Daddy Soda (A New Hampshire Mystery Book 1)

by Mira Gibson

  “A person has two choices in this world: to remember or to forget. You know how the Pastor was quacking on about forgiveness? You hear him? I’m going to tell you a secret.” He leaned in close, the cool tip of his nose meeting her fine blond hair. “You don’t have to forgive if you can forget.” He shoved his beer at her, pressed it firm to her flat chest which would one day blossom like her sister’s. “Give it a try.”

  Candice took the beer, staring daggers at him, then turned it on its head and let it trickle like piss onto the wooden floor.

  “Hey now!” He snatched it back. “Christ girl, don’t waste it!”

  “Shit, Candice!” Mary shrieked, charging down the hall. “Can’t you smell that?”

  Dale eased off when she rounded the corner and yanked the oven door down, thin trails of smoke twisting out. She fought them fanning and cursing then announced the cookies would pull through.

  “Smells good,” he called out.

  “Ha ha.” She scraped cookies off the tray, checking their undersides, tossing the bad ones to the trash bin.

  “Is that what’s for dessert?”

  “It was supposed to be.”

  “Where the hell’s your sister?”

  “Not in the shower.” Mary had ways of dismissing him that so greatly reminded him of Kendra at times he feared this wouldn’t work. However, she redeemed herself by adding, “She’s getting dolled up in my room.”

  “What the hell for?” Cody McAlister came to mind even before Mary said his name. Dale worked his jaw at that, drank his beer, envied Charlie Sheen, who was reeling in an empty-headed model with a body not unlike Mary’s. “He’s not going to spend time here, is he?”

  “You still have it in for him?” Mary approached with a plate of cookies and set it on a line of milk crates they were pretending was a coffee table.

  Then Candice gazed up at him with her tight, blue eyes, and said, “Forget, right?”

  Out of the mouths of babes.

  “You saying I should take my own advice?”

  “Shut it, Candice,” she snapped, forcing a cookie on her.

  Candice crammed it in her mouth, while Dale rode the sudden wave of Mary’s wrath.

  “And don’t worry,” she went on, returning to his comment. “He’s taking her out.”

  Good, he thought to himself. It’d been harder and harder to slip away with Hannah here. Tonight would be the night.

  Having let go of her piss poor mood, Mary worked her wide hips between him and the arm of the sofa, breaking a cookie all the while and tossing chunks into her pretty little mouth.

  “Pass it here,” she ordered, eyes on the last can.

  He obeyed, but cracked it open for her first, and Mary took to washing her cookie down with it.

  “I hate this asshole,” she commented, nodding towards the TV. Then she softened up, leaned forward so she could eye her sister. “Hey.” When she had her attention, she said, “Sorry I snapped at you. It’s good you’re talking.’

  It didn’t take much for Candice to beam that big, toothy grin of hers.

  “I ran out of painkillers,” she went on. “Guess I’m not very pleasant to be around.”

  “Sure you are.” He pulled her head over so he could plant a kiss on her temple and held his lips firm to her for a good long while then thrust her back, mussing her hair so she’d get to jiggling, palm smoothing down the ratty tuft he’d created.

  “I’m going to have a scar,” she bitched, giving up fussing over her hair to flick crumbs off her mountainous chest.

  Dale watched every second of it.

  At the risk of angering her, he commented, “It’s not like you to leave the house without your derringer.”

  Mary stiffened. She uncrossed then re-crossed her legs, hauled on her beer.

  “I’m not trying to stir shit up,” he went on since she hadn’t wailed on him, which meant the part of her that wasn’t freshly pissed off was listening. “But you can’t be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not now.”

  “Yeah,” she grumbled.

  Candice was watching them, more entertained than if they were Abbott and Costello, though he admitted the reference was so before her time it couldn’t be accurate.

  Hannah emerged from down the hall, stepping around their column of boxes. Christ, she was a bony thing, but her hair looked big and her loose sweater did a decent job of hiding her undesirable lack of curves.

