I've been promising it for weeks now and here it is...the third and final installment of my monumental Chapter Thirteen...
Everything about this place felt familiar. The road; there was something about it; something. The sound, as his filthy 91’ Cutless tore up the gravel beneath her bald tires. The landscape. On either side of him, trees––mostly bare, but strangely reminiscent of…something… He’d been in the area a few times. Perhaps that was it. But never on this road. Had he?
About a half a mile up, he saw squad cars; two of them; one marked and one not. Something about them called back to his reckless days on the Brooklyn beat. He and partner, Colin McKee took a high-speed chase, (more like joyride), across The Long Island Expressway and four city blocks. They must have cost the city thousands in damage that day; not to mention countless endangered lives. Still, it was fun as Hell. Good times…
“What, no welcome-wagon?” he muttered, rolling up toward the foot of the clearing. Not a soul to greet him; he almost took it personal. Somehow, he’d grown accustomed to her big bubbly eyes hanging on his every move. Good old Fiorentine. Only a matter of time, he thought, mischievously. Down, boy. Been there. Done that. The company ink and so forth. Besides. The girl was just a contingency. ‘In Case of Extreme Horniness Break Glass.’ There were plenty of other fish in this shallow pond.
Take Cynthia, for example; a wet dream wrapped in a tight little package. It nearly killed him to go so slow with her. The way she moved; the way she smelled––even after a good sweat––especially…drove him into a certified frenzy. These days, the sweat came easy. That fancy new cell phone wasn’t the only added accessory to his evolving bachelorhood.
The weeks after Bluemont were like a bold new awakening; unleashing a whole host of budding passions; like sushi, which she introduced him to; (just something about raw flesh), but easily, the most surprising––was his morning run regimen.
He was amazed how effective a little activity could be in the morning to clear the mind and expel the toxins. Hell, he was down a full two cups of coffee.
At last he stepped out of the car and took a proper look around: Shesh, what a depressing spot…and began walking…
Yes, he heard it, or rather, sensed; in that inexplicable way an animal perceived danger. But he was trying not to listen. What was there to fear, after all…from one’s own mind…? Plenty… la, la, la, not listening…
In the distance he heard footsteps. “Who’s there?” A voice barked from the trees.
“At ease, Lieutenant.” The chiseled frame of Lieutenant Estes emerged; his uniform filthy, as were his hands, which looked as though they’d been in the dirt, digging…
“Detective Merrimac. I’m sorry, sir, I thought––”
“Understandable. Where’s Fiorentine?” Perhaps it was his imagination, but he could swear he saw something in the sturdy Latino’s typically-stern stare, right at her name. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear it was something ugly.
“She’s up ahead, sir. Looks like we’re hot on a trail, of sorts; some faint tracks in the dirt. Simmons and Windell are on sweep...”
“You do know there are wild animals in these woods...”
“Yes, sir, well aware.” he said, trying to hide the resentment. “I grew up around here.” Keith smiled.
“Very well. Let’s have a look.” Estes nodded and started back into the trees.
More deja-vu. It seemed to intensify with every crunch forward. Perhaps he had been through these parts, he considered. It was possible. He’d lived in Maplewood long enough to have driven roads, absorbed landscape, and have no specific memory of having done so. Things like that were known to happen. But there was no way––not one chance in holy Hell he’d ever walked this trail before…
“Sir?” Estes was waiting––and Keith was, for some reason, stopped. “Something wrong?”
“No,” he replied, hoarse. “Just a feeling,” he finished, desperate to save face. “Let’s keep moving…” Estes shook his thinning head, almost undetectable…but not quite. Snot-nosed little spic––oughta’a string him up by his greasy brown–– “Would-you-SHUT-UP!?” he snapped at thin air––and looked around…
The trees seemed normal enough. But something was out there. Estes was staring at him like Nurse Ratched at the end of Cuckoo’s Nest––right before the lobotomy. “I, ah…didn’t say––”
“I know that, I…look, can we just get on with it?”
*
The olive-skinned lieutenant took a moment to snap himself out of this Abbott and Costello nightmare. “Yes, sir. It’s…not much further...” It had to be one of the longest conversations they’d ever shared––and to Estes, hands down the strangest.
*
A few dozen yards up, Lisa Fiorentine uncovered two more possible footprints. Within her sight, Sergeants Bill Simmons and Amara Windell were sweeping the scene.
“Sir!” Simmons called anxiously. Fiorentine was startled and, for a split second, looked sharply around for a male superior.
