Dead Girls

by Russ Trautwig

  Of particular interest to Chris, were the characteristics of Wendigos that coincided with what he knew about the creature he thought of as Father Flynn. Although there were differences from tribe to tribe, the traits that he was concerned with were: cannibalism, shape-shifting, some form of immortality or long life and superhuman strength. The more he read the more he thought that there was some connection between what happened to Jimmy and him twenty-eight years ago in the woods of Wisconsin and this Native American legend.

  There was no ah-ha moment, no single revelation that brought him an ecstatic sense of accomplishment. It was more a grinding, dredging process that had allowed him to finally accept that he had sufficient information needed to begin formulating a plan. There was no happiness, there was no conclusion, just the turning from one page to the next. And yet, somewhere inside him, a change was occurring, a change that added just a bit more bounce to his step and would, in a few days, begin to soften the creases on his face and smooth the bags that gathered below his eyes.

  By the end of the day, as the crowd began to file from the many chambers of the building, there was a resignation of sorts bouncing around inside the head of Chris Carter. The sun that had scorched his head when it was directly above him on the way in, was now safely settled somewhere behind the building he was exiting, and the shadows gave him pause for the coming night. There were a great many problems with his line of reasoning and yet absent any other sound and reasonable explanation, these thoughts gave him fodder for strategic planning. The resignation he was wrestling with was that his research was over. There was no more to learn from books. It was only a question now of putting it all together in his head and he could do that, wherever he was.

  He thought of Jimmy and how different things had turned out for the two of them. He hadn’t seen or spoken to him in fifteen years. He wondered if he was happy, he knew he was successful and suspected that was in some way controlled by the same forces that had contrived his own ruin and perhaps still held sway over him. He often thought he would need to track Jimmy down one day when he had all this research done and the story was straight in his head. But he knew with some measure of certainty that Jimmy had embraced the evil, that Jimmy played its game, that he and it were using the same playbook. There was no other explanation for what had happened. Jimmy was talented, yes, but he wasn’t as good as his success would indicate, the correlation didn’t work for Chris and he knew there were other factors at work, evil factors.

  He paid for a hot dog and Dr. Brown’s cherry soda from a street vendor as he crossed Madison Avenue. He always took the same route: Forty-Second Street to First Ave, and then First Avenue all the way to his bridge. He never went Second Avenue or Forty-Third Street, never. The walk would usually take him about two hours and the darkness followed him all the way. By the time he arrived, it was clear that night would come again, come soon, and stay long. The Yankees had a home game tonight so the lights across the river would last for a while, but in the end, they would not stop the dark from coming. When the throngs left, when the crew was done, when the lights were finally extinguished, the dark would come.

  He changed into his sleeping clothes and walked to the park to brush his teeth in the water fountain. When he returned to his place, darkness had consumed it. Chris took the lighter from his pocket and touched its flame to the wood and paper building he had made in the old trash can. The firelight immediately cast an amber glow on the cavern Jimmy called home, and he settled down to work on his thoughts, his resignation. He pulled a pint of whiskey from his safe harbor and took two quick pulls on the bottle, feeling the warmth in his throat and just a touch more courage in his heart.

  It was a calling, a quest, and in some ways, it was an act of survival. It was this energy of finding the answer that kept him alive. It had killed his wife, it had taken his child, it had ruined his life, and he would find out what it was and get even, some small measure of justice for the wrong. It was all he lived for.

  Chapter VII

  Kimberly Watson sat behind the wheel of her government-issued black Chevy Impala, driving south away from Wisconsin Dells with little more information than she had arrived with. She wore black slacks and a white button-down shirt, her typical investigative uniform. The local PD was small: a Chief, a Lieutenant, two sergeants, nine officers and one detective. It was the detective and the chief she had met with. Other than overseeing and securing the initial crime scene, they had done little of any consequence to her or her cases.

  They provided her with the names and contact info for the family that had discovered the bones although she doubted she would ever need that. They also walked her through what they knew about the search in the area that was ongoing, the search for additional bones from additional victims. Once the name of the individual was known, the state police had essentially closed the park and begun their own search. They knew that Amy Reed had not been alone when she went missing. It was warm and humid with rain threatening as she drove, the western sky in the distance was storming already. On the flat plains through which she was now traveling it was hard to tell just how far away that rain was.

  She had gone to the crime scene in the park and spoken to a couple of the investigators there, but once again the time spent had proven fruitless. Her next step was to visit the State Police and she was told the DeForest office had jurisdiction over this case. She had a reservation booked at the Residence Inn in Madison which was a half hour away. The Holiday Inn in DeForest would have been much closer, but she liked Madison, it had some good restaurants and bars. Just at the point where I-90 and I-39 came together, the rain caught up with her. The wipers swished back and forth in somnambulistic repetitiveness, as darkness fell too early. Thunder crackled in the distance several seconds after lightning filled her windshield. As she neared DeForest, her GPS had her exit the Interstate onto 51 S and twenty minutes later she pulled into her hotel. It was a nondescript industrial park that contained nearly every mid-tier chain hotel you could think of, all in the shadow of the Interstate.