  Shooting her a crooked smile, Mary asked when they could expect her home, but before her sister could answer, she followed up with, “Maybe we shouldn’t expect you.”

  “I’ll be back eventually,” she stammered, her smile faltering. “Maybe midnight. That’s not too late is it?”

  “Take your time.” She sank into a knowing grin, getting a bit dark about it. “It’s always better when you take your time. Cody’s good for that, right?”

  Dale twitched under his jeans. He didn’t mind when Mary talked like that, didn’t mind at all. Hannah, on the other hand, seemed to. Her cheeks flushed to deflect and she hunted around for something important in her purse. Oh, it was her car keys.

  When headlights cut through the room and he heard a horn bleat, he had to stifle his chuckle at the fact she wouldn't need her keys after all and the look on her face told him she knew he knew as much. Man, it was fun watching her squirm.

  “See you all later.” She crossed on through and mumbled, “Excuse me” when she momentarily blocked the idiot box. “Don’t forget to lock up.”

  “I never forget,” said Mary. “Have a great night.”

  Enthusiastically, Candice shouted, “Bye Hannah!” Which gave her sister pause at the door.

  “Thank you, Candice.” Hannah’s eyes were wide, her smile genuine. Then she left them, closing the door quietly and with an air of respect.

  “I can’t get used to having her here,” he said.

  “Well, get used to it. She’s staying.”

  “Indefinitely?” he asked, astonished he hadn’t been consulted.

  Mary clouded up as though he was prying. Abruptly, she rose and stalked off, calling for Candice to come on, as the next TV program started up, more laugh tracks, this time highlighting the humor of a poor family the network expected people like Dale to identify with. He didn’t. Candice padded off and he hit the mute button, claiming a moment of peace and quiet.

  Mary was getting out of hand.

  It was one thing to replace Kendra. It was quite another to become her.

  Problems like this wouldn’t solve themselves.

  When he heard his girls murmuring and giggling through the walls, he muscled off the sofa and gave his weapon a quick check, pulling it from the waistband at the small of his back and releasing the clip. Fully loaded, he confirmed, slapping it up inside his 45 caliber SIG, a semi-automatic pistol that had served him time and again.

  He retuned it to his pants, laced up his boots when he reached the door, and grabbed his coat, a weathered leather number as rugged as he was. Damned if they didn’t make them like they used to. Being mindful not to rouse the girls, he eased the door open and stepped out into the cold, dark night.

  Wind whipped at him, burning his cheeks and knuckles as he locked the girls in.

  The chill seeped down the back of his collar, down his spine, giving him a bad feeling about the night, as he stalked across the porch then the yard, veering right so he could hook around the lake, its marshy lip, and disappear into the trees.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Blake had been dreaming about the girl from the shack when he came to.

  Mary.

  During summers past, he’d seen her run along her dock - long legs, toned and sturdy with each stride, water dripping down her pale skin, rolling along her chest, between her breasts, streaking translucently down her thighs, so much skin and so little bikini. The thing had barely covered her, two bunched up triangles over her tits which bounced and swayed wildly like they were dying for his hands to contain them, squeeze them firm
and press them together in a nice massage he knew she’d like. There’d been a puddle of lake water at her crotch, weighing that thin bikini bottom down, loose and trashy, but so damned perfect. When she’d reached the end she leapt off the dock, splaying her legs, raising her arms, and crying out. It’d been crystal clear to him how he’d fit inside her with her all spread like that, wet and free.

  That’s what his dream had been about, her frozen in time, mid air, magical, him yanking her lake-drenched bottom down, thrusting in, holding her tight, helping those long legs to wrap good around his waist. With his teeth, he’d freed her breasts, peeling her top aside. Then he’d suckled her, explored her hard nipples, while savoring the hot, slippery sheath of her clamped around his erection.

  He’d dreamt about the little noises she’d make and the louder ones, breathy in his ear, moans, gasps, sighs of sweet release like her body was begging for more and thanking him at the same time.

