middle school. Your bedtime is nine p.m. That was my bedtime at your age, and that was Daisy’s bedtime at your age. Just because you’re the youngest doesn’t mean you get special treatment. You have to follow the same rules. Plus, It is not an appropriate movie for you to be watching. Now, why don’t you tell me the real reason you’ve been a pain lately. Because, Justin, this isn’t you. You are a sweet, caring, and funny boy. You’re not this mean and irritable kid you’ve been showing around the house. Is there something going on at school?”

  A long stretch of silence follows, and I wait. I’m good at waiting.

  Finally, he sighs. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. I’ll listen to Daisy. Bye.” He hangs up, and I make a mental note to check in with some of his friends because there’s something going on, possibly at school.

  7

  It’s nine at night by the time I arrive at Rachelle Gentry’s run-down mobile home. Tonight’s about a little surveillance, then
I’ll finish up homework, get some sleep at Tommy’s, wake up and go to my morning classes, do my Patch and Paw shift, go home and search Daisy’s MacBook, and at some point, I need to dig into Justin.

  This isn’t how I envisioned my life, but I can deal. It is what it is. A logical side of me says to eliminate stuff from my list. I can’t eliminate family, or school, or work, which leaves my extracurricular activities.

  But those, those are what drive me. Like right now Rachelle Gentry is in there deep, nibbling away, reminding me how much I love—no, how much I need this.

  With my lights off and my Jeep lurking in the shadows, I survey the deserted mobile home park. Of the six trailers here and propped up on blocks, I wonder how many contain deviants just like Rachelle Gentry, the pedophile.

  There are no security cameras, and only one lone yellow street light flicks in the darkness. The trailers sit spaced far enough away that no one cares about their neighbor. Six trailers in all, three with lights on inside, and the one farthest away with its lopsided porch and patchwork roof belongs to Rachelle Gentry.

  I’m liking this broken down place. It’s fitting for what I have in mind.

  Where did she live before her prison stint for that thirteen-year-old kid? She’s a former social worker. She probably had a decent apartment somewhere. But then she gave in to her urges and this is her life now.

  It’s a far cry from what she really deserves, and soon the BDAP will show her just that. I can’t wait to deliver her all wrapped up neat and tidy with the evidence I’ll compile and, of course, a bit of my own brand of justice, too. Between me and the BDAP, she’ll be worked over nicely.

  I close my eyes, fantasizing a bit about things to come. The perfect sister, daughter, and girlfriend would be elsewhere right now, but no one, especially not me, claims I’m perfect.

  A knocking on my window has me shooting straight up in my seat to see Rachelle Gentry looking right at me.

  Shit.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  With a little smile, I roll my window down. “Yes?”

  She doesn’t smile back. “I’m part of the neighborhood watch. What are you doing parked here?”

  Neighborhood watch? She’s got to be kidding. There’s nothing around. “Actually I was tired and pulled over to grab a few minutes of sleep.” It’s not a bad response and partly true.

  She runs her fingers through her limp mousy hair before folding her arms to survey me. Back in the courtroom, she had on a suit two sizes too big. But now standing here in front of me, I get it.

  In her tight long sleeve top, cut off jean shorts, and thigh-high boots, she’s rocking a body any horny kid would want to be in, out, and all over. Well, that and the fact she puts out is the big lure for boys of all ages.

  I have no clue if she remembers me from the courtroom. Maybe she thinks I’m a reporter or something. Either way, she now knows what I look like. And she’s got more of an attitude than I initially thought because back in Penn’s courtroom, she was all timid and meek.

  I crank my engine. “I’ll go home and get some sleep. Sorry about this.”

  In response, she hikes her chin, like she’s throwing me an extra threat.

  Please, I’ll extra threat her.

  Bottom line, her home is now officially off limits. Which means I have to grab her somewhere else. It’s a higher degree of difficulty, but I don’t have a choice. If I want to be around for my family, I have to be careful with my steps.

  As I pull away, I eye her in the rearview as she walks back to her mobile home. I would love to savor the justice this woman deserves. But this life of mine is now about sacrifice.

  Can I do this? Can I really have it all? Sister, daughter, girlfriend, student, killer.

  Killer.

  It’s taken me a while to wrap my brain around that word, killer, and to admit it to myself. But it’s who I am, though it’s only a part. My family always comes first. I never want to get another call like when my stepdad had a heart attack and was in the ER. I was indulging in a bit of vigilante justice and had my phone off.

  It was one of the worst nights of my life, and I never want to experience that again.

  Yes, my family will always come first. Perhaps it’s more about reorganizing the way I do things, all while satisfying the darkness in me that I can’t ignore.

  8

  I find Tommy’s hide-a-key right where he said it would be—hidden in a piece of fake dog poop. Cute, Tommy, cute.

