Pieces of Ivy (13 page)

Parking in front of New Brighton’s least favorite bar, Cole turned off the ignition—leaving the key in place. He scanned the street in both directions, waiting for the right moment as he wrapped up his phone call.

“Yes. … Yes, sir. … I understand. … I’m there now. I’ll report back in ninety minutes.” He ended the call, leaving his vehicle unlocked as always—key seated in the ignition.

Cole entered the establishment without drawing notice. The bar held the dank smell of old liquor and cigarettes. A postman stepped from behind a red velvet wall at the back, adjusting himself, looking spent but satisfied. Cole passed around the man, who slung his post bag over his shoulder without registering Cole’s presence, and approached the bar.

“Were you working Monday night?”

The bartender looked up, startled, and then eyed the man in black suspiciously. “I don’t know you.”

“Name’s John White.” He extended his black leather glove.

The bartender didn’t take it. “Okay,
John White
, what can I get you?”

“Whiskey. Four fingers. No ice.” He slid the hundred across the bar. Before the bartender could react, White added, “Keep the change.” He nodded at the back, toward the men’s room. “Who used that phone Monday night, actually around 2:00 a.m. Tuesday?”

The man behind the bar continued to stare but obviously knew the answer. His stubborn silence was nauseating. Cole knew that he could ram his thumb into the bartender’s eye socket, instantly killing him without a sound, quickly twist the necks of the two men in the corner, end the girl waiting to satisfy her next customer behind the wall and be driving down the road in his shiny new Chrysler—all in under three minutes. Instead, he patiently gestured back down at the bill with his eyes.

“Yeah, she was here.” He fed the bill directly into his pocket, bypassing the till. “She never comes in,” he said. “She walked right past me, demanding where the phone was. I pointed, but she was already back there. She shut the place up—everyone was stunned. She came right back out, grabbed a stack of quarters off the pool table—Brian didn’t even say a word. He was frozen stiff watching her steal his coins and storm back to the pay phone. She must have been back there for three, four minutes and left.”

“She who?”

Cole listened and then left without touching his hundred-dollar whiskey.

† †
†

Vicki waited for Hank to finish in the gymnasium. He was chatting with a group of boys who had become too distracted when she had walked in. She opted to leave that interview to Hank.

With the classrooms in session, the hallway was quiet now.

Vicki scanned the impressive trophy case. In spite of New Brighton’s tiny population, the Pirates were a force to be reckoned with. She grinned as she searched for any photos that might reveal a mullet-donning Dashel. Ivy stared back at her in desperation.

Vicki fell back a step and then reclaimed the vision when she realized the ghost was a reflection of a picture on the adjacent shelf—except Ivy was smiling in the picture.

“Go Pirates,” Hank said from behind her.

Vicki nodded but said nothing, hiding the shiver beneath her skin.

† †
†

Hank saw the picture of Ivy over Vicki’s shoulder. She stood smiling proud with her championship volleyball team. Her coach’s T-shirt stretched tight across her chest, and her undersized athletic shorts revealed long, succulent legs that could cause a man of any age to blush.

A ball formed in the back of his throat, following a shudder. His memory punished him with shocking glimpses of the long slices splitting open her thighs and the gouges cut deep into the sides of her buttocks—open and malicious wounds, savagely ruining perfection.

Wrath swelled within him, threatening to burst. Hank had worked so hard at suppressing rage during his counseling sessions—that was time wasted. Civilization was morally bankrupt for denying him the right—the obligation—to lash out in the face of such gutless brutality. Meet force with force—terror with terror. He wanted nothing more than to visit upon Ivy’s killer an end so atrocious, so dreadful, that it would inflict irrepressible fear into the Y chromosome of every man on this planet—that no woman would ever stand perilously in the presence of any man again.

“We should step outside and chat,” Vicki said.

He saw Vicki reading him with concern. His skin burned, wrath smoldering from within, as his flesh scratched on the surface. Rage and irritation were a volatile mix—especially since Hank had barely attended his counseling.