“You’ve got something?” She adjusted.
“Yes, sir, I think so,” he said, panting from just the short trek up the hill.
The woman stood up strait and grabbed another digital shot of the murky trail. It was strange in a way. The unmistakable sense of satisfaction she felt every time another print revealed itself in the semi-frozen mud. Or some small piece of garbage, thought discarded by careless teenagers, turned out to have possible significance. These were all little pieces to a most horrific puzzle; one a small part of her wished never to solve.
Still, it was kind of exhilarating…
As a youngster in Sacramento, while all the other girls played Barbies or My Little Pony, Lisa was hard on the case of some manufactured mystery; (usually more Nancy Drew than Silence of the Lambs). Her insatiable dissatisfaction often proved useful, at any rate, (if not a shade unnerving). But then, so was the guilt; treating another’s misfortune like some sort of game. One feeling held her back, while the other pushed her forward. Together, they kept her sane.
“What’s this?” she asked, and again came the high of another step closer. The marks were subtle; and to the untrained eye, nothing more than the whims of Mother Nature. But there was something else about them. Something almost…organized…
“I wasn’t sure at first. Hell, I’m still not sure...must have looked this spot over a half a dozen times before I noticed the pattern.” Fiorentine looked closer. She saw it too. “As I’m sure you can guess, sir, it’s consistent with…well with, um…”
“With being dragged…” she finished; then looked off into a particularly dense portion of the woods. “So where do you suppose it leads…?”
*
“Windell!” The middle-aged woman marking the scene looked up to her fellow crusaders. “I want you and Simmons to follow this trail…” ordered the girl, little more than a child. “Get some equipment together...”
“Yes, sir,” she said, unsure of herself. In this new era of CSI: Maplewood, no able-bodied officer was expendable. Amara Windell had spent the majority of her twenty-nine years behind a desk, and well-suited to every predictable minute. Now, all of a sudden, she was out in the thick of things, scouring potential crime scenes for evidence of foul play with officers, in some cases, half her age. Her oldest daughter had more years on this girl giving the orders…
On her way to the squad car, she brushed by the young Estes, escorting the real star of this show. “Good morning, Detective Merrimac,” she greeted without stopping.
“Almost didn’t recognize you, Windell, with all that fire in your eyes...” Windell smiled. What a charmer.
*
“Detective Merrimac! Glad you could make it.”
“Makes two of us, hon…” Fiorentine turned up to metaphorically scratch her head––then laughed politely. Did he just call her––? “Time’s money, Sergeant, what’s say we sink our teeth in,” he said; before muttering something inconspicuous under his breath…
Lisa looked quizzically at Estes who simply shrugged. What he said sounded faintly derogatory, but she couldn’t be certain. It almost looked as though he were arguing with…himself… “Sir, are you alr––?”
“What is that, the million dollar question today? I’m wonderful, now let’s get this show on the goddamned road...”
For nearly a half hour, she meticulously went over all evidence accumulated, beginning with the clear eyeglass lens, which they must have missed a dozen times before she finally came within a snake’s tail of stepping on and smashing to pieces. The detective eyed it, glib, as though its chance recovery was barely worth the effort. Coming from anyone else, she might have taken it personally; but his simple indifference only made her more eager. Above all else, (even more than to see justice done), she so desperately wanted to impress this man; for whom she had developed complex, and very deep feelings––
“I know that, by itself, this doesn’t look like much, Keith––” She stopped herself. Keith however, didn’t seem to mind, smiling that charming smile, which melted so many women before her. Out of the corner of her eye, Estes looked like he was going to be sick. “But…Lieutenant Estes here has also uncovered footprints, we believe…”
*
Keith looked sharply at the statuesque officer to his left. In return, he received one of the coldest, most disciplined scowls he’d ever been shot. He thinks I’m a threat, he thought; and it was him; not some dark spot at the foot of his psyche. Only one Captain of this ship, he thought––again, more sure of himself…and started to walk...
agreed
Food for Thought…
Something downright strange was going on. (conclusion the third).
Perry couldn’t put his finger on it. Perry had no fingers. He did have thoughts, though. Powerful ones. No, that wasn’t the word for it. There was no word for it.
This vessel was one stubborn little bugger. Much moreso than the last. Night and day, for those hell-bent on metaphor. But it was no mere question of comparison. Nothing so simple as then versus now… Two sides. Same coin.