  Dropping my stuff in his living room, I drag myself into his bathroom and as I brush my teeth, I look at myself in the medicine cabinet mirror. Boy, I look rough.

  My red curly hair is in dire need of cleaning and dark shadows dig deep into the skin below my green eyes. Hell, even my freckles look tired.

  I really want to go straight to bed, but I also need a shower. Flicking on the spray, I turn it lukewarm and step inside. I hate hot showers. My core temp already runs hot and heated water only makes it worse.

  I stand with my eyes closed, letting the water run down my body. I need to shave my legs but clean hair is more important. I’ll shave tomorrow.

  Grabbing Tommy’s tee-tree shampoo, I lather up my head and while it tingles my scalp I work on my body next. I’m in the middle of rinsing when the bathroom door opens and Tommy steps inside.

  I look at him through the glass door, all six feet of lean muscle, and his short blond hair mussed from his motorcycle helmet. Standing fully dressed in jeans and a snug tee, he folds his arms and casually leans back against the door as he slowly takes me in.

  I’m not so tired now.

  “So,” he says. “You’re naked.”

  Tipping my head back, I let the water stream across my scalp and down my body, becoming hyper-aware of it trailing over my skin. “Yes, I am.”

  “But you’re here to sleep,” he says.

  Turning the faucet off, I squeeze the water from my hair and slide open the glass door. I take a towel, and as I keep my eyes fastened to his blue ones, I slowly dry off.

  “Orgasms make a person sleep better.” I step out of the shower and onto the rug. Bending over, I wrap the towel around my shoulder length wet hair and stand back up.

  Tommy’s eyes go straight to my breasts. “I’m glad I found someone to cover the rest of my shift. I was kind of hoping to talk you into a little naughty, horny, mutual gratification.”

  Pushing off the door, he steps forward and trails his index finger from my throat, down between my breasts, over my stomach, and at the last second, turns his hand to get a better angle as he goes lower still.

  My eyes close on a breath. What’s interesting about me and Tommy is that we’ve never experienced actual penetration. We’ve done everything else, but for some reason, he hasn’t gone inside of me yet.

  Hell, I gave him a blow job before we actually even kissed. So, yeah, the sexual part of our relationship is interesting. But we just roll with it. What happens, happens, and we’re both cool with that.

  Fixing me with a hungry look, he lowers his voice. “Let’s take care of you and then tomorrow after you sleep, we’ll worry about me.”

  9

  The next afternoon at Patch and Paw, I double check I’ve done all of my duties, and I take Corn Chip out into the side yard to play.

  For as long as I’ve worked here, Corn Chip has been around. He’s a mixed-breed, medium-sized dog with gray scraggly hair and white eyebrows, and he’s my best friend. His mom travels a lot with work and so she boards him here on a regular basis.

  I tell him things I don’t tell anybody else. Like now as I say, “Want to know a secret? I’m going to turn Rachelle Gentry over to Biker Dudes against Pedophiles. And I’m going to be in control this time. Last time I got a little sidetracked with Mr. Oily Nose.”

  Corn Chip’s white eyebrows twitch and I rub the tip of his ear. “Remember him? I gouged his eyes out for looking at child porn.” The memory makes me sigh, and Corn Chip leans into my hand to get a better rub.

 
“You’re such a good boy,” I say, and his tail wags. We play a little tug-of-war with a braided rope, and when he playfully growls, I chuckle. “So mean, you.”

  “You’re very good with him,” Dr. O’Neal says, and I go still.

  This exact thing happened with Dr. Issa. He overheard me telling Corn Chip my secrets. I ended up kissing him to distract him, but I can’t very well kiss Dr. O’Neal.

  Or maybe I can.

  I eye her lips, but I have no clue how much, if any, of that she just heard and so I wait to see.

  She steps around where I sit on the green turf and lowers herself down across from me. As she runs her hand down Corn Chip’s back, she looks at me. “I owe you an apology. I didn’t handle things with you very well last time.”

  “You don’t need to apologize. You’re the boss, and I deserved to be reprimanded.”

  Dr. O’Neal just looks at me. “You know, when I first met you I thought you were a bit, well, odd.”

  I nod. “I get that. I found you to be annoyingly perky.”

  She laughs. “And I get that. But now I really like you, Lane.”

  “I like you, too,” I respond, surprised to find I mean it. Who would’ve thought me and Dr. O’Neal friends? Not I.

  10

  After my Patch and Paw shift, I head home with full intentions of snooping in Daisy’s room. This is her volunteer night at the library where she tutors middle school kids and she usually doesn’t get home until 8.

  No one is home and I head straight up the stairs and into her room. I find her MacBook wedged under her pillow, and sitting down on her bed, I open the lid. As expected it’s password protected, but she uses the same password for everything and so I quickly type it in.