The Patsy's Patsy

by Brooke Shelby

  “So who are we going with, Sheriff?” Officer Bell wanted to know. She was sitting on her desk as Carl looked over his results on paper. Carl’s subordinates were as eager to nail this dealer as he was and most of the police officers at Hope’s Crossing’s precinct did not believe Maggie Corey was guilty. “I don’t know this David guy, though.”

  Carl briefly looked up from his list. “Oh, that was the guy who fought to save Bella Mayweather from getting poisoned in hospital, remember?”

  “Oh of course! Her boyfriend or something,” she nodded, remembering the heroic young man’s battle to save the girl from her wrathful mother.

  “Her fiancé,” he corrected her. “I am convinced that he is not our guy, especially since David doesn’t come to Hope’s Crossing nearly enough to distribute this crap. Nah, my money is on this Jaimie kid. He is young enough, and according to Maggie, he is slippery in nature. I think I should go and see for myself.”

  However, when Carl showed up at the Kiernan residence, neither brother was home. Donnie had gone to Malden to see the assessor for his insurance claim. Of Jaimie, there was no trace, and Carl had to return to his office none the wiser. As Maggie had suggested before, Carl contacted Boston PD to gather background information on both Maggie Corey and Jaimie Kiernan. That way, he would have comparative sheets to work from on a legal basis.

  “Kiernan, yes, I’ll hold,” Carl said, waiting for the Boston office to direct his call to one of the drug unit investigators for more background.

  “Hi, hello?” a man came on. “Sheriff Walden?”

  “Yes, from Hope’s Crossing precinct,” Carl answered.

  “Great. Detective Harrison, Boston Drug Unit here. Sheriff, you asked for background info on one Jameson Aiden Kiernan, correct?” the detective made sure.

  “Yes, that is correct, Detective Harrison,” Carl affirmed.

  “Well, hell,” the man chuckled, “so he is in Hope’s Crossing, is he?”

  “Do you know him?” Carl asked eagerly, shifting restlessly in his swivel chair.

  “Oh my God, Sheriff, do we ever!” the detective exclaimed. “You made my day.”

  “As you did mine,” Carl admitted. “Tell me about him, please. What do you have on this kid?”

  “Jaimie Kiernan is currently being investigated in a Boston case. Two casualties from overdosing on Green Demon. I believe you guys have the same problem over there?” Detective Harrison asked.

  “Truthfully, we are facing a drug epidemic over here at the moment and it is getting out of hand. We have to move soon or it’ll be too late, as I’m sure you appreciate,” Carl informed the detective, who whistled at the worrying revelation by the small-town sheriff.

  “Well, we had no idea he was in Hope’s Crossing. Damn. That info is more valuable than you would ever guess, Sheriff. I am so glad you contacted us regarding this slimeball, otherwise we would never have known where to find him,” Detective Harrison confessed.

  “Glad we could help, and thanks for your help too,” Carl smiled, feeling as if a huge rock had been lifted from his shoulders. Even just knowing who was behind the epidemic was enough to lift his spirits considerably.

  “So listen, Sheriff. How would you feel about working together on this one?” the detective suggested. “We already suspect Kiernan of distributing Green Demon in Boston and online. God knows how many people have died from this stuff, but having bought online, there are no jurisdictional limits. Anyone in the country could have succumbed to Green Demon because of Kiernan’s online supply, you know.”

  “Agreed. We would sure appreciate all the help we can get from Boston, so please, feel free to share anything you need and we’ll help on this side, Detective,” Carl offered, feeling his heart race. Finally, he could feel an end to the tedious dark tunnel of not knowing.

  At the church, Reverend Mason was sitting in his locked study. He listened to the rain clatter against his window and cursed the summer heat for bringing so much dampness. The church was almost two hundred years old and prone to mold, even during the dry seasons. Now the constant rain was causing him and his staff problems. They were having to keep treating the old wood and check the lower levels of the building for water damage. One reason why he did not like having to hire experts to treat the damp in the walls and wood was because the reverend had secrets. Those secrets lay beneath the church, never to be disturbed, and every time the clergyman had to get a mold remediation expert in, he risked having his mysteries discovered.

