Fearless

by Mike Dellosso

  After touring the house and fantasizing about his lost life regained, he locked all the doors tight and went around back. The body of the salesman was still there. Mitch had every intention of transporting the salesman to another location, but when he took hold of the man’s hand, he found rigor mortis had already set in. He’d overlooked that detail. He could try to drag it to the barn, but the thought of moving the cool, stiff corpse that distance turned his stomach. He would improvise, leave the body where it was until morning, then bury it. He hated to waste a perfectly good victim, especially one as disrespectful as Cody Wisner, Agricultural Consultant, had been, but there were plenty of other victims out there, waiting to be taught how to respect.

  Rounding the house, he unlocked the Passport with the remote keychain, and the car’s lights flicked on. He got in behind the wheel and shut the door. It was a nice vehicle, indeed, and went well with his new home. Wisner had hung one of those pine tree air fresheners from the mirror, and it gave the interior a nauseatingly outdoorsy aroma.

  Mitch started the Passport and shifted it into drive. He slipped the knife from his belt and balanced it in his hand, remembering the feel of plunging it into Wisner’s abdomen. He couldn’t say it was an enjoyable feeling; it wasn’t, and the slippery texture of the blood on his hands was unpleasant, but it was invigorating. He was no stranger to being in a position of authority, but a position alone doesn’t guarantee respect. Actions bring respect, and holding someone’s life in your hands is the ultimate catalyst for respect.

  He drove the Passport around the back of the house and down a dirt lane that wound through the cornfield to a small pond on the far end of property near a tree line where acres of wooded land began. He maneuvered the vehicle into the woods and killed the engine. Then he threw the keys into the pond. From where he stood at the water’s edge, the Passport was barely visible. From the house, with the stalks of corn blocking all view of even the pond, it would be impossible to spot the vehicle.

  Amy was already in bed by the time Jim climbed in next to her.

  “Louisa’s all tucked in on the cot,” he said. “I left the bathroom and hall light on for her, told her if she needs anything to just call for me.”

  Amy rolled over and faced him. “Does she strike you as odd?”

  “Aren’t all nine-year-olds a little odd?”

  “Were you odd?”

  Jim gave her a sideways glance. “Nine-year-old boys are the oddest, simply out of their minds. They live in a world totally of their own making.”

  “It’s more than that, though,” she said. “There’s something about her I can’t put my finger on.”

  “There’s a lot about her that’s odd, but look at what she’s been through. I’d act odd too, I think. There is no road map to adjusting to what her life is right now.”

  Amy had considered that, of course she had, but wasn’t convinced that was all it was. Up until the incident at dinner she may have agreed with Jim, but that strange touch, that vision of herself holding a baby in the nursery, changed everything for her.

  She was now certain what she’d seen was a vision of either what could have been or what would be. And since she had been told she’d never bear a child again, it had to be what could have been. And Amy was also certain the girl, this Louisa, had produced the vision. She didn’t know how or why, other than to torment Amy with the life she missed out on, the blessing that should have been.

  “Jim . . . ”

  Jim, who’d been lying on his back, turned and faced her. “What is it?”

  She wanted to tell him about the vision and almost did, but then thought better of it. Jim already knew she was struggling emotionally since the miscarriage; this would only confirm that she’d gone loopy and needed professional help. But she didn’t need a shrink. Or did she?

  Instead she said, “Hold me?”

  Jim scooted close and put his arms around Amy, their legs intertwined. She rested her head on his chest. They lay like that for a long time before Jim tilted her head back and kissed her on the lips, nose, forehead. He found her lips and kissed again, gently at first, then harder, deeper, with more passion and need. At first she let him, even joined him, then suddenly pulled away. She wasn’t ready to give herself to him, not in that way, not yet. Even after two months . . . not yet.

