Pieces of Ivy (22 page)

“Who else is in your group?” Vicki attempted.

“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you that.”

Vicki decided not to push while the Garretts were being so forthcoming. “Okay, but Ivy had relationships, right? What about boyfriends, lovers? Was she seeing anyone you knew of?”

“She had no open relationships with anyone in town, even though she had endless pursuers. Ivy had a short fling with a local author, Richard Manor, whose divorce was not as finalized as he had claimed.” Matt threw up his hands. “That’s a dead end. He’s been writing in the Bahamas.”

Anita snarled, “With his wife.”

“
You
have a problem with that?” Vicki asked, surprised.

“I have a problem with
lying
.”

“Did Ivy have a problem with it?” Hank asked.

“Of course,” Matt confirmed. “But again, Manor’s overseas. Ivy was a beautiful single woman with a healthy libido. What should she do? Go home with a man just for a physical connection, like most lonely girls do? Become another notch? Or worse—become saddled by unwanted future expectations?”

“Or,” Anita said, “she could hook up with a nice, clean, safe established couple who love each other and want nothing more from her than to enjoy her physically, but also treat her with kindness, appreciation and respect.”

Bizarre as it felt, Vicki, being single—and having had a string of disappointing men—couldn’t find much to argue against that logic.

Then she realized the statement was an admission, not a pitch. She remembered the multiple hairs found at Ivy’s place. “You had sex with Ivy.”

They both nodded. “But only a few times,” Anita added.

“I’m gonna swing by Roscoe’s and print off a few hard copies,” Vicki said.

“Can you drop me off at my place first?”

“Not a fan?”

“Just some personal stuff to take care of.”

Vicki scanned his face, but chose not to pry.

† †
†

Her signature high-speed park job announced her arrival at the sheriff’s office. Smiling at the deputies, she enjoyed her acquired legal egress.

“The sheriff’ll be back in a couple minutes. Rose is in his office if you want to wait with her.”

“Dreamy as ever.” Rose Roscoe greeted Vicki with a warm embrace. “You certainly know how to wear a pair of jeans, girl.”

“Thanks … I think.”

“What brings ya by?”

“Need a few hard copies.”

“I can help you, sweetheart.” She swung around Roscoe’s desk and punched in his
private
passcode—an obvious breach. “Print away.”

Vicki pulled out her phone and starting scanning for—suddenly her eyes were on fire. She couldn’t stop the tight, futilely restrained whimper.

“You okay?”

Unable to respond, Vicki dropped her iPhone with a clatter to the floor. “Uaaaaahnnn!” Searing pain spun the room into a translucent glaze of white gloss as blades carved away the flesh around her eyes.

“Vicki!”

Her gaze darted around the room, seeking escape from the intense, dry burning. She snapped her lids shut, but, to her horror, she could still see Rose rushing forward trying to catch her. Her eyelids were
gone.

Vicki felt Rose grab her. She strained to shut out the pain, but the room continued to swirl with her wild thrashing. She squeezed her eyelids tighter but still saw everything. “Are my eyes closed?” she pleaded through her agonizing screams as she swayed in Rose Roscoe’s arms. “Are my eyes closed?”

“Yes!” Rose replied straight into Vicki’s embattled expression.

Vicki could see the terror stretched across Rose’s face. Roscoe’s cluttered walls turned in Vicki’s burning periphery.

“Aaaaah! It burns! Into my skull—it burns!” She tore away from Rose’s embrace. Seeing through her closed eyes, deftly rounding Roscoe’s desk, she collapsed onto her hands and knees, staring at the spilled papers on the floor as she struggled to gulp air between howls.

Her facial muscles marshaled everything to squeeze her eyes tighter but she could still see the black polished boots enter her vision.

“What’s happening?” Roscoe’s voice cried.

Her stomach churned in painful, unrelenting anguish. About to expel her guts, Vicki gained instant relief as her vision winked shut and the pain vaporized. Drawing in rapid breaths, she felt the two of them gently raise her to her feet.

Letting out a long, wavering breath, she blinked at them, her eyes red with stinging tears.

“You okay?” The sudden compassion from this scoundrel was jarring. “What happened?”

She could only nod, taking in a few more labored breaths before attempting to speak. She patted him on the arm and nodded again. “Yeah, I’m okay.” She barely shot a glance at Rose. “I must have gotten something in my contact lens. Hurt like a sonofabitch.”

Rose stared at her.

“Whatever it was is gone.”

Their faces remained unconvinced.

“Honest,” she lied, collecting her phone and leaving without another word.

She held her composure as she crossed the street and until she finally heard the growl of her ignition. Then she fell forward against the steering wheel and cried.

† †
†

She rapped twice on Hank’s door, and the door swung open before her knuckle could hit a third.

