Love Power

by Martha Reed

  She studied the floating orange grease ring in the filthy sink. But I do need to let it go. Life rolls on, things bounce back and return to normal and I’ve got my own set of problems to fix like this fucking sink. She straightened. That’s the practical thing to do. Keep it real and go tell Leslie she needs to call the plumber again.

  Shaking the cardboard box to check on the biscuit inventory, Jane fed Piddles a treat. “Be right back, buddy.” Picking up her cane, she hobbled for the Big House, carefully navigating the six back porch steps. The inner kitchen door was open and she heard Ken’s rumbling voice.

  “Sweetheart, I need to go out for a couple hours. Should be back in time for supper.”

  “Ken?” Leslie teased. “Where do you go on these mysterious excursions?”

  “She’s right, Pops. Where do you go?” Gee probed. “You have to admit it looks highly suspicious.”

  “If you must know, I got a job.” Ken blustered.

  “A job!” Gee laughed brightly. “Sure you did. Doing what?”

  “Restocking shelves at the Dollar Store. Pays nine bucks an hour.”

  “But why, Ken?” Leslie sounded perplexed. “Why on earth would you do such a thing?”

  “Because, sweetheart,” his voice softened. “I needed to pay for your diamond ring.”

  “Oh, Ken. You’re adorable. I didn’t need that ring to make me happy and you know that!”

  “It’s worth every penny, Leslie, just to see your smile.”

  Shit! Jane blushed. I feel like an idiot standing out here. She glanced back at the steep set of steps. But I don’t have the energy in me to sneak away and make two trips. “Hello, the house.” She rapped the cane against the warped porch floor. “Can I come in?”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  “Sorry to interrupt.” Jane pushed the kitchen door open. “Leslie? The drain’s backed up again. It’s filling my sink.”

  “Quickly, Gee. Go tell Aunt Babette.” Snapping her fingers, Leslie pointed. “Nobody flushes a thing until we get the plumber to take a look at it.” She snatched up the wall phone. “I want to stay ahead of this.”

  “Hey, Jane. Zup?” Gee rose. “How you feeling? Better?”

  “Much better,” Jane admitted. “On the mend.”

  “That reminds me.” Leslie pushed a woolly pink bundle across the counter with her free hand. “Aunt Babette knitted you this cap to cover your stitches.” She returned her focus to the phone. “Yes, I’m here. Yes, it’s an emergency. Yes, I’ll hold.”

  Jane held the soft pink pussy cap in her hands. Why not? She tenderly settled it over her shaved head. The expensive cashmere yarn instantly warmed her sore, stubbly scalp like a buttery baby blanket. Aunt Babette is the bomb. Instant comfort like a solid hug from a good friend just when you need it. Jane smiled. “Gee? If you’re going up, please thank Aunt Babette for me until I get a chance to do it in person myself.”

  “Check.” Gee snorted, tapping her pointy chin. “I’m not sure why that works on you, but it does, in a strange girl resistance fighter kinda way.”

  “That’s because I’m a rebel,” Jane stated.

  “Gigi! Focus!” Leslie snapped her fingers again, pointing at the swinging door. “Go tell Aunt Babette that we have a problem.”

  “Sorry! Wait for me, Jane. I’ll walk you out.”

  “That goddamn sewer line has been a pain in the ass for thirty years.” Ken grumbled, tapping the counter with his fingers. “If it’s not the water table, it’s goddamn tree roots or some other fucking shit. It’s always something with this house.”

  Leslie clamped her hand over the phone. “Ken, please. I’m taking care of it.”

  Gee trotted back through the swinging door. “Aunt Babette’s on board. She won’t use any water until she gets an all clear.” She checked her phone. “Jane? You ready?” Courteously holding both the inner and outer kitchen doors open, she picked up her damp umbrella. Easily bounding down the steps, she held up her palm to check on the rain. “Might be clearing up.”

  Jane limped down the steps. “I see you got The Boat back.”

  “About fucking time.” Gee tossed the umbrella onto the floorboards. “Don’t get me wrong. Uber and Lyft are great, but I missed having my own wheels. Missed the independence, know what I mean?” She paused. “Need a quick trip to the corner store for groceries before I go? You good for supplies?”