  Chapter 16

  COZY’S BAR SAT two miles outside the Virginia Mills town line on a seldom-used road lined with farmland and marshes. It was a one-story, wood-sided building built in the seventies during a time when the lumber mill employed 80 percent of the town’s men and 80 percent of them needed to wind down after a shift of hard labor and toil. But in the late nineties, due to cutbacks and a merger, more than half the workforce was laid off and forced to either find employment elsewhere or pick up and move their family. Cozy’s remained open, but it was never the same again. Gone were the pool tournaments, the drinking competitions, even karaoke night. Now a handful of patrons frequented the place, guzzled a few beers, dropped their money on the bar top, and then headed home to marriages that were falling apart.

  Billy Cousins was one of those patrons. A big guy with broad shoulders and a deep chest, he’d worked at the mill for the past ten years as a green chain puller. A week ago he was moved to second shift because of a scuffle he’d gotten into with another of the first-shift guys and had made it a habit to stop by Cozy’s on his way home, throw back a few Budweisers, and pick a fight or two. Most of the guys worked swing shifts, alternating months between first and second, but Billy had been permanently buried on second with no hope of ever working first again.

  With his big mouth and attitude to complement it, Billy was a troublemaker and proud of it. He’d been in more brawls, spent more nights in the town jail, and taken home more shiners than anyone at the mill. And this was a badge he wore with honor.

  Monday night, after work, he headed to Cozy’s the same time he always did, took his seat at the bar, and ordered a Bud.

  “Tough day at the mill today?” Ernie, the bartender, said as he slid the glass to Billy.

  “Nah. Ain’t never a tough day there. That place can’t beat me.” He took a swig of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “If anything, I work too fast for ’em. The chain can’t keep up with me.”

  Ernie leaned an elbow on the bar top. “How’re you liking your new home on second?”

  “Me? I love it. They thought they was punishin’ me or somethin’ by stickin’ me there for good, but they was doin’ me a favor. I get to stop by this sorry ’stablishment every day now and see your ugly mug, toss back a few, go home when the wife is sleepin’ so I don’t have to listen to her yapper, stay in bed till noon, then get up and do it all over again.”

  “Sounds like a real life.”

  Billy shrugged, took another gulp of beer, and licked his lips. “Works for me.”

  “You’re not going to give anyone a hard time tonight, are you? I don’t want to have to call the cops again.”

  Billy didn’t like what Ernie was implying. “You sayin’ I started that last fight? ’Cause I didn’t. Blevins, he threw the first punch, you saw him. You was standin’ right there.”

  Ernie wiped the bar top with a towel. “After you mouthed off to him for a solid hour, called his wife, mother, and daughter every name in the book.”

  “Hey, any man that can’t take a verbal banterin’ ain’t much of a man. Blevins proved that much. ’Sides, everything I said was true enough.” He looked around but didn’t see the older man. “He ain’t here tonight?”

  “Nope. I don’t think he’ll be back for a while. ’Til things settle down again.”

  “You mean ’til I settle down.”

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  Billy smirked and took another long sip. There were a dozen other patrons there, some at the counter, some in booths. Most were from the mill, guys Billy knew and worked with every day. And most of them disliked him.

  The tinny sound of the eighties-s
tyle jukebox playing Billy Joel’s “It’s Still Rock and Roll to Me” filled the bar. Billy hated that song. Really hated it. It reminded him of his high school days, and those were times he’d rather forget. He was smaller then with wild, tangled red hair and usually wound up the brunt of jokes after being stuffed in somebody else’s locker.

  He swung around on his barstool and stood. The song had produced memories, the memories had produced feelings, and feelings had ignited in him an anger that begged for a fight. His fists tightened. “Who put this song on?”

  When Mitch Albright pulled into Cozy’s parking lot, he wheeled his truck around to the back, parked along the grass barrier, and killed the engine. The vehicle’s cabin was quiet save for the methodical tick of cooling metal. On the drive here, just a fifteen-minute trip, he’d thought extensively about the victim and how things would play out. If the night went the way it usually did, he was in there now, stirring up trouble. Eventually he’d either get thrown out or grow tired of his own big mouth and leave, but not before swinging around the back of the building to take a leak.

