Sentencing Sapphire

by Mia Thompson

  Aston’s eyes opened wide. He sat up to find himself on the carpet of the Anderson’s living room. He was naked, but someone had placed a pink Princess blanket over his lower body.

  “Your phone is ringing again.” Dylan shoved it to Aston’s face right as the ringing ceased. He had six voicemails and seventeen missed calls, all from Barry, zero from the one who tore his heart out.

  “Pee-U, Uncle Aston.” Dylan flapped his hand. “You smell like Aunty Dolores on 4th of July.”

  Aston groaned and rubbed his pounding head. No wonder he smelled like Aunty Dolores. After he left the courthouse yesterday, he’d met up with his father. Joe Ridder didn’t drink anymore. His liver was shot and his brain fried—Doc said he’d die if he had another drink—but the old man still loved getting a whiff of the stuff. He joined Aston at the bar, Yuck Fou.

  It was one of those nights when his father—who often forgot who, where, and what he was—had some sanity in him. More so than Aston. After Aston’s eight beers, Joe Ridder finally asked: “What’s this about? Trouble with the missus?”

  “For the lash-time, pops, she’s not mah-wife. I’ll never get married.”

  His father, even when lucid, had it in his head that Aston and Sapphire were married.

  “It’s like you always said,” Aston continued. “Marriage is a one-way ticket to Suckerville where no one gets laid, but everyone gets fucked.” Aston had always been and would always be, anti-marriage. Sapphire had been perfect; she wasn’t the type of girl to beg him for a ring. Had, past tense.

  “Arrh.” His father waved it off. “I said a lot of shit. Marriage isn’t the end. It’s the beginning.”

  Aston looked at his father in shock. “What? You’re shuddenly fine-with-mom?”

  “Fuck no,” Joe spat, “hope that cold-hearted whore burns in hell, but I’ve come to realize not all women are succubi.” Joe put a hand on his shoulder. “Do me a favor, if it’s not Sapphire, then find yourself a nice girl and settle down. It’s too late for me, but it’s not too late for you.”

  Cross-eyed and drunk, Aston stared at his father. “Heartbroken and pissed, I come to you for some good old fashioned loathing and hatred, and what do you give me? Sensible advice and heartwarming guidance!” Aston stood, staggered, then pointed with disdain. “What kind of father are you?”

  He stormed off and stumbled into the next bar, then another, then he remembered nothing but waking up nude at his boss’s house to a knock-knock joke.

  Dylan handed him a robe. “Mommy’s making blueberry pancakes for brunch.”

  Only in Beverly Hills did a six-year-old say brunch. They entered the kitchen where the Andersons were way too loud and chipper.

  “Good morning, Detective,” Chief Anderson said behind his newspaper.

  As soon as Aston sat down, Mona, the chief’s wife, placed a plate of frittata and bacon in front of him.

  “So,” the chief looked up from his paper, “want to explain why you showed up on our doorstep, drunk as a skunk, to hand me a resignation letter, written on a stained bar napkin?”

  “I quit?” Aston squinted and tried to remember, but the drunken miasma was too thick. He could hear his phone vibrate off-the-hook in the living room. No doubt Barry again.

  “You tried.” The chief glanced at his kids. “You said and I quote: ‘F-u-c-k her. I’m going to Quantico. Do you have any chocolate covered pretzels or what?’ Then I stole your car keys, so you took your clothes off and passed out on the floor.”

  Mona dropped a stack of pancakes on his plate.

  “No way.” Aston didn’t believe it. “I spelled out fuck?”

  “Fuck-fuck-fuck,” Dylan twittered and Mona gave Aston a hard stare.

  Some of it made sense. Quantico had been on his mind in the blur of emotions yesterday. In honesty, it had been on his mind longer than that. Since his mother left when he was a toddler and his father’s only skill was to chug a quart without taking a breath, Aston turned to daily reruns and films for role models. He’d been raised by Sonny and Tubbs, Michael Knight, John McClane, James Bond, and Ethan Hunt—cops and spies. To become an FBI agent was Aston’s childhood dream. But the feds had already turned him down twice for supposed “lack of social skills.” But Aston wasn’t the same man he was when he arrived in Beverly Hills. He was nicer, softer, and had reached a certain level of sophistication.

  Aston let out a monster burp, then swallowed. “Oh whew, I almost puked in my mouth.”

  The chief’s daughter Gia pushed her plate away with disgust.

  There was a knock on the door and the chief nodded to Aston. “I bet that’s Barry. He’s been trying to get a hold of you for a while.”

  Aston took his plate with him and moved to the door.

  “Well I’m glad to see you’re alive, mister.” Barry crossed his arms, then noticed Aston’s plate and peeked inside. “Is that breakfast?”

  Aston rolled up a blueberry pancake and dipped it in syrup. “No, it’s a Chinese takeout box. What do you want?”

  “It’s about Sapphire.”

  “Not interested.” Aston tried to shut the door, but Barry put his foot in the way. It was rude, disrespectful, and a method he’d stolen from Aston.

  “Sapphire knows about the Copycat.” He pulled up a recording device. “You need to hear this.”

  “Where’d you get this?”

  Barry grinned with pride. “I swiped it from Sapphire’s purse this morning at the cafeteria.”

  “Well, congrats on your nut sack finally dropping.” Aston wiped his pancake hand on Barry’s shirt, then took the recorder and pushed play. On the recording the Copycat told Sapphire to stay away from her killers, or else…

  Or else… sounded like a death threat.

