Pump Fake

by Michael Beck

  "What names?" I repeated.

  "Oh, yes. Well, Ashley was from a pretty strict Catholic family so it was common knowledge that she was still a virgin. And when they found her without panties, well, you could imagine what the kids were saying."

  "Like?"

  "Like, the Frozen Popped-Cherry. The Melted Ice Maiden. You know, stuff like that. Kids are bastards. The worst was...well, never mind."

  "What? What was the worse?"

  Susan glanced around and whispered, "I don't like repeating it. It was really nasty. But you know rumors. Once they've started there's no stopping them."

  "What was the worst?"

  "The rumor going around was that she'd had sex for the first time with one of the boys that night. So they called her the Bloody Cherry on Ice."

  "Thanks, you've been a big help," I said to Susan as I began to pack up.

  "That's okay. Here you left this on the printer."

  She handed me the article on Ashley Hunter. "The Fantastic Five. I haven't heard of them in a long time."

  "What?"

  "The Fantastic Five," she said pointing at the photo I'd borrowed from Mrs. Maxwell. I'd had it on the table next to me trying to dry it out. It had been in my pocket during my watery adventure, which had protected it somewhat. "That's what we used to call the four boys and Ashley. They were like a family, they did everything together."

  "Yeah, that's what Mrs. Maxwell said. I know they were pretty tight but why the 'Fantastic' tag?"

  "What else would you call them? You had Franklin who was as smart as a whip. He turned down a scholarship to Harvard, you know. Maxwell was an athletics champion. I think he won State Championships in javelin and discus. And of course, no one could play football like Dyson. We won two State Championships with him as quarterback. Ashley was even smarter than Franklin. She had the highest grade point average in her class and was a musical prodigy."

  I gingerly picked up the damp photo. "Okay. Four of them are petty special, I'll grant you that. But what about this guy. Kyle King?"

  Susan regarded me as if I had just grown an extra arm and a leg. "Are you joking? That's Kyle King."

  "I know. I just said that."

  "Kyle King. Senatorial candidate in Colorado's District 5, and the son of the ex-Governor of Colorado?"

  "Oh. That Kyle King." Well, in my defense, I had thought he'd seemed familiar. "Kyle King comes from Leadville?"

  "Born and bred. After his father, Dedrick, he's probably our biggest claim to fame."

  "I'd put it second. Right after having the coldest lakes."

  She grinned. "Yeah, I guess you would after your little adventure."

  Little?

  "I would have mentioned it sooner but I thought you knew," she said, pointing out the window. Across the street from us were the offices of the Herald.

  I squinted to read the lettering above the door. The Leadville Herald. Owned by Dedrick King and Son.

  CHAPTER 39

  "Mr. Peanut, we just keep meeting, don't we? You look...warmer than when I saw you last. Your article is going good, I hope?" Sheriff Shaw wasn't one for subtlety, his voice dripped with irony.

  I was back in his office taking another run at him. "Yeah, thanks, Sheriff. The families were really pleased to see me."

  He crossed his hands on his stomach and leaned back in his chair, which squeaked in protest. "Heard you had some exercise yesterday at the Maxwell place. Sounds like you know a few moves for a writer. A swimmer and a fighter. Who did you say you wrote for again?"

  "House and Gardens. I heard something interesting myself this morning, Chief. Want to hear it?"

  "No. But I expect I'm about to."

  "Do the words 'Bloody Cherry on Ice' ring a bell?"

  Shaw's eyes narrowed and any ounce of humor in them disappeared.

  "Why wasn't Ashley Hunter wearing panties, Sheriff?"

  "You seem to be straying a long way from a story about the Rockies, Mr. Peanut."

  "Didn't it strike you as odd that she wasn't wearing any?"

  "She was a kid. Who knows what fad they might be following? A couple of years ago every kid had their boxers sticking out of their pants."

  "Kids don't wear panties in Colorado? Not even fur lined ones?"