How can this be…? This was…borderline insubordination. Un-fucking-acceptable–– Still, the question was valid. This vessel was strong. No matter––he’d run across stronger. But what about the fear? The doubt? The lingering resistance…?
Fuck the fear. Screw the doubt. And as for resistance…
‘The Resistance must be squashed! It must be identified, sought out, and crushed for all time, under the crippling weight of its own inefficiency!’
A promising mantra, (which sounded much better in Spanish).
Perry had confidence––a creature such as he went forth armed in perpetual supply. Nothing could touch the ineffable quality he possessed. Not of this world. Or the next. Nor the thousand thereafter. However atypical the dramas of recent events, this vessel was of no consequence. Just a blip on the radar. No more. No less.
So what if it were the first ‘blip’ of its kind…the first he had ever seen in a very, very long time...?
*
“This is it,” said Simmons assuredly. “Nothing beyond this point.”
“It can’t be.” It all looked the same; trees every which way––for miles... “How can this be it?” Windell added after an extended silence. Simmons had no answer. He seemed just as puzzled, and as painfully out of his element as his exhausted compatriot. Eyes, ears and manpower. That was all they really amounted to in this new, post-Pollack age. And neither one had much of either.
Windell especially, who, after nearly three hours on her feet in the blazing sun over unforgiving ground, looked about ready to drop. Still, she tried; like a woman ten years younger and with far more field-experience. The last thing she wanted to appear, after all, was obsolete. “Maybe he got wise and took more pains to cover them up.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Simmons entertained. “But why not go back; you know, to cover it all?” He might have been a good deal younger than the plucky grandmother of two, but he sweated just as profusely. On top of that, his right knee was killing him––and not just from the labor. At his current rate, he might not make it to fifty. “Guess we should call in the cavalry,” he said, expecting––and hoping she would agree. “Can’t follow a trail where none exists...”
“Guess not…” she concurred––though not quite committal. He could see she wanted to find something––and could sort of see why. When all this was over, she would likely be thanked for her contribution––however inadequate––and shuffled back to Police Headquarters where she would spend the remainder of her days making coffee, typing reports and answering phones…rain, sleet, snow or shine––getting nothing but old.
“Careful––” he called, noticing her slowly get shorter…then looked down at her boot, where the earth was up to her swollen ankle, and still rising…
“Oh my!” she blurted, embarrassed.
“Here.” He stuck out his stubby hand and pulled her out gently…
“Something must’ve been digging around here,” she said, back on solid ground. “An animal, like a fox, or a…” Simmons looked up.
“You still wanna call for help?” The look on her face showed gathering courage. What a find it would be. What a feather in their caps. Did they dare hold off on the reinforcements? Did they dare go it alone? Windell grabbed at the two-piece shovel and handed it over without a word. Simmons began to dig.
*
Estes kept his distance; watching the pair go over markings in the half-frozen dirt. For anyone else; Davies perhaps––he’d have been right there with them, on his hands and knees to explain every minor detail. He was not, by nature, a man ruled by ego––but he was a man, nonetheless, and tempted to take credit for what was largely his discovery. All the same, he resisted; crouched on a rotting stump with a half-eaten ham sandwich.
There was a moment there––perhaps even two or three––where he could swear Merrimac was not even listening. Fiorentine babbled; on and on with nary a breath between as she pointed to one set of tracks versus another, desperate for his faint nods of interest, or the occasional ‘mm-hm’ to will her forward. But something in his eyes, when he had not noticed anyone watching, suggested a disturbing vacancy. The lights were on, but purely for effect. In that brief interval, no one appeared to be home.
It began with their clumsy eye-contact out by the clearing, before he and his little groupie went to pat each other’s backs. The veteran detective had given him a deep, hostile look that sent a cold shiver down his impeccably-aligned spine. A look that said, ‘don’t cross me, boy. If you know what’s good for you.’ Estes was hardly intimidated; but somewhat unsettled––
It was becoming harder and harder for him to deny; to others, not quite so much, but to himself, the façade was damn-near broken down. It might not have been so bad, he thought, taking another token bite of his sandwich, if it were anyone else but her.
Without realizing, he was up on his feet; the sandwich thrown to the ground in disgust––or was it frustration? And, before he could reign it in, all eyes were on him––
“I’m going for a walk,” he said, as though unaffected. Fiorentine looked on with puzzled bemusement. Merrimac came off a shade more smug.
“Something the matter, Lieutenant?” he asked. And Estes held his tongue.
