by Layton Green
“Evenin’,” he said. His voice was raspy, poor, rural. The cap was pulled low over his face.
Her gaze locked onto his hard green eyes and the bushy sideburns curving across his cheeks. Though not a big man, he had a rough, wiry physicality to him that reeked of violence.
“Do you want the table?” she asked. “I was just—”
“I want you to shut the hell up and listen.”
The statement shocked her into silence. His faded army jacket was spattered with white paint, and underneath the jacket, the hilt of a hunting knife poked out. The sight of it caused tendrils of fear to slither down her arms.
“We gave your new boyfriend a warning. Pretty boy don’t listen.”
Her hands trembling, she realized she had to say or do something. Anything. She stood and grabbed her backpack. Inside was a canister of mace she had bought because of her stalker. “I don’t know what you think—”
He grabbed her wrist and jerked, forcing her back into her seat. His grin turned into a snarl. “Don’t you dare scream, bitch.”
The fact that he had approached her so brazenly in a café had somehow paralyzed her. We’re in a public place, her subconscious screamed. You can’t do this.
He tightened his grip on her wrist, causing her to wince. His other hand touched his scar. “I see you starin’. You tell your boyfriend he gets in our face again, pokes his nose into our business, then you and me, we’re gonna have something in common.”
Her shock passed, replaced by rage and terror. Underneath the table, she put her foot on the edge of his chair and kicked as hard as she could, causing him to jerk backward and release his grip on her wrist.
“Get away from me!” she shouted. “Help!”
Heads turned on the terrace above. A man in a designer hoodie jumped to his feet. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
The man in the army jacket held Ari’s gaze, eyes burning into hers like he was cauterizing a wound. “I told you not to scream.”
She backed away. “Fuck you.”
He traced a finger along his scar and smiled, then turned and strode through the woods, toward the parking lot.
She watched him climb into a battered red pickup with no hubcaps and rusted fenders. The truck churned up gravel as it sped away.
“Can I help with something?” the onlooker asked, nervously eying the parking lot as he walked down to check on Ari.
The forest surrounding the café had turned threatening, sentient. Ari was shaking like it was twenty degrees outside. “You can walk me to my car.”
Detective Everson was already at the Railway when Ari arrived. The bar was situated right beside the railroad tracks that bisected Creekville, and the establishment was comprised of four original railcars retouched in red and green paint, arranged in a square around a raucous biergarten covered with vinyl tarp. Kitschy Southern memorabilia provided the decor, including a vintage racing motorcycle suspended above the bar.
Unlike most places in town, the Railway didn’t cater to one particular group; it served fifteen-dollar high-gravity beers as well as pitchers of Miller Lite and happy hour margaritas. Gouda cheeseburgers alongside BBQ slaw dogs and fried pickles.
Ari elbowed her way between a group of grizzled old-timers at the bar. She ordered a double shot of Jameson and a beer, downing the shot on the way to Preach’s table. He was sitting at a quiet window seat in the car beside the tracks. He took one glance at her face and jumped to his feet.
She laid a hand on his forearm, expelling a shuddery breath. When she steadied, she sat across from him and told him about the encounter.
He listened with a grave expression, nodding along carefully until she finished. When she described the man’s scar, Preach’s face darkened.
“You know him?” she asked.
“We’ve had a run-in.”
“Who is he?”
“He was wearing a ski mask when I saw him. Do you think you could come to the station tomorrow morning and give a description?”
She swallowed, then reached out and gently touched the bruise still covering the bottom of Preach’s neck. “Did he do this?”
“Him and his friends. They’re in desperate need of a lesson in manners.”
She felt a surge of anger. “I’d love to give a description.”
“You’re brave. Most people would worry they’d be in danger.”
“I want him caught. And apparently I’m already in danger.”
He squeezed her hand across the table. A tingle of warmth spread through her. She felt safe with him, better already. “You’re a good listener,” she said.
“I’ve had lots of practice.”
The corners of her lips curled upward. “With women? Or with witnesses?”
“With people who need to be heard.”
Her eyes slid away. “I never thought I’d be one of them.”
“We all are. Trust me.”
She touched her forefinger to the place on her lip she had once pierced, a nervous habit she thought she’d left behind. “The guy with the scar . . .” she said, trailing off. “I don’t think he reads Dostoevsky.”
“No.”
“I heard on the news that J. T. Belker was arrested for the murders.”
Preach grimaced as he took a swig of beer. She gathered he was less than pleased with the publicity.
“If you’ve arrested someone,” she said, “why was I assaulted? Does that mean J. T. is innocent?”
“He’s still a person of interest,” he said, and she could see him struggling to decide how much to tell her. “I wish I had more answers for you.”
A waiter approached, and they both ordered the Carolina Burger, a menu item most restaurants in the area claimed to have perfected, and which generally came with chili, coleslaw, mustard, and onions. The music changed to a bluegrass tune full of fiddles and aching voices, a mournful, pure lament of the people of the land.
She said, “What if you’ve been looking at it wrong—what if it’s the authors themselves, not the protagonists, who have parallels to the victims?”