He looked at her.

“You ready to go?” she asked.

He eyed her for a moment then nodded, grabbing his jacket.

“You okay?” he asked as he slid into the passenger seat. “You need me to drive?”

The question came as a complete shock. “Why?”

“I just got off the phone with Rose Roscoe. She said you got something in your contact. It was pretty bad, the way she tells it.”

Caught in a lie, Vicki struggled for something to say.

When no response came, he added, “I didn’t know you wore contacts.”

She didn’t. Picking up on his skepticism, Vicki could only manage a quick nod—and feel him staring at her. She was saved by the tickle of her phone vibrating against her left breast.

“Hi, Charlie. What do you have? Wait just a second—Hank’s with me. I’ll put you on speaker.”

His voice filled the car. “Actually, can I speak with Agent Starr privately?”

They looked at each other.
Agent Starr?

Vicki thought of her blood-soaked T-shirt. She put the phone back up to her ear as Hank stepped out of the car.

“What is it, Charlie?”

“Are you hurt, Vicki?”

“No, why?” Charlie couldn’t have known about the incident in Roscoe’s office already.

“Then I’m a little surprised. You know better than to contaminate a sample.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wanted to help you save face, that’s why I asked to speak with you privately. I found your blood mixed in with the victim’s.”

“What?”

Hank glanced over but kept his distance.

“The T-shirt you sent me. I found your blood mixed in with Ivy Turner’s—a lot of it.”

Impossible.
It made no sense. “I wasn’t hurt. I’m sorry, Charlie, I don’t know how that would have happened.” She didn’t.

“I’ll let it slide this time, but I expect better from you.”

Normally such an admonishment coming from Charlie would have stung, but she hadn’t been careless. She had checked her breasts meticulously—there were no wounds. There was no way her own blood could have gotten on that T-shirt. But how the hell did Ivy’s? The blood was fresh.

“I can continue with the rest of my report now.”

She motioned for Hank to return.

“I’m here now, Coop.”

“We’ve been able to peel back additional results. I have to say, this has been more challenging than I expected, and I regret that each discovery paints an ever-more-gruesome picture.”

Hank and Vicki shared concerned glances.

“Go on,” Hank said.

“As I mentioned before, facial damage was extensive. We have been careful to approach this to ensure we’re recreating an accurate account of what happened and when.”

The agents heard the shrill squeal of metal instruments against a stainless steel tray in the background as Charlie continued to speak.

Vicki didn’t dare admit her horrifying physical recollection less than two hours ago, as Charlie reiterated the report he had sent yesterday when the agents had first entered Cherrybrook Forest—that Ivy’s eyelids had been cut away, leaving her eyes open, unable to resist, and to further witness the vicious carnage beset upon them onto their ultimate destruction. That agony was all Vicki could think about as she had cried in her car for over an hour. Now Charlie added, in grisly detail, the methods used to slowly slice off her nose and ears—and Vicki wanted to throw up. Not out of revulsion, but fear.

“We suspect a box cutter and needle-nose pliers were used.”

As Hank listened to Coop’s disturbingly precise account as it had unfolded for the poor girl, he allowed his own eyes to trace the empty spaces between the houses, trees, street signs and playgrounds in front of them—cherishing the gift of sight.

His distraction saved Vicki from having to explain the obvious tension in her face and the red strain against her eyes as she fought back tears. No one could blame her, or any rational human being, for being affected by such a cruel and grizzly recount of a living human’s torment; but her reaction was far more physically empathic than emotionally sympathetic.

Vicki’s deep-chocolate-colored eyes were keen, sharp, intact and alive. It would be impossible for her to understand the impact like Ivy did.
Impossible.

“And this, you figure, occurred
before
her eyes were destroyed?” Hank said.

“Yes. I imagine she was shown her facial desecration prior to the additional damage being inflicted. And, unfortunately, I am nowhere near done here.”

Vicki stole an extra breath.

“And the dirt?” Hank asked.

“Once her eyes were cut away, the soil was packed in pretty hard. I can’t imagine how painful that must have been. Worse, we found a seed planted in each one—guess what kind.”

“No.”

“Poison ivy.”

No one spoke. Hank broke the lingering silence. “Understood. Thanks, Coop. Keep us apprised.”

“I will.”

The call ended.

Hank let out a long exhale. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She wasn’t.

“Yeah,” he agreed, nodding, failing to convince himself that he was okay as well.

† †
†

The early morning dawn woke with the happy song of birds, insensitive to the horrors unfolding in the human world.

Among the administrivia of note consolidation, evidence reconciliation and report compilation due to Kempt on Monday morning, the sunny May Sunday offered the rare opportunity to catch a number of worshipers off guard with queries about their club affiliations.

