Sergeant Parker nodded grimly. “Charged her, lifted her bodily into the air, then tossed her out into traffic, where witnesses say she connected with the business end of a Freightliner.”
“‘Freightliner’?”
“An eighteen wheeler.”
Kacey’s face drained of all color.
“Ma’am? Come, sit over here,” Parker offered, guiding her to the guardrail.
“I-I’ll be okay. T-thank you. I really liked them, the Hockers. C-can’t believe....”
Trooper Parker crossed and uncrossed his arms.
“You knew them?”
“I interviewed them in my first article.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Sometimes bad things happen to good people.”
Kacey shot him a look.
“Look, I have to get back up there. I was giving this a once-over before wrapping things up. You gonna be okay?”
Kacey nodded. “I will be. Thanks. Mind if I look around?”
“Go right ahead,” he said, sizing things up, hands on his hips. “We’re all done, here. If you need assistance back down that embankment, ma’am, let me know, and I’ll drive you down,” he said, giving her a reassuring smile and checking out her worn-out wedge pumps.
Kacey looked back down the embankment. “I might take you up on that.”
The trooper headed back toward the eighteen-wheeler wreck.
Kacey closed her eyes, stunned at the affect the Hockers’ death had had on her. It wasn’t like she really knew them, but they’d affected her more than she’d expected. Part of it, she guessed, was just the fact that she’d met and talked with these people, and, now... how they died. It was unspeakable.
They were meant to die.
As she sat there, trying to collect herself, she ran the heel of her shoe along the shoulder in the dirt and uprooted a tiny object just as a hot gust of wind kicked up. The tiny object glittered in the sunlight. She picked it up.
A ring?
Together...
We will be together...
Kacey looked around, then to Sergeant Parker. She could have sworn she heard...
Casually secretive, she hid her find from view as she examined it. The ring was quite worn and scratched, but she could tell someone had taken great care in its creation. Gold in color, and, by its heft and feel, probably solid, she pressed it into the edge of the guardrail. It marred easily. Scratching at the ring’s indentation with a fingernail, as if trying to appease a wound, she turned it over, wiped away dirt, and found worn, engraved characters on the inside she couldn’t make out. On a whim, she placed the ring partway up her ring finger, when, without another thought, all the way on.
A perfect fit.
There was something unnervingly familiar about this ring... something more than right as it rested on her finger.
Take thissss...
Reeememmmber meee...
Kacey glanced back to the trooper, who continued toward the other accident scene.
She didn’t want to get into any trouble, holding back on possibly valuable evidence at a crime scene...
But a little old ring?
How could a little ring have any pivotal affect in the investigation? Heck, they’d already picked clean the scene, according to the sergeant, so maybe it was only just recently deposited from a passing car...
“Sergeant!”
The trooper turned.
“Could I get that ride?”
3
Beneath the overpass, Kacey sat in her car for a long, hard, moment. Stared at the ring, which presently occupied a position on which another piece of jewelry used to reside.
Wedding plans and marriage vows. Family. Love. Til death do us part.
Mark and Emily.
Kacey fingered the ring, reluctantly removed it, then placed it on the dash.
Reeememmmber meee...
Reaching into her pocketbook, she fished out a tightly wadded little package and unwrapped it.
Memories of another life.
Happier times, when both thought they could take on the world and win. Together forever. Create an über race of extreme sportsters. Kacey stared at the other ring. Mark had gotten her a simple gold band. It wasn’t that he was cheap, he just felt having a more ostentatious setting would get damaged with all their activities. He also just hadn’t the cash for anything extravagant. Mark had never told her the second reason, but she knew, just like she knew so much else about him. She knew that had been a big factor, extreme sports or not. You just knew people after a while. Like how she knew he loved dolphins, loved to watch clouds, loved to listen to her talk, to take long autumn walks in the leaf-strewn parks of Delaware, and, most of all, knew how he feared commitment—at least until he’d met her. She knew how he joked that all those years of commitment issues just meant he’d been waiting for her to show up, because once she had, all his fear had been obliterated in that instant. He thought that had been just about the weirdest thing to ever happen to him, and it just proved they were meant to be. He hadn’t been afraid of sky or scuba diving, but had been afraid of settling down.