  In the miserable weather he detested, Reverend Mason elected to enjoy a glass of cider, sitting by the black, empty fireplace that reminded him of his soul. Suddenly, his computer beeped, an alert from software written for the purpose of spying, keeping an eye on any and all searches requested by the police. Other than his flock, the malevolent preacher used technology to serve as his eyes and ears within Hope’s Crossing.

  Slowly, he rose from his chair to cross the musty room to see what was afoot. When he opened the screen, Reverend Mason noticed that Boston PD had just emailed a background confirmation check to the local precinct, citing Jaimie’s involvement in similar crimes in the city.

  “Curses!” the old man shrieked when he realized that his lackey was outed. Furious, he growled, hurling his crystal glass of cider into the unlit hearth. The delicate crystal shattered against the black, soiled mouth of the fireplace, reminiscent of his fouled plan. “I should have known better! I should have known! By God, I will not be implicated. I will not be implicated!”

  Still, in his black heart, Reverend Mason knew that he had made a huge mistake in picking his patsy. He could not believe his own foolhardiness at choosing a well-known drug pusher from the city as his minion. Using someone with a record was embarrassingly dumb and the reverend realized that he would be unable to cover his tracks if Jaimie Kiernan was arrested.

  Staring at the damning screen, displaying that Sheriff Walden had received the email successfully, Reverend Mason’s eyes spat fire. His jaws locked in defeated rage and his fists turned his knuckles white in anger.

  “What do I have to do to get rid of that bitch?” he seethed, spittle forming around the edges of his mouth. “Hasn’t she gotten away with enough, just like her goddamn family? What will it take to sever that bloodline for this town for good?”

  The towering, black-clad preacher left the monitor on as he opened his cabinet for another drink. This time he picked a tincture of absinthe, the real kind, and did not even bother to use a glass as he sipped it and hatched his next move under the influence of the ancient elixir of calamity.

  23

  Back at Maggie’s house, the rain was more than welcome. In the yard, Maggie had erected birdbaths, and she had also dug out a makeshift pond for her garden. Not having the shop open to run lately meant that Maggie had a lot more time on her hands and she took to beautifying her garden while the summer allowed it. She was standing on the backyard deck, drinking tea and watching the water accumulate in the new receptacles she had placed there.

  No matter how many projects she took on to make her house prettier, she just could not shake the awful ideas in her head. Their accusations of her haunted her no end. Whatever she was doing, even during conversations with people, Maggie found that the monster of unfair blame would not unlatch its jaws on her subconscious mind.

  She had recently read Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart for the first time and it hit a nerve. Like the murderer in the story, she (though innocent) was haunted by the perpetual presence of questions, and she could do little else without entertaining the endless plethora of why’s and who’s and when-will-it-ends. Without fail, no amount of distraction could combat her incessant worrying, and it was beginning to drive her nuts.

  Even now, where she stood among such beauty and accomplishment, Maggie found it hard not to badger her common sense with questions.

  Why would this dealer want to use me as his scapegoat? I’ve never even met him, so how is it that he is out to implicate me? Why me? she to
rmented herself. Is it because I am so damn convenient to blame … so easy to suspect?

  But then something new entered her mind. Perhaps, she thought, it was the uncanny manner in which she was constantly used as a scapegoat that made her criminal chum. Was it really just as easy as being convenient or was she missing something more complex? Countless arguments fought it out in her head as Maggie considered everything from all sides, trying to make sense of why this perpetrator would target her. Feeling utterly hopeless, she went inside and lay down to take a nap, hoping that her slumbering witch-ness would appease her.

  “Dream, Maggie. Dream your solutions. You aren’t much of a witch if you can’t even make yourself dream,” she mumbled as she sipped the last of her tea and curled up on the bed.

  The rain was gentle and the thunder soft. Maggie did not expect anything big, but she would be satisfied with some guidance. Even if she could just establish her next action, she would be grateful, and she used repetition to invoke a mind-will connection that could possibly reveal to her what her waking mind blocked off. Maggie was not even sure if this could be considered magic, but it certainly felt so.

