by Layton Green
The detective nodded, his eyes gummy with exhaustion.
“Have you thought about the detective in the story? Monsieur Dupin?”
“What about him?”
“Well, he’s . . . not really a detective. He’s a brilliant guy, but not someone who fights crime for a living. And that’s kind of Poe’s point—in the story, his ‘detective’ solves the case not out of any sense of justice, but because it’s a puzzle to him, an intellectual challenge. A game.”
He looked at her sharply. “A game the killer might be inviting me to play.”
“It’s just a thought.”
“I take it you’ve read some commentary?” he asked.
“And majored in Comparative Lit.”
The detective continued his finger tapping, the nascent crow’s feet around his eyes taut with concentration. Ari wasn’t used to seeing age lines on a guy she was attracted to, but they made the hardened detective seem more approachable.
“I can’t say why exactly,” he said, gazing at the volcano, “but this doesn’t have the feel of a game. A lesson, perhaps, or a smokescreen, but not a game.”
“Most critics think Poe’s detective—a loner, an outcast from society—was supposed to mirror the plight of the orangutan, an interloper from an exotic land loose on the streets of Paris.”
“And that helps us how?” he asked mildly.
“Maybe the focus shouldn’t be on the killer or the victim but on the detective. Maybe the killer chose this particular story because he’s establishing a bond with you. Not that I think you’re an outcast,” she said hastily. “I’m a law student, not a detective. I don’t have a very good mind for this.”
“On the contrary,” he murmured, “I think you have excellent instincts.”
Ari had lied; she was beginning to harbor a suspicion that the detective, despite his All-American looks, was an outsider like her. Ari shied away from the crowd like a recovering alcoholic from happy hour, and she had always been drawn to men with a different perspective on the world. Someone on the edge of society, someone with something to say.
And she was far from convinced about the detective. People who looked like him were never outsiders.
Not unless something had happened.
The detective started reading from his copy of Poe’s work: “‘He found the beast occupying his own bedroom, into which it had broken from a closet adjoining, where it had been, as was thought, securely confined. Razor in hand, and fully lathered, it was sitting before a looking glass, attempting the operation of shaving, in which it had no doubt previously watched its master through the keyhole of the closet.’”
He looked up. “The orangutan is trying to be human. Maybe someone is doing the same.”
“By killing people?”
He opened his palms. “I’ve seen stranger, believe me.”
She wasn’t sure she wanted to.
He drained the last of his coffee, though his eyes looked even more tired than when he had arrived. Not just from lack of sleep, but from the weight of discussing the mind of a killer.
Which she again found strange. Weren’t detectives supposed to be immune to that sort of thing, jaded to the point of nihilism?
“Let’s talk about a possible connection between the two stories,” he said. “I haven’t gotten very far on my own.”
She shifted to stretch her legs on the carpet, noticing when the detective’s eyes traveled, quick and subtle, down the length of her calves. She was wearing a long black sweater over green leggings. La Vie Bohème was printed in yellow cursive on the sweater.
“How about a change of venue?” she asked. “I could use a drink.”
He opened his mouth as if to protest, then checked his watch and shrugged. “Sure. The pub next door?”
“I was thinking my place.”
Their eyes met, and the space between them seemed to soften and contract. What am I doing? she thought.
“The drinks are free there,” she said. “Though I only have wine.”
Some of the tension around his eyes relaxed. “I still drink it.”
A light rain began on the way to Ari’s apartment. The smell of charred toast wafted off the pavement as she led the detective inside. When he hung his coat by the door, she wondered if he had noticed the absence of Trevor’s black T-shirt.
Probably. He didn’t seem to miss very much.
She uncorked a bottle of zinfandel, put on a Pandora station seeded with Lorde and Soko, and joined Preach on the couch.
“Where were we?” she asked.
“About to discuss potential common ground between Crime and Punishment and The Murders in the Rue Morgue.”
She was glad he had taken his jacket off; it meant the elimination of that faint odor of thrift shop. Without it he smelled like cedar and caramel, with a hint of good soap.
