I’m on my way to my cruiser, intending to check Chloe Portman’s cabin first, when the phone on my desk rings.
“Sheriff Kean. What can I do for you?”
“In a big rush to track down little Chloe and Hannah, are you?” says a muffled male voice on the other end. “Lucky for you, they’re exactly where you think they are; the cabin. Unlucky for you, they are to remain there. Leave them alone and play the game or people will die.”
“What…”
Click. The line is dead. Something very strange is going on here. Who was that man and how is he involved? I don’t like being threatened any more than anyone else but I can’t risk putting innocent lives on the line. Instead of rushing off to the cabin, I decide to do some more digging into the case. It turns out that Chloe Portman used to live in Los Angeles at the same address as Hannah Jaffe. They might have been roommates, but Jaffe earns a decent salary as a lawyer. It’s unlikely that she would need a room-share arrangement. Most likely, they were lovers. That makes sense. I only saw them together for a few moments, under harrowing circumstances, but they seemed close and familiar like lovers. They must have separated, though. Portman wasn’t just having a writer’s retreat in the mountains of Northern California. She had arranged for her mail to be forwarded to Visalia. The likelihood of two female ex lovers plotting together to kill 2 different men in 2 different counties is very small.
I’m still digging when the phone rings again. Thinking it might be the mystery voice again, I grab the phone off the receiver on the first ring.
“Sheriff Kean. What is it?”
“Sheriff Kean, something terrible has happened!” I hear a hysterical woman’s voice on the line. She’s getting her words out in between great gulping sobs. I recognize the voice as my son’s third grade teacher, Mrs. Ingleton.
“Mrs. Ingleton, is that you?”
“I can’t believe it happened. It can’t be real. My husband, he killed my husband. I was just at the store for a few minutes. There was a man standing over Stan’s bed when I got back with a knife in his hands. He’s gone. My husband is gone forever.” She starts sobbing uncontrollably.
“I’ll be right there.”
When I arrive at Mrs. Ingleton’s house, I find her crying and rocking herself forward and backward on a chair just outside the bedroom. Glancing inside the open doorway, I’m not surprised she positioned herself outside of the room. I lay a hand on her shoulder and explain that I’ll be back in a moment to take a statement. The room looks like an ordinary bedroom aside from the man lying on the bed. He’s still in his pajamas, wrapped in a blanket. The killer stabbed him through the heart and blood is staining the pale blue comforter. The oddest thing about the crime scene is that there is a page that looks like it was ripped out of a book lying on top of the dead man’s stomach.
Peering closely at the page, careful not to touch anything until the crime scene has been photographed and processed, I read a short, violent scene involving a madman playing a game of riddles. The author’s name at the top of the page is Chloe Portman. Something clicks into place in my mind; I’ve seen cases of unhinged fans going too far before. We have a madman on our hands. He’s playing games, toying with the very person who wrote this book. He’s recreating the drama in real life. I step into the hall to speak with Mrs. Ingleton. I take her statement and she repeats herself, adding only that the killer tore a page out of a book to leave on the body and that he then ran away. I thank her for keeping her head, thereby helping with the investigation, and speak quietly with her for a few minutes, trying to comfort her in her sudden and terrible loss.
When a squadron of officers and crime scene investigators arrive to comb through the scene, I take my leave. I need to speak with Chloe and Hannah. My gut tells me they are innocent; we should pool our information and work together to find this deranged killer. I risk going to the cabin and, pulling in, see Hannah’s Camry parked in front, as expected.
The door is bolted shut, of course. I bang on the door until I see a face peer out from behind a curtain and then disappear. A moment later, I hear the bolt slide and the door opens a crack. I step cautiously inside. After all, I’m either right and they’re nonviolent, or I’m wrong and I’m visiting 2 murderers without backup. Stupid, I realize belatedly.
They’re both standing in the entryway when I step in. Chloe steps forward.
