Therapy helped. For a while. She liked the part about how Denise’s rotating cast of abusive boyfriends hindered her chances long before Parsons came along. Loose mothers and tumultuous childhoods absolve most sins where therapists are concerned. Alex didn’t appreciate the other interpretation though, the one about a seventeen-year-old victim infatuated with the young, handsome, married cop who saved her. Savior complex, the doctor called it. Alex hated that. Made her sound clingy, nuts, like some wacko trashy home-wrecker. She knew what she and Riley shared was real; she didn’t need a diploma on a wall to validate it.
When Alex first left Reine, Riley checked in. Then that correspondence waned. Mostly because Alex stopped returning calls and answering emails. She’d never been one for small talk—how a new job is going, what are you doing for fun, how about this crazy weather we’ve been having. People move on. Alex hadn’t spoken with Detective Sean Riley in at least three, four years. So why did the wound still feel so fresh, so raw? Why did just hearing his name make her heart yearn? Why had the need to see him come on so pressing, so strong, so relentless?
The Reine police station sat across the river in a squat brick building that might as well have been a video store in a strip mall. Reine had undergone a major facelift since Alex’s last visit—more chain restaurants, renovated Hannaford, new Target—but the local PD hadn’t parlayed the string of murders into bigger, better headquarters. Compared to the daunting NYC jails, the understated precinct projected junior league.
When all those girls went missing in the early 2000s, terror gripped the small town. You’d think local politicians would have been able to manipulate residents into footing the bill for more cops, shinier cars, state-of-the-art digs. Instead, everyone opted to ignore, pretend like it never happened, lock the doors and stay inside, turn a blind eye. Can’t rationalize an evil you don’t understand.
Maybe Noah Lee had been right about that part, too. At least in a broader cosmic sense. Like cheating death, escaping the noose meant for her. Didn’t matter that the two cases were unrelated; that the man who’d abducted Alex and killed all those other girls, Ken Parsons, was locked up miles away in a maximum-security prison when Kira Shanks disappeared. Alex had traded one life for another, her unintended release creating a malevolent butterfly effect. Like one of those cheesy Final Destination movies. One child taken, another spared. Fate, a roll of the dice.
Alex parked her battered Civic around back beside a cruiser. Remnants of rainwater dribbled off the gutter overhead. Before her interview with Noah Lee, Alex hadn’t known for sure if Riley still worked in Reine. She’d assumed so. Riley preferred to be a big fish in a little pond. Probably ran the whole show up here by now. Talking to Noah Lee had got her thinking, wondering…regretting? No, that wasn’t the right word. But there was no reason why she couldn’t stop by and say hello. They were both adults. In fact, given their history, be rude not to.
She tilted the mirror, sweeping the hair out of her eyes, securing an unruly lock of brown behind her ears. She retouched her lipstick and eyeliner, adjusted her shirt, tightening and tucking, grinning back at what she saw. Alex owed Denise and the father she never met that much.
“Can I help you?” the young desk sergeant asked.
Behind him, the small-town force scurried, filing speeding violations to make the monthly quota, or whatever they did to pass time up here in between kidnappings. Route 9 by the elementary school had always been a speed trap, stuffing county coffers since Alex was in pigtails. Denise had been popped there at least half a dozen times, providing her mother with yet another reason to feel like the whole world was out to get her.
“Miss?” the desk sergeant repeated.
“I want to talk to Sean Riley. Riley. Detective Riley.”
“Is this about a case?”
“Yes,” Alex lied.
The desk sergeant said to have a seat. Alex didn’t sit, instead pulling her black hoodie over her head, jamming hands in her back jean pockets. She studied pictures on the wall. Certificates, awards, accommodations, handshakes with the chief, rewards for jobs well done. There was one of Riley being given his detective’s badge. He faced the camera, stern expression betraying a solemn oath to serve and protect, but there was an undeniable glibness in his eyes, an inability to hide the joy. He deserved it. She could still hear the resounding cheer that erupted when they walked through the door that night. He’d wrapped her in a scratchy old wool blanket, his arm around her, pulling her so close she could smell the musk on his neck and feel the scratch of several days’ growth.
