Next to Die

by T. J. Brearton

  “We’re actively pursuing all leads at this time,” he said. “And at this point we haven’t ruled anything out.” He stopped before leaving the room. “I know how difficult this must be for you. I promise I’ll let you know more as soon as I can.” Then he nodded at Jessica, who stepped out of the way, and showed himself out.

  Ten

  He lay on his back, fingers interlaced behind his head, and tried to push them out of his mind. Their faces jeering, voices echoing in his head – get the fuck away.

  He thought about the woods.

  He’d always liked the woods and had memories of being among the trees as a child, reaching out as he trudged along, forming his hand into a claw to rake his nails over the moss covering the bark, ploughing ragged rows.

  I was here.

  Some people called the woods a cathedral.

  But they were stupid people who took Instagram photos. The real woods were shitty; the real forest was tough, filled with biting insects and everything that slithered and growled. People romanticized shit they knew nothing about.

  They had the wrong ideas. So many wrong ideas so much of the time. They were the blind men and women surrounding the elephant. Each one had a different guess what it was, but no one actually knew, no one understood eternity.

  For years people had the wrong ideas about him, too. They didn’t know who he really was. Nobody did.

  Clay…

  Clay wasn’t his name, but it should’ve been. Everything else they called him was false.

  Sometimes the name conjured sensations – the blast of cool air, vague memories of a sickness taking shape inside him as he lay in the dark – but it was the best reminder of everything that had been taken from him, a life that he should’ve had before they had come in and taken what was his.

  Clay was a name he could use when he was alone, like now, picturing himself in the woods, where the sun had broken through the clouds, sending down shafts of light horizontal through the forest canopy. Raising his arms, turning his face up toward the light, closing his dream-eyes and ready for inspiration…

  * * *

  He blinked his eyes open, realized he’d lost his train of thought.

  Ah. That things happened for a reason. And that – if he was honest with himself, and he liked to think he was more honest than the usual person – the satisfaction of killing, of police finding the bloody body, was fading.

  The smell had screwed him up – that much was true. But had it been a mistake? Truly a mistake? Maybe not. Even if it hadn’t gone down the way it was supposed to, there was much to savor. And if he really thought about it, wasn’t the whole thing just like Jim Morrison? Morrison had been a maverick; no one could predict what he was going to do on stage from one moment to the next. That night he’d been singing “The End” and started improvising about killing his father and fucking his mother, that had gotten him and the band kicked out of the venue.

  But had it been a mistake? Of course not – it had launched a career.

  So, Clay closed his eyes and decided to take pleasure. To see the bigger picture. To see if there was anything else he could learn from the way nature had taken its course…

  The spray and spatter of her blood had been like the vivid, physical manifestation of the pain he’d silently endured for years, and – despite its grotesqueness, despite certain miscalculations – it had been righteous and necessary.

  Except…

  Except what? What was missing?

  Maybe what was missing was that he’d been the only one to witness it. And maybe that should be enough, just being him, but as he opened his eyes again, staring up at the bright ceiling, Clay realized that it wasn’t. Not truly. Not if he really asked himself the hard questions about what was next, and how exactly he was going to go about it, and get it right this time, then he couldn’t avoid the past. Because the past and the present and the future all went together.

  * * *

  Her phone buzzed beside her bed. Bobbi grabbed it and gave the screen a quick glance, expecting Connor.

  Hey. How are you, B?

  Her chest tightened. The area code was 315, from her old neck of the woods. Since relocating to the Adirondacks she’d gotten a new phone, a new number.

  She thought she knew who this was and she debated whether or not to respond. In the past, though, when she’d ignored him, he’d only persisted.

  She punched out a reply.

  How did you get this number?

  The return text came promptly.

  From your mom. Just wanted to check on u. Heard about what happened.

  Her mother? It figured. Her mother had always liked Jamie; he was an expert in dissimulation, even in the eleventh grade when they’d started dating. Bobbi didn’t understand his pretense though, not until later when she went to the University of Rochester and he enrolled at RIT – he’d finally revealed his true self by cheating.

  And then he’d become obsessed, even violent, unwilling to let her go when she tried to break it off. Her mother didn’t know about any of that. Her mother was still charmed by Jamie, his rich parents, and secretly wished they’d get back together. But giving out her daughter’s new number? It was inexcusable.

  She typed:

  I’m fine.

  She hesitated, thought about adding more, but didn’t. She sent the message, waited.

  The longer she stood there staring at the screen, the worse she felt. It was just like Jamie to take a bad situation and make it worse. Use it as an excuse to start harassing her again. Why was he contacting her now? He must’ve seen the news: Death in a Small Town. DSS Supervisor Found Slashed; Police Scramble. There was even a story which named her: Caseworker Roberta Noelle, who was supposed to be working the shift Harriet Fogarty covered, had no comment.

  It was all an excuse for Jamie.

  Either that, or it was something far worse. It was still hard for him to imagine escalating to an actual killer, but…

  When he didn’t reply, she sent another message, this time to Connor.

  Hey there, mister. Want to hang out again soon? Maybe your place?