  “First we need to make sure she’s not attacking Sapphire, then, see what else Sapphire knows…” Barry’s nostrils flared. “Mmm, is that bacon?”

  “Yeah, listen, there is no we in this.” He handed the recorder back. “I’m done with the case, the trial, and I’m done helping her.”

  “Right.” Barry looked at Aston with little faith. “But, in case this is one of those times where you say you’re definitely not going to do something, right before you start doing the very thing you said you weren’t going to do… I heard DubCorp is holding some sort of masquerade ball at the country club tonight. You’ll have to dress for it, you know how they are, but I bet Sapphire will be there.”

  “Barry,” Aston said truthfully, “this is not one of those times.”

  Laughter rose from the kitchen behind him.

  “Sounds like you guys are having a nice time,” Barry said with longing eyes. “Think Mona made enough pancakes for one more guest?”

  “One? More like ten.” Aston shut the door in Barry’s face, and went back to the kitchen.

  As the Andersons chattered on, Aston stared into his coffee cup. His partner was crazy to think he would change his mind. Sapphire Dubois had mangled his heart. She’d taunted him. There wasn’t a sweaty ass-crack’s chance in Antarctica he would go to some masquerade ball to help her, even if her life was in danger.

  Aston took a sip of his coffee and turned to the chief. “Any chance you have an old Halloween costume lying around?”

  • • •

  Despite her status, Chrissy would die young.

  People like Chrissy didn’t die until they were very old, and still beautiful—benefits of having a great plastic surgeon. Poor people were the ones who died willy-nilly… or so she’d always thought.

  The pain in her dry lips was bad, but not as bad as her smarting fingers. All of her perfectly manicured nails were gone. Her finger tips were swollen, black with dried blood, and yellow with puss.

  “Why did you fire me?” The bartender was back.

  Chrissy ignored him, knowing the other ghosts would follow soon. Their unbearable voices kept ringing in her head. Why? Why? Why?

  They wanted answers and Chrissy had none to give. The only person in her mind who was able
to knock out the ghosts for a bit, was John. Chrissy thought about that time after they’d made love, when John had spooned her.

  “I love you, Chrissy,” he’d whispered.

  She wasn’t ready for that yet, and when she dumped him, she thought she’d have all the time in the world to come back to him. Now she wouldn’t get that time.

  “Why did you fire me?” the bartender stood by her bed.

  Please leave me alone, Chrissy thought. A tingle went up her arm. Her finger twitched at the sensation. The injection had been worse this time around. Whatever he added to it, made her feel fuzzy and strange.

  The shot was wearing off again, which meant he would come back soon. He nearly killed her last time, but chose not to for some reason. This time, she would die, she was sure of it.

  The sensation spread leisurely through her arms, hands, and fingers. She wanted to hope again, but knew it was pointless. Every time she had, he’d pump her with another dose and grin at her, knowing he’d just dashed her hopes. He was so evil he made the popular mean girls at Winchester Private Academy look like angels. Chrissy would know; she was one of them.

  She rolled her neck to the side to ease the pain of the bedsores.

  “My daughter’s birthday was coming up, and you had me fired,” the bartender said. “I couldn’t afford to buy her a gift.”

  What do you want from me? I can’t take it back. Chrissy thought angrily as her arms twitched with sensation.

  She looked at the door, waiting for the man to enter. Sometimes she’d hear him out there, making dinner, watching TV, or even talking to himself. But she hadn’t heard him in a long time now and his precious nerd-lab had sat untouched for a while.

  Chrissy drew a choppy breath, then exhaled and raised her unsteady arm. She was hoping again. She hoped she could drag herself out of the bed, pull her body across the floor, and to the door. If she could only make it outside, she could yell at a neighbor and she’d survive.

  She stopped breathing and listened for the sound of another person. When she heard none, she grabbed the side of the cot with a shaking hand and pulled.

  Chrissy tried not to moan, but her lower body was so heavy it was hard to contain it. She froze briefly, eyes on the door.

  He would enter now. Any second he would come for her with that horrible needle.

  The doorway remained empty, and foolish, wishful feelings flared in Chrissy as her body tumbled to the dusty floor boards. She’d never made it this far before.

  She dug her infected fingers into the floor and cried out in pain as she pulled herself a foot forward.

  He was coming soon, she had to hurry.

  “Why, Chrissy?” The bartender walked alongside of her crawl. “Why?”

  Chrissy could’ve answered. She felt the control of her tongue, chin, and cheeks return as she dragged herself to the wide open door. But she had nothing to say to him.

  She heaved herself over the threshold, and nearly cried out in joy. To be out of the room, and into the next, was a victory. The connecting living room and kitchen were empty, and in worse condition than the room she’d been kept in.

  It reeked of decaying furniture, rotten fish, and pee. It took her a moment to realize the smell of pee came from her.

  The feeling spread to Chrissy’s hips, and she was able to hoist herself up on her elbows and moved her hips back and forth like she saw army men do in the movies.

  The bartender walked along and stared down at her with questioning eyes.

  She made it to the front door and reached. The door handle was too high, and she couldn’t hoist herself up far enough. Her mid-section was too weak.

  Chrissy collapsed back onto the floor, and cried. This was where she would die. Poor, rich, or Kraft didn’t matter.

  “Why did you fire me, Chrissy?” the bartender asked.