“We were warned to stay here or die. Are you here to arrest us again? We’ve decided that we’d rather be arrested than dead.”
“No. I believe that you’re both innocent. I’m here to talk.”
I explain that I have just come from the scene of another murder. There was an eye witness and the killer was definitely a man. I tell them about the book page left behind. Chloe pales even more and disappears into a side room for a moment, returning with a paperback crime thriller with her own name on the cover.
“I know the scene you’re talking about.” She flips to it and hands me the book. The title is Madman, Giggles and Riddles. “This was my first book. It seems like a fanatic reader is acting out a deranged real life version of the story. You can keep the book, if you like, for reference.”
I agree with Chloe’s assessment. They tell me that there’s a little more to the story than what I know about. They both received multiple red envelopes from this psycho. The first messages were blackmail, but later the envelopes had instructions and threats. They exchange a look and then, apparently reaching an agreement, they show me the envelopes.
Taking the book with me, I leave the cabin. When I reach the police car, I see a red envelope. Unnerved, I tear it open and read the note inside.
You play your part well. But even the sheriff dies in the end.
Folding the letter, I tuck it into my glove compartment to submit as evidence later. Then I speed home to check on my family. Telling my wife almost nothing about the details of the case, I drive her to her sister’s house in Monterey and arrange for our son to spend a few nights at a friend’s house. I spend the night at the police station reading Chloe’s book. I want to be prepared for the madman, if that’s ever possible.
Then next morning I’m awakened by a telephone ringing somewhere close to my head. It’s the phone on my desk; I must have fallen asleep sitting at my desk last night. I pick up the receiver; news of yet another murder hits me like cold water and I’m instantly awake. This time a car mechanic was hung in his own garage. A single book page was pinned to the dead man’s leg.
Chloe
After Sheriff Kean leaves, I turn to Hannah wondering if she’s thinking the same thing I am. In the present context, the nuanced intellectual differences that precipitated our breakup seem absurd. We might die at any time. In the meantime, I feel like I’ve been grounded, locked in my room with the most alluring woman I’ve ever known. What should we do to pass the time? Hannah raises an eyebrow. I smile slyly and start to walk towards her at the same time she starts walking towards me. Meeting in the middle, I take her in my arms and kiss her deeply. It feels magnetic, as it always did, with her. Only now, there’s the element of radical appreciation that comes in situations of danger and extreme uncertainty. It’s not enough to kiss her, I need to take her in completely. And I do.
Last night whetted my appetite. Hannah quickly shows me that she feels the same way. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me passionately. Breaking our embrace, she grabs two fistfuls of my shirt and hauls me over to the bed. I lay down on my back, quiescent and expectant.
“Just let me touch you,” she murmurs, passing her hands over my body. Pulling my shirt off over my head, she kisses every inch of skin that she can reach. I lift myself off the bed so that she can reach my bra clasp and she frees me with a moment’s concentration. Laying myself down on the pillows, I’m content to be admired. Androgynous women are beautiful women; Hannah always made sure I knew that.
I shiver in a sudden draft and Hannah pulls the blanket over us. Removing the rest of my clothes, as well as her own, we cling toge
ther under the blanket with the illusion of safety. Feeling her naked body fully flush with mine must be the most delicious sensation there is. We kiss and stroke, languid in our cocoon.
“I will always love you,” I tell her honestly.
“Yes, I know. And I will always love you. I was foolish, thinking that my head was smarter than my heart. I’m truly sorry for the pain I’ve caused you.”
She holds my eyes and I know how hard it is for her to admit that she was wrong. In response, I pull her face down to mine and kiss her. She returns my kiss. Then she untangles herself from me and indicates with an eloquent wave of her hand that she would like me to turn over. I lie naked on my stomach while Hannah does her best to make amends. Her warm breath on my bare skin is enough to entice me to forgive her almost immediately, but she takes the task more seriously. She leaves a damp trail of saliva from my neck to my toes before finally kneeling between my legs. Grasping my hips in her hands, she raises my buttocks into the air slightly and dips her face to insert her tongue into my damp folds. Being licked from this angle feels incredible and the subtle taboo of being eaten from the backside adds to the pleasure. I widen my knees to allow her access as she plunders me with her clever tongue. Arching my back, I push back into her waiting mouth while my breasts are pressed down against the mattress.