His empty belly didn’t help. He decided he needed the distraction of food, knowing truthfully that the twist in his guts had nothing to do with hunger.

† †
†

“Jesus! What’s in this?” Hank fought the urge to spit the wad of
food product
onto the ground.

“I offered you half my peach.”

Among the buffet of greasy pizza, mystery dogs and deep-fried pockets of God-only-knows-what, Hank had grabbed the only item looking consumable—a steaming pack of nuggets and fries from the cafeteria counter.

He dropped the remaining offense into the trash and washed down the heavy tainted-oil taste with a burning swig of Coke from the oversize bottle. “No wonder these kids are so fat, lazy and irritable.”

“Not much point filling their minds when you stuff their guts with that crap.” Vicki sucked off a juicy bite of peach. “Two steps forward, one giant leap back. But it fills the belly, and I’m sure it meets the government’s
strict
guidelines.”

“More like six steps back.” Hank took another long pull off the bottle, vying to finish the cleanse.

Vicki grinned, nodding toward his Coke. “Well, at least you’ll have a healthy dose of high fructose corn syrup coursing through your veins for the afternoon.”

“Get off me,” he scowled, brushing a frustrating lock of hair from his eyes. He examined the twenty-ounce bottle—the only size available—which he had mindlessly grabbed when he went to pay. He snarled. “It
is
ridiculously huge.”

“Look who just pulled up.”

Roscoe approached, scanning the area, looking relieved that they were already standing out of earshot from the students. He looked from the peach to the soiled napkin in Hank’s hand. “Don’t eat the food here—it’s government certified.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Got something?”

Roscoe nodded, again ensuring their privacy. “I have information on your attack last night.”

Vicki and Hank took a quick scan around then moved forward.

“The source incendiary appeared to be a road flare tossed from the bridge. From that vantage point, we doubt the person who threw it would’ve been able to see you escaping or they would have thrown it sooner.” His face grew grave. “It’s likely they were only waiting for all of the gasoline to spill into your car.”

A shiver crawled along Vicki’s flesh.

“There was a large gas can tied to the cinderblock that either fell—or was dropped—from the bridge,” Hank added, knowing the rope wouldn’t have survived the fire.

Roscoe nodded, scrubbing deep concern into his stubbled chin as he spied them both. “You’ve made an enemy. Obviously Ivy’s killer would be one by default. I can’t imagine he’s too keen that you’re here. Any thoughts based on your digging so far?”

Vicki considered Hank’s suspicion of Father Reilly, but he would have still been in the church, allowing his devoted following to eagerly suckle from his divine wisdom—maybe a devout minion?

Roscoe handed Vicki a photo of a sordid mix of teens and young men all wearing black hoodies. “There’s a group of youths that are widely, but informally, called
the Hoods
.”

Each of the thirteen hooded faces revealed an absence of societal respect or social norms. The arrogance behind the unnerving young eyes was as deep as it was malevolent. These teens looked upon the world as if it was theirs to rape and dispatch as they pleased. Their tall, underdeveloped bodies would soon catch up to their brooding, violent natures. Vicki could imagine every one of these hard faces seething behind bars for life but not before leaving devastating ruin in their wake.

“This is a bad crew—girls, and even grown women, avoid them. These young thugs thrive on porn and snuff videos, love to fight, and are heavy into smoking, drinking and drugs. They live together as
brothers
above a store, along the old part of Main Street, that the twins and their older brother—a suspected drug dealer—bought when they sold their family home.”

“Parents?”

“Gone—
apparently
left them the house. Many suspect the boys killed them. They claim that their parents left the country for Costa Rica, leaving the boys everything to fend for themselves—the cars, the house and so forth.

“The older brother, a few claim to his credit, is forcing all the boys to stay in school. But most of us attribute this to being his direct line to his customers and his mules. We can’t prove anything though—not for a lack of trying. These boys are smart—wicked smart.”

“Capable of killing Ivy?”