  And that’s when Mitch would approach him, when he was most vulnerable, most inhibited, and most likely to be taught a valuable lesson in respect.

  He rolled down the window, grabbed the pine tree air freshener from the mirror, and tossed it out of the car. The smell was beginning to annoy him.

  Billy Cousins was in the mood for a fight. He hadn’t come into Cozy’s like that, but that song, that blasted song, had done it to him. It was the song playing when he suffered the worst humiliation imaginable, when Becky dumped him in front of all the guys. He was the laughing stock and the butt of every joke for the rest of the school year. And he’d gotten into plenty of fights because of it too, which eventually found him expelled from school. He never did finish, which is why he was stuck working second shift as a green chain puller at the age of forty-eight. All because of that song.

  He positioned himself in the middle of the bar. “Come on, you cowards, who put this song on?”

  Nobody moved, but all eyes were fixed on him. They knew he was upset and hungry for violence, and they all feared him, something that only excited him more.

  “Now just calm down, Billy,” Ernie said from behind the bar.

  “Shut up, Ernie. One of ya’ll put this song on. You know I hate it. Who was it?”

  A few of the men glanced at each other then back at Billy. “Was it you, Ed?”

  Ed Polowski, a fifty-something saw operator, looked across the booth at Joe Harding and shook his head in disgust.

  “Well, was it?”

  Ed stared sharp eyes at Billy. He was a small but hard man with wiry muscles and a bushy mustache. But he wasn’t the fighting type; Ed was a family man. “Leave it alone, Billy.”

  Billy didn’t work on Ed’s line but never cared for him. He approached the smaller man’s booth and put both hands on the tabletop.

  From across the room Ernie said, “That’s enough, Billy, you hear?”

  But Billy didn’t hear, didn’t care. “Did you put this song on?”

  Ed readjusted his weight in the booth, ready to protect himself if needed. “I said leave it alone.”

  Billy hit the table with both hands and spilled beer from Ed’s mug. “I ain’t gonna leave it alone ’til you own up to it.”

  As smooth as if he’d been sitting on glass, Ed slid from the booth and was on both feet in front of Billy. He only came up to Billy’s chin and gave at least fifty pounds away. Ed straightened his shoulders, but Billy didn’t miss the flecks of fear in his eyes.

  “I’m not looking for a fight, Billy.”

  “Well, you found one, little man.”

  “Billy, back down or I’m calling the cops.” Ernie again. His voice was high and tight.

  Billy smacked Ed on the side of the head with an open hand. The smaller man tipped sideways but caught himself on the table. Joe Harding was to his feet in an instant, as were four or five other men.

  “That does it, Billy,” Ernie said. “If you don’t walk out of here right now, I’m calling the cops.” He had the phone in one hand and his billy club in the other.

  Billy threw up both hands. “Okay. Fine. I’m outta here. No need for this lousy bar anyway.” He knocked over a chair on his way out.

  Outside the air was cool and clean, but Billy’s temper was still hot. He rounded the back of the building. He had to take a leak.

  Billy Cousins was a first-rate troublemaker. Over the years Mitch had had his own share of run-ins with the brute. He had no respect for anyone, let alone Mitch. He was a big guy with a bigger mouth and liked to throw both around. So when Mitch saw Billy come storming out the bar and head around the back of the building, he was more than ready to do what he’d come to do.

  He waited a minute or so to give Billy time to find his spot and get in position, then he exited the truck and entered the shadowed darkness behind the bar. None of the yellow light from the lamp outside the door made it to the back of the building. Billy was there, back to him, legs spread in a wide stance, one hand on his hip, filling a coffee can from three feet away.

  Mitch approached Billy at an angle. “Hey, Billy Cousins, how’s it going?”

  Billy turned his head, found Mitch. “What are you doin’ here?”

  “Looking for you. What are you up to?”

