Fearless

by Mike Dellosso

  From down the aisle Amy heard a woman say her name. Rachel Rucci pushed a cart toward her. Latched onto the cart was a baby carrier covered by a pink and white knitted blanket.

  Amy tensed. She didn’t know if she was ready to see Rachel’s baby yet. She and Rachel attended the same church and had been pregnant at the same time. Amy had been due next January and Rachel in August. Jim had told Amy that Rachel had a girl, named her Sabrina, but Amy couldn’t force herself to visit her after the birth. The joy and excitement they’d once shared over their pregnancies was gone.

  Rachel pulled her cart up alongside Amy’s. “Hi, Amy. Wow, it’s nice to see you out and about.”

  Amy smiled. “Yeah, I thought it was time to come out of the cave and see what the world looked like again.”

  Rachel touched Amy’s shoulder. Her eyes softened with deep concern. “How are you?”

  Shrugging, Amy said, “Better. I’m out of the house, a huge step.”

  “Been a rough time for you and Jim, hasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but we’re getting through it.”

  “I tried calling you. I wanted to visit.”

  And she had. Amy received the messages Rachel had left on their machine but never called back. She didn’t feel like talking to acquaintances, didn’t feel like having to act like she was interested in their condolences.

  “I know.” Amy’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Sorry about that.”

  Rachel patted Amy’s hand. “Hey, I understand. It’s great to see you now.”

  “And this is Sabrina?” Amy said, motioning toward the baby carrier.

  Rachel’s face lit up. “Yes.” She pulled back the blanket. The baby was asleep, tucked into the carrier with a blanket and her pacifier. She clearly had her mother’s black hair and olive complexion and her father’s button nose and wide mouth. “Sabrina Avery.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Amy said. She reached in and stroked the baby’s soft cheek with her finger. “Really beautiful. How is she doing for you?”

  “Oh, it’s been a struggle, colicky every night until after midnight. She screams like there is no tomorrow for four, five hours straight.” She stopped abruptly, as if realizing whom she was talking to. “But I shouldn’t complain,” she said hastily, awkwardly.

  Tears pushed on the back of Amy’s eyes. She would have given everything to hear a baby cry in her home, to hold her and nurse her and cuddle her to sleep.

  “We miss you at church,” Rachel said. “I hope you will feel up to coming back soon.”

  A week ago, even a couple days ago, Amy would have winced at the idea. Jim would have told her she needed to get out, talk to people, and she would have refused and hidden in her home. But now she heard herself say, “Maybe this Sunday.”

  Rachel smiled and gave Amy a hug. “Wonderful. I can’t wait.” She pulled back but kept her hands on Amy’s shoulders. In her eyes was a look of concern and care. “Are you sure you’re okay? What you went through—”

  “I’m fine,” Amy said quickly. “At least, I’m improving. Getting better. Every day a little better.”

  “I’ve thought about you every day and have been praying for you. The whole church has.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, I gotta run. I hope to see you Sunday, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Amy watched Rachel hurry away, pushing the cart that carried her precious Sabrina. She pulled the blanket over the carrier, adjusting it several times as if the baby beneath it was made of the finest wax and would melt if touched by a single molecule of light.

  A knot formed in Amy’s throat then, because for the first time in eight weeks she realized she was not jealous of another mother given a privilege she would never enjoy. How could that be? It seemed . . . unnatural.

  A chill fell over her, dampening her mood. If she wasn’t depressed and she wasn’t jealous, then what was she? Who was she?

  And the future scrolled out before her, as blank of direction or answers as Louisa’s.

  Chapter 38

  DOUG MILLER STEERED his patrol car down the path leading to the trailer home of Buck Petrosky. Gravel popped under the tires and kicked up against the undercarriage of the Crown Vic. He knew Buck, big guy, rough around the edges, had a few run-ins with various locals over the last several years. Real loner type, liked to be left alone. It was when he wasn’t left alone that Buck got irritated, and when he got irritated, his attitude ramped up, and before long his mouth started running, then his fists started flying.