“I’ve thought about that. Poe and Damian Black were both horror writers who wanted to be taken more seriously—easy link. But Dostoevsky and Farley . . . what’s the connection?”
“Some people think Dostoevsky identified strongly with Raskolnikov,” she said. “Maybe the killer knows more about Farley than we do.”
The burgers arrived. Preach took a bite and wiped ketchup off his mouth. “It’s an interesting theory. But I’m not sure where it gets us.”
“Because it would be impossible to predict the next combination of author and victim.”
“That’s right.”
She devoured a third of her burger; she hadn’t realized how hungry she was. “Mmm, this is good.”
They chewed in silence for a while, and then Preach said, “What if both books describe the murderer? The penniless, frustrated intellect of Dostoevsky combined with the devious imagination of Poe. Wait—wasn’t Poe a drug addict? Opium?”
“That’s mostly been discredited,” Ari said. “He had an archrival who hated his guts and vilified him after his death. He was actually quite handsome and athletic. Vibrant, even. Except for the attempted suicide.”
Preach had been reaching for a French fry, and his head jerked upward. “He tried to kill himself?”
“He overdosed on laudanum and nearly died.”
“I thought he wasn’t an addict,” Preach said.
“Most biographers think he took just enough laudanum to gain the attention of a woman he was pursuing. Poe was never afraid of a little drama.”
Preach pushed his plate away, thinking of Poe, the scar on Belker’s wrist, and the suicide his mother had mentioned. Interesting, but it seemed tenuous.
“I need another drink,” Ari said finally. “I’ve got a bottle of wine at home, and you probably need to get going.”
Preach’s eyes shifted to meet hers. Sometimes the directness of his gaze and the depth of the
experiences reflected within made her feel out of her depth.
“You shouldn’t be alone tonight,” he said. “Not after what happened.”
“I’m a big girl. And where would I go?”
“My place.”
She started. His gaze was kind and warm, but also cop-like, protective. She wasn’t sure how to take his offer.
“It’s not protocol, but it’s the only solution I like,” he said. “At least for tonight. I’ll see if I can get a detail assigned to you tomorrow, until we can sort this out.”
She knew there was no assurance that anything would be sorted. “What about my drink?”
“If you can take your whiskey a bit sweeter, I’ve got plenty of bourbon.”
“I can handle that,” she said, thinking it’s you I’m not sure about.
They paid and left, and when they stepped into the shadows of the parking lot, she rubbed her wrists where the man had grabbed her. The memory of the encounter washed over her again, a bucket of filthy dishwater to the face.
29
They stopped at Ari’s condo so she could grab some clothes and her laptop. She followed in her car to his secluded cabin. A lacy veil of fog draped the trees.
Preach ushered her into an open living space filled with track lighting and furniture made of reclaimed wood. There was a bedroom loft, built-in bookshelves, a fireplace, and a wall of exposed brick.
Ari liked the space. It was cozy and smelled of pine.
He pointed at the loft. “Take the bed. I sleep on the hammock most nights.”
“Outside?”
He jerked his thumb. “On the screen porch.”
She noticed he didn’t have a television. Or much of anything. No photos, no knickknacks, no reminder notes on the refrigerator door.
Just books.
Like her.
He went to the kitchen to fix drinks, and she eyed the coffee table, noticing copies of Crime and Punishment and The Complete Short Stories of Edgar Allan Poe. Next to the novels was a leather-bound journal and a stack of take-out menus.
She sidled to one of the bookshelves. Old magazines stuffed the bottom shelves, mostly about hiking, food, and travel. Thank God there were none of those pathetic men’s magazines.
The top shelves were full of theology and philosophy. Classic and modern fiction took up the middle. A large portion was devoted to international writers.
He brought her a glass of bourbon. “I’ve got some reading to do on the porch, if you want to join me. I’ll make a fire.”
“Sure,” she said. “Nice pad.”
He shrugged. “It’s a furnished rental. I needed a dose of nature.”
“Are these your books?”
“Yep.”
“You have good taste,” she murmured. “They take you there, don’t they? The great novels? Even if you haven’t been for yourself.”
“I like what Kafka said. ‘A book is the axe for the frozen sea inside us.’”
She felt as if he had just cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. She took a long sip of bourbon. “I have to ask—where’s the television? Everyone owns a television. Even the hipsters who pretend they don’t.”
He gave a small smile. “It’s in the loft.”
“Good to know. I thought for a minute this was some kind of staged encounter.”
He chuckled, then grabbed a brown case file from the kitchen and led her to the screen porch. It was a beautiful night, calm and starry and mild, the moon a silver bauble above.
The detective stacked wood inside the potbelly stove while Ari curled up on the hammock, soothed by the hum of cicadas.
“Why does your partner call you Preach?” she asked.
“I used to be a preacher.”
That was not what she expected to hear.
“A real one? Sorry—I mean, I . . . that just seems so different from being a detective.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“Why did you . . . are you okay to talk about it?”
“I don’t mind,” he said, with a lack of interest.
“Why did you leave?”