  “Tappin’ a kidney, what’s it look like? What, you want to see how a real man does it instead of squatting like you girls do?”

  “You’re a pretty funny guy, you know it? But you got one problem.”

  “You think? What’s that?”

  “You have no respect for anyone.”

  “Get lost.”

  With catlike quickness Mitch retrieved the knife from his belt and plunged it into Billy’s lower back, into his right kidney, and twisted.

  Billy arched his back but didn’t make a sound.

  Without a word Mitch yanked out the knife, raised it, and slit the big man’s throat.

  Billy gurgled once, twice, dropped to his knees, then went face first onto the asphalt, a puddle of urine widening out from his hips.

  Mitch stood over him. He hated the slick feel of Billy’s blood on his palm, between his fingers, on the handle of the knife.

  Chapter 17

  STARTLED FROM A deep sleep, Alicia Simpson sat up in bed, panting like she’d just run a hundred-meter dash. Sweat stuck her nightshirt to her chest and matted hair to her forehead. Her sheets were wet too. The air in the room felt cool as a cave against her damp skin.

  Moonlight snuck past the venetian blinds, casting bars of lunar blue across the bed and floor. The room was quiet, as was the outside world. The clock on the dresser said it was 2:12 a.m., and she was alone. Derek hadn’t come home.

  She wiped her forehead and tried to think, to remember his work schedule. He worked swing shift and she could never keep track of when he was working which shift. And he was rarely around anymore to tell her.

  Alicia got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and started a warm shower. She felt gross after doing all that sweating and needed to wash off and change clothes before going back to bed.

  Under the stream of warm water she tried to remember her dream but couldn’t. It was there, just out of reach, like a dropped treasure just below the surface of water, just beyond an arm’s length. At times it would inch closer, moved by a subconscious undertow, and she felt it against her fingertips, but then it was gone again, deeper, pulled away by a forceful riptide. But the emotions were there, lingering like the dampness after a quick rain. There was a feeling of urgency, of needing to do something or talk to someone. She still felt as though she needed to talk to Derek, but she wasn’t sure if that was it or not.

  After her encounter with that girl in the diner she’d rushed out and tried Derek’s cell, but he didn’t answer. Hadn’t answered all day. When the girl touched her, she’d had a vision of some sort flash through her mind. She didn’t know what to make of it but knew intuitively that D
erek was in trouble, that something horrible was going to happen. The girl knew it too; Alicia saw it in her eyes, the astonishment and violation of her innocence.

  That must have been what her dream was about, Derek and her needing to find him.

  Alicia stuck her face under the water. Was she going nuts? When she saw the girl in the diner, she’d been contemplating suicide, her mind fixated on death and Derek. It wasn’t a stretch to believe she’d imagined the whole vision thing, the surprise in the girl’s eyes. The poor girl had probably seen the desperation and terror in Alicia’s eyes and was only responding to that. Derek was fine; he was more than capable of taking care of himself. Her worrying was only a by-product of her own suicidal tendencies.

  She pulled out of the shower’s stream and dashed the water from her face. She hadn’t realized it before, she was so fixated on her dream and the cold sweats it had produced, but the thoughts of suicide were gone. It was strange, and she barely knew what to make of it. It was nothing tangible, like waking up one morning and realizing your nose is gone, but definitely noticeable.

  She no longer wanted to end her life.

  Chapter 18

  POLICE CHIEF DOUG Miller hated early mornings, and 4:00 a.m. was definitely early. He’d been dragged out of bed by a phone call. A body had been found behind Cozy’s Bar. Billy Cousins had been murdered. Didn’t surprise Doug—that guy had it coming sooner or later. He’d made enough enemies over the years to form a small army. The suspects would be plentiful. What did surprise Doug, though, was the murder itself. Virginia Mills was Mayberry RFD when it came to violent crime. Break-ins, yes, occasionally. Some drug trafficking and domestic assault, of course. But murder? Not so much.