Head in a Haymow

by Chris Seaton

  Nathan was in no mood for any more surprises. After waking up in the hospital to a police woman asking him a bunch of questions that he had no intention of answering honestly, his day only got worse.

  The man he injured was a cop, an American cop. The Bahamian government didn't like Americans getting injured in their country. It wasn't good for business. But the way the man had attacked that cleaning woman, how was he supposed to know that? Luckily for him, the cleaning woman was located and corroborated his story. He smiled at that thought. By the time she was done, he almost came out looking like a bloody hero.

  He was allowed to discharge himself from the hospital. He did so, thinking he was home free. Several boat rides later, he finally arrived to find his little clapboard house ransacked. He should have known it was too good to be true, just like Jessica.

  He carefully made his way around the discombobulated front room to the kitchen. Drawers and cupboards were left open, but there was less clutter on the floor. He bitterly frowned and opened his small fridge for a beer.

  He sucked down one precious sip when he heard his front door being banged upon. He swore as set the beer down and waded back out.

  It was his neighbor's boy, Dillon. The small child held up a brown package to him like it was the Holy Grail.

  “My mother said this for you,” he recited dutifully and smiled proudly at his accomplishment.

  Nathan carefully took the parcel from Dillon's hand. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin, handing it to the boy. “Tell your mother thank you.” He watched the boy greedily stare at the prize in his hand. Nathan closed the door, leaving Dillon on the threshold.

  He walked the package back with him to the kitchen and studied it while he took another drink. The location didn't sound familiar to him. There were several stamps for transfer, indicating the package had traveled a long way to get there. He retrieved a knife from one of the opened drawers and sliced the packing tape open.

  Nestled inside was a smaller box gift wrapped in his favorite color, red. His heart began to beat faster in anticipation. Only one person would have sent this to him. He gently pulled the tape from the paper, careful not to damage the thoughtful decoration.

  First, he found the note. The fragrance of her filled his nostrils, engaging his brain with a very sensual memory. He closed his eyes, hungrily inhaling the perfume like it was oxygen.

  Sighing, he unfolded the paper: "You are the most courageous man I know. Never has anyone been so good to me. This is just a small token of my appreciation. Soon, I will join you. We will be together again, my Love. I am only half of a woman without you. You brought me back to life. Forever Yours, Jessica."

  Nathan reread the note several times. He relished the sweet words with every pass, his heart soaring, heady in his elation. He almost forgot to look in the gift box. He glanced down and admired the delicate, homemade chocolate candies.

  The little round affairs were dark brown in their decadence with green frosting flowers on their tops. He picked one up and smiled at the cocoa and mint flavors entering his nose, already causing him to salivate. He bit into it and moaned at their rich buttery texture.

  It was all Jessica; sweet, seductive, and addictive. It was impossible for him not to associate the candies with their last time together: her unbridled passion unfurling from her demure disposition like the tight bud of a rose, slowly tugging at his yearning for her, making each small conquest that much sweeter.

  Wanting to take it all in one fervent action, but holding back to prolong the pleasure; she made him wait. She always made him wait. It drove him mad for her. Nathan slumped to the floor. He popped a second piece into his mouth, aching in his need, half hard with desire that the candy only mockingly reminded him of.

  His preoccupation distracted him from the fact that his throat was beginning to close up.

  “That's a lot of money.” Agent Wyatt had his cop face on again along with his clothes. He was looking at the hundreds that were bulging out of the duffel bag and carefully holding the type-written note in his hand.

  “I know,” Bernice replied with a frown at the obvious observation. “That's why you're the only person I felt comfortable handing it over to.”

  He looked over at her and stated simply, “You could keep it.”

  “No,” she replied with meaning, “I can't.”

  They sat at his lovely, carved dining room table that was now slightly smaller because they had broken the leaf accidentally on purpose. Bruised but happy, they had moved onto the couch, ripping the upholstery, tossing throw pillows indiscriminately, and taking out a delicate glass lamp in the process.