  As Maggie’s mind allowed her to sleep, the mild sedative she had taken ushered her into a dream. She had never been a lucid dreamer and she often felt stupid among her friends for being someone who never even knew when she was dreaming. This time, for the first time, she knew that she was dreaming and she simply went with it.

  Maggie saw herself walking in a basement of sorts, much like a dungeon with ancient dripping walls that grew moss and echoed the voice of the wind like an evil whisper. In the distance, she saw the outline of a figure, slowly becoming the shape of Carol Keyes, the fifteen- year old girl from the gas station. Maggie approached slowly as the sound of a sermon reverberated somewhere inside the cavernous prison and noticed that the teenage girl was holding up a sword.

  “Hello?” Maggie tried to establish contact, but the girl ignored her.

  When Maggie reached Carol, close enough to see the fabric of her clothing, she reached out her hand to turn the girl around. As Carol gradually turned around, the sound of a church choir grew louder, eventually shrieking in volume, sounding false and out of tune. The hair on Maggie’s arms and neck stood erect as Carol faced her, wearing a nun’s habit. Maggie saw that the sword Carol had been holding before had become her tongue and her eyes bled as she opened them to look at Maggie.

  A loud clap of thunder woke Maggie from her nightmare and she sat upright on her bed, gasping for air.

  “Hell no,” she panted. “To hell with this dream shit. I’ll just rely on Carl’s police work.”

  She got up and went downstairs for a glass of water. Bramble was sleeping soundly in front of the TV screen, but he was the only one getting some rest. Maggie’s heart was still pounding from the hideous image of the young girl she had recently seen at the gas station. The dream made no sense to Maggie. No practical information that she could use, anyway. Now she had more to haunt her. For a moment, she thought of visiting Sharon just to alleviate her thoughts, but she was too lazy to get outside dressed. Instead, she poured herself a strong drink and sat down next to her cat.

  Maggie did not want to wake him, but she felt extremely lonely. Her dream echoed in her mind, as did her concerns for what would happen to young Carol Keyes. Was this a premonition of sorts?

  “Stop torturing yourself, my dear Maggie,” Bramble yawned from next to her.

  Maggie was elated to see her familiar awake. Immediately, her loneliness and worry subsided substantially and she scooped him up in her arms.

  “What would I do without you?” She nuzzled his thick, warm pelt.

  He cuddled her back and purred, “Um, I don’t know, but this would be the perfect time to ask for catnip.”

  24

  A very scruffy vagrant and general waste of skin, Paul had been homeless for years. Not that anyone would notice. Homeless not in the sense of sleeping in street gutters or in parks, but in having been expelled from every arrangement he had ever had, Paul couch surfed until everyone got sick of him.

  Only his senile grandmother still allowed the human stray dog to crash on her couch at night, but most of the time, he was on the streets. Just loitering, though, brought him much information as he eavesdropped on multiple conversations while straying through town. It made him a filthy information center, as long as there was something in it for him.

  When it was time for Paul’s next hit, he slouched over to Jaimie Kiernan’s house. Donnie was out of town to make arrangements for the claim on his damaged shop and gas station, so Jaimie’s friends could just show up unannounced now.

  “Hey, man, I need two bottles,” Paul sniffled when he found Jaimie on the porch, playing on his phone. “Or if you got powders, even better.”

  “You have money?” Jaimie smirked, his brown eyes seeking out any discrepancies in the immediate area.

  “I can pay you back Saturday when Nan gets her check, man. Just hook me up,” Paul begged. It was a sweltering day, humid after all the rain, and Jaimie’s tolerance was running on empty.

  “Can’t give you anything till next Thursday, Paul,” he lied, holding out as he had been told to. It was clear that Paul, like the kids who attacked the garage, was growing fed up with Jaimie’s sporadic supplies.

  “You know why we totaled your brother’s gas station, don’t you?” he hissed at Jaimie.

  “That was you?” Jaimie gasped, looking hateful, but wary. “Dude, that was my family’s only livelihood! What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “It wasn’t just me, pal. It was all of us, because we are sick and tired of your pathetic management system,” the aggressive Paul stammered. “And you know what? Maybe we should burn down your goddamned house too!”