“No, sir,” he replied, without turning his head. “It just seems you two have things well in hand around here. I thought I’d go check on our roving trackers...”
“Sounds like a good idea,” offered the smarmy detective. Fiorentine added nothing. “Just don’t get lost out there.” Again with that arrogant smirk; (like a finger jammed down his throat). Estes returned the empty gesture with a painted-on grin, flashed for both their benefit, then turned to head off.
“Now where were we, my dear?” He could still hear them, edging out of earshot. Good. Those two could have one another, he thought, dragging his mind out of the gutter and on to more pressing matters. He reached for his mic-phone and called Simmons––
“Go ahead, Lieutenant...” getting Windell instead––
“Where’s Simmons?” he asked, crass. “I thought this was his phone…”
“Yes, sir, it is,” she replied. “Simmons is a little busy at the moment…”
Whatever. “How goes the trail-blazing, Sergeant?”
“Actually, sir, the trail’s run cold.” There was a shaky hesitation in her usually-pleasant delivery. “However,” it continued, “it seems we may have uncovered an even stronger leg to stand on…so to speak…sir…” Lieutenant Estes stopped dead in his tracks, (which also happened to coincide with the faint lines in the thawing dirt).
“Don’t suppose you’d care to elaborate.”
“Well, sir, I could but…it might be better if you saw for yourself...”
“I’m en route,” he said, strides getting longer. “The others are, um…otherwise engaged…”
“Acknowledged. Windell out.” The spring had returned to his sturdy step. At last; something worthy of his expertise––and authority. An air of responsibility; of duty washed over him, clearing all else away. This day might not turn out so bad after all.
*
“So what do you make of it?” she asked, just dying to know. Keith knelt down beside her. Her sweet scent was pleasant; inviting in a playful, non-committal sort of way. But when mixed with that thin layer of forest and sweat…intoxicating…
“Looks pretty solid,” he commended, stealing a glimpse of her firm backside. “But not quite a closed case, Lisa…if you follow...” Right away, she turned her pretty head; perhaps a little over-anxious to acknowledge his unusual familiarity.
“Did I say something wrong, Sergeant?”
“You called me Lisa,” she said, smiling bashful. “I’m just wondering if you hit your head recently.” Keith returned the shy smile.
*
Though his was more polished. She’d seen the smile before, which tended to present itself whenever he turned on the charm; usually in the company of a lady. Christ! She was the lady. Could this be happening? Surely not. It was just her imagination taking her to places reality dare not permit. On the other hand, maybe that birthday wish had finally kicked in. Stranger things had happened. Stranger things were happening…
*
“Some things are long overdue,” he said, eyes penetrating…
“Careful, sir. The ground is starting to melt.”
“That’s not all, I hope...”
“Where, um…where was I?” She cleared her throat awkwardly and zeroed in on the nearest footprint. “I, ah…I mean if I had to guess, I’d say this was made from a…tennis shoe, judging by the pattern the sole makes. Most notably here…” She pointed toward the top-right, around where the balls of the foot dug in most prominent––
“I disagree.” His stare remained unchanged, bordering on intrusive. Fiorentine looked up again into his haunting eyes, more with questioning encouragement than schoolgirl infatuation. At last, he broke away and referenced the print with his finger.
“A boot did this.” He continued. “Probably galoshes, and quite sturdy, at that. Pair of Timberlands maybe…”
“How can you be so certain?” Her expression did little to hide her astonishment. Her eyes were like saucers and her lower lip was practically below her chin.
“Don’t feel bad, Sergeant. I’ve been at this a lot longer than you,” he said, trying not to condescend. “See…” Again he gestured the weak imprint, which seemed to exhibit more definition with each flimsy examination. “This heel is deep, as though it were dug in. A tennis shoe would barely leave an imprint. You’re right about the rubber soul, I suspect. Might have a Beatles fan on our hands.” The smile returned, and not a moment too soon.
“Makes sense.” She nodded, clearly impressed. “Guess it must pay to have all those years under your belt.” She was teasing. Honestly, openly teasing.
“Got more than years under there, sweetheart.” Her short smile morphed into an infectious grin. There was no denying that one. The girl had lobbed in an easy serve and he eagerly returned. Not the best timing perhaps, but still fun.