  Bernice was unable to get any more verbal information about the divorce, but she could clearly tell by his actions that their destruction of the furniture was very cathartic for him. He would have new, happier memories now.

  Agent Wyatt continued to scrutinize the minutely short message. He said nothing for several minutes. It drove Bernice crazy to just sit there, but prompting him wouldn't help.

  Finally he asked, “And where did you find it again, exactly?”

  “Exactly, on my bed in my bedroom in the farmhouse.” She mentally speculated if repeating information over and over was actually helping him form some sort of theory, or if it was just a cop thing.

  He handed the note back. “Take the advice.”

  Bernice was confused. “You mean you want me to accept the bribe?”

  He took her hand, which was a bad sign in Bernice's book. “I mean I want you to heed the warning and leave Herb's murder alone.”

  She glared down at his hand, quietly responding, “But this must mean we're close.”

  “Probably, but this person was in your house and in your room. This note is more than a bribe. It constitutes a threat, a very real one.” He squeezed her hand gently. “You have to consider Darlene's safety too.”

  He watched Bernice's face as the meaning sunk in. “Evan,” she said with conviction. “Do me a favor and catch these bastards, would ya?”

  Agent Wyatt pulled her hand to his lips and firmly kissed it. “Yes, Ma'am,” he vowed.

  Chapter 15

  After a hearty breakfast Bernice kissed Agent Wyatt good bye and headed home. Back in the car, real life set in again. Her feelings for the future were mixed and confusing.

  First, there was the fact that she had to leave the murder alone. It really pissed her off that someone could make her feel so vulnerable in her own home. The farm was always a source of refuge for her. Now she felt exposed. Figuring out who left the box would be empowering, wouldn't it? But she made a promise, and even though she hated to admit it, Agent Wyatt had a point. It wasn't just about her anymore. Other people could get hurt.

  Second was her very weird love life, if you could call it that. It felt more to her like a change in location for booty calls. She knew she should feel ashamed of herself for her promiscuous behavior, but reliving the last twelve hours, it was simply impossible to bring forth any emotion but satisfaction.

  Admittedly, it was different with Roger. He had always taken care of her loneliness, her restlessness, her need for distraction and without a lot of questions. He offered her human connection on the most basic level. To put it crudely, he filled a hole. But eventually, it stopped being enough.

  It wasn't like they didn't talk. She knew about Pam. She knew Roger had commitment issues because of her. She knew he gave up his lucrative career as a military contractor to set up a bar on his old man's property and raise Brooke alone. She knew he was far worldlier than his hick customers would ever imagine.

  But, unlike Evan, Roger had never asked her about her old life. Maybe that was her fault. Maybe she made it clear that she wasn't looking for anything more than a warm bed and some stimulating conversation. He knew the basics of her present life with Darlene and that was about it. Roger didn't attempt to go past the safe stuff.

  After their last time together she was wondering if something was starting to change with
him. They were never exclusive. Over the past three years they had both seen other people. So why the sudden possessiveness now? Why give a shit now?

  She knew why and it had nothing to do with her. It was because of Brooke. Roger's nest was becoming empty and he had been looking to Bernice to fill it. However, his hot little bleach-blonde was proof that she was replaceable. She understood she was losing her friendship with benefits. She wondered if that meant she was losing her friend too.

  Yet Agent Wyatt for all intents and purposes was neither friend nor boyfriend. Nothing was settled between them even after all that they had shared. To call it anything more than an act of needful passion would be an exaggeration. Logistics still kept them apart. Their pasts still kept them from taking a risk with each other.

  The futility of things formed a cloud of melancholy over her head as Bernice pulled into the gas station to top off the tank and pee. She also bought a bag of munchies and a cup of coffee. As she was paying her bill, she noticed a state trooper pull up to the pump in front of Cameron's car. Then she saw another pull up directly behind it, blocking her in.