“Alex?”
It felt like forever since she’d heard his voice in person. He had the same intense, soulful stare, and still looked younger than his years, except that he’d grown an actual beard, tight and trimmed. Faint crow’s feet tattooed the eyes. Other than that, he was the same Riley.
“Surprise!” Alex said, feeling stupid the moment the phony exuberance escaped her lips. She’d intended irony. The exclamation came across as ridiculous, childish.
Alex pretended to be distracted by a sudden noise but the only startling sound was her own beating heart. She had a hard time avoiding that piercing gaze, which still possessed the power to disturb.
“What are you doing here?”
“In town. Visiting friends.” They both knew that was a lie—Alex didn’t have any friends left in Reine. Other than a cousin she seldom spoke to, no family remained since Denise died. Alex’s mother passed, like most old alcoholics, going quietly in the night, unnoticed, unmissed, until the dogs next door smelled her and started barking and a neighbor alerted the police. Despite the town’s best efforts at reinvention, Reine was still small enough that every death resonated, even that of the town drunk living alone above a bar.
Riley waited. Alex had seen enough cop shows to know the trick. Prolonged silence makes people talk, give themselves up, say anything to fill the void. And it worked.
“I talked to a reporter today,” she said.
“Reporter?”
“Some kid with the college. Said you weren’t returning his calls.” The truth wasn’t always Alex’s first choice. Another coping mechanism, according to the doctors. The truth could be terrifying so victims of trauma often created their own realties. Easier to place pieces in advantageous positions that way. But Riley had always been able to throw her off her game. And this time the truth covered up the real, more substantive reason for her visit, the need to see his face, which came on without warning, relentless, like a rockslide, stones pressing on spine.
Riley creased his brow. “Noah something? Uniondale, right?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“Pain in the ass. Been calling nonstop. Stopped by couple weeks ago when I wasn’t here. Caused a scene—” He stopped. “He’s not a friend of yours, is he?”
“God, no.”
Riley waited for more, but Alex didn’t have anything else. There had been no reason to drive to the station.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s just that reporter, Noah. He was talking about Kira Shanks, and I guess it got me thinking.”
“About what?”
“Us. Not us-us, but that time. In my life. What happened when I was seventeen. How if you hadn’t found me…” Alex let the words trail off, choking back a laugh. “I don’t know why I came here.” She thumbed out the glass door. “I’m going to get going.”
“You want to grab dinner?”
Click here to learn more about The One That Got Away by Joe Clifford.
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Here is a preview from The Lucky Clover by Nick Heeb, published by Shotgun Honey, an imprint of Down & Out Books.
I
I decided to get my taxidermied badger back from my ex-wife while watching TV and drinking a Rolling Rock tallboy. I was two beers past a sixer when the idea came, flaring like a flame off a matchstick. The cans laid at my feet in a semi-circle; I counted each one, then nodded
and thought: if I had a hangover, I wouldn’t go, but if I woke without a headache, I’d drive to Rapid and get back what was mine.
And that’s where I was. Rapid City. A gray and drizzly morning. I’d driven fifty-five minutes, my blue ’84 Chevy Silverado—the one with the 350 in it, not the 305—ripping along, listening to 1060 and singing to George and Merle, never considering the true implications of my quest. But I’m not one to half-ass objectives. I had work to see through.
I parked a couple streets up and walked the alley behind Marv’s house—where Katrina currently kicked her boots off. The city trees looked like a dog moping after being bawled out. Marv had no fence to cordon off his backyard; an old cottonwood stump like a sugar-rotted tooth tarnished the otherwise perfect lawn.