  She worried for a second it might be too forward. And she knew that she was motivated by Jamie contacting her, but she sent the text anyway.

  Connor’s reply came back seconds later:

  Love to. Whenever u want.

  She felt a warm sensation slide through her.

  Then it was gone.

  She flipped back to the other text stream.

  Hey. How are you, B?

  Jamie’s unwelcomed message was like opening a closet and discovering a bad smell. Her thumb hovered over the delete button. She thought about showing Connor, but decided against it. What she needed to do was forget about it, ignore Jamie, and continue to move on with her life. The more attention she gave it, the more it would grow. But she set her phone down beside her, leaving the texts where they were.

  She rolled over in bed and hoped for sleep that didn’t come.

  It was impossible not to keep turning it over in her mind, asking herself if she thought Jamie was capable of something so dark and unthinkable. That he might have killed Harriet in a blind rage, expecting it to be her sitting there.

  She didn’t want to consider it; she wanted her life the way it was before all of this had happened, and she was giving every passing car a second look. But she couldn’t say for sure. Like Mike, she couldn’t rule it out.

  Eleven

  Mike answered his phone, kept one hand on the steering wheel. “Nelson.”

  “Investigator Nelson; Kenneth Perkins, Chief of Police for the Kahonsie Mohawk Tribe.”

  “Chief Perkins, glad to hear from you.”

  “It’s my understanding that you’ve got quite a case going on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And that you have someone in custody, Steve Pritchard, and he’s claiming… he says he’s been spending time with Marlene Blackburn?”

  Mike found a spot on the outskirts of Lake Haven and pulled
over. The sun was just rising, rays cutting through the tall pines. “Yes, we’re looking for the whereabouts of Steve Pritchard from the morning of July twelfth to the morning of July thirteenth. Pritchard claims, as you say, he was staying with Blackburn.”

  “We can obtain that information for you.”

  “I’m sort of on the hook for this in a big way…”

  State police had no jurisdiction within the reservation; only FBI could actively investigate a crime or interview a person of interest living there, so Mike was blocked. Perkins wasn’t even obligated to help; the call was out of professional courtesy.

  “Think of it as efficiency,” Perkins said. “Since you’re two hours away, we can talk to Ms. Blackburn, find out if she’s had company.”

  “Thank you, Chief Perkins. Also, to your knowledge – Ms. Blackburn works at the casino, is that correct?”

  “That is correct.” Perkins cleared his throat. “However, as you may know, certain tribal members and the tribal government have property just outside the res, including part of the Kahonsie Mohawk Casino and Resort parking lot.”

  “Understood.”

  “What I’m aiming at is that we can cooperate here – if Ms. Blackburn is part of your investigation, we can help with that.”

  “I appreciate it. Can I ask you, Chief – you know what kind of car Blackburn drives?” Mike was thinking about the white four-door seen on River Street.

  “She has a 2001 Ford Focus.”

  “Is that a four-door or two-door?”

  “Four.”

  “Know what color, by chance?”

  “Not sure. White or gray. Maybe silver.”

  “Thank you, Chief.”

  * * *

  The cars filled the parking lot next to St. Adams Church, and overflow had to park along the road. Mourners dressed in black lined up to offer condolences to Terry Fogarty. As Bobbi approached, walking down the street from her apartment building, she saw another man with Fogarty: Harriet’s son, Victor.

  Harriet had kept a picture in her office of Victor in his cap and gown, graduating from Colgate University. He’d grown a beard and seemed to have aged more than the five years since his graduation. Bobbi got closer, stepped into the back of the line. She acknowledged the few mourners she recognized from DSS with a tip of her head. She didn’t see Rachel.

  When it was her turn to speak to Harriet’s husband, Bobbi’s throat dried out. But she touched his shoulder and whispered how sorry she was, unprepared for the tears that suddenly sheeted her vision.

  “Thank you, Bobbi,” Terry Fogarty said. “Harriet liked you a lot. She was very happy you’d joined the group over there.”

  Bobbi wanted to stare into his face and hunt for any sign that he blamed her. She wanted to sink to her knees, grab his legs, and beg his forgiveness. But she turned toward Victor, said, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” and moved swiftly out of Victor’s range of intensity.

  Rachel was already inside, sitting in the middle section of pews, near the front. When she saw Bobbi coming she lifted her bag out of the way, offered a wan smile, and Bobbi sat down.

  It had been years since Bobbi attended a church service of any kind, but she was surprised when Rachel lowered the kneeler to genuflect and bowed her head in prayer. Several months at the DSS and Bobbi never knew Rachel was a worshipper.

  She joined in and tried to focus on Harriet, to think good thoughts, but became distracted by Victor’s face, burned into her mind. It was impossible to let go of the idea that this could all be for her – that if she’d been killed instead of Harriet, such a memorial service would be happening at her own church back home, the one where her father brought her and her foster brothers. And that it would be her body lingering at the morgue, part of evidence in an unsolved murder case, not Harriet’s.

  Whether by fate or chance, she was a mourner. At least, as long as her luck held out. In her dreams, it didn’t.