“More,” I plead shamelessly, “I need more.”
Sitting on her heels behind me, she slips her left hand inside me. I catch my breath, then begin to move against her. She then encircles me with her right arm to gain access to me from the front as well. The feeling of being trapped between her competent hands drives me wild and I rock backwards and forwards ecstatically. Sensing my readiness, she begins to pump her left hand harder, until I can hear the smack of impact with every thrust. The sound spurs us on and our frenzy increases as she slides the remaining fingers of her left hand deep inside me. I feel like my heart might explode and all I know to do is ride the wave of desperation and joy.
When the wave subsides, I turn to recline on my side and she lies down beside me. Taking her hand, still slick from my juices, I bring it to my mouth. Then, holding her gaze, I clean each finger one by one, inserting the tip and sucking gently before taking the length down my throat. Why 2 lesbians would be turned on by the simulation of fellatio, I couldn’t say. Maybe it has something to do with usurping the language of male sexual power. Whatever. All I know is that Hannah took care of me and now I want to clean her fingers with my grateful tongue. And I know that she likes it; every time I slide a finger down my throat she’s imagining me sucking on something else. I can see it in her eyes and hear it in her breathing.
Once I’ve finished my ministrations, she leans towards me and kisses me, tasting herself on my tongue. As we kiss, she places her hand against the back of my neck. Breaking the kiss, she guides my head down towards her waist. I stretch out on my belly and make myself comfortable, with my mouth positioned between her legs. I intend to be here for a long time. She lays back, completely relaxed. The urgency has been slackened somewhat and we both recognize that it’s time to savor our carnality. We’ve got all night.
Afterwards, we lie entangled in bed, her head on my shoulder, her long dark hair tickling my bare throat. My arm is around her, my hand resting on her chest. Her hand holds mine over her heart. I’m almost happy. Even with all of the horror and danger of our present situation, I can’t help feeling buoyant. Except for one thing. I haven’t been as honest with Hannah as I could have been.
I’ve never told anybody my secret. I’ve kept it hidden for so long that the story I told other people became the story I told myself until I stopped remembering that I even had a secret. If I had admitted to myself that I was keeping something from Hannah while we were together, then I would have felt guilty. I didn’t feel guilty then, but I do now that my secret has resurfaced. Yesterday, I showed her the blackmail message but did not explain further and she did not press. I know that I need to tell her.
Taking a deep breath, I begin. I tell her the truth of how my career as a writer began. When I was in college, struggling with my grades, I had a problem with writer’s block. A lot of people do. But I was close to getting kicked out. I was desperate. One day, I saw a half-written manuscript lying on my housemate’s desk…and I took it. That manuscript formed the basis of my first book. I stole someone else’s work. Hannah is, rightfully, appalled by my actions.
“You didn’t! Somebody labored over that and you just took it? How would you feel if someone scratched out your name on one of your books and wrote their own instead?...”
“I know, I know. It was a terrible thing to do. You weren’t exactly perfect in college, either, remember?” I pointedly remind her.
She blushes and abruptly stops condemning me, at least out loud. I go on to explain that my roommate, the guy who wrote the manuscript, was a real oddball.
“Walker Fitzgerald,” I muse aloud. “I wonder whatever happened to him. It was this guy my friend Carly knew in a shared apartment situation…”
I stop talking, realizing that Hannah is staring at me wide-eyed.
“Your weird housemate who you stole from…This guy who has reason to hold a grudge against you…You’re sure his name was Walker Fitzgerald?”
“Yeah, why?” I ask suspiciously.