  Buck was arrested not long ago, spent a few nights in the county jail. A slap on the wrist for someone like Petrosky. Doug was sure the big guy had made plenty of enemies over the years, but right now there was only one he was interested in.

  He pulled around the back of the trailer, next to Frizetti’s Expedition, Officer Radcliffe’s cruiser, and the county’s CSU van. Frizetti met him at his car, coffee in hand. He sipped at it slowly and looked around at the woods surrounding the clearing. Tall, straight oaks, maples, and sycamores rose from the ground and formed a leafy canopy overhead. At ground level the woods was thick and deep, a myriad of trunks and underbrush until it all just faded into a collage of greens and browns and grays.

  “You ever get the feeling you’re being watched at one of these scenes?” Frizetti said.

  Doug shut the car door and pulled on his latex gloves. “Haven’t been at too many of these scenes until now.”

  “Third vic in as many days. Fits with the other two.”

  “How is it you keep beating me to them? What, are you just sitting around waiting for the phone to ring?”

  “Something like that. Tough job.”

  Doug nodded at the Expedition. “You driving your wife’s car today?”

  “Mine’s in the shop. Engine’s been ticking like it has Tourette’s.”

  Officer Radcliffe emerged from the other side of the trailer and approached Doug.

  “Talk to me, Radcliffe. What gives?”

  “Neighbor from down the road, Guy Sellers, said he came here to buy a chain saw off Petrosky. Said they’d agreed on it last week, Petrosky needed to clean it up, put a new chain on it. When he got here, he found Petrosky, called us.”

  “Where’s Sellers now?”

  “Sent him home after I questioned him,” Radcliffe said.

  The three men walked to where Buck’s body lay by a couple overturned metal trash cans.

  “Multiple stab wounds,” Frizetti said. “One to the back, four to the abdomen.”

  “Big Buck wasn’t going without a fight, huh?”

  Radcliffe pointed to the disturbed ground, a broken clay planter, blood streaked on the trailer’s siding. “Everything says there was a struggle.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less from Buck,” Doug said. To one of the crime scene officers he said, “You guys find anything interesting yet?”

  The officer, Price, shook her head. “Nope. A few boot marks over by the picnic bench and here in the garden, but they’re only partials, not enough to go anywhere with.”

  “You find anything, I want to know about it yesterday.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Frizetti drew a long, slow sip of his coffee. “There’s another letter too.”

  “I’m guessing it doesn’t spell red.”

  “Take a look.”

  Doug squatted next to the body and lifted the shirt. The letter S was carved into Buck’s chest. With the other two victims the letters were carved with such precision and delicacy it looked to be the work of a surgeon, but with Buck the work was anything but exact. The wound went deep and ran off course on the curves. This was done in haste and with a fair amount of aggression.

  Standing and pulling off the gloves, Doug said, “Did you know Buck?”

  Frizetti regarded the clearing again. “No, and I don’t think Buck wanted to be known.”

  Buck’s eyes were still open, staring blankly at the sky as if watching for a rare and reclusive bird to fly overhead and not wanting to blink in case h
e missed it. Frizetti should be disgusted by the sight of a corpse, especially one that had laid out all night in the elements and had turned a pale shade of gray/green clay. But he wasn’t.

  To Radcliffe he said, “Call Peevey and tell him he’s gonna need to come in early. I want him on this. You too. Talk to the neighbors, find out if they saw or heard anything out of the ordinary last night. And have Peevey pay Jude Fabry a visit.”

  Peevey reported yesterday that Fabry had indeed been at Hailey’s two nights ago when Clint Efforts was killed. Deb Hailey said the two men sat near each other but didn’t talk, at least not that she’d noticed. Peevey paid Fabry a visit but got nothing out of him. Yes, he was at Hailey’s, he likes their burgers, but he never talked to Efforts, never even met him. But still, that’s two murders and at both Fabry was present.

  “Jude Fabry?” Radcliffe said.

  “Write it down.”

  Radcliffe slipped a pen from his shirt pocket and scribbled on the palm of his hand.