“What are your thoughts so far?” she asked.
“They were written in a similar time period, both involve murder investigations, both are meditations on the application of reason and the nature of man. But the plots and characters vary wildly.” Preach’s eyes flicked to the window and then returned. “Dostoevsky is focused on the state of mind of the murderer, while Poe’s killer is an orangutan. The Parisian police officer who flubbed the case is a buffoon; Detective Porfiry is the star of the show.”
He stretched an arm across the top of the sofa, his fingertips resting an inch from her shoulder. “Two women were murdered in each story, both times an old woman and her daughter.”
“Maybe the gender is irrelevant—how very Creekville!—and it’s the nature of the victims that are important. The two older women were a bit sketchy.”
“Surely there are better targets if punishment for sins is the point?” Preach said. “Rapists, child molesters?”
“Maybe,” she swallowed, “he was one.”
“Maybe,” Preach said slowly, casually brushing a wisp of Ari’s hair from her eyes. When he met her gaze, she found his dark blue eyes solid and comforting, if a little shopworn. Like a favorite pair of old jeans.
She reclined deeper into the couch, the nape of her neck falling into Preach’s hand. He didn’t react, and the contact of their skin caused a tingle of warmth to spread through her.
She hadn’t eaten all day and was heady from the wine. When she shifted to face him, his arm moved with her, slipping around her back. She leaned into the embrace.
“Maybe we should discuss something besides murder,” he said in a low voice.
“Maybe we shouldn’t discuss anything at all.”
The touch of his lips sent a jolt through her. She set her wine glass down and cupped his face with her hands. He pulled her into his lap, and the kiss grew in intensity faster than she expected.
She slipped a hand under his shirt, curling her fingers into the firmness of his chest, and then they were startled by a knock at the door.
It took an effort of will for her to pull away, as if they were conjoined forces caught in a magnetic field. She grinned and pressed a finger to her lips for silence.
The knocking came again, insistent, and she could see the tension and worry flow back into the detective’s eyes. His hand slipped to his gun, and she had a stab of memory, like a splash of cold water, as to the nature of his profession, her stalker, the double murder.
He started to rise when her cell chirped from the kitchen counter. After getting a nod from Preach, she pushed off the couch to check her phone.
-I know you’re home, Ari. C’mon, open up. I just want to talk-
She stared at the text, and then her eyes slipped to the detective. Conflicting emotions writhed inside her. “It’s Trevor. My ex.”
She could have added, “He’ll go away,” or “Give me a minute.”
But she didn’t. She couldn’t deny the thrill that had gone through her when she saw Trevor’s name pop up. She didn’t like it, and she didn’t understand it, but pretending it didn’t exist wasn’t fair to anyone.
The detectiv
e got the hint. He rose off the couch in one smooth motion and gave her a lopsided smile as he handed her his wine glass. “Thanks for the drink. I haven’t had its equal in some time.”
Her voice was almost a whisper. “This is something I need to do. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. I have a concert to attend. Just do me a favor and keep our hypothetical conversation to yourself.”
“Of course. A concert?”
He flashed a grin and retrieved his coat. The knocking resumed, and Ari watched in mild horror as Preach ushered Trevor inside with a sweep of his arm and then disappeared into the night.
Trevor closed the door. He smelled like cigarettes, and she could tell he was drunk by the slump of his shoulders.
Despite the lingering feel of Preach’s strong hands around her waist, seeing her ex brought back a rush of attraction. Dark haired and thin, Trevor was a gorgeous but self-absorbed musician. His spunky confidence had always attracted her, but for the first time she saw how incomplete it was. Inconsistent with the harsh realities of the world.
“A little steroidal for you, isn’t he?” Trevor said. He was wearing his typical: black T-shirt, holey jeans, earrings, a collection of leather necklaces and wristbands.
“You can crash here,” she said, a little coldly, “but I’m turning in.”