  It was early evening by the time she showered and changed into a flowery halter dress. With her hair pulled back and wearing no makeup except a little lip gloss, Kimberly left to find someplace to eat and have a drink, nothing more tonight. She Ubered to the Capital District and settled on an authentic looking Irish Pub called Brocach. From the outside, its beautiful brick-red woodwork with Trinity blue inlays and Gaelic writing were very inviting. She did not have a drop of Irish blood in her and yet she was drawn to the Celtic culture. She had spent a semester abroad in Dublin and the country and its people fit her like her favorite pair of faded blue jeans. The tattoo on her arm was a souvenir of that experience, the Ken Rune. Shaped like a sideways V, it is a flame and speaks of sex, action, and heroism, it is the rune of the fierce warrior.

  When she walked in, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The interior was dimly lit, and the predominant color was a dark shade of red like cranberry or merlot: red furnishings, red lampshades, red carpeting. Opting for the bar area instead of the dining room she headed for a comfortable old red leather armchair that sat across from a red velvet couch in the far corner. She sat down and took her laptop out while she waited for one of the waitstaff to come over. There was an eclectic mix of people at the bar. A very old woman, who looked like she had dressed to coordinate with the pub’s interior, sat sipping a caramel-colored drink through a straw. She wore a red dress and a red hat, and her skin which was also red, was wrinkle upon wrinkle. Her eyes were two small pinholes in a very round and red face. The bartender was talking to her and when he looked up and saw Kimberly sitting in the chair, he excused himself and walked over.

  When he spoke, his Irish brogue added authenticity to the pub and immediately charmed Kim in a warm and friendly way. She glanced at his left hand, no ring.

  “Evenin’ miss,” he said, “what’s your poison?” His curly brown hair set off his green eyes which twinkled when he spoke.

 
; She almost replied honestly, that her poison was men like him, but thought better. Instead, she said, “I’d love a pint of your favorite beer, and can I see a menu please?”

  “Do you like Irish food?” he asked.

  “Of course, that’s why I’m here,” she answered.

  “Well then, why don’t I just bring you my favorite dish along with that favorite beer,” he said, with a smile that was as warm as a fireplace in a ski lodge.

  His forty-something brown curls were highlighted with touches of gray. Trying to match his warmth, she smiled back and thought that on a different night, this guy would be on her menu for sure. “That sounds perfect,” she said and reached her hand out to touch his forearm. He radiated such positive energy, she needed to touch it. He walked away and she admiringly, and regretfully, watched his blue-jeaned ass all the way back.

  The lamb stew was superb, and his choice of Guinness expected, but the time spent talking to Sean Regan was the highlight of the night. He had brought her a second Guinness “on the boss,” and sat across from her. “Slow night, you know,” he had claimed, but Kimberly was adept at picking up the scent of attraction and he reeked. There was a story in his twinkling emeralds that she wanted to read. She made a mental note to herself that this man just got himself a rain check that he didn’t even know about. She had work to do, the EAD was expecting an update in his inbox in the morning.

  She was asleep just before midnight and up at five, out the door at six and pulling into the parking lot of the Southwest Region Deforest Post, just past the half hour. It was a one-story sandstone building with a brown roof, on a strip of State Highway that was composed of a Holiday Inn Express, a Subway sandwich shop, and a Phillips 66 gas station. It wreaked of midwestern bureaucracy. She parked beneath a huge cell tower, put her Ray Bans on the passenger seat and got out of the car. Yesterday’s rain was a memory and the morning was clear and warm with a nice breeze just tickling the leaves of the trees from time to time.

  When Kimberly walked through the front door, her nose crinkled, and a half smile crossed her face. She had a sense of curious surprise by what she saw. Tables were set up in the entry area with tan and brown tablecloths and brown helium-filled balloons that were weighed down by little foil-covered paperweights floated above each one. A sign on the wall read “HAPPY RETIREMENT TROOPER ALLEN.” It was not exactly what one expected when entering a police station. She approached the desk clerk who appeared to be texting or tweeting or posting on her oversize iPhone.

  “Hi,” Kimberly said and held her badge out for inspection. “I’m Kimberly Watson, Special Agent with the FBI. I’m just a tad early but I believe your Captain is expecting me.”

  “Oh, hey, sorry, didn’t hear you come in. My son’s sick at home and I’m trying to get his no-good father to go by and see if he’s okay. Does that sound so hard? I’ll check with Cap,” the twenty-something girl with the bleach blond hair and impossibly dark roots said. Kimberly could not help but think that this girl would never be a victim in her case. She pressed a button on an intercom that must have been fifty years old. A scraggly, scratchy voice asked her what was up and after an exchange that went back and forth a few times she said, “Cap’ll be right out,” and went back to her furious thumb gymnastics.