*
“I’ve also got pants,” he added with a boyish laugh that was no less charming. Fiorentine for all her misgivings, reciprocated with a sultry laugh of her own. It was a hell of a time for him to let loose his legendary playful side––even though she’d had fantasies not all that dissimilar––rip-roaring, spine-tingling fantasies…
“You’re too much, Keith.” Her tone was knee-deep in sentiment. When it came to the mystical art of seduction, she too was no novice. Being female, she was even less a stranger to subtlety and, for the first time in just about ever, spoke his name without the slightest trace of embarrassment or apology.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, leaning in. She felt goose bumps stand to attention up the back of her neck. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re just enough...” She turned her head gracefully and met his hard stare without so much as a flinch.
“Why do I get the feeling you’ve used that line before?”
“I probably have.” Their lips were inches apart. Only a question of time, one of them thought; and both of them knew it.
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t doubt your sincerity?” she asked, lips inching ever so closer…
“Can’t think of one.” Sweet mercy those eyes. She couldn’t hold out much longer. “There have been others, though, you know that. A man gets lonely…”
“Is that so?”
“So it is.”
“Why, Detective, you’re not trying to––” But before she could expel the pointless flirtation, his lips were on hers. And not long after…hers were on his.
*
“Detective Merrimac.” A mediated voice broke in. The girl pulled away.
“Keith, there’s…there’s someone…”
“Just ignore it...”
“Are you there, Detective? Come in please, it’s urgent.” Keith sighed. Estes; fifty feet away and the man still knew how to kill a mood.
Keith sulked the entire trek, short as it was, to meet up with the all-business lieutenant and his two inept protégés––Windell and this…Simmons guy, whom he did not quite know but reminded him of ‘George’ on Seinfeld. On the mic, he’d said it was urgent; that they were apparently, and improbably, on the verge of some crucial discovery. Him too.
Fiorentine was back in game-shape before he could blink. Must be losing your touch, loverboy… As before, Keith had a strange feeling about his surroundings; alien and yet somehow familiar. Like deja-vu all over again. That’s right, this whole place just reminds you of a nightmare you had recently…while you were sound asleep in your warm, safe bed… The two were close now; close enough to hear voices. And digging. Fiorentine pushed the last of the branches aside and caught a clear view of all three––
Windell was the first to greet them. She looked exhausted; and filthy. Still, never had she seemed so…alive... “Detective. Sergeant. You’re just in time.” She stepped aside, though it was unnecessary, for the two men digging were hard to miss.
“In time for what?” Keith asked foolishly.
“Sir!” Simmons called out. His round, bald head was sweating profusely and his shirt did not fare much better. If not for the smell, he might have looked just out of the shower. Estes stopped and signaled for Simmons to do the same. Whatever the man’s shovel had hit, Estes felt it too.
“The end of the trail,” Windell responded, belated. Keith shot her a curious look, then took several measured steps forward, Fiorentine close behind…
“Oh dear God…” Clearing away the last of the discarded earth, Estes loomed over the six foot hole he and the surprisingly strong Bill Simmons had dug in just over eighteen minutes. His blemish-free, olive skin turned suddenly a pale white, and he too took a sizeable step back before climbing all the way out–– “Looks like we can call off the search,” he continued, all the life draining out of his normally level voice. His eyes did not move from the center of the hole––this crude, insensitive grave…
One by one, the others joined in, each one displaying a similar loss of composure, unique to their respective sensibilities. Fiorentine gasped––horrified, yet strangely intrigued. Simmons, still panting for breath, wiped his sweaty brow and looked on the verge of throwing up. Windell was not much different, except instead of nausea, hers was an intense, almost violent sadness, and she struggled to hold back the tears.
Last but not least, there was Keith, who took everything in the way he usually did––calm, cool and collected––almost…empty…much like the partially decomposed body before him. Lifeless, hopeless, filthy and…stinky, pee-yoo... All except for one spot, still caked in dry blood…where her left ear had been––
“I’ll get on the horn to Cuen,” he said, unemotional. The end of the trail indeed, he thought, so far as Susan Laterna was concerned.
The larger one left, led to the monster who put her there.
And there you have it, (for those of you still reading; thanks a lot, by the way). Anyway, I hope you enjoyed not only this very long chapter, but the previous 12 as well, all of which can be found in the archives of this blog.
My plan is to put out a Kindle Book of these chapters, which collectively make up Volume One of my grand horror-epic, An Axis Oblique, (Man, I like saying that). In the meantime, I continue to query agents, publishers and, well anyone willing to be queried...
If you like what you've read, (or Hell, even if you don't), do me a favour and let me know. Feedback is my nourishment...and I'm starving... (caugh)
See you real soon with all sorts of exciting new meanderings.
D.A.
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