  Bernice knitted her eyebrows together in annoyed confusion, walking back out. She was about to voice her concerns, when suddenly the cherries came on. Four troopers swarmed her, demanding, “On the ground, now! Hands over your head!” Their guns were drawn and their faces were serious.

  Bernice stopped, carefully knelt on the dirty pavement and set down her goodies and purse on the ground. Raising her hands silently and obediently, only one thought went through her mind as she was roughly cuffed and shoved into the back of one of the squads.

  “Jessica, you evil Bitch, I'm going to get you for this.”

  The holding cell in county lockup was typical in its universal stenches of urine and bitter disappointment. Being it was a weekday, Bernice felt lucky that she only had to share it with a couple of strung out teenagers and an old bar fly. Under normal circumstances they would look at her like the outcast that she was in their twisted social circle. But the orange jumpsuits were a great equalizer. She didn't have a problem with that. She was less thrilled by the strip search.

  She battled with the extreme urge to call Agent Wyatt to get her out. She had no doubt that he would come to her rescue and probably relish in doing so, but her inborn stubbornness reminded her she was a big girl. She felt like they were equals and didn't want that dynamic to change.

  So when the infamous solitary phone call was presented to her, she called home.

  She knew better than to expect sympathy from Darlene. “You are aware that your trip south was suppose to keep your ass out of jail?”

  “Just put Cameron on the phone,” was Bernice's very controlled answer.

  “Tell me what I can do,” he offered calmly; good ol', unflappable Cameron.

  “Somehow, someone impersonating you got a hold of your plate and VIN number and called in your car as being stolen. Furthermore, your impersonator claimed that I also broke into your townhouse and stole an undisclosed amount of cash.”

  “Wow, that's impressive,” he remarked, causing Bernice to silently scowl at him over the phone. “So you need me to come down there?” he guessed.

  “'Fraid so,” she remarked.

  “Okay then,” he said, then added with a low chuckle, “sit tight.”

  “Yah,” she mumbled and hung up the phone.

  The guard smiled at Bernice and said rather jovially, “We're having fish sticks for lunch.”

  Bernice nodded as she trudged back to her cell and thought it could be worse. Fish sticks actually didn't sound that bad.

  She paced the length of the cell for the first hour. She sat on the end of the bench the second hour. Fish sticks did indeed make an appearance and she enjoyed them like she was at a restaurant with a slightly distasteful atmosphere. She chose, however, to decline the bottle of water. If she had anything to say about it, she was not peeing in that cell.

  Pacing again to work off her lunch, Bernice concentrated on who put her there. Apparently, Jessica's accomplice had been waiting for her at the farm and followed her long enough to know where she was going. Jessica must have a cop in her corral of conspirators. It was one thing to read off a plate description. It was another to know the VIN number. That told her it was a good decision to take the cash to Agent Wyatt and not leave it with the locals even if doing so landed her in jail.

  Jessica must have known this was just an inconvenience, but for what? Was she causing another distraction to tie up loose ends? Who was dying while Bernice was sitting in this stupid cell?

  Her thoughts automatically went to Margie and the guys at the garage: a widow, a kid, an old man, and an ex-con with a pregnant wife at home. Who would be next to suffer for flushing Jessica out? Correction, who would suffer next for Bernice figuring out that Jessica was involved?

  By the end of the second hour, Bernice began to question her entire motivation for sticking her nose into Herb's murder in the first place. Idle curiosity was only going to take her so far. Was she subconsciously trying to vindicate herself of Mila's murder by solving Herb's? Was it really worth it? Agent Wyatt got a head wound, Roger effectively dumped her, and now she was in jail. All because Bernice couldn't just let things be.