  But when he came to, rubbing alcohol stinging his nostrils and the scent of mothballs irritating his throat, he knew his infatuation with the girl had gotten him killed.

  He just wasn’t dead yet.

  He should’ve never gone over to her shack.

  That’s what this was about, wasn’t it? The gunshot?

  Blake lifted his chin, angling to see through the bottom edge of the blindfold wrapped around his eyes. His wrists burned, cable ties digging deep into the flesh. He realized his fingers were sticky. Blood. Yeah, those cable ties were braced tight enough.

  It was quiet. Too quiet.

  He didn’t recognize the chair beneath him, the particular brand of silence all around him, the smells. He couldn’t be in the cellar. A sinking feeling came over him. This must have been where they’d taken Dalton. People didn’t wander off for no reason. His friend had disappeared.

  Blake hated that they'd gotten dirt on him. If they were a they. He didn’t know, hadn’t met them or him, or whoever the fuck was at the top of this twisted pyramid.

  He only knew two things - he’d go to prison if he didn’t do as he was told, and he wanted nothing more than to fuck Mary Cole’s brains out. In a karmic way, he figured the two might have a prayer of being connected, suffering followed by salvation. That kind of thing.

  But if he thought he’d been suffering before, now he understood he’d been very, very wrong.

  The real suffering was about to begin.

  He heard a tap across the room, rubber sole meeting cement that set his heart pounding.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Footsteps advanced on him and he whined in protest, tried to get his chair to hop backwards, but soon realized the wall behind him.

  The next thing he knew cold steel was pressing across his throat. He let out a squeal then told himself not to move, not even swallow. He hadn’t been cut yet and he’d prefer to keep it that way.

  The voice he heard was digital and reminded him of bad guys making ransom phone calls to politicians in poorly plotted movies.

  “She wouldn’t have shot herself if you hadn’t gone there,” said the voice.

  “Shot herself? That’s what that was? Is she dead?”

  “No.”

  He shifted, paced away, telling him, “But it weakens the message.”

  “It’ll never happen again.”

  The man paused, footsteps vanishing. “No, it won’t.”

  Blake was anything but reassured.

  When the man returned he pulled Blake’s blindfold down and at first he tried to fight this, knowing if he saw the man’s face it’d mean he’d surely be killed.

  But the man was covered head to toe in black. A black mask covered his face, head, stretched down his neck and melted into the black shirt he wore. His hands were gloved, black leather stretched taut around each finger. There was some kind of box where his mouth should be, had to be the mechanism scrambling his voice.

  The only part of him Blake could see were his eyes, but the room was too dim to reveal their color. They just looked black as the devil.

  “Who are you?”

  The black eyes stared down at him.

  “How did you get those photos?”

  Nothing. Not even a blink.

  “Come on!” Blake yelled, releasing a stream of tears, because he could no longer deny where this was headed. “You blackmailed me into doing it and I did. Every step of the way I did what you told me. Why am I here?”

  “You’re part of the message.”

  “Where’s Dalton? What did you do to him?”

  The man lifted his gloved hand to silence Blake, who collapsed, head hanging as he sobbed.

  “Dalton served his purpose and I released him.”

  He calmed at that, faith washing over him, chest growing warm. “You did?”

  “I’m releasing you as well.”

  “You are?”

  “You’ve done a very good job.”

  “What about Travis?” he demanded. “When are you going to let him go?”

  “Soon.”

  “What is your message?” he asked. “Why did you make us do all this?”

  An eerie digital laugh came through the box mixed with static and mechanical tones. Then the man walked away and rolled a steel tray over. On it, two human ears lain on a crisp, white cloth.

  Blake retched at the sight. A thin trail of bile came up, splattering to his jeans, until it turned into a string of saliva.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, why are you butchering her?”

  “A mother’s job is extremely important,” he told him.

  Blake thought there’d be more. There wasn’t.

  The guy was a maniac, out of his fucking mind.