  “I’m good, but thanks for asking.”

  “You let me know if you need a ride.” Gee stared at the Embry’s house, jiggling her key ring in her hand. “S’weird to think of what went on over there yesterday.” Rolling her index finger in the air, she tapped her temple. “Feels like a bad dream.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  “I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that Tyler Shank, that little peckerwood shit murdered Fancy and Dee.”

  “And Numa,” Jane added.

  “Exactly! Or that he shot Detective Bordelon. I know he said he did it, but it still seems off to me.”

  “He didn’t say he did it,” Jane countered. “Cheryl Embry said that he said he did it. It’s hearsay actually, not the same thing.”

  “Oh, sure.” Gee scoffed. “Blame the dead guy. How easy is that?”

  Tyler Shank never said that he did it. Jane’s instinct underlined her earlier protest over The Slasher’s identity. “Gee? I know this is gonna sound crazy but let me talk it through. Fancy weighed what? Two-twenty, right? Dee was wrapped in that heavy carpet. Tyler Shank weighs what, one thirty, tops?”

  “If that.” She scoffed. “Soaking wet.”

  “So how did he shift that weight by himself?”

  “What d’you mean?” Gee looked perplexed.

  Hanging her cane off her forearm, Jane linked her fingers. “I keep thinking that Tyler didn’t act solo, that The Slasher was a unit, part of a kill team. That somehow Ryan Embry was involved.”

  “Ryan was involved?” Gee repeated slowly as knowledge dawned in her eyes. “That actually makes sense. I could see Ryan doing that, especially if he was using Tyler to hit back at me. He always was a little chickenshit bastid. Smart enough to not get caught, but happy enough pulling the strings on someone else to do the work. Shit, Jane. You might be right. You need to call Mayas and tell him this.”

  “I’ve talked to Carter. He dismissed my idea.”

  “Fucker. Why? What did he say?”

  “That everyone has signed off on it and it’s time to move on.”

  “He’s wrong.” Gee planted her hands on her hips. “I’m with you. We’ll need to do this ourselves.”

  “Do what ourselves?” Jane asked warily.

  “Investigate Ryan. Check his van for starters.” Spinning around, she marched through the garden. “He’s home for lunch. The van’s right there. Come on.”

  Jane limped quickly to keep up. “Gee? They catch us on their property without permission, it’s called criminal trespassing -”

  “Then we need to make sure they don’t catch us.” Ducking low, Gee trotted across Plessy Street. “Learned this when I was a kid, back when Ryan and me had sleepovers. If we come to the Embry’s house from this side, they can’t see us. None of their windows face this way.”

  “Anything we do find is inadmissible in court.” Jane followed, her internal warning system hiked to red alert. “We don’t have a search warrant or probable cause.”

  “We haven’t found anything yet. Would you get over here?” Gee swept her arm forward like an oar. “We’d be done by now if you’d hurry.”

  “Fuck off. I’m limping as fast as I can.”

  Gee slid up the blind side of the Delta Electric van like a ninja. “We’ll check this first, then check his garage. Ryan’s always messing around in there. Calls it his man cave. Makes sense, he’s such a fucking troglodyte.” Pressing her broad hand against the rear cargo door, she turned the handle and quietly popped it open, scanning the interior. “Jumper cables, bungee cords, big metal toolbox. Ryan’s got a cas
e of duct tape. Is that suspicious?”

  Jane’s eyes watered and her nose burned. “And bleach. I smelled it before on our date. Ryan’s an electrician. What would he need bleach for?”

  “No reason I can think of. Strike one. Let’s check the cab.”

  Shutting the cargo door with a click, Gee slid along the van. Opening the passenger door, she leaned in and felt under the front seat before unlocking the glove box and poking her fingers through the paper trash. “Gas receipts and a church key. What do you think? Should we risk it and check his garage?”

  Jane turned. PTSD snapped her rubber band tight nerves as she studied the standalone structure, a 12x12 foot framed unit approximately twenty-five feet from the back of the Embry’s house. The faded asphalt shingled roof swayed in the middle. Tufts of dried grass formed a solid barrier in front of the rickety off kilter overhead door. Cobwebs studded with dead bugs hung from the lintel like a banner of Spanish moss. No one’s parked a car in this garage in years. The six single windowpanes were painted an opaque black from the inside.