Until her.
But could he be with a lesbian?
Someone who up and walked out on their family?
And could she live with a man who lost the identity she’d grown to love? Who, really, was the one afraid of commitment? Remember who up and left who. Not to reduce the entire subject to trite discussion, but maybe thoughts of lesbianism were not so much real as wannabe? Maybe she was just a wannabe lesbo, so she could have an easy out to all her problems. Certainly makes it easier, doesn’t it, saying, “I love women.” Also removes the guilt trip from your husband; now he didn’t have to think it was something he did. “Oh, my wife left me for... a woman.” Of course, maybe she hadn’t thought it through far enough, either, because now his guilt trip could very well be “Did I do something to turn her?”
Right. People didn’t turn to lesbianism out of spite.
But riddle me this, Batgirl, if you really were lesbian, then why hadn’t you gone all the way with Sheila—or the California chick? Why’d you stop at the lips (and we are talking upper lips, ma’am)—and don’t tell the world because you just wanted to practice safe sex—we both know that was as far away from the case as China is from Florida.
Kacey slipped her wedding band onto her finger.
I will be with you...
It still fit—of course it would—and she felt her stomach knot up into another burst of twisted emotion. She had to stop this or was surely headed for the funny farm. And an ulcer.
Clutching the steering wheel, Kacey choked out a cry and closed her eyes. She loved Mark, still did, goddammit, but something kept her from returning. From their life together. With Emily, her beautiful daughter, now fifteen months old—a daughter without a mother. How was that fair?
Oh, hadn’t thought that through, either, had we, Supergirl? Sure, we were leaving our husband, boring husband, but did we also consider we were also leaving our child? And when we were sucking face with those gorgeous gals, were we even for an instant considering what our daughter would think of us? “Hey, honey, don’t worry about Mommy, she swings both ways, and lesbians only swing girl-girl. I’ve got everything under control; no more girl-girl for Mommy—well, except for Lisa, who Mommy met while standing in line at the Post Office, or Rachel, who Mommy met while shopping, or—
“Shut up!” Kacey shouted, pummeling the steering wheel. “Shut up, shut up, shut up....” Kacey dropped her head onto the wheel.
Mark Burnett.
Just a phone call away. Cell phone to home phone. Kacey sat back up, removing her cell from her handbag. Without wiping away her tears, she dialed his number, hands shaking. Would he be there? This was the first time she’d dialed those numbers since leaving, and she stared at them in her cell’s window like a starving person at a buffet. All she had to do was hit “Send.” Just that one little button at the lower right, and poof!, off her little request would go on its merry way.
She lay back in her seat, dropping her hand and cell phone into her lap. Did she really want this? Was she ready for it?
Was he?
Kacey hit send, and nervously brought the phone to an ear. Her hand shook. She heard that blank, in-between electronic pause, then a click, as the connection was made. The first ring hit with such a jarring force that it actually caused her to jump. She ran a trembling hand through her hair and sat up straight, clearing her throat. Staring straight ahead, she steadied herself for the blow of an answer at the other end. What would she say? What would be her first words in over a year? “Hi, honey, it’s me!”? Or how about “You know, despite what you may have heard, I’m really not into women....” Or maybe, “Hello, Mark. I know you probably don’t want to talk with me, right now, but I’m sorry... so very, very, goddammed, unbelievably sorry for having left you and Emily. We can seek therapy, in fact I insist upon it, but I really, really want to try to make things work....”
The ringing stopped.
There was a delay as the phone at the other end was raised from cradle to another ear. Then came the sound of a male voice for which no amount of preparation prepared her.
“Hello?”
Kacey froze.
How could one simple, friendly word strike such fear?