  “Enough now,” the note had advised. Herb was dead. Nothing would bring him back. Life seemed to be going on just fine without him and by all accounts he was a selfish, womanizing ass. “Maybe he deserved what he-”

  Bernice halted her brain right there. That was wrong. She knew it in her heart because that was the exact justification that Brock had used to write off Mila. By all accounts she was a criminal and a whore, but Bernice knew her as a person. Who knows how she would have turned out, given the chance to live? The same argument could be used for Herb. His life had merit. And Margie believed he tried. After all, the guy paid off her mortgage before leaving her.

  That thought failed to ring in the right tone in her head. It had an annoying dissidence that stayed with her. She seemed to recall the same feeling when Margie told her so the first time. It just didn't seem to fit.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the guard who released her.

  Fully clothed with her possessions returned intact (including her munchies and cold coffee), Bernice marched out into the parking lot a free woman...

  ...And stopped dead in her tracks to see Roger standing in front of his truck waiting for her.

  Cameron and Darlene were with him. They walked up to Bernice.

  “We'll just get the car out of impound and meet you two in Eau Claire,” Cameron revealed flatly. Darlene was on the verge of opening her mouth when she felt Cameron's hand on her arm. She clamped her mouth shut at that point and followed him in the direction of the fenced-in lot.

  Bernice faced Roger.

  His smirk did little to hide the cold glint in his ice blue eyes. “'Bout time someone locked you up,” he chided.

  Bernice was still miffed about the bleach-blonde. “What the fuck are you doin' here?”

  His smirk twisted into a look of sick amusement. “Well, whoever you happened to have pissed off decided to slash the tires on your truck while they were at it. And Jarvis ain't too keen on Cameron, so here I am. Lucky you.” He popped the passenger door open and walked around to his side.

  Bernice remained where she stopped, trying to figure out whether or not jail was actually preferable to being sequestered in the truck cab with a jilted lover.

  Roger climbed in and started the engine. He noticed she hadn't moved and honked his annoyance.

  Bernice frowned at him and trudged forward. “Yep, lucky me.”

  Being a dyed-in-the-wool Lutheran with a tendency toward lowered expectations, Bernice bore through the stony silence of the truck cab. She concentrated on the mantra, “It can always be worse,” and then it was.

  “You fucked him, didn't you?” They were on a particularly boring stretch of the freeway. The curiosity of looking at the other cars around them had long ago lost its no
velty.

  Bernice suspected this burning question had floated to the top of the stew of resentment he had been cooking since their last night together. But that bleach-blonde still hung front and foremost in her mind. She had a stew of her own cooking.

  “Why the hell do you care?” she loftily replied, concentrating at the lack of scenery out her window.

  “Because I do,” Roger grumbled softly. “But apparently you don't care about me.”

  “Well, I'm finding it kind of hard to be convinced you care after I watched you walk out the door with another woman.”

  He scoffed in disgust. “She meant nothing. She was barely a passable lay.”

  That got her attention. “And that's supposed to make it okay? If you must know, I didn't sleep with Agent Wyatt until after I saw you with her. So, if you wanna be pissed at someone, maybe you should look in the fucking mirror.”

  “How was I supposed to know that? You ran off with him to the fucking Bahamas! What was I supposed to think you were doing down there, collecting seashells?”

  “If you had taken the time to stop acting like a lovesick teenager, you might have realized I was down there to find Herb's murderer. Agent Wyatt almost got his head bashed in because of it. So much for your theory of some romantic getaway.”

  “You know, most women like a man who acts like a love sick teenager at their expense,” Roger countered, annoyed.

  “Most woman would not put up with sharing her man with every long-legged piece of tail that crossed his path either. So take your pick, Roger. Which one do you want?”

  “I want you!” he shouted. The silence that followed filled the stagnant air of the cab with palpable tension.

  Bernice recalled all of the romantic comedies she had ever watched. They all had the classic scene. The stubborn but handsome hero would finally admit his love for the heroine, and she would become all glassy-eyed at the heartfelt admission and fall gratefully into his arms (roll credits with rock ballad playing in the background).