by Nenny May
“Missing?” Susanne wore her surprise plainly on her striking features. She shook her head. “He was just here. He spent the night. Twice.”
Claire let out a sigh of relief.
Apprehension gripped her.
He wasn’t in danger.
He’d spent the night with an alluring bartender whose cleavage alone was a marketing strategy. Claire couldn’t meet up with the woman. She resembled a movie star. And Claire? Her chest wasn’t even half the woman’s. They couldn’t be real. Resentment clouded her thoughts. “Do you have any idea where he could have gone?” Connelly Wilson reached for the image.
Susanne shook her head.
“No, but he’s been acting really weird.”
Claire frowned.
“Weird how?” She cleared her throat. It sounded rusty to her own ears.
“Unstable.” She nodded to her shattered shelf. Shards of glass stuck out awkwardly in what was once a display. “Did this before he left this morning.” How had she remained calm despite the damage Paul had apparently caused?
“Why?” Claire demanded. Susanne was hesitant.
“We were talking about his mother. He got violent and broke my display case.”
“Miss. Ellison are you implying Mr. Campbell could be a potential danger to himself and others?” Lieutenant Wilson wanted to know.
Claire’s throat tightened. Paul wasn’t dangerous. He’d always had a temper, but to be considered a danger…
“No,” Susanne reached for the glass she’d placed on the counter and jabbed the rag through the rim. “I’m saying get him help. He isn’t taking this thing with his mother too well.”
Lieutenant Wilson had heard enough. “I’m putting out a Bolo and an APB.” He turned and placed an arm reassuringly on Claire Fisher’s shoulder. “We’re going to find him,” Letting his hand fall to his side, he side-stepped her and made his way out of the 4th Street bar, his phone in hand.
“What happened when he was here.” Claire Fisher’s voice was a cracked glass, brittle.
Susanne put away the shot glass and reached into the sink for a saucer.
Claire placed her purse on the counter. Not knowing what to do with her arms, she let them wrap around her torso. This wasn’t the Claire Fisher that had purchased an over-the-counter plane ticket to support her husband to be. That Claire was brave, determined. She was a shadow of her former self and it made her stomach whine in despair.
“Nothing.” Susanne’s response was automatic, impulsive. She began wiping down the dripping plate.
“Please, he’s my fiancé and I’ve been worried sick about him.” She put away the plate and reached into the foamy dishwater for another cup.
“Ma’am, all I can tell you is he’s been in good hands.” Claire gave her a dirty look.
Silence. Claire turned, taking in the room. She wasn’t a prude. She’d been to bars in Portland. She’d relished in a drink or two… hell, she’d gotten shitfaced one too many times after a dreary day in class. Her students were smart, but they could drive her nuts. Paul had always been her emergency contact. He’d always been her designated driver when she wanted to surrender herself to a few shots of tequila in a clingy high riding dress. He’d never once judged her… This place… It wasn’t up to her standard. It was small, cramped, and had a peculiar smell she couldn’t quite place.
“You had sex with him, didn’t you?” Claire’s tone was accusing. Susanne went white. It didn’t make sense. Paul leaving the comfort of a hotel bed for a bar. For two nights. He didn’t call, he didn’t even return her texts.
“Excuse me?”
“I know, Paul. He’s a womanizer. Spending two nights away from home in a bar… he had to have a reason and this…” Claire gestured to the woman’s voluptuous chest. “Is enough of a reason.”
“What happened while Paul was here is none of your damn business, Ma’am.” Was she daft?
“I put out a Missing Person’s Report. What happened while he was here is official police business.” Claire reached for her purse. “Now I suggest you cooperate fully or you can be charged for obstructing an investigation.”
“Whatever,” Susanne shrugged. “I’ve told you and your officer friend all I know. Now, American Angels isn’t open for business and you are trespassing beyond work hours. So, I’m going to politely request you get the hell out of my bar.”
There wasn’t a doubt in Claire Fisher’s mind. Jay was right. She was stupid to have convinced herself that he had changed. He hadn’t.
He was as much a player as when they’d started dating all those years ago.