  "This is a small town, Mr. Peanut. Not much to do around here except for drinking, hunting and fucking. Most of the kids here have probably lost their virginity by the time they are fourteen."

  "But she hadn't, had she? She was a virgin, wasn't she?"

  "That's interesting research you're doing there. You think your House and Gardens readers want to know about this girl's sex life?"

  "No, but you must have. Did you try to find out?"

  "Oh, yes. We found out."

  "Can I ask what you found?"

  The Chief was silent, and I felt like I was being weighed up by a Buddha in a cowboy hat. Finally, he nodded, as if he'd come to some decision.

  "The autopsy found semen in her vagina," he said, finally.

  "Did you find out whose?"

  "Yeah. Toby Dyson's. When the autopsy report came back we interviewed the three boys. Dyson admitted straight away that he and Ashley had sex that night."

  "Consensual?"

  "Yes. According to him, he and Ashley had sex in his bedroom at about ten the night she went missing. He fell asleep afterwards and that's when Ashley went into the living room and began drinking with Franklin and Maxwell. Both Franklin and Maxwell said that Ashley was happy and in a good mood when she came out of Dyson's room, which backed up Dyson's claim that the sex was consensual."

  "So, we are to believe that a virgin from a strict, Christian background would sit in a skirt, without wearing any panties, drinking with two boys?"

  "She might have taken them off later before she went outside. She may have gone to the bathroom and forgot to put them on."

  "When was the last time you forgot to put your underwear on after going to the bathroom?"

  "At my age I'm lucky if I remember to put on any at all."

  "Sheriff, that's a little too much information."

  "She was very drunk. It probably would have been a miracle if she had remembered to put her panties on at all. Was Ashley raped? The autopsy was inconclusive. She had a few scrapes and bruises but they could have been caused by her stumbling around in the blizzard. She had no genital bruising or tears."

  "Then why did she run out into a blizzard, dressed only in a skirt, sweater and no panties?"

  "That's a very good question."

  "Did you ever come up with an answer?"

  "No. The best we could do was that she might have become disorientated or had some kind of delusional episode."

  "Just from a few beers?"

  "She wasn't just drunk. And, mind you, she did have a 0.19 blood alcohol concentration. But it wasn't just that. She also tested positive for ecstasy. Drugs and alcohol are a bad mix. Throw in a blizzard and a bunch of kids partying and there's your recipe for disaster."

  "Why didn't the papers report any of this?"

  "Ashley was a local girl and we look after our own out here. Her family are good Christian people. They didn't need to be reading this in the papers. Can you imagine the headlines?"

  "Teenage Sex Orgy Leads to Tragic Death? Yeah, I can see it. Did Kyle King have something to do with keeping it out of the papers?"

  Shaw chewed on his tobacco, watching me. "You have been a busy little beaver, haven't you? What with fighting locals and ice-diving, I don't know where you've found the time."

  "You didn't answer the question."

  "Oh, excuse me. I would hate not to answer a question that would disappoint the loyal readers of House and Gardens. Okay. Let's see. How about this? Yes, Kyle and his old man, Dedrick, probably used some influence in playing down the story to protect the three boys. Hell, I knew that. But who cares? Did the whole world really need to hear about Ashley's panties? That she had sex the night she was killed? Would that have helped anyone? I don't think so.<
br />
  "We conducted a thorough investigation and didn't see any need to add more pain to Ashley's family. The Hunters had just lost their other child the year before in a car accident. It might not be what you do in the big city, but out here we still try to look out for one another."

  "How old was their other child?"

  "Jason was fifteen months younger than Ashley, so he was about fifteen when he died. He and Ashley were chalk and cheese."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Jason died after he stole a car and took it for a joy-ride. It wasn't the first time he had done something like that either. Ashley, on the other hand, was an honors student. The only thing they had in common was that neither of them saw eighteen."

  "So, that's what you think happened? Ashley had some kind of episode from the drugs and alcohol and wandered off into the blizzard?"