I wasn’t sure Katrina’d be awake. It was nine-thirty and she was probably still in bed, wrapped in those bright pink blankets, wearing that cocky smile she always did when she slept. Like she’d pinched the world’s short and curlies. I stood at the back door and looked toward the neighbor’s house. Next to a five-gallon gas can was a lawn mower, rain plinking off its metal frame, giving it a fine sheen despite the weather.
The cold metal of the tire iron pressed against my spine, the same tire iron I’d used to kill the badger all those summers ago. I wasn’t planning to use it, I just had it along in case I needed to show I was serious. I took a step back from the door and peered up at her bedroom window. The shades were half-drawn, the lights off. The lights weren’t on in any of the rooms. I hoped she’d gone to breakfast with Marv.
I tried the door, but the handle held fast. Tires sizzled down the street and I couldn’t tell which direction the vehicle was coming, because noises reflect in strange angles about the city. Makes me feel caged, not knowing the origins of things. A silver Prius appeared, taillight like a cinnamon candy blinking to the left. I tried to see the driver, but the gray day and tinted windows made it impossible.
I walked to the end of the house and peeked around the side. Another car moved by the street, heading in the opposite direction of the Prius. When I returned to the backdoor a squirrel came bounding up the sidewalk and stopped, stood tall, front paws pulled into its chest. It looked at me sideways. Completely unconcerned. I’d never seen such a tame animal and I retreated a step because it made me uneasy.
I pulled a stick of cinnamon gum from my shirt pocket, chewed it for a bit, watching the squirrel, afraid it might come closer. Then I turned and snatched a credit card from my wallet. I slid it in the crack alongside the knob. The handle held. I clamped the gum between my teeth, sucked my top lip and tried again. The handle broke free and the door opened. I couldn’t believe it hadn’t been deadbolted. The badger would be mine in a minute.
I felt a heat spread across my limbs, lighten my fingers as I walked in the entryway. It wasn’t bad nerves, either—it was excitement. I committed a real crime for the first time. Of course, I’d spent a night here and there in jail for brawling and whatnot, but never for something of this nature. The thrill of a new experience warmed my stomach, sent heat pumping through my loins. For too long my life had been the same, every day a slog, and these excitations lit my world in a wholly revelatory way.
But as so often had been the case, Katrina stole the wonder of the moment. She hissed my name and I tensed and nearly inhaled my gum. I turned, and she stood behind me, cellphone in hand.
“Where’s Marv?” I asked.
“At work. What the hell are you doing?”
“You should know.”
“If you’re here for Marv, go on; he’s not interested in trouble.”
“Me neither. I’m just interested in the badger.”
“What?”
“I’m here for my fucking badger.”
She dismissed me with a wave. “It’s mine,” she said. “You killed it for me.”
The blood thumped in my ears. I pinned the gum between my molars. “I killed it so it wouldn’t turn my ankle to confetti.”
“Then you stuffed it and gave it to me.”
“I stuffed it and gave it to my wife.”
“Who was me.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Was.”
She lifted the phone and punched two digits. “Do I need to hit that third number?” she said. I tried to speak as her finger moved toward the button, but I knew what would be more effective. I started my hand behind my back.
II
I stopped at the McDonald’s by the airport and got a Big Mac with fries and Coke all to go, then pointed the nose of my truck back east, toward home. I took the bottle of Jim Beam from under my seat and poured it in the coke, testing it with sips til it was mixed right.
The badger lay on the passenger seat, eyes forward, teeth bared, neck cranked a little like it was set to give me a good looking over. Its long claws looked set to tear the seat to pulpy scraps. It was still gray and fat raindrops exploded on the windshield. The sky blended into the horizon, the fall country below a dull brown. I turned the heat on.
I hadn’t had a Big Mac in years and it was just as good as memory served. I opened the bag and fished around for ketchup. They’d forgotten to throw it in. I thought to slam the brakes and go wheeling about the median and head back into Rapid, but I’d had enough city life by then and decided to eat the fries as they were. They weren’t bad that way anyhow and the Beam and Coke helped wash them down.