Vicki easily spotted the churchgoers comfortable in their skin—as well as their choices—and those preferring a mask. Doc Collins managed a fairly dexterous vanishing act from among the exodus of pious patrons when quick news of the FBI’s line of casual questioning lit fire. Allowing his retreat was worth it just to watch the fat man hurt himself hurling over the back fence
unnoticed—by everyone
. And Father Reilly was most displeased with the agents’ disturbance, which delighted Vicki.

All things considered, the end of Sunday would have resulted in the easiest day on the soul so far, had Charlie not called, again. Never one to place the Sabbath before duty, he provided his latest gut-churning report—the worst to date.

As a result Vicki shook through her entire bedtime ritual, fearing sleep—which came faster than she had hoped.

Vicki remained silent during the drive, her head elsewhere. Memory of Charlie’s most heinous report to date had risen with the ascent of the sun. The acts were so grievous that, even four hours after waking, she had to fight the swelling behind her eyes.

The two agents stepped around the corner toward the school administration office, but met the principal in the hall.

“Nice to finally meet you,” he said. “Though under the circumstances—” The end-of-period bell rang, and doors flew open everywhere. “Let’s walk back to my office.”

Hank caught sight of the mean girls walking away from them, working their tall heels to accentuate their curvy hip sway. One girl’s designer jeans caught his eye—triggering something deep. Unlike the ubiquitous low-rise boy pants that robbed women of their figures, these were cut exquisitely high-waisted toward her bare midriff, painted to her vigorous curves—expertly torn and worn in just the right places to drive the masculine species wild.

Perceiving the teen in this provocative way was distressing—still a year from legal maturity. He abhorred the vexing, forbidden frustrations she invoked.

“Pretty relaxed dress code,” Vicki said, noting the same.

“No, it’s not,” the principal said and moved directly toward the girls.

“Miss McQueen—”

The soft, fleshy contour of her free breasts peeked below the scissor-cut cropped T-shirt pressed beneath the heavy abundance of ornate silver chains—the soft arc of her bare torso taut and smooth. “Rudy, you’re back. How nice,” she lied, teasing a long swirl of her blond hair along her lower lip.

“
Principal Marrow
,” he corrected.

“That’s right! That’s who you are—
good boy
,” she said as if pushing praise upon a toddler and then moved to walk away.

“Miss McQueen, that outfit falls beyond the bounds of the school code, and I respectfully ask that you change.”

“I respectfully decline.”

Jasmine Boss laughed beside her friend while grinning with conceited contempt at the two agents behind the principal.

“You need to change,” he insisted.

“These are worth more than your car.”

“I’m not asking again.”

“Perfect.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“I’m not changing. Take it up with Daddy.”

“I will.”

“I’m sure.”

The girls walked away giggling, putting excessive swing into their wiggle.

“Why my school? They should be in private school.”

“Trust me, private schools have enough of that,” Vicki said. “We didn’t need more of them dumped on us.”

Hank looked at Vicki, how she wore herself. He doubted she wasn’t one of these high school head-turners—especially to vex Daddy.

Back in his office, Principal Marrow pulled the file he had promised. The dossier held a variety of confiscated items related to Miss Turner. “I fear it’s the tip of the iceberg. But it’s everything we’ve collected over the past year.”

The variety ranged from sweet to vulgar—poems, stories, explicit drawings and comic strips. There was a pornographic screenplay, well written, if zealously graphic, with the freshman author penned as Miss Turner’s principle costar.

Confiscated flash drives were clipped to incident reports along with sample printouts of the offending images. The provocative, heavily photo-edited creations ranged from the ridiculously absurd to the startlingly accurate.

“The kids’ actions are shocking,” Marrow admitted, struggling against making furtive glances at the agents. “But, put into context, not terribly abnormal.” He reclaimed the file, his discomfort obvious. “Miss Turner was very understanding and placed these in the proper context.”

“How did she respond to the attention?” Vicki asked.

“She admitted that they made her uncomfortable, rather than flattered”—he cleared his throat—”but she didn’t feel at personal risk.”

Vicki reached for the folder. “Do you mind if we borrow these?” Asking was a courtesy; she was taking them regardless.

“I’ll get them back?”

“When we’re finished with them.”

“Any issues between staff with regard to Miss Turner?” Hank asked.

“A couple of instances last school year, when Miss Turner first arrived. A fight broke out between two of my staff—both desired Miss Turner. It turned out their concerns were wasted. There had been no interest on her part.”

“We’ll need names.”

Vicki held up her vibrating phone. “I need to take this call.”

Hank wrapped things up with the principal and then stepped out into the hall where Vicki was speaking on the phone. She mouthed
Charlie
. Hank nodded, indicating that he was going to take a spin through the school. He walked away, dodging the few groups of students wandering the halls.