  “This here’s the tricky part.” Gee whispered. “I need to get the key. Ryan keeps it locked. If they step outside the house, they’ll see me.”

  “Where’s the key?”

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” Gee grinned. “Twenty years ago they hid it under that planter. Be right back.”

  Sweet Jesus. What are we doing? Jane held her breath. Pushing the pussy cap off her forehead, she winced as the yarn tugged at her stitches. Peering around the corner, she watched Gee bolt for the Embry’s patio, tip a concrete pot and race back, skidding through shallow puddles and clutching the key in her fist.

  “Hope it still works.” She huffed, wiping the rain off her face. “I’ll go first. You follow me as fast as you can.”

  “In and out though, Gee, right? In and out and we’re done. Outta here?”

  “They’ll never even know we was here.”

  Pinching the key between her fingers and her thumb, Gee rolled around the splintery corner, unlocking the side door with a quick and certain twist and noiselessly slipping inside.

  What the hell am I doing? Jane paused. This isn’t even my fight. Don’t I have enough shit on my plate already? Her knee throbbed steadily like a two-stroke Evinrude motor as bright silvery orbs haloed her vision. She swallowed the bitter taste coating her tongue. Suck it up, sister. Enough of the pity party! When did I start whining instead of doing? She inhaled a ragged breath. Just get the fuck on with it. Gee needs my backup.

  Tightly grasping the cane, she stepped inside the garage.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  “Quick! Shut the door!” Gee’s voice sounded hollow. “Before you hit the switch. It’s on the wall to your left.”

  Jane walked her fingers down a cool plastic cable until they slid over a cold steel plate. “Got it.” She flicked the switch and two overhead florescent bar panels flared, illuminating the garage with brilliantly artificial white light.

  “Jackpot.” Gee whistled softly. “Would you take a fucking look at this?”

  Ryan’s man cave was immaculate in contrast to the derelict outside public shell. A stout homemade worktable ran the length of the left wall. It held an organized cleaning station and two 9MM Glock Gen 4 pistols.

  On the right, directly under the blacked-out windows was a tactical weapons armory housed in custom mounting racks. Of the two-dozen rifles on display, Jane recognized three Remington M700s with sniper scopes, a Browning X-Bolt Medallion with its detachable box magazine and a Daniel Defense Ambush .308 Semiautomatic Kryptek Highlander. A second gun rack held a nice Mossberg Model 500 pump-action shotgun and two Remington Model 870s. Cardboard ammo boxes were stacked in handy overhead cubicles directly over each weapon.

  “Ryan’s a gamer, huh? I don’t think so.” Gee scoffed. “What game would this be? Mass destruction?”

  Jane studied the massive inventory. “He’s got enough weaponry in here to win a war.”

  “Fuck. That’s probably what he’s planning on doing.” Gee’s voice sounded gravelly. “America First, right? This white supremacy shit makes me sick.”

  Jane turned. Gee’s face had turned ashen as she gazed in horror at a Nazi banner hanging on the rear wall. Jane shivered as the image of the crimson flag with its flat black swastika on its big white dot seared her retinas. How the fuck did we end up back here again? She shut her eyes to block the hate-filled image. Isn’t that why we fought both World Wars? All that fucking horror, all those helpless dead people. Did all of that mean nothing? What are we, stupid?

  “Is owning this many guns even legal?” Gee spat.

  “Could be.” Jane blinked her eyes open. “If Ryan bought them through an FFL dealer. These are considered hunting rifles. You can buy most of them at WalMart.”

  “Fucking NRA.” Gee’s voice rose. “Jane? You don’t think this sick shit is right, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.” She leaned on her cane. “But Ryan has the Constitutional right to express himself on his own property.”

  “Even when he believes sick-ass shit like this?” Gee replied sarcastically, shaking a glossy flyer. “‘Our single goal and focus must be the salvation of our Homeland. The continuity of our white Christian nation is perfectly natural. Any political or personal decisions counter to this belief must be opposed at all costs without mercy.’ Seriously? What the fuck?”

  “Put that back, Gee. We need to get outta here. This is sick shit, but it’s not illegal. He’s within his rights.”