  Shaw chewed in silence for a while. "We questioned those boys for a long time and they all stuck with the same story. Do I believe them? I still don't know. That's the only reason I'm talking to you now, Mr. Tanner. Oh, yes, I knew who you were ten minutes after you walked out of here the first time. I don't quite know what you are after, but you damn sure aren't trying to keep what happened buried. And if anyone can find out the truth about that night, I don't mind helping them. So if you can find out what happened that night, good luck to you. I'd like to know. I don't like being a made a fool of. Especially by three teenage boys still wet behind the ears."

  Shaw leaned forward and opened a drawer. He lifted out a large, yellow manila envelope and threw it onto the desk.

  "Here, take this with you. Something to remember me by. No, open it on the plane."

  "Thanks. I appreciate the help."

  As I opened the door Shaw called out, "Hey, Hotshot! There's one question you never asked."

  "How you keep such a sweet disposition?"

  "You were asking about her panties?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You never asked where they were."

  "What?"

  "We never found them. A cabin in the middle of nowhere. No indoor toilet to flush them down, and we couldn't find them. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Where did they go?"

  CHAPTER 40

  The Hunters lived in a run-down Victorian house five miles out of Leadville, on three acres of hard-packed dirt. It sat at the bottom of a hill and was three stories high, topped by three spires and an enormous chimney. The Adams family had moved to Colorado.

  It must have been a grand old house in its time but that was long ago. The whole place was falling apart. Several shutters were missing and the slate roof was cracked and broken. The side fence had fallen over and the garden was over grown with bushes.

  I stepped over several missing floorboards on the front porch and knocked on the door, unsure if the place was still inhabited. A gravel voice told me to come in. The entry was opposite a flight of stairs whose wall was lined with old black and white portraits. A long passageway with a number of closed doors ran past the stairs. The nearest door, however, stood open. It was the drawing room. The ceiling was a good twelve feet high and every inch of the main wall was covered with leather bound books. A piano, covered in dust, sat in the corner.

  A middle-aged man and woman were the room's only occupants. The gray-haired man sat in a wheel chair in front of the bay window. I realized that he would have been watching me from the time I drove up. There were many pictures of Ashley scattered around on the shelves, most with younger versions of the couple in front of me.

  The man had been tall, lean and raw-boned with long, ropy muscles. Even looking at him now, his hands were huge and gnarly, like the branches of a tree. In his hands, the glass he was holding seemed like a thimble. His eyes were a washed out gray, like a pebble that had been kicking around forever in the bottom of a creek. The skin on his face was drawn as tight as a drum, accentuating his prominent cheek bones.

  Across from him sat a woman in her late forties. She was obviously Ashley's mother. She had Ashley's dark hair, eyes and pretty looks. However, whereas Ashley's beauty had had an air of playful cheekiness the mother's was more ethereal and contained. Her long neck was slim and wraithlike, her features almost fragile. She was stitching landscape scenes on to a tapestry and I had the sense, from the distant cast to her eyes, that she was a million miles away from this room.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Hunter?"

  Neither spoke. The man nodded.

  "My name's Mark Pinnut and I'm doing a story on some of the tragic deaths that have occurred in the Rockies. I was wondering if I could talk to you about Ashley's death?"

  Mrs. Hunter quietly laid down her tapestry and stood up. "If you don't mind I'm sure my husband can answer any of your questions."

  As she walked past me a delicate perfume tickled my nose. I watched her step out on to the front porch and begin to walk up the hill next to the house.

  "You'll have to excuse my wife. It was nine years ago but to Tammy it was like yesterday."

  "Of course. Do you mind if I ask some questions about the accident?"

  "It was no accident. She was killed." His voice was raspy, like a file drawn over a saw.

  "You think the three boys killed her?"

  "There wasn't anyone else there."

  "Why would they kill her? They were childhood friends, weren't they?"

  "Best ask them that. 'Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?'"

  "You've got no argument with me there. What makes you think they had anything to do with her death, though?"

  He seemed to gather his thoughts for a moment. "You know what she was wearing when they found her?" he finally said.

  "Yes. A skirt and sweater."