“Physically? Sure. Any one of them could be a suspect. But that’s a lot of hate, Agent Starr. They like making women afraid of them, but there’s never been a report against any member—no attack beyond the unwanted advances that no one is willing to formally accuse them of.”

“Ivy’s attack was psychopathic,” Vicki said. “Given the right circumstances, it could escalate from harassment to assault to murder.”

“This wasn’t just rape and murder,” he said. “It was sadistic torture and bodily desecration.”

“I thought you said they watch that shit.”

“You know as well as I do that it’s miles between watching and fantasizing about shocking acts, and actually doing them. Otherwise, there’d be ass-fucking housewives in bondage on every subway and cuckolded husbands cowering in the corner of every second bedroom.”

Vicki nodded with a grimace. “But your stats are off.”

He suddenly cast her a dark gaze. “That said, don’t take ’em off your list. They’re well connected to the unsavory sorts—dark, dark undergrounds. Profit can be a strong motivator.”

Vicki’s throat tightened. “You think this could’ve been a paid job—snuff film?” She hadn’t considered that, but the dramatic impact fit. She pulled out her phone and quickly tapped the keys. “I’ll get Lucy to watch the forums for a video matching Ivy’s murder.”

“The sexual massacre of a pretty little small-town schoolteacher—there could be money there,” Roscoe said. “I wish the idea surprised me more.”

Vicki watched the life drain away from her partner’s face. She shared the feeling. “I still think this act is more disturbingly personal than some twisted cash job, but I won’t discount it. And I probably won’t sleep tonight either—so thanks.”

“Don’t thank me”—he held out his shiny star—“thank the job.”

Cole scanned the street, ensuring it was empty before he turned down the forest road toward the old burnt church. He allowed himself a chuckle at the man’s words.
What the hell does a witch need a phone for … did her crystal ball break?

It wasn’t so much the comment as the undercurrent of belief behind the words. The grown man behind the bar had tried to hide it, but he actually believed in the witch.

Cole had no time for witches or juvenile games—both overly distracted this town. Having eliminated other sources, landing on this one was a surprise. Everything he had found out about this witch said she was a nut.

How could she have known anything? But everything pointed to her making the phone call. If she was the one, he would assess how much she actually knew, how she knew it—then allow himself a little fun dealing with it, however it needed to be handled. He would report back to the boss, leaving as discretely as he came—just another Thursday afternoon. Though he would miss watching Agent Starr.

He pulled his modified Chrysler 300C into the wild grass and shrubs at the side of the road where the way was suddenly cut short by overgrowth. Comfortable with the angle of the shiny black vehicle in the shade—and the few shrubs he had dragged over to mask it—he stepped through the gnarled twigs and branches toward the burnt building ahead.

He followed the apparent but sparsely used path through the bushes, emerging before the large decaying church. He repeated the directions in his mind.
Through the graves, follow the paths, cross the bridge and see her home.

He stopped short of the far side of the graveyard. There was something wrong with the trees ahead. He had to force his foot to take the next step deeper into the forest.

† †
†

Brianna McQueen ran into Vicki as they rounded the corner. “Out of my way, bitch. School is for kids.”

Shock and anger suffused Vicki’s voice. “Excuse me?!” She flashed her badge.

The McQueen girl rolled her eyes and snarled, “Like that matters,” as she turned and walked away with her smirking friend.

Hank stood dumbstruck at the blatant disrespect. The girls glared at the agents as they walked away.

Recalling the town hall comments about the McQueens and the three other royal families, Vicki snapped, “Untouchable, my ass. I’m gonna punch that one right in the mouth.”

“Easy, Vicki.”

“You know I’m kidding.”

“Are you?”

Vicki nodded, unconvinced herself—wishing she were seventeen again.

“Wow, that was rude.” The young woman’s voice came from behind them.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Vicki agreed, turning to the two students: one boy, one girl; he carried both packs.

“No surprise, coming from them.” The boy’s gaze lingered on the attractive agent, his face turning pink.

“They
are
untouchable,” the girl added.

“You heard that?”