He took her hand. “I’ve been doing some thinking. About us.”
She pulled away, irritated. She knew exactly what he wanted.
“Is this guy turning you into a soccer mom?”
“I’m a law student, Trevor, not to mention everything else that’s going on.”
Instead of inquiring further, he moved closer and hooked his thumbs into her jeans. “At least you still don’t wear underwear,” he said with a grin.
He leaned in to kiss her, but she held him off. “Sleep tight, Trevor.”
For the first time in a long while, she fell asleep thinking not about Trevor but about someone else, worried about the mysterious concert the detective was attending. Despite his parting grin, there had been a darkness in his eyes when he had mentioned the evening’s destination.
Darkness and violence.
23
The lights of Creekville disappeared, leaving the highway a smear of gray chalk between the trees. Preach drove in silence while Kirby seethed beside him.
They passed two gas stations, a lumber store, and a trailer park before easing into the gravel parking lot of the Gorgon. The bar was an old log cabin fronted by a fire pit and a row of shriveled tobacco plants. Motorcycles, pickup trucks, and a few battered sedans filled the lot. How quickly, Preach thought, the quirks of Creekville gave way to the traditional South.
“There’s Mac’s Harley,” Kirby said, cracking his knuckles.
“Good,” Preach said. “Recognize any others?”
“Not offhand.”
Stars filled the sky like a box of jacks tossed onto black velvet. A clapboard sign with block lettering read “The Twisted Goosenecks—$5 Cover.”
Ten p.m. No sounds spilled out from the bar. Just before they stepped inside, Preach put a hand on Kirby’s elbow. “I know how angry you are, but keep your head. We’re police officers.”
Kirby’s handsome face twisted with wounded pride. “Angry doesn’t quite do it, cuz. They went after my family.”
“I know. We’ll get him. Just not tonight.”
“Then what’s this about?”
“I want to look into Mac’s eyes, without his lawyer around, and ask a few questions. And sometimes you have to send a message.”
Preach locked eyes with his partner until he saw the self-control he needed to see. Then he stepped into the low-ceilinged bar.
Scuffed tile floor, blinking Michelob sign, a wooden booth filled with pot-bellied older men with thick gray beards. All four were wearing black leather vests and motorcycle chaps over jeans. They stared at Preach and Kirby with the kind of pinched, callous eyes that Preach would know anywhere, eyes of men who had frittered away their lives in hot tobacco fields or decaying country towns, eyes with no tolerance for outsiders.
Kirby handed their cover charge to a brunette in a cowboy hat, and the two officers stepped through a pair of swinging doors into a much longer room with concrete walls painted red. An old stoplight was propped up beside the doors. Black speakers crouched like beetles in the corners.
An assortment of people filled the room, mostly men with unkempt hair and scruffy beards and shit-kicker boots, but also a few women with yellow nails and mouths that were harder than the men’s. Preach scanned the space for exits. A hallway led to the bathroom, and a pair of stained glass windows were the only link to the outside. Far too claustrophobic for his liking.
“Why, Detective Everson! C’mon over!”
Preach turned to find Mac Dobbins, mouth spread wide and eyes gleaming above his beard, waving them over to his booth. Mina and the two men from the back room at the Rabbit Hole were with him. Preach heard Kirby suck in a breath.
Preach surveyed the room as he walked over. Mounted deer heads and a few lackluster Halloween decorations hung from the walls. His gaze moved from face to face, searching for a cleft-lip scar.
No dice.
Mac clicked his tongue and jerked his head to the side. The two men across from him slid out of the booth, eying Preach and Kirby like pit vipers. The stale air hummed with the threat of violence.
Preach let Kirby in first, so he could take the outside. Mina had an arm looped through Mac’s, and she was sipping on a pink cocktail. Mac had a shot glass full of whiskey and a bottle of Heresy Brown Ale.
“So how’s Creekville treating you, Detective?” Mac boomed. “Didn’t somebody say that leaving and coming home again ain’t the same as never having left?” He winked at Mina. “Hard lesson to learn, ain’t it, darling?”