“The guy who sold me drugs was also named Walker Fitzgerald.”
“Not a common name.” Now it’s coming together. “So, Walker knew both of our secrets.”
“You know what else?” Hannah adds. “Walker had a bit of a crush on me. I had to turn him down twice before he got the message. That’s another potential grudge.”
“Hm, well, I honestly can’t blame him,” I admit, nibbling her earlobe.
She smiles and shoos me away. We both agree that we need to share this realization with Sheriff Kean immediately. Leaving the cabin is a risky decision, but if there’s any chance that this information can help Sheriff Kean to track down the killer and end the madness then we need to take the chance. We get dressed and make a bee line for the car. Slamming the doors closed and buckling our seatbelts, we speed down the mountain to the Visalia police station. Bursting through the doors, I relax a tiny bit. I actually feel safer inside the police station, despite having recently been imprisoned here. When Sheriff Keaton runs the name Walker Fitzgerald, it comes back as belonging to a deceased person.
“Well we knew that,” Sheriff Kean says, surprising us. “That was the dead man on your front porch, Chloe.”
“What? That guy was Walker? I never would have recognized him! He looked so different. So…”
“Dead?” Sheriff Kean suggests mildly. “Anyway, I know that Fitzgerald hasn’t been running around town killing people since he’s dead and all. But the fact that he has a personal connection to each of you is very interesting and completely new information. We should do some digging, see what else comes up.”
The telephone rings again. When Sheriff Keaton answers he is told of another murder. This time a note was left with the body.
Dead man walking and it’s time to pay the piper
Hannah
Whoever this deranged lunatic is, he seems to be operating in this neck of the woods, for the most part. If people are turning up dead in Visalia, then I’m ready to leave Visalia. Besides, we were told not to leave the cabin or we would die, but we made it to the police station alive. I find this encouraging. The killer may be ruthless and insane, but he is not omniscient. When I broach this idea to Chloe, she agrees that we should make a run for Los Angeles.
Thanking Sheriff Kean for his continued help and his faith in our innocence, we head back to the Camry, impatient to leave this bloody town behind. I toss Chloe the keys, hoping to catch up on some sleep. The weather is smiling down on us. It’s finally warm and sunny. This feels like a good omen. Apparently, being in fear for your life can turn a person superstitious, I think ruefully. Outside of town, we pick up Highway 99 headed South.
Just as I start to relax,
I notice a box truck in the passing lane that caught up to us but isn’t passing. It’s just hovering directly behind the Camry’s left shoulder. Chloe sees it too and keep darting nervous eyes at the rearview and side mirrors. Suddenly, the truck is swerving into our lane, running us off the road. Chloe jerks the wheel to the right and we swerve into the roadside scrub. The truck skids to a stop beside us and a man in a black ski mask jumps out. He pulls out a handgun and points it directly at me, striding around to the passenger side door and yanking it open.
“Get out of the car,” he orders me. Turning to Chloe he adds, “you stay in the car.”
For a moment, I think she’s going to disobey him and get us both killed trying to protect me. I catch her eye and shake my head. Then I get out of the car. The masked man shoves the gun into the small of my back and tells me to walk towards the back of the truck. When we get there, he slides the latch and tells me that I have to pull the door up.
“It’s heavy. You have to pull it hard. If you don’t succeed, I will shoot you.” The door rattles open, sliding on its rails, and the man tells me to climb in. As soon as I’m in, he grabs a rope dangling from the handle of the door and heaves the door closed again, latching it from the outside. Crouched in the darkness of the empty truck with my back against the wall, I hear 4 gun shots. My logical mind tells me that the masked thug just blew out the tires of the Camry. Why else would it be 4 shots? But what if he shot Chloe? It’s possible that she’s out there dying right now and there’s nothing I can do. I hear the motor start and feel the vibrations in my feet. Then the truck is moving and I find a corner in which to sit down, brace myself, and cry as the truck lumbers off to wherever it’s taking me.
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