He’d thrown away all they’d built.
He’d slept with the slutty bartender on 4th Street.
◆◆◆
Her father had explained it to her before the divorce. Life wasn’t a straight line. There were ups and there were downs. It wasn’t going to be easy. Falling in love, running a family in a sleepy town, or even being the best version of herself. And joining the force, Rachel Olson had known there would come a time her life would be on the line. She’d seen officers die in their line of duty. She’d heard about them from Sherriff Pierce. She knew what she was getting into signing that form and that waver. Neither she nor her next of kin could press charges if she were to become a casualty while carrying out her duties. However, she wasn’t ready to die. She hadn’t even had kids. She wasn’t even sure if she was good with kids. Tuscany wasn’t her kid. She was her neighbor’s neglected daughter.
She hadn’t gotten to see her father again. Donovan Olson. After the breaking and entering, he’d moved on from Rachel. Apparently, he’d settled down with another family on 12th Street by the curb of Fir Avenue. Guilt had sat heavy on her chest for years, closely accompanied by curiosity and regret. He hadn’t been at the funeral. She’d waited like a fool by Cecilia’s casket for him. He was supposed to speak at the memorial. Tears shimmering in her eyes, clothed from head to toe in black, Rachel had spoken on his behalf. Assured herself that her mother’s death, the funeral, everything was pressing heavy on his shoulders. She’d lied to her Aunties, Uncles, Cousins and to herself that he would be back when the dust settled.
If she were asked in that moment, in an event center on Laurel Avenue, clothed in silk at the brink of death to recall Donovan Olson, she couldn’t. Days turned to weeks and weeks to months. He was gone. She’d done her best to erase him and nearly everything that pertained to him. His scent, his pictures… everything was gone. She’d burned his clothes, the family portrait he’d hung on their living room wall, she’d scrubbed down the carpets and given away their bedding.
She’d only heard about his new family through eavesdropping on her aunt Sophia Olson on the third anniversary of Cecilia’s death.
Rachel hadn’t stalked Donovan the way she had Mathew. It had gotten to the point that she could have walked by her own father on the Streets of Tillamook and she wouldn’t have noticed. Try as she might, she couldn’t recall his body frame. Had he been tall? With broad shoulders and an itty-bitty waist? Or lean all over to the point his clothes clung loosely to him. Had he grown a beard that by now would be salt and pepper? He didn’t visit. He didn’t keep in touch. She’d let him go. Let him vanish from her life the way all men did.
Detective Dawson was mute by her side. Taking into consideration his personality, witty, cocky, and confident… silence was unsettling emanating from him. And even still, Rachel Olson had a feeling, Detective Dawson’s wordlessness wasn’t a result of the petrification that ought to grip him by the throat. She saw the vest. Beige, clumpy, and violently terrifying. The entire venue saw the vest. She’d never seen one in person. On television undoubtedly.
Time had slowed, her heart violently banging against her chest. In the corner of her eye, she’d caught a glimmr; he’d pulled out his phone, fingers gliding over the screen. She was helpless, useless. Where was her phone? In her pockets? Trembling fingers felt up silk fabric. She was in a dress. Her bag? She’d left it by their table at the ot
her end of the room.
Her legs were bricks.
Silence echoed the once cheerful gathering. She wasn’t the only one victim of rubbery legs and a cold sweat that broke out on her bareback. Had this been what Cecilia had felt the day their home had been broken into? Nobody moved. It all felt lucid. She’d been convinced this was a terrible, horrendous nightmare, pre-gala-jitters…pre-date-with-Detective-Dawson-jitters. But she couldn’t wake up. Squeezing her eyes shut, gulping a lung full and forcing them open, she wasn’t in her room.
She wasn’t under the covers on her stomach, an arm beneath her fluffy storm-grey pillow. Gosh, her room! Would she ever see it again? Her stomach plummeted.
And that’s when she saw them, the bulky men with M16 rifles slung over their chests. Bullet-proof vests sweaters over their white-button-down shirts. She didn’t think this was the time to be recalling pointless information like the kind of guns the swollen men were going to use to decorate her with holes. How in hell were they going to make it out of this alive?