  “What’re you doing?” Doug asked.

  “Writing it down. Jude Fabry. F-a-b-r-y?”

  “Yes. You can’t afford paper?”

  Radcliffe motioned toward his squad car. “Left my pad in the Vic, don’t want to forget this.”

  “And you can’t remember a name from here to there?”

  “You said to write it down.”

  Doug shook his head and walked away. He needed to call Amber and have her pull Tangier and Little from first shift and move them to second. Three murders in three nights meant there was a good chance this maniac would hit again tonight. He wanted as much manpower available as possible.

  As he left the property, Jackie Hale got out of car and stood in front of Doug’s truck. He stopped and rolled down his window.

  “Nice of you to stop,” she said, coming around to the driver’s side.

  “Here’s your info, Jackie. Buck Petrosky. Yes, stabbed again. Can’t comment on anything else.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ongoing investigation. You know the game.”

  She frowned and lowered her notepad. “And you always play by the rules?”

  “Not always.” He winked and rolled his window back up.

  Chapter 39

  MITCH SAT IN a wingback chair in the Appletons’ living room, sipping from a can of Red Bull. He didn’t dislike coffee, but when he needed a jolt, he turned to energy drinks. Red Bull was his drink of choice. Lightning in a can.

  The Appletons had a simple yet elegant style. The house was furnished with antique pieces in every room, most likely items that had been passed down from generation to generation, kept in the family to preserve the memories that had attached themselves to each chair and sofa and table. Good memories too, unlike Mitch’s.

  The house was not over-cluttered, which Mitch appreciated. He disliked clutter very much, so hard on the eyes. No, the Apple-tons seemed to know how to evoke a feeling of peace and rest and security in the way they decorated. The sparseness of wall hangings and knick-knacks, the placement of furniture, the conservative use of color, it all served to calm and soothe, to lower the heart rate and ease the tension.

  And Mitch needed all the help he could recruit. The ordeal at Petrosky’s had left a cloud over him, dark and looming. It wasn’t satisfying, not like the others. The beast had put up such a fight; his will to survive was incredible. The look in those eyes right before they blanked was not one of respect; they were full of spite and hatred, even pig-headed defiance. And though he’d showered two times since then, Mitch could still feel the wad of phlegm along the side of his neck as it oozed down to his collarbone, and he could still smell the stench of the brute on him.

  Concentrating on work last night had been tough, knowing what he knew, doing what he’d done. Several times his supervisor had asked him if he was feeling all right, and every time Mitch had responded that he was fine, just dealing with some personal issues. He’d be fine, though. Then he couldn’t sleep when he got home. Usually he read for an hour or so then slept for a good four hours. That’s all he needed. He’d been blessed with a racehorse metabolism, the only good thing his father ever gave him.

  Taking another sip of his drink, Mitch stood and crossed the room to where a framed photo of Secretariat hung on the wall above a lamp with a carved gooseneck base. He ran his fingers over the horse’s neck, the withers, to the shoulder tracing the outline of the bulky muscles. “To run with no restraint,” he said to the picture, “and gain the respect of the world. What was it like?”

  His mood darkened further, those gray and furrowed clouds looming closer. They had to be respecting him by now—three murders in three nights—so why didn’t he feel any satisfaction?

  He didn’t want to face the Appletons; they would sense his dreary mood. Their respect had not been easy to earn, they were people of high quality and standing, but he’d managed to do it. He could tell by the way they looked at him, spoke to him, conducted themselves in his presence. And that’s why he’d keep them alive as long as he could.

  But now he needed to feed them. It was earlier than usual, but there was something he had to do that required a change in his daily schedule. He was tempted to forgo their evening meal, avoid their watchful and knowing eyes, but the thought of them going hungry, of their stomachs growling in emptiness, turned his own stomach and itched his nerves. No, he had to feed them something. During an earlier inspection of the refrigerator and freezer he’d noticed three frozen pizzas. In the kitchen he removed one and stuck it in the oven. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

  The pizza was hot and smelled delicious when Mitch opened the door to the Appletons’ room and handed it to Bob on a pottery platter. He gave Clare two napkins and two cans of Coke he’d found in the refrigerator. He’d precut the pizza into eight symmetrical pieces.