  "Do you think any sane person would be out in a blizzard in that unless they were forced?"

  "The police think she was affected by drugs and alcohol and became disorientated."

  His eyes glittered. "Ashley never drank and never took drugs. We raised her to be a good, Christian girl. Those boys did that to her."

  "You think they got her drunk and drugged her?"

  "They were evil. I put nothing past them."

  "Was Ashley dating any of the boys?"

  "No. I refused to let her date. We wanted her to concentrate on her studies. She was top of her class at school and also had her music. She was studying the piano and had already been accepted into Yale."

  "What about Toby Dyson? Were he and Ashley close?"

  "Ashley had a lot of friends. Dyson was just one of many. Everyone liked her. No good person would ever want to hurt her."

  "You think someone did hurt her?"

  "You tell me, Mr. Pinnut. Which is more credible? A young girl would walk into the eye of a storm in the middle of the night or someone placed her in that situation?"

  "Did you ever talk to any of the boys after that weekend?"

  "No." One simple word but it packed a powerful punch.

  "What about at the funeral? Didn't you see them there?"

  He lifted his hand and pointed with one long, lumpy finger to the hill at the side of the house. At the top I could see a small, white fence and a small figure standing inside it. Tammy Hunter.

  "Ashley's buried up there, next to her brother. I had only family to her funeral."

  I paused, not sure how to ask it, but it had to be asked.

  "The autopsy showed that she had sex that night with Toby Dyson. I know you said that Ashley didn't date but do you think they might have had a thing going on?"

  The glass Hunter was holding shattered as he squeezed it. Blood began to ooze from a small cut on his finger.

  "Here." I handed him my handkerchief. I picked the broken glass off his lap and put it on the table.

  "Excuse me. It was a long time ago but it still gets to me." He wiped the blood off his finger.

  "People say time heals everything but it doesn't, does it?"

  He gazed at me with surprise. "No. No, it doesn't. Here. Sorry, I think I have ruined your handkerchief."

 
He handed me my handkerchief and turned to the window. I realized that I was wrong earlier. He hadn't been watching me. He had been looking up at the cemetery plot. He didn't raise or alter the tone of his voice in any way but when he next spoke I sensed a suppressed current of emotion. The air felt charged, like the air before a lightning storm.

  "You're wrong, Mr. Pinnut. Ashley didn't have a thing going on with anyone. The way I interpret the autopsy findings is that Ashley was violated."

  "You think the boys lied? That the sex wasn't consensual?"

  "What do you think, Mr. Pinnut?"

  Now, it was my turn to be silent.

  "You know how she was clothed when they found her, Mr. Pinnut?"

  Our eyes held.

  He nodded. "Oh, yes, Mr. Pinnut. I know... I know. Something evil happened to my girl up in those mountains. The police might not know. The law might not know. But I know."

  * * * *

  I was sitting in the lounge at Denver airport, waiting for a flight back to New York. I didn't know what I had achieved by the trip out here. I had more questions than when I first arrived.

  What really happened to Ashley Hunter that night? Had the three boys something to do with her death? Were they covering something up? Why had all the boy's lives taken such a downward spiral since that weekend nine years ago? Bad luck? Karma? Or something worse? Was there a 'helping' hand behind all their misfortune? And if so, who?

  Henry Hunter? Was he out for revenge for Ashley's death? He was angry enough but he hardly had the physical capacity to be the stalker. Of course, the Hunters could have paid someone. But they didn't appear to be exactly rolling around in money. And Ashley died nine years ago. Why wait until now to do something about it?

  The person who had planted the gun and drugs in Decker's car had been wearing a Denver Broncos cap. Coincidence? I didn't think so. So who was he and why was he out to hurt Decker?

  One thing I knew. I was on the right track. Otherwise, why the attempt on my life?

  I picked up the yellow, manila envelope that Sheriff Shaw had given me and opened it.

  Son of a gun.

  It was a copy of the police file on the death of Ashley Hunter. I flicked through it and stopped when I came to the pictures.