  “One minute.” Gee tossed the flyer onto the worktable with disgust. Stepping toward a walnut trophy rack in the corner, she tugged on its camouflaged dust cover. The heavy canvas resisted and giving it a more insistent tug, it ripped free from its Velcro tabs, clearing the rack’s upper edge and sliding to the floor with a hiss.

  What are those things? Jane inched closer. Dream catchers? Her brain spun like a pinwheel as she processed the fresh horror that met her eyes. Holy fuck. They’re scalps. Acidic bile burned her sinuses. Human scalps. One display held gray shoulder-length dreadlocks. That’s Cal!

  Gee retched, pointing a finger at a scalp with long black tresses. “Fuck! That’s Dee!”

  Jane stared at the scalps hanging from a lower row, her mouth suddenly tasting like copper. She scanned the two mounted scalps on the left and the four more in the row above. The Slasher was credited with five kills: Fancy, Dee, Cal, Numa and Bordelon. Who else has Ryan murdered? Jane gulped the bitter taste away. Fuck. There are six more kills we don’t even know about?

  Her scalp prickled and her right hand itched. That’s it. I need a weapon. Propping the cane against the worktable, she reached for one of the 9MM pistols. The oh-so-familiar Glock grip settled comfortably against her palm. Sweet. Releasing the magazine, Jane pulled the slide back to the catch, noting with satisfaction that the standard 17 rounds were represented. That should do it. Now I feel better. Re-seating the magazine with a slap, her right index finger extended along the frame, she released the slide lock with her thumb and chambered a round with a snap.

  “Keep behind me, Gee. We’re getting outta here -”

  Reaching for the cane, Jane pulled up short.

  “Zup?”

  She studied the weapon in her hand. “Win Carter said Cheryl surrendered a Glock after the event. It had Tyler Shank’s fingerprints on it. Win said Forensics proved the Glock was used to murder Detective Bordelon.”

  “So?”

  Jane narrowed her focus. “Why did Tyler switch from using a Glock to a shotgun when he held Cheryl hostage?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe ... because it’s bigger?”

  “Shotgun’s less effective defensively long range, not more.” Jane hefted the 9MM pistol. “A handgun would’ve been a better choice especially when he was managing a hostage.” She recalled Tyler Shank’s multiple fumbles as Cheryl collapsed on the porch as an alternate idea gelled. “Gee? We’re getting played. Who said the Glock that killed Bordelon belonged to Tyl
er Shank? No one.” Jane heard a sibilant whisper behind her left shoulder, and she turned. “Maybe it was hers.”

  “Ryan?” Cheryl Embry called back toward the house. “Come on out here, son. Look who I just caught trespassing on our property.”

  Shit. The Slasher isn’t Tyler and Ryan. It’s Tyler and Ryan and Cheryl.

  Cheryl raised the Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun, planting her feet firmly in the doorway. She looked perfectly at ease.

  She’s got three rounds of steel shot, maybe four with one in the tube. The safety’s off. Where’s Gee? What are my odds?

  “Don’t raise that Glock on me, girlie. Set it aside on that table and push it away. Yes, just like that.”

  Ryan suddenly loomed behind his mother. Looking over her shoulder, he unsheathed a gleaming Bowie knife. “Gonna have to call in sick to work for me, Ma. Got my headache again.” He cracked a toothy smile. “This looks like more fun.”

  Cheryl stared at Jane’s cap with a withering hatred. “Aren’t you a sight? I knew you was trouble the minute I laid eyes on you. Ryan? Should’ve listened to me, son.” She leveled the Mossberg at Jane’s abdomen. “I could shoot you both right now for home invasion. Justified.”

  Gee pointed at the scalp rack. “You are two sick fucks.”

  “You’re the sick fuck, freak.” Ryan snarled, shouldering his way into the garage. Tossing the buckskin sheath on the worktable, he raised the ten-inch blued steel knife.

  “You people forgot your place.” Cheryl tightened her grip on the shotgun. The double barrel looked like a train tunnel. “We let you live in the shadows, but no, you had to have ‘rights.’” Her face twisted into a venomous mask of spitting hatred as her voice grew shrill. “You and your kind, you don’t get rights. You’re deviants. Perverts. Your lifestyle is an insult to God and our nation!”