  Jaimie got up. As wiry as he was, he was looking for a brawl with the obviously larger challenger, fueled by stupidity and arrogance. His skinny legs skipped down the porch steps as he joined Paul on the unkempt lawn.

  “Are you threatening me, moron?” he seethed, but he kept his distance like the bigmouthed coward he was. “Saying shit like that is only going to keep me from giving you anything.”

  “It don’t matter,” Paul shrugged, looking insultingly indifferent to Jaimie’s warning. “The cops know about you already, so maybe we should get a new dealer around here.”

  Jaimie knew that Maggie Corey was onto him, from what he’d deduced from her choice of words when she came snooping at the shop the other night, but the cops?

  “You’re bluffing,” Jaimie sneered.

  “Try me,” Paul said. “Dude, they know you have a record. Sheriff Walden is looking for your useless ass as we speak, man, so don’t try to intimidate me. I’m a stoner, not a fool. You are a liability now, so screw you!” He walked away across the weed-riddled lawn, shouting it over and over. “Screw you, man!”

  Jaimie Kiernan knew that it had to be true. The police had to know about him if Paul said so. Whatever he might be, Paul’s information was hardly ever inaccurate. The notion made Jaimie very uncomfortable, no matter how he tried to shun it with his attitude. Constantly, the thought of being exposed came to mind, even when he was busy speaking to Donnie on the phone. Relentlessly, the concern that Sheriff Walden knew what he was up to haunted him, urging him to just flee from Hope’s Crossing.

  “You’re the only guy I trust to open up the place, Jay. Please, bro, just be there when the fixing people come,” Donnie implored. “I’ll be back home by tomorrow, okay?”

  “Sure,” Jaimie stuttered, not sure that he wanted to return to the gas station now that his customers were properly riled up.

  Since Donnie had asked him to open the gas station and run it for the day, he figured it would be a quick one. The insurance company had approved reparations to all glass fixtures and broken locks as a means to protect the stock in the shop while they assessed the rest of the claim.

  On his way to the gas station, on foot, Jaimie noticed Maggie Corey buying flowers a
t Miss Minnie’s and a twinge of panic grasped his guts as he passed the flower shop. Paul’s damning words kept circling in his mind, but he tried to keep his cool as he did this one last thing for Donnie before he fled town. Besides, most police investigations in Hope’s Crossing were slow because of the short-staffed station of overworked officers. He reckoned that Sheriff Walden would have some delays in obtaining an arrest warrant anyway.

  The door to Carol Keyes’ room was open, but she could have sworn that she had just closed it behind her. The fifteen-year-old had just brushed her long brown hair on her way out, closing the door behind her, but now it was open. As she reached out to the doorknob, her hands became longer, like talons. Carol gasped as she watched her fingers turn to snakes and she screamed, running through the house.

  “What is wrong with you, Carol?” the maid asked as the girl ran shrieking out onto the back lawn. Carol shook her hands violently, looking horrified. The maid ran to her aid, terrified of what was happening in the absence of the girl’s parents. She sank to her haunches where Carol was sitting on the ground, screaming, shaking her hands.

  Carol realized that she was hallucinating. She also realized that she would be revealing her drug addiction if she told the maid what she was suffering, so Carol used her smarts.

  “Um, nothing, Maria,” she said as calmly as she could. She studied her hands, which still looked wrong, but she did not acknowledge the problem. “Bloody spider walked over my arm and onto my hand.”

  “Dios mío! Poor child!” Maria chuckled. She knew that Carol was arachnophobic and quite frankly, she was surprised that the girl was relatively calm compared to what she expected.

  Carol’s heart was thundering and her whole body shook at the ordeal. She had to have more, since the comedown hit so hard. Every time she started getting withdrawals, she started seeing things, nasty things, hearing voices, and not discerning between fantasy and reality. She hated it. It had been weeks since she first got hooked on Green Demon and it was only getting worse for her. Before her parents left for their medical conference, they had left her adequate money for food, but because of the Green Demon fetish, she had almost spent all of it by the second week.