Her mouth hung open, primed for operation, and she really wanted to say something, anything, like how’s the weather? Your parents ok? How’s Emily?—but froze. Nothing came out, not even an exhale.
“Hello? Is anyone there? Rod? Hello?”
Again, Kacey tried to respond. Willed herself to, but nothing came out. Her entire body trembled uncontrollably.
Is this what you really want? Sheila’s voice asked, suddenly popping into her head. I thought we had something special, you and me... that we connected. You still have my number, don’t you? Call me... let’s talk this out before doing anything rash...
Mommy? Is that you? Emily’s voice chimed in. I’ve soooo missed you, Mommy! Why’d you leave? Was it something I did? I’m so sorry, I promise to be better this time... won’t poop my dipees as much as I used to—I won’t, you’ll see... come back, Mommy, I really want my Mommy...
“Kacey?” Pause. “Is that y—”
Kacey hit “End” and exploded into tears.
Chapter Nine
1
Detective Fisher stood before the detention center cell. Inmate Peter John Cooper sat in the far corner of his confinement, head down, hands cradling the crown of his head like a crazed “Thinker.” Fisher nodded to the uniformed officer, who unlocked the cell. Cooper nervously shot to his feet.
“Morning, Mr. Cooper,” Fisher greeted, entering the cell.
Cooper stared at him. “What can I do for you.”
“Same thing I asked yesterday. Why’d you do it.”
“I ain’t done nuthin!” Cooper shouted, charging toward Fisher, only to stop halfway. The officer began to quickly unlock the door, but Fisher raised a hand.
“Sit down,” Fisher said. “Take a load off; relax.”
Fisher moved to Cooper’s cot, leaning against it. Cooper didn’t move.
“I mean it—sit your ass down or I’ll make you relax.”
Warily eyeing Fisher, Cooper sat, returning his attention to the floor.
“Are you telling me,” Fisher began, “that you’re claiming you didn’t kill anyone?”
“I ain’t sayin nuthin,” he said, running a nervous hand through long, stringy, hair.
“What do you do for a living when you’re not killing?”
“Mechanic. Foreign cars.”
“Foreign jobs, huh? Don’t like American?”
Cooper shrugged. “I dunno. I just do em; it’s a job.”
“I see. Like travel? See sights?”
Cooper looked up to Fisher, hands clenched. “Not particularly. Don’t like foreigners.”
“Yet you work on their cars. Don’t see the irony?”
“Cars ain’t people.”
“True. Yet foreigners make the cars upon which you work.”
Cooper looked back to the floor. “Fuck em. Money’s money. Like I said—it’s just a job.”
“Hate old folks?”
“I know what you’re doin, so just—”
“Just answer the question. Quicker you cooperate, quicker I’m outta your face. Hate old folk?”
Cooper glared at him. “Got nuttin gainst em.”
“Yet you’re pretty handy with a wrench, aren’t you—”
Cooper again shot to his feet.
Lunged at Fisher.
Fisher sidestepped and deflected him back against his cot, where he tumbled onto the mattress. The officer who’d been monitoring the exchange entered the cell, taser extended.
“Jesus Christ, what the fuck you want me to say!”
“I want you to tell me why the hell you waltzed into my life and killed off a handful of my citizenry, that’s what I want.”
“I didn’t do it—”
“We have your murder weapon, your fingerprints, and enough evidence spattered across your clothes and body to convict you for three lifetimes. Why deny it? Who organized this and why?”
Cooper rolled over in his cot, covering his face with an arm. The uniformed officer hovered nearby.
“I don’t remember....”
“Now, how am I supposed to believe that?”
“Aren’t I supposed to have a lawyer or something? I don’t fucking remember any of it, okay? Goddammit, you think I wanna spent the rest of my life behind bars? Or get the chair—or whatever it is Florida has? Shit.” Cooper rolled onto his back, a tear running down the side of his face. He quickly and forcefully wiped it away.