“Sorry to rain on your parade,” Lucy Wilkins said into the microphone in her lean hands. Her words bounced off the walls. They carried a sinister air with them as they coursed through the gathering. She maneuvered the stage as though she were calling out roll-call. Ten steps and she was at the right side of the stage. “This set-up… I have to give credit where credit is due. This is beyond my expectations.” Her heels clicked and clacked as she moved almost choreographically, taking her time to drink in the room. “Before we get into the gory details of why I just had to get an invite, here are the ground rules.” Her voice was sickeningly sweet and paired with glimmering eyes that danced with purpose. Color drained from Rachel Olson’s face. “If you move or scream, my friends in the crowd are instructed to shoot on sight.” Dread gnawed at her insides.
Detective Dawson continued to fiddle with his phone within his blazer. He was by the ‘Channel Six’ sculpture, a good portion of his body shielded by the branded artwork and the other obstructed by Rachel Olson. Neither gunmen nor Lucy Wilkens could see the dull glare of his phone. But how much longer till they caught on?
Detective Olson couldn’t let them put a hole through Chase Dawson. He was more than just her work partner. She couldn’t lose him. He wasn’t like Mathew. His words weren’t sharp edged and tinged with enough venom to spite her. He didn’t nitpick at her flaws. Detective Dawson was different, good different. Cocky and sarcastic and never knew when the hell to shut up, but he wasn’t a bad person. She couldn’t lose him to 5.56mm caliber bullet or a clunky beige explosive jacket. “As you know, Channel Nine has always been Tillamook’s go-to News station. We had the highest rating in National News Station history for the longest time. What kind of ambassador would I be if I sit back and let some rookie who didn’t even study journalism in college take that away from us?”
A shriek filled the air, terror coursed through Rachel’s veins. She shifted her weight from one foot to another. She and Detective Dawson stilled. “Let me go!” They knew the screeching voice.
Annabelle Dawson.
“Please!”
Discarding his phone, Chase lunged after his sister.
Detective Olson hadn’t given it a second thought. Leaping after him had been impulsive. “Chase stop!” She thundered.
The sound that pursued her words had been sharp and rendered a hostile tranquility in the two-thousand-square-feet event center.
Detective Olson was helpless, a tear running down her make-up-caked cheek.
Annabelle was carried like a sack of potatoes over a chiseled man’s shoulder up the stairs that lined the stage. Clear as day, she’d kicked and squirmed and wriggled. His grip tightened.
Detective Dawson hadn’t made it past the row of tables scattered out before him. An M16 was pressed to the back of his head.
He stopped.
“I know nobody wants to die. And nobody has to.” Annabelle was placed on her feet in the middle of the stage. It took everything in her not to whirl and take in the eyes of her assailants. She knew what Lucy Wilkens looked like by memory. She’d studied her programs. Sought her for Breaking News regarding Tillamook. The chiseled man took three steps back and held the nose of his rifle to the back of Annabelle’s head.
Lucy Wilkens was slim with silken peach skin…
“We’re going to play a little game of Simon Says and you, dear Annabelle are going to determine if you or your friends live or die.” She had an oval face and heavy-lidded lake-blue eyes.
“W-why are you doing this?” Annabelle forced. Her body quivered with swallowed sobs.
“How do you think we were able to cover details of the Campbell case before even the authorities could piece the puzzle together?” Lucy Wilkens let out a menacing cackle. As if something in her words had tickled her fancy. Was this the length a reporter was willing to go to boost the ratings of their news program? “We orchestrated the murder of Blake Campbell. The stab wounds? Twenty-two of them between her chest and stomach. The wedding dress? Quite fitting for the unmarried slut that she was. She was begging for it. People hated her. We just gave the people what they wanted and reported every waking detail.”
How couldn’t Detective Dawson have seen it? The media was always a step ahead. “You did that?” Annabelle was blanched.