“Don’t worry—I wish you’d punch her. Give her a good swift kick in the—”

Vicki interrupted, “You know I’m not advocating—”

“Chillax—I get it.” The girl leaned in and whispered, “Your secret’s safe.” She turned the lock on her lips, tucking the key into her wishful cleavage.

“So you guys investigating Miss Turner’s murder?” The tall student’s voice was still striving to reach his achieved stature.

Hank nodded at the boy, looking past him to see the
untouchable
girls join their two friends. The four continued down the sidewalk after a sharp glare at Vicki. “Did Miss Turner ever have problems with those girls?”

“Of course—but who doesn’t?” he said, trying to stand taller, meet Hank man-to-man.

“Yeah, they’re as mean as they come,” his girlfriend added. “Tough to be around at the best of times—worse if you get all four together.” She shook her head. “Why does God make bitches so beautiful?”

“You’re beautiful,” the boy countered. She beamed, and they kissed—and then kissed more.

“Ahem,” Hank interrupted.

“Sorry, Stephen’s just so adorable.” She stroked his long, skinny arm. “He’s my man.”

“I wouldn’t try to go after them,” Stephen warned.

Hank cocked his head. “Why’s that?”

“It won’t get you anywhere. Your partner’s right—they’re untouchable. Parents from hell. Powerful. Thick as thieves—and just as trustworthy.”

“I’m not worried,” Vicki said.

The girl scanned Vicki with dismay. “Pretty … but dumb.”

“Tabby!” Stephen whispered.

“No offense,” she insisted.

Hank spoke up, “Were you in Miss Turner’s class?”

They both nodded. Tabby said, “Bio and English.”

“What about the sports teams?”

The girl let out a small snort. “Do we look like we’d be on the sports teams?”

They were both thin but he was much taller, reaching Hank’s height. Their alternative dress leaned more toward edgy-nerd than Goth—so, no, sports were not likely. Hank retracted the question.

“How was Miss Turner with the other students?” Vicki asked.

“She was great,” he said. “Everyone loved her. She was fun but ran a tight ship.”

Tabby disagreed. “Your rose-colored glasses are cracked—there was definite envy. I mean she was a teacher, and yet she turned heads faster than any of the four queen bitches. It was no secret that the boys worshipped her. A few were totally sick about it too. Ryan Newman did the dog whenever she left the classroom. Everyone laughed, but it pissed me off.”

“I didn’t laugh,” Stephen offered.

“I know, sweetie.”

“
The dog
?” Hank asked.

“The second she left the room, he would get up and shake his leg out in the air while he sniffed the seat of her chair like a rabid mutt—it was so gross.”

“He’s a pig,” Stephen said.

Vicki couldn’t agree more.

“See what I mean?” she pointed over their shoulders.

Vicki hadn’t seen what had transpired—just the aftermath. At the edge of the school, the four girls bounced around the corner leaving a distraught-looking young girl wiping budding tears from beneath her glasses.

“Nasty bitches,” Stephen said.

Tabby shook her head. “She got off lucky.”

“She doesn’t look lucky to me,” Vicki said.

The girl chewed on a thought for a moment. “Okay, get this.” She leaned into her new friend as if to divulge clandestine intelligence.

“When they were eight, they led a boy from their class under the bridge to play doctor. Apparently he upset them somehow and so they hurt him, slapping and pinching him—spitting in his face—and claimed he was a pervert all over school.

“It ruined him. He was a pariah for years, and then he committed suicide—he was only eleven, if you can believe it.” She nodded at the shock on Vicki’s face. “His mother was too poor to get them out of town any sooner—the father left because he couldn’t take the taunting and accusations. Adults can be mean too. In fact the rumor is that their moms tormented the mother so much after her son’s suicide that she followed him six weeks later. Same way—zip-tied a bag over her head.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was. And the worst part, we all knew it was lies. But we loved the drama and, I suppose, picking on him for it.” She wore her heavy shame.

Vicki’s mouth hung open.

Stephen secured his glasses up his slender nose. “I heard they drowned someone’s cat.”

“Now you’re being crazy,” Tabby said.