† †
†

As she searched for her partner, Vicki saw three boys rushing up the empty hallway—Hank was in hot pursuit. They cut into the expansive open library and made for the exit on the far side. She ran forward to cut them off and had them corralled just as Hank cornered the bookshelves.

“Show me,” he demanded, huffing and favoring his right leg.

“No way!” one yelled.

“It’s not what you think,” said another.

“I’m sure it’s exactly what I think.” Hank pinned the first boy to the wall and handed Vicki the laptop.

“That’s mine!”

“Zip it!”

She rested it on top of the bookshelf. “Password?”

No answer.

Hank pressed nose-to-nose with the lanky sixteen-year-old. “
Password
.”

“Breath mint.”

“
Obstruction
,” Hank countered.

The big word wasn’t lost on any of the kids, and the boy closed his eyes while Hank still held on to him. “Nose, underscore”—he paused, then winced—”fucker ninety-five.”

Vicki and Hank raised eyebrows at each other.

Did she hear that right? “
Nose fucker ninety-five
?”

The boy kept his eyes closed and nodded.

She typed
nose_fucker95
.

“Porn, right?” Hank said to Vicki as he stared down at the frightened boys.

When Hank heard no response, he craned his neck to see her staring at the screen. “
Right
?” he asked, less certain, praying he hadn’t just made another career-limiting mistake.

Her face was still, but her eyes darted around the screen as she clicked faster and faster. One of the boys whimpered.

Before Hank could ask again, she confirmed, “It’s porn all right.” She looked up at him. “Just not what I was expecting.”

Hank looked back at the anxious boys he had pressed against the wall, the shock on Vicki’s face unsettling. “What is it?” he asked her.

“It’s a private site,” she said.

“It’s my brother’s account,” another boy blurted. “He doesn’t know. He’ll pound me.” The boy could barely finish through his sobs. “Please don’t tell my dad.”

† †
†

Principal Marrow resisted surrendering the powers afforded his office, maintaining that he should see the offending images before passing judgment upon the boys. Vicki insisted Marrow take the agents’ word that the photos were pornographic in nature, and that was all that he needed to know. The relieved boys quickly admitted to bringing porn into the school, knowing that the more precise the truth, the more they would be reviled by the community.

Kyla More’s alluring photos of her best friend had merely hinted at the erotic. With Ivy’s exotic dancing revelation, Vicki wouldn’t have been surprised to discover nude photos. But this was not nude modeling—these were not Playboy.

Though not that back-alley filth, these high-production, professional-quality photos were exceptionally explicit. They actually turned the considerably liberal Vicki Starr pink.

She and Hank scanned through images ranging from explicitly intimate solos and intense girl-on-girl, through ravenous group scenes and elaborate BDSM shots. If it could be said that explicit can be done tastefully, then these were exquisite specimens. Even the staged bondage, domination and sadomasochistic photos were done with style, albeit a dark one. Still, these left nothing to the imagination and would be scandalous for even the most promiscuous figures. A schoolteacher would never want these public.

Vicki was no prude and no stranger to porn. And while these were easily the most stirring and erotic images she had seen, due to their flawless subject, seeing Ivy portrayed this way left Vicki feeling hollow rather than stimulated.

She could tell Hank struggled against arousal, trying to remain professionally detached. And he was no stranger to porn either.

“Look, I’ve seen my share,” he admitted. “Enough to be familiar with the popular models and most of the mainstream content. There’re enough top-shelf photos here that I would have come across at least one of them in my travels, but I haven’t.”

“You sure? There’s a lot out there.”

“Trust me. I’d have remembered.”

Vicki couldn’t disagree with that.

“How old do you think these are?” he asked.

“CAT should be able to tell for sure.” The FBI’s Cyber Action Team was good and fast. “I already forwarded the member credentials, but I’m guessing five, six years. Definitely not recent.”

“That puts her at twenty-one, twenty-two, which looks about right.”

Vicki paused on an image of Ivy seated, lips parted below her blindfold, with arms bound in chains above her head and excessively knotted ropes holding her legs apart.

Vicki scanned the member responses below, wincing at a crass comment posted by JollyRoger6969:
Just look at that juicy slice spread wide. Bet she craves the pain.

His words revived the chill of Charlie’s Sunday phone call. Vicki had to stop reading. The vile spin in her gut threatened to vomit its contents. “I’ll get CAT to run through all comments posted against her photos,” she managed.

Hank agreed. “I’ve seen enough.” He stepped to the window and cracked it wide. No matter how hard he pressed, he couldn’t rub the images from his eyes.

“I think you should swing by Kyla More’s,” he said.

“You’re not coming?”

He released a long breath out the window. “I don’t see the point. You’ll get more out of her if I’m not there.”