  The Appletons politely thanked him, but when he turned to leave, Clare said, “Won’t you be joining us?”

  Mitch stopped but didn’t turn around. He knew if he did those eyes of hers would pierce his skin and see directly into his heart. She’d see the wounds there, and the pride, and the evil. She’d see his desperate need for respect. His demand for it. Because he deserved it. His childhood had been a living hell, and he’d not only survived it but also went on to make something of himself, really be something. Still no one gave him the respect he’d earned and now was entitled to.

  “I’ll be eating upstairs today. Alone.”

  “Whatever for?” she said. “A man who eats alone is missing out on the best part of the meal.”

  The philosopher had emerged in her again.

  Mitch hesitated, looked at his feet. “I’m not much in the mood for company today.”

  “You’re upset.” It wasn’t a question. She’d made a declaration based on the obvious. “Oh, dear. I hope we haven’t done anything to upset you.”

  He could hear the uncertainty in her voice, the fear even. She was a brave woman, braver than any he’d known, but she wasn’t fearless.

  Slowly, as if he were a disfigured man revealing for the first time his true identity to a woman who had given him her love without ever seeing his face, Mitch turned and faced Clare. He felt exposed to her, naked, vulnerable. It was an uncomfortable feeling and one he hadn’t felt in years, not since he left his father and their horror-filled home when he was seventeen.

  She stared at him, and he knew instinctively that she was studying him, dissecting his soul and finding the layers upon layers of scar tissue there.

  “You’ve done nothing,” he finally said.

  Her head tilted to one side as she gazed at him with sad eyes. “You’ve been deeply wounded, haven’t you?”

  Bob stood in the background, still holding the pizza, swaying slowly from side to side as if he’d topple over at any moment. His eyes bounced between his wife and his captor.

  “Wounds are overrated,” Mitch said. “A crutch for the weak and useless.”

  “But they’re still real. You can’t d
eny that.”

  Of course he couldn’t.

  When he didn’t reply, she said, “What happened to you? It must have been as a child.”

  It was as a child, and as a teen, and as an adult. Mitch clenched his fists and pressed his molars together. He didn’t want to tell her, didn’t want to tell anyone. But something about Clare Appleton said it was okay to say it, all right to shine a little light on his demons. She was very motherly, though Mitch had no pleasant memories of his own mother. He only knew what a loving mother should be, never what one was.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, Mitch shuffled his feet and swallowed. “My mother, she was an angry person. That’s really all I remember about her. She never called me by my name. It was always just Dummy.”

  “Where was your father?”

  “Oh, he was there, when he wasn’t anywhere else. When he was home, all they did was argue. My mother had a very short temper. She never hit me, though, I’ll give her that.” He paused, glanced at Clare then Bob. Bob had stepped closer and had his arms crossed over his chest, one hand on his chin. Clare leaned against the doorway, both hands covering her mouth. “No, that was my dad’s job.”

  Memories rushed in, like stagnant and dirty waters, dammed for decades, finally breaking loose. And with the memories came a gust of emotion. Mostly anger but some pride too. To think what he’d come through, what he’d survived, and then where he’d ended up. He deserved the respect of the world. Stories like his showed up on the morning talk shows, the evening news, in magazines, books. He was a living, walking, breathing example of how not to let a hellish past ruin your life.

  “Your mother never stopped him?”

  Mitch laughed, not because there was any humor in her question but because if she had known his mother, she would realize to even ask the question was absurd. “She’d stand there like a warden and watch.” He remembered the first time his father really let loose on him, as if it had just happened earlier in the day. He was four and he’d spilled his milk for the second time that evening. His mother made him get on his hands and knees and lap up the spilled milk like a dog; then she brought his father in. The beating wasn’t nearly as bad as the image of his mother standing over him, arms crossed, sneering with narrowed eyes and cold, almost inhuman indifference to her son’s abuse.