He paused with a log in his hand. “It’s a difficult thing, to feel responsible for the spiritual guidance of others. People see it as a form of moral authority, when for me that was the furthest thing from my mind.”
“Do you still . . . believe?”
He reached for a book of matches. She sensed it was a question everyone asked him. “Don’t we all have that nagging sense that God is real, even if we know that all isn’t right with our religion? I’ve met very few true atheists over the years, and the agnostics—” He waved a hand, his back still to her. “To me, believing that the creator of nanotechnology and coral reefs and a hundred billion galaxies isn’t a personal God is a bit like believing Da Vinci didn’t care about the Mona Lisa.”
“Maybe Da Vinci loved her when he painted her, then moved on to other things,” she said. “It isn’t the existence of God that bothers me. It’s whether or not he still cares.”
“Because a god who doesn’t care is worse than none at all,” he said softly, turning back from the lit fire. “Like having a parent who doesn’t love you.”
She felt the darkness settling on her back, as if it were a tangible thing. “That’s right,” she whispered back.
He met her gaze, his eyes sad and knowing. She rose and went to him, pressing her mouth against his. He took her by the arms. They kissed as if they had something to prove, to themselves and to the night sky, an affirmation of human existence.
She pressed her hands into his back. Her palms felt small and insignificant against the contours of his muscles. He eased her onto the hammock, and their legs intertwined like pieces of a puzzle locking into place.
His hand moved under her shirt, caressing her stomach as their kiss deepened. Her pulse quickened when his fingers slid upward, sliding over her breasts. She arched and moaned, and then a rustle in the forest startled them. The sound was heavy, methodical. Like footsteps crunching on leaves.
Preach peeled off her. “Inside!” he said in a harsh whisper. “Stay low.”
Panic surged into her throat. Heat pulsed from the stove as she crawled toward the door on her hands and knees.
Was it the Literary Killer? Or the man with the scar, coming to fulfill his promise?
Were they one and the same?
She tumbled inside, the detective right behind her. He pointed at the couch. “Behind there. Stay down.”
She obeyed. He pressed his back against the wall as he rose to switch off the lights, leaving a faint glow of moonlight seeping through the windows.
Peering out from behind the couch, she watched him move in a swift crouch for the kitchen table. After grabbing his cell phone and gun, his fingers flicked over the keypad, but then he snarled and swung his gun toward the screen porch. “Signal’s terrible.”
More rustling emanated from the forest. The detective had left the door to the porch open, she assumed so he could hear outside. He kept his gun trained on the small clearing behind the house while he continued trying the phone.
He finally got through. “Anne, it’s Detective Everson. I may have a situation at my house. Can you stay on the line and alert whoever’s on duty?”
The crackling of leaves grew louder, until it seemed like it was right outside. Ari’s heart thumped against her chest. Adrenaline surged through her, until her nerve endings crackled with electricity.
Preach was kneeling beside the door to the screen porch, watching the forest with both hands gripping his gun, his phone squeezed against his ear.
More swishing and crunching from the woods. The sounds seemed fainter. Finally they ceased altogether, and a few minutes later Preach lowered his weapon.
“Could it have been a family of deer?” Ari asked, forcing her voice to obey.
“Too loud for deer. Those were footsteps. Multiple ones.”
She heard the whirr of a siren, then tires on gravel. The detective asked her to sta
y out of sight as he stepped outside to converse with the driver of the police cruiser. After a few minutes, the car pulled away.
Preach came back inside. There was a look of barely restrained violence in his eyes that both disturbed and relieved her. “Whoever it was, they won’t be back tonight,” he said. “That was just a message, or they wouldn’t have been so loud.”
She peered up at him. “How many more messages will there be?”
Instead of answering, he locked the door to the screen porch and made sure all the windows were secured. After that, he picked up the leather bound journal on the coffee table and sat beside her on the couch. The sexual tension was still there, but it felt out of place in the midst of all the danger.
“I shouldn’t have been so lax,” he said, setting his gun on the table beside him and opening the journal. “Feel free to read or watch TV. I need to get through this tonight.”
She snuck a glance at the first page, thinking it was another case file.
The journal was J. T. Belker’s.
30
Hours later, Preach closed the journal and sank into the couch. For the thousandth time, his gaze flicked across the room, out each of the windows and into the woods.
Nothing stirring in the trees.
His gun and bourbon and cell phone were parked on a chair to his left. Ari was asleep beside him, her hair a dark halo on the pillow. He reached to trace a finger across her cheek, then stopped. This physical infatuation between them was becoming dangerous, and not just because of the ethical considerations.
He was putting her in danger. Mac Dobbin’s men knew they could lean on her to get to him, and he had to stay focused and protect her. Solve the case. He and Ari could sort out whatever it was between them when this was over.
He also suspected she wasn’t over her ex, and that he was a diversion for her. An exotic and temporary entertainment. As for himself, part of him was still . . . in a dark place.
He pushed those thoughts away and stared at the leather-bound journal he had just finished reading.
Belker.
A troubled and complex man. But was he a killer?
Preach revisited the passages he had marked. According to the journal, they all came from the current year.