  Gingerly, he set a cardboard box on the cement at Blake’s feet. In it was a tangle of shredded packing paper. He then lifted the white cloth by its edges, holding it taut so the ears wouldn’t fall in on each other, as he lowered them down into the box.

  “What are you going to make me do?” Blake was terrified. “Frame me?”

  “You’re nothing more than a victim.”

  It scared the shit out of him.

  Then the man grabbed his face, cool leather clamping his cheeks together. He lifted the knife, pressed the blade between Blake’s lips, which he quickly bared back to avoid being sliced. The man tapped the point against his tooth, used it to pry his teeth apart, as Blake whimpered, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “I want you to understand why you were chosen.” The man had Blake’s mouth open wide. He grazed the blade along the length of his tongue, as he recoiled. “You played a role in destroying her. And you, too, must be destroyed.”

  As the man sliced and excruciating pain seized every inch of his body causing him to shriek, Blake thought of his mother and how he wished for nothing more than to be at home, pissing on her azaleas and driving her nuts. The most precious things in this world weren’t realized until the darkest despair claimed you.

  “Remember to forget,” he told him, “or else be killed.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cody watched Hannah, as she stepped carefully where his flashlight beam indicated.

  “Are your shoes okay?”

  “I could’ve used a heads up,” she said dryly, as she worked her high heel boot over a fallen log, slick with marsh dew. “When you said dinner I didn't think dessert would be a night stroll through the marsh.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that.”

  He trailed the beam ahead for her, tracing a straight path over a soggy mess of twigs and pinecones and helping her to make her way through to where he stood between the trunk of an old maple and the edge of the marsh that spanned a good eight yards before it bottomed out into the depths of Hermit Lake.

  Wind was whipping off the water, carrying the damp scent of the woods, as he studied her - hair blowing back, gusts toying with her jacket, causing her to squint in concentration at balancing in her heels. He liked her jeans even though they looked too young for her, a second skin like how the kids were wearing them these
days. And her fingerless gloves were cooler than her usual fair. He figured Mary was rubbing off on her. He knew that was what her eyeliner was all about, some strange stab at bonding. Hannah was sweet like that.

  He heard an owl overhead, two staccato hoots followed by a sustained one, which told him it was likely a Great Horned. It only added to the creepiness. Spindly clouds wisped across the moon beyond the dark canopy of leaves above them. Somewhere a bullfrog croaked. Coming here in daylight would’ve been a far smarter plan, but his team hadn't found anything. Cody knew he could do better after hours.

  Hannah reached him, punctuating her accomplishment with a sharp sigh.

  “Now that we’re at the marsh we can head north,” he explained, aiming his flashlight at her chest so he wouldn’t blind her. The light bounced off her chin, cheeks, and gently illuminated her features. “Did you do something to your hair?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Ah, yeah, days ago and you’ve seen me many times since.”

  “You cut it?” he asked, not entirely grasping the dig.

  “Mary did. Trimmed the bangs up.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. It looks pretty.” Cody locked eyes with her, hoping the compliment might warrant him another kiss, but she only grinned and shook her head. “Did you catch your breath?”

  “Yeah.”

  She grasped hold of his arm and they started up the marsh. Cody was careful to keep her on dryer land, sacrificing his boots for hers. They had to hug the tree line running parallel to the lake, though, which put them at a disadvantage in terms of keeping completely dry.

  As they made their way, Cody told her, “I spoke to Marjorie. Her son, who was on that list, remember?”

  “Uh-huh.” Hannah was choosing her steps carefully.

  “Her son, Blake hasn’t been home in over a month. So where things stand, everyone from Dalton’s list was accounted for except the cousins, Blake and Travis.”

  “How do we track them down?”

  “I’m working on it. Marjorie signed some papers giving me access to look into Blake’s debit card history, which could tell us something.”

  Hannah fell silent where she should’ve been demanding to know the logistics, the details of his plan, what else he was going to do. He wondered if she felt okay.