Past Wasta, the sun broke through and the land began to steam. Mist rose from the sluggish Cheyenne, the river about the color of frothy chocolate milk. I was feeling reflective, with Katrina behind me and the badger beside me; I felt consummate possession of my life again and thought: What the hell, I ain’t got nothing else to do today, why not stop down to Paradise. I’d grieved, the best way I’d known how, and ready to see if the life I’d left behind had changed.
You’re probably wondering about now if I was scared to go home, scared Marv might come after me, and that’s why I went to Paradise instead. You’re wondering wrong. My schedule was clear for the day—the next three, in fact—and after the morning’s events I figured I could take the afternoon to relax.
I took the Wall exit south into the Badlands, followed the winding oil road slick with rain through the buttes and tabletops, steep gullies and small canyons chewed away by ocean waters eons ago. The world appeared through a haze of faded beauty, like looking at an old Polaroid, the clouds having absorbed all color from the land. Because I’d eaten, the Beam wasn’t kicking in enough, so I poured a bit more over the ice remaining in the cup.
The road was about empty the rest of the way into town. I passed an old rancher with an oil slick in the back of his truck; it looked like he hauled a monstrous spit-roasted orange worm. A few miles on I saw a Park Ranger’s vehicle pulled over on the side of the road, facing the opposite direction I was coming. I slowed to see if it was Ruben’s vehicle, but it wasn’t. Beyond the road hairpinned one last time, and Paradise set about three miles straight south and below. The ranger’s station was the closest building, sitting under some cottonwoods that’d never grow naturally in this part of the country. The town looked like a mess of parts after you’ve finished breaking down a motor, and just beyond, the Bad River, dividing Paradise from the Rez.
Pulling into town from the north, there’s an old white schoolhouse, two-stories tall. For some reason, Paradise received a southwestern influence and some buildings sport an adobe exterior. Past the schoolhouse is the only gas station, and it doubles as a pseudo-grocery store. Alcohol is the main commodity in there though, and there’s not much meat they carry on their shelves that I’d trust to have been butchered this calendar year.
And that’s pretty much the town of Paradise. Other than a few houses, of course. It’s about a four-minute drive from start to finish. Then you come to the highway running east-west out of town and that’s where The Lucky Clover sits. Right on the intersection. A sign stood out front, not yet taken down from the Rally, Bud Light emblems flanking the
words:
THE LUCKY CLOVER
BIKERS MUST STOP HERE
There were no bikers, considering the November date and only one vehicle parked in front of The Lucky Clover, when I pulled in. I didn’t recognize it, a red SUV from the nineties. The plates were Pennington County, so it could have been someone from near as Wall or far as Summerset. Counties out here cover hundreds of miles; there’re few folks out west, and the counties are a reflection of this.
I hopped out of the truck and the bar’s door gave an oilless complaint when I pushed it open. The owner, George, stood behind the bar, pulling at his mustache, eyes ceilingward, wearing a confounded look.
I wondered what had him so perplexed, but instead I said: “George, I got some McDonald’s on the way home I ain’t finished yet, can I bring it in?”
George squinted and gave an almost friendly nod once he recognized me. The fella who I assumed owned the Pennington plates sat in the corner, tossing quarters into the video lottery machine. I put the cup and the bag on the counter and dug out some French fries.
“Hand me some ketchup.”
George turned around and bent to the refrigerator. Above him, the wall was decorated by dollar bills with signatures and locations scratched in pen or black marker on either side of Washington’s face. This has been going since George opened the place. With all the tourists coming through during the summer and for the Rally, George gets people from all over the U.S. and elsewhere to put their asses on his barstools. There wasn’t a few places and names I couldn’t even pronounce.
Hell Chose Me Page 23