Lucy Wilkens nodded. “I can’t take all the credit. It was a team effort. The president of the Channel pitched the idea, we were never meant to get caught. It was never meant to come to this. And as an extra-precaution, I had a friend of mine take the fall. You might know him. Does the name Bernard Sutter ring a bell?” Annabelle was sick to her stomach. She didn’t fit in this world. She was the right piece for the wrong puzzle. “Shall we take a step back and peer through the eyes of the dead woman… I mean isn’t that what you’re known for, Miss. Dawson?”
Annabelle Dawson’s mouth was a desert, her eyes were wild with terror. “Blake Campbell opted out of going to college and entangled herself with a man that was thirty-years older than she was. They weren’t even legally married. What kind of example was she setting for the people of Tillamook? She worked in a company that was founded and owned by her so-called husband’s wife. And when her lavish life was about to be dragged from beneath her? She turned to prostitution and was diagnosed along the lines with schizophrenia. Not only was she a walking STD and a lunatic, but she was begging to be put out of her goddamn misery.”
Annabelle stiffened.
“So, Miss. Dawson…”
“Wait! W-what do you mean team effort? Who stabbed her, Lucy?”
“I didn’t get my hands dirty, if that’s what you’re implying...” Lucy Wilkens shrugged. Her eyes flickered to the gathering.
“W-who stabbed Blake Campbell. We’re going to die anyway,” Annabelle bit down on her bottom lip. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye, to end it all. “And… And I’m a reporter, I have to follow t-the story to the very end, at least that’s what I promised myself when I got into this.” Swallowing was a strain. “I’m going to ask this one last time, Lucy, who killed the woman on Miller Avenue?”
“Stop fucking stalling.” Again, her eyes darted into the array of frightened guests.
“Look at me, Lucy. Who did it?”
Silence. Fucking perfect. They were going to die and she wasn’t going to get to the bottom of the story.
“Douglas Turner, our Executive Producer. When President Andrews pitched the idea, he volunteered to do it. We thought he was bluffing. The next morning, we had a story to report. Blake Campbell’s body had been uncovered from her Tillamook home.” A grin ran across the Channel Nine reporter’s cheeks. “If that answers your question, let’s get back to my little game, shall we?” Annabelle needed a miracle. “Simon says, dear Annabelle that you take down your news segment.” Lucy Wilkens dug into her dress pocket and pulled out a phone. Swiping her across the screen, she returned the microphone to her lips. “You’re going to be given this phone to publish an article.” She dangled the phone in front of
Annabelle. Behind where she stood, a screen mirrored the phone’s screen. The message was displayed in a legible font. Below it, two buttons sat. One in a pale blue that read ‘Publish’ and another in white that read ‘Cancel’. The ball was in her court. Countless lives were in her hands. “We’ve taken the liberty to draft it up for you. It’s a confession of plagiarism of Channel Nine’s intellectual property rights over Behind the Body.” She’d worked tirelessly to conduct interviews. To schedule appointments. Her reputation in Tillamook would be done for if she published such an article. Channel Six would be bankrupt if their ratings took a nose-dive. And who was to say after publishing the article, Lucy wouldn’t go back on her word and shoot everyone or blow the event center to bits?
Panic seized her brain. Why couldn’t she have sat out the celebration? She didn’t want to die. Not like this. Not with the people she knew and loved.
“H-how did you pin this on Sutter?”
Lucy Wilkens chuckled.
“You know what kid, you might not be cut out for journalism, but you sure have an act for asking the right questions, I’ll give you that.”
She was buying time. For what? She didn’t know.
“Governor Sutter has a reputation. Married to his childhood sweetheart, known to have the cleanest record in Tillamook history. However, his glimmering marriage has been on the rocks since… Well, since I can remember and he’s been a loyal client of the late Miss. Campbell. What better time to execute her murder than an hour before their scheduled appointment?”
Blake Campbell didn’t deserve the death she’d met. Twenty-two stab wounds.
Four gashes-lined her right rib.…
Switching off the microphone, Lucy Wilkens approached Annabelle.
Five perforations between her sagging breasts…
“Arms out sweetie.” Lucy Wilkens placed the phone in rubbery hands.
Four lesions at her hip …
Annabelle’s fingers remained uncurled around the sleek black phone.