Fisher removed a small notepad from his pocket and began reading from it. “You don’t remember smashing in Mr. and Mrs. Scovelli’s skulls? Or the Green’s? Beating Fran and Herbert Kirchen’s faces into their beautiful green shag carpet?”
Fisher turned away from Cooper and the uniformed officer.
“Shit, Cooper, there’s no way we’ll get all their blood and brains out of those carpets for the next residents—”
Cooper spun around in the cot and leapt up off it at Fisher. This time the uniformed officer rammed the taser into Cooper’s intercostals. There were several seconds of arcing electricity, spastic grunting, and Cooper collapsed, moaning and balling up into a tight fetal position. The officer came alongside Fisher.
“It’s like he really believes it. He really seems to think he didn’t do anything.”
Fisher stared at Cooper. “Funny thing is... I’m beginning to believe him.”
2
Dr. Kimberly Preston reviewed the facts. Thirty-seven suspects (minus the suicides and the Hocker’s efforts) left twenty-eight who had killed seventy-two retirement-home patrons... the lot of them—minus the visitors, which was also perplexing. Only a fraction of the suspects admitted their guilt, while another handful had taken their own lives upon incarceration. All suspects appeared unrelated, all appeared repentant, and most had retreated deep into themselves. Her assignment... interview them and find out just what the heck happened, and, more importantly, were they mentally fit to stand trial.
No tall order.
Dr. Preston shivered. There was something distinctly unnerving about this case. Good God, the magnitude of the crime was unthinkable. And in such a small, backwater town. Something wasn’t right, and she got the distinct impression she was going to find out what... but that she also wasn’t so sure she was going to like what she found.
She scanned down the list of names. No place like the top to get started. Better reserve those interrogation rooms...
3
Howard Stoker III stood before the dream tribunal. He knew he was dreaming, but that didn’t make things any less real. Enoch’s presence was beside him, yet it wasn’t really there. Invisible. There, but not there, the way things like this always happened in dreams.
“What do you think?” Enoch ask
ed.
Howard looked around. He couldn’t quite make out the faces. They were fuzzy, angry. Always in motion. There was also this blast of warm wind from time to time, and a lot of noise, white noise, everywhere, riding the oppressive air blast.
“Well,” Howard responded, “I guess so. Looks like an interesting case. Won’t be easy, will it?”
Enoch said, “Not in the conventional sense.”
Howard examined the jurors. They all wore some kind of armor, he was finally able to make out, though not very well. Helmets? In the background came a thunderous advance of horses...
“Thanks for doing this. Only you can take this case,” Jack Hocker said.
“You’re the only one,” Hedda added. Another blast of hot air tossed about Hedda’s hair.
Howard reassessed his surroundings. He now stood on the shoulder of I-75. No cars, no traffic. Jack’s body was at his feet, a smashed-in head still freshly oozing gore. He looked up the road to see (even though he knew he shouldn’t be able to see any detail at this distance), Hedda’s pulverized and mangled remains as if he stood directly before her.
A ravaged Hedda sat up, angled off from them slightly. She looked off into the hazy distance. “You have to do this,” she insisted. Howard heard her plea as if she’d spoken it directly into his ear.
“For everyone,” Jack added, beside him. Jack also sat upright on the Interstate, dislodged brains slowly creeping down the side of his road-rashed face.
Howard, heart heavy, nodded. “I will. It doesn’t have to be like this you know....”
Jack looked down to the shoulder of the road, then to his wife, who now stared at them. “I think we know that... now. I guess... I guess....”
“We didn’t know any better,” Hedda chimed in, again sounding as if she stood beside Howard.
“Eh,” Jack said, “it was time to go, anyway. It was okay. We left together. I was the first to go last time and promised I wouldn’t do that again.”
“It was fitting to our lives,” added Hedda. “We both liked a little action. Go out with a bang and all.”
Hedda chuckled, and bloody internal matter issued from her mouth and various other ruptured areas of her body. “Oops,” she said, embarrassed, hand to mouth.
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