  A moment later, a tall handsome thirty-five-year-old uniformed Trooper appeared. He was hatless and smiling a politician’s smile as he extended a hand. “How do you do Agent Watson, I’m Captain Lavoy. Why don’t you come into my office,” he said, a statement not a question. He turned and walked away without waiting for a response.

  Kimberly followed him and the two spent the next forty minutes trying to figure out exactly what it was that she was doing there. It was the cold case of those two missing girls from McFarland, that was clear but other than that there did not appear to be much of a plan on her part nor any ideas on his. Kimberly was not sure why she was here, truth-be-told, but her instinct had led her in this direction and her instinct was always guided by reason. Her plan was sometimes to shoot from the hip and see what got hit but she was not able to get the Captain to see the brilliance in that approach.

  Despite his sloth-like responses to her questions, she remained convinced that somewhere in their records a clue existed that could only be uncovered here, in person. He told her all their case files had been put online a few years back and while she could certainly have a look at the original paperwork, it might take a few days for them to locate and dig it out of the storage unit they kept out on Lexington.

  While she was considering the possibility of remaining here for days, more likely a week or more, until they located and retrieved the records, a thought crossed her mind.

  “Are there any officers on the force who might have investigated the original case?” she asked.

  The captain leaned back in his black vinyl swivel chair and pushed his lips up and his nose down until they were touching. He squinted his eyes and rubbed his chin while he stared at some invisible databank on the wall behind Kimberly for an answer. “Nope, not a one that I can think of, cept ol Dennis: today is his last official day, he’s retiring. Twenty-seven years on the force and just this one posting his whole career. He ain’t really that old, he’s just shy of fifty but around here he’s the old timer. He was just a boy back then, don’t know that he’d be of any help.”

  “Hmm, thanks. Do you know where I can find ol’ Dennis?” A little buzz that started in her brain worked its way down to her toes and out to her fingertips; all of which started to tingle.

  “Just set a spell, he’ll be in round eight to finish the paperwork and have a little cake.”

  “Thanks, I’ll do that,” she said.

  “They got good coffee over to the Subway, I’d offer you some of ours but it’s pitiful,” he said. “I bring mine from home,” he answered throwing a thumb in the direction of a thermos that was on the credenza behind him. Standing up and heading for the door, he was apparently done with Agent Watson.

  She did indeed go over to the Subway where she had breakfast and some of their good coffee and returned forty-five minutes later, just as “ol’ Dennis,” was walking in the door. After an introduction and a conversation that lasted all of about ten minutes, including Trooper Dennis Allen’s recap of his plans to move down to Florida to be near his brand-new granddaughter, Kimberly had concluded that this had indeed been a waste of time. Then Dennis threw a little kindling on the fire.

  “Yep, that’s really all there is,” he said. “Did you check the log?”

  Kimberly looked at him quizzically, and the tingling returned. “Log?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I remember I had a clipboard that day, at the roadblock. I wrote down the information for everyone we stopped. I ain’t saying we missed something back then but I have this empty spot in my memory that I’ve never been able to come to terms with. Maybe your killer is somewhere on that log and just…slipped past us somehow.”

  That tingle was now running rampant up and down Kimberly’s back until it settled comfortably in the nape of her neck. This, was why she was here…

  Chapter VIII

  She was not an idiot, she knew why she was there, what he wanted, but she didn’t care. Right now, she was thinking this might just be the best thing that had ever happened to her. She held no illusions that this famous rock star was going to fall in love with her and happily ever after and all that shit, but she did think that if she used him to get in, into the right circles, she could handle the rest. Besides, this was pretty fucking awesome.

  She was sitting on a plush cushioned lounge chair, looking out over an infinity pool that dropped off the Hollywood Hills and exposed an amazing view of the city below. A smoggy haze was suspended like a makeshift roof above the City of Angels, but it did nothing to conceal the view. In her hand, the third glass of delicious champagne was half-empty, and a silver tray of a half-eaten lobster roll sat on a table next to her. Yep, I could get used to this, she thought.

  Jimmy had been a perf
ect gentleman. He had given her a tour of the house complete with movie room, billiard room and music room, the latter with gold and platinum records lining all four walls. It was a playboy’s mansion, there was no mistaking it. When they got to his bedroom, she waited for him to make his move. The round bed with black satin sheets was the focal point of the room which sat right above her head now. The wall of west facing windows looked out over the pool and over the city. But he had done no more than show it to her. She had a pang of regret when they moved on and she considered making the first move, but cold feet held her back. In the kitchen, he popped the cork on a bottle of Charles Heidsieck Champagne and toasted the good fortune od their chance encounter. The wine went down spectacularly easy and a second glass was poured as he prepared lunch.

  Once they had eaten, he excused himself after filling her glass, and said he had a phone call to make; “Music is a business too, you know,” he had said. “I’m leaving for New York tomorrow, five weeks on the road.” Now she was sitting here with the wine and its luscious bubbles dancing through her head, imagining a life like this and believing she could actually get there. Twice, she had a feeling of being watched and glanced up at the bedroom windows, but nothing was there. Behind her, the French Doors slid open and Jimmy entered with an apology.