“Oh, you know it,” she said.
Preach kept his gaze fixed on Mac. Despite the warmth of the bar, the café owner was wearing a plaid flannel shirt beneath an unbuttoned shearling coat.
“To what do we owe the rare pleasure of your company?” Mac asked, his slapped-on smile still in place.
“I think you know,” Preach said.
Mac’s face turned quizzical, and he turned to his girlfriend. “Do we, hon?”
Mina was wearing a miniskirt and a red, long-sleeved lace shirt that exposed a black bra. She shifted to kick her heels up on the booth, revealing twin ribbons of slim brown leg. “They must have come for the band.”
Mac slapped the table. “That it? You two officers a fan of good tunes? I have to warn you, this ain’t your momma’s bluegrass.”
Kirby leaned toward Mina. “My sister’s place still smells like rotten eggs.”
She eyed Kirby with a flat stare and took another drink. “You know what he’s talking about, baby?”
“Nope,” Mac said. “Though it sounds like it’s none of our business. And when something’s none of my business,” he looked right at Preach, “I keep my nose out of it.”
“Maybe your sister’s place just stinks,” Mina said. “Trailers don’t ventilate so well, especially if there’s trash inside.”
Kirby snarled. “You better value this foot of space between us like your little sister at a frat party. I swear to God, if you ever come near my family again—”
Preach silenced him with a hand on the arm. “Serious infractions were committed two nights ago,” he said to Mac, “against myself and Officer Kirby and his family. So by definition, both professionally and personally, the events of that evening are very much our business.”
“I think you’re confusing cause and effect, there, Detective. When one thing flows from another, that don’t mean they’re one and the same—if you catch my drift.”
“And I think you’re confusing past and present realities,” Preach said.
“Oh? How say?”
“In the past, you’ve gotten away with whatever you wanted in this town. That’s no longer the case.”
After a pause,
Mac gave a low chuckle and knocked back his Scotch, then signaled one of his men, standing with folded arms by the hallway, to bring him another. “I’m curious as to what’s changed?” he said. “Your arrival?”
“You crossed the line the other night, and you know it.”
Mac’s massive hand curled around his beer like it was a pencil. His expression turned amiable so quickly it unnerved Preach, as if the man had a split personality he could access at will. “Over at the café, we just got a batch of Kopi Luwak in from Bali. Best liquid gold you’ll ever drink. You know how the growers harvest their beans over there in Bali, what makes the coffee so special? They use beans that pass through the digestive system of a civet. That’s a kind of jungle cat that eats the pulp of the coffee cherry, digests it, and defecates the bean. The enzymes inside the cat’s stomach remove the bitterness. Now ain’t that some shit, Detective?” He roared with laughter at his joke, then slapped the table and leaned forward. “We’re considering implementing their methods in our own operation. Taking out the bitterness, that is.”
“I didn’t know you roasted your own coffee,” Preach said calmly.
Mac slowly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We don’t.”
“I have to say,” Preach said, “you’re full of surprises. Are you always so fond of allusion? Of literary devices in general?”
A smile parted Mac’s lips above his beard. “Oh, you’re a clever one, ain’t you?” He winked at Kirby, who had both fists clenched atop the table. “A world above the rest of the yokels they’ve got looking out for our safety here in Creekville. Do you know the kinds of criminals that run around town these days, Detective? I mean, murderers? Who’s supposed to protect us all? Denzel wannabe over here?”
The band had been warming up onstage, and it started to play: a violent, electric guitar-infused version of North Carolina folk music. The crowd started stamping in time with the tune.
“Watch your mouth, you stupid hillbilly,” Kirby said over the music. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re finished.”
Mac’s deadened eyes sparked at the insult, like a corpse lurching to life. Mina lit a napkin with a lighter, watching it burn as she smirked at Kirby. Mac stood. “G’night, gentlemen. It’s past my bedtime. I hope you enjoy the band.”