  In one dream she left the clinic and boarded a city bus, like the RTS back in Rochester. After driving around through unfamiliar neighborhoods, the other passengers de-boarded, one by one, leaving her alone with a single man who sat at the back, wearing a hooded sweatshirt, his face hidden. She stayed on the bus like a hostage, unable to leave, until eventually he got up and walked to her, pulled a gleaming knife from the folds of his sweatshirt, and started slashing at her. She tried to fight him off but was slowed by a thick, invisible force. When he raised the knife for the final strike, his hood fell away, and Jamie looked down at her with black eyes.

  Bobbi snapped out of it, realized that Rachel had moved to a seated position in the pew. Harriet’s brother Joe, a big man with a shaved head, was giving the eulogy. The church was hot and she felt the sweat spreading over her neck and back.

  It felt like someone was watching her.

  She glanced around and saw Mike Nelson. A corner of his mouth curled up and he made a small nod. Then his smile faded. He seemed to know she had something to tell him.

  * * *

  “Jamie Rentz?”

  “Yes.” Bobbi lifted the coffee to her lips and blew on it. Then she remembered it was iced coffee. Mike noticed her slip but didn’t mention it.

  “That’s James, or…?”

  “Jameson. He always hated the name. Said it made him sound like a rich person. So he never used it. Always went by Jamie.”

  Pieces of stained glass, made into sun-catchers, hung from suction cups against the windows of the café, burning in the intense July light.

  “I just…” Bobbi chased around for the right thing to say. “I don’t… I know you can only say just so much. So maybe you have a suspect and this is silly of me. I saw Harriet’s other brother at the service…”

  “I’d like to hear what you have to say, Bobbi.” He clearly avoided admitting Steve Pritchard was a suspect. “We’re looking at everything we can right now,” he said.

  She was nodding, perhaps too vigorously, feeling frustrated, crowded. The café, which sat close to the church, was packed, eyes darting to her and the investigator. She recognized some of the people from the memorial service. Mike had asked her to talk back at the police station, but she’d chosen the coffee place and now thought it was a bad idea.

  “I need to stop thinking about this,” Bobbi said. “It just goes on and on. I haven’t been sleeping. Jamie, he… I don’t know if he’d…” She forced herself to stop.

  Mike kept his voice low. “Did he ever hurt you?”

  Her memory flashed on a couple of occasions – just quick moments – Jamie’s hand drawn back in a fist, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “He grabbed me a couple times.”

  Mike waited.

  “You know, grabbed my shoulders. One time he shoved me and I tripped. He got on top of me, but he… my roommate interrupted. This was at my dorm room.”

  “At the University of Rochester…”

  “Yeah.”

  “And he’s still in Rochester? Living there?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I asked my mom and she didn’t know. I thought about calling his mom, but…”

  “Did you report it? When he grabbed you?”

  “We were breaking up. He… that was the last time I saw him. He called and left messages, apologizing up and down, asking to see me. But… I’m not, ah…” She let slip a fluttery laugh, high-pitched. Dammit, she was losing it.

  She wasn’t nervous; she was pissed. Pissed at Jamie. Someone she’d left behind, yet here he was, still causing trouble in her life. She kept catching the eyes of curious onlookers.

  “Would you like to leave?” Mike asked.

  “Yeah, I totally would.”

  He stood up and Bobbi followed him to the door.

  He held it open for her and they stepped out into the bright sunshine. “You didn’t tell campus security? Anything? I’m just looking for any sort of paperwork on Jamie, any official report.”

  “No, I didn’t. But he had other things.”

  They headed down the hil
l toward the lake in the center of the village. The route took them by a busy hotel and across Main Street, choked with traffic. Independence Day had kicked off the official summer season and Lake Placid thrived on tourism – boating, camping, canoeing, hiking – but as they stepped into a small park with a couple of benches and a picnic table, everything seemed sinister, everybody had something to hide. Like the man standing by the water’s edge, wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt, his hair frizzy and pulled back. He didn’t look right. He looked like Gavin Fuller, father of the boy Harriet had been placing in care.

  They grabbed a bench and Bobbi took a hit from the iced coffee, tried to taste its sweetness. Mike asked her what she meant by “other things” and she told him what she could, that Jamie had a temper, that he had been arrested for fighting once, that he liked knives.

  “Knives?”

  She nodded. The man in the tie-dye suddenly scooped up a little girl and laughed with her. He wasn’t Fuller – she was getting full-on paranoid. Bobbi turned to Mike, saying, “Jamie hunted with his dad down in the Southern Tier. And he had this idea of killing a deer using just a knife. He had dozens of them. I don’t think he ever did…” She trailed off. “You’re probably wondering why I didn’t say anything about him before.”

  He grew thoughtful, then said, “Maybe you just didn’t want to admit it was possible.”

  “He texted me. Last night. Do you want to see it?”

  “Please.”

  She pulled out her phone and brought up the text exchange, saying, “He actually got my number from my mother. Here.” She gave Mike the phone and a moment to read through.

  He handed it back. “This is the first contact you’ve had in how long?”