by Sheri Leigh
"You have a good time, young lady," Lee ordered. Dusty smiled at him.
"Where are you going?" Shane turned her to face him and she gasped when he grasped her wrist, hard.
"On a date." She shook him off and started toward the door.
"With who?" he growled, following her closely.
She shrugged, but inwardly she was smiling. "Tom Connley."
“You’re into flyboys?”
She smirked. “What’s it to you?”
“A sad cry for help?” Shane stepped back as she shrugged on her coat, pulling her hair free and closing it around her.
“Jealous much?”
“Of that blue-suiter?” he scoffed, waving her away. “Anyone who fights sitting down doesn’t have the balls God gave a hummingbird.”
She ignored him and swept past, but she noticed with smug satisfaction that when Tom pulled his car out of the parking lot, Shane was standing outside, watching them.
* * * *
She felt a little uncomfortable walking in with Tom's arm around her shoulders. It was like a clock had been turned back and she was in high school again, walking into the town movie theater with her high school boyfriend. In fact, it felt like her entire graduating class was there, sitting on the red upholstered seats, talking, throwing popcorn at the blank screen and munching on M&M's. They weren’t all there, of course, but enough of them it made the whole experience feel surreal.
"Where do you want to sit?" Tom asked near her ear.
Dusty spotted Suzanne and pointed to a seat across the aisle. “How about there?”
“Tom!” Suzanne waved as they sat down. “Hey, Dusty!”
Dusty waved back, giving her a brief smile, already regretting her impulsive acceptance of Tom’s invitation. Chatting and mingling and having a good time were the last things she wanted to be doing. It had been nearly a month since Nick’s death, and still being out in the world felt strange. Routine kept her sane, and being anywhere besides home, the cemetery, and the Starlite made her feel the weight of her grief beyond words.
“Come sit here!” Suzanne pointed to the seats next to her, and although Dusty protested, Tom led her across the aisle anyway.
“Hey Dusty.” The guy next to Suzanne gave her a smile and a wave and for a moment it didn’t even register who he was—the Evan she knew hadn’t worn glasses in high school, and she couldn’t remember if he’d been wearing them at the funeral. She tried to picture him standing beside Shane and the rest of the crew, but they all blended together in her mind, Shane at the center.
“Hi, Evan.” Dusty greeted him, following Tom and stepping past to sit on Evan’s other side. He looked so different to her, studious even, clean-cut, not the young rebel she remembered palling around with Shane when they were kids.
Suzanne leaned across him to grab and squeeze Dusty’s hand. “I’m so glad he got you to come!”
Dusty rolled her eyes. “I think I’ve been the victim of a conspiracy!”
“Hey, we guys have to stick together,” Evan agreed with a smile, slipping an arm over Suzanne’s shoulder. “I had to drag Susie here kicking and screaming, too.”
“She looks pretty content now,” Dusty remarked, noting how comfortable the two of them seemed together. It was an odd pairing, she thought. They were total opposites—or they had been, back in the day. Who knew what Evan was doing now, who he even was anymore, she surmised. Everyone, everything had changed so much… and still, some things, some people, never did.
Suzanne flushed at Dusty’s comment. “I went out to the cemetery the other day. The headstone is beautiful. But who chose the wording?”
“My stepmother.” Dusty sighed. “Only she would think Nick needed any sort of mercy from her version of God.”
“I think Nick really started connecting with her about the god-thing actually,” Suzanne remarked.
Dusty stared at her, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“I just noticed him talking about it more, questioning things. You know, about where we go after we die, if there really is a god, that sort of thing.” Suzanne sighed. “But that’s typical, you know, with someone in his position.”
“Living with Julia’s version of hell will make anyone question the existence of God.” Dusty rolled her eyes. “What do you mean, someone in his position?”
“Getting fired makes anyone freak out about the future,” Evan remarked, taking Suzanne’s hand and squeezing it. “Speaking of getting fired…”
“Is there anyone in this town who doesn’t know I was fired?” Dusty groaned and let herself relax against Tom when he slipped a comforting arm around her shoulder. “I forgot how fast news travels in this town.”
“You can come work with me and James,” Evan offered. “We started our own little company. Know anything about computers?”
“Just how to turn them on and type, I’m afraid,” she said with an apologetic smile. “The only thing I’m good at, apparently, is beating people up.”
“Not quite as marketable as being a programmer, I’m afraid,” Evan agreed with a laugh.
“Well, you could always be the first female Ultimate Fighting Champion,” Tom offered.
Dusty laughed. “I don’t think so.”
“Give yourself some time if you can,” Suzanne suggested. “It’s hard to get right back in the saddle again, considering everything that’s happened.”
Dusty nodded, blinking back tears. It was good to hear someone acknowledge it. Nick’s death, her career, everything seemed to be falling apart at once, and she felt, sometimes, as if she should be moving on, getting her life back in some semblance of order. But she found she couldn’t, even if she’d wanted to.
"So when are you leaving, Tom?" Evan leaned forward to look across Dusty and ask the question..
"End of this week," Tom replied, glancing sideways at Dusty.
"Oh, that’s right!" Suzanne said. "I'll send you some chocolate chip cookies in the mail."
"Where are you going?" Dusty asked, looking between them, puzzled.
"Where have you been, girl?" Evan nudged her. "Tom’s heading back to Iraq to perform his Army duties."
"Air Force," Tom corrected. Dusty stared at him.
"What's the difference?" Evan shrugged. "It's all military."
"Big difference," Suzanne replied with a grin. "Air Force has better looking uniforms."
Tom laughed, shaking his head. The lights went down then to a cacophony of appreciative shouts and whistles.
"Are you okay?" Tom whispered, pulling her closer. Dusty scooted down, putting her knees up on the seat in front of her but she rested her head against Tom's shoulder, giving him the only real answer he was looking for.
* * * *
"It's been a long time." Tom cut the engine. They ‘d driven up to the bluff in Tom’s F-150, and now the truck sat parked looking over the lights of Shadow Hills. It was a clear night and there was a full moon.
"So, how long will you be in Iraq?" Dusty turned to face him.
"Six months." He flipped the radio on. John Mellencamp, singing about little pink houses, came through the speakers.
"And you’ve already been on two tours?"
He nodded, fiddling with the radio.
"Will you miss me?" Tom reached out and touched her hand. She clasped it and looked at him. “Think about me?”
"You know I will," she told him. "We've been friends for just about forever."
"We were more than that." Tom edged closer, close enough she felt his breath against her face. Dusty's heart rate quickened as she looked at him. She’d thought, way back in her sophomore and junior year, that she might marry Tom one day. God, that was a million years ago, and yet it felt very close now as they sat side by side in the darkness.
"It's been a long time," she murmured.
"Why did we ever break up?" he asked. She couldn’t remember with him so near, his hands cupping her face. She shook her head as a reply.
"God, I’ve missed you," he whispered and he
kissed her.
His mouth was gentle and prodding, his hands urgent, running down her sides, sliding her beneath him. His mouth trailed over her cheek, her neck, lower, to the open V of her blouse. She let her hands wander down his back.
His touch, his gentle prodding, his warm breath, brought back memories of after-movie adventures like this—make-out sessions that went farther and farther every time, ending with Dusty telling him NO, and Tom getting out of the car, taking a short walk, rearranging.
That was until his eighteenth birthday when her jeans had joined his on the floor, and she had whispered "Yes," into his ear, and they had done it. He had told her he loved her, and she was the best birthday present he’d ever had.
"God, I want you," he murmured, running a hand up the inside of her thigh. Dusty felt him through the denim, hard against her leg. He undid the button of her jeans, and the zipper came down easily.
His hand was warm on her stomach and she quivered. He’d been her first. Nick had asked her once if she and Tom had ever...you know...and she’d blushed. She’d seen something in his eyes, disapproval, maybe, or just disappointment. Dusty remembered it and winced.
Tom moved his hand under the elastic of her panties. His breathing was ragged and he took her hand, placing it on his erection. Dusty cringed, jerking her hand away.
"Don't," she told him, her voice sounding flat and dead. She pushed his hand away, zipping her jeans back up. He groaned against her shoulder and she moved away from him, sitting up. He lay there for a moment, cheek on the seat next to her, eyes closed.
“What is it?” he asked finally, sliding over toward her. She let him put his arm around her.
“I miss him, Tommy.” She put her head on his shoulder. “I keep having these dreams…”
The talisman Sam had given her was still around her neck. Since she’d started wearing it, she hadn’t actually had anymore dreams.
Tommy looked at her. “What kind of dreams?”
“About Nick,” she said, snuggling closer. “About the cemetery.”
Tom kissed her forehead and squeezed her to him. “I think it’s pretty normal, don’t you? Having nightmares after someone dies…”
“I guess.” She sighed, staring out over the lights below. She felt like crying.
“You’re going to be okay,” he said, kissing her temple, her cheek.
She swallowed hard. “No,” she whispered. “No, I’m not.”
He kissed her mouth, then, his lips soft and warm, murmuring, “Then let me make it okay.”
“You can’t,” she whispered, blinking back tears. “No one can.”
His face was full of such longing she could barely stand it, but there was no way she could be with him again. They couldn’t turn back the clock. She shook her head, feeling the tears stinging her eyes start to fall.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice choked. “Please…just take me home.”
“Are you sure?” He breathed a ragged sigh.
She nodded, moving over to the passenger’s side, watching him start the car.
"I...I'm sorry, I—"
"Don't," he said, starting the car and backing it up. "Just don't...don't do that."
He sounded sad and she turned up the radio. Tom flipped the headlights on, and Dusty stared out blankly at the deserted road, thinking now the world would end.
* * * *
"Will you call me to say goodbye before you leave?" She leaned down to see him through the open window. Tom looked at her for a minute and then smiled.
"Maybe we could go out before then," he suggested. "No strings attached."
"It sounds good." She smiled. "Thank you for dragging me out tonight."
"Any time. It wasn't that bad, was it?" he asked. She shook her head. "Take care. I'll call you."
"Okay." She stepped away from the car. "You aren't mad at me?"
"What for?" he asked with a shrug. "I'll see you."
Dusty watched him back out of the driveway and drive down the street. She watched in the moonlight until his tail lights were just pin points. It was the last time she ever saw him.
* * * *
Breakfast had become silent and perfunctory for Dusty. Her parents sat at opposite ends of the table and Dusty sat between them. Julia cooked and then sat down to read a novel. Her father ate his breakfast and read the Shadow Hills Journal. Dusty would sometimes pick up the comics, and she always waited until her father was through to skim the paper herself for any more news. For the past month, Larkspur had been calm. After Scotty Summers, there had been no more killings.
Dusty picked up the paper on October tenth—a month, hey, your brother's been dead a month, want to celebrate? she thought morbidly, watching Julia and her father, so quietly separate in the early morning sunlight—knowing just what she was going to find on the front page.
She’d heard about it yesterday at the Starlite. She read the article, anyway, her head throbbing dully, palm pressed against her forehead. It felt as if she were trying to keep her brains in.
By Mike Murphy
Larkspur Staff Writer
LARKSPUR—Tom Connley, 27, was
found yesterday afternoon in the woods
on the eastern side of the Clinton Grove
Cemetery, another victim of the Clinton
Grove Cat. Larkspur officials had
believed the animal to be gone.
Connley was found by Larkspur officials
patrolling the area. "We're putting the
curfew back into effect. Nine o'clock.
We're working as hard as we can to
keep Larkspur safe."
Coroner Peter Friedman confirmed that
Connley was indeed a victim of some
animal, but refused further comment.
There was more, but Dusty stopped reading and put the paper down on the table. Julia was walking her father to the door.
"Have a good day," Julia told him.
Dusty just couldn’t finish the article. She cradled her head in her arms, the dull ache in her head intense.
Tommy Connley, who had chased her around the playground in fifth grade. Tom Connley, who had asked her to prom in their junior year. Tommy Connley, who had spent countless summers with them as kids, who had played football with her brother.
Tommy Connley was dead.
Why? That was the big question, but it eluded her. Who was more concrete. If she could find out who, then maybe that would lead to why.
Shane.
She would have liked to put the blame on him. Shane had been with Nick the night he was killed, she knew it. Her heart wanted to convict him, but her mind, if she let it run its course, led her on another train of thought. Shane Curtis could no more have killed her brother than she could have.
The newspapers reported it was the Clinton Grove Cat, but she couldn’t believe that either. Will Cougar had stated the obvious— cats can't open doors. And another thing—dogs and other small pets had started to disappear around town—Mr. Cooper’s dog, Cody, hadn’t been the only one. For authorities, this confirmed to them it was definitely a bobcat.
But something seemed wrong to her about that theory, and she wasn’t sure what or why. She just knew there had now been four murders in a month, and still no one was being held responsible. Four dead people, one of them her brother, one of them her once-boyfriend, and she knew nothing.
Nothing except…Shane had seen something. Or knew something. Not only because Nick had told her he was going to be with Shane, but because of the look in Shane's eyes when he talked to her.
Shane knows something, she thought, and maybe the rest of his little gang knows something too. She had no power over them, but she knew she could get Shane to tell her—one way or another.
* * * *
A bitterly cold wind swept leaves from the trees and they fluttered down toward the coffin. Dusty watched them, unable to look at the casket itself. The Connleys were huddled together, Dusty didn’t know if for warmth or comfort, bu
t guessed it was a little of both.
She pulled her winter coat around her. Autumn was fast becoming winter. A bitter taste for vengeance filled her mouth. Dusty closed her eyes for a moment, listening—quiet weeping, the rustle of leaves above her head, the dull pounding in her ears. Four people dead. Dusty opened her eyes, filled with bitterness.
Someone has to pay for this.
She looked at the coffin, one that looked like her brother's had, and she fought tears.
I'm going to find out who did this, she thought.
And I'm going to kill him.
* * * *
"Hey, Dusty." Lee called her over to the bar. It was just after two, and she was exhausted.
"Go see if you can hurry them up." He jerked his head in the direction of the pool tables. Shane and Chris were the only people left in the bar, finishing their game.
"Sure," Dusty said. "No problem."
"Nuh-nuh-no pruh-problem," Sam said in a near whisper as she started toward the pool tables. She heard him but didn’t look back.
Chris leaned against the wall while Shane lined up a shot. Dusty watched for a moment, unnoticed. The muscles in Shane’s arms showed, hard and sinewy, beneath the sleeves of his black t-shirt. He was concentrating, the cue stick steady as he leaned over the table, carefully calculating, although it was obviously an easy shot.
Dusty grinned mischievously. "Hey guys!"
She clapped Shane—hard—on the back. The motion sent him forward, making the cue stick hit the ball. It rolled about four inches—and stopped.
"Aww." Dusty blinked innocently. "You would have made that, too."
Shane turned to face her, smiling, but his eyes were cold and dark. She took a step back. Chris did as well, wide-eyed.
"I'm gonna kill you," he told her in a low voice.
In that moment, as he advanced, she thought he was serious. He grabbed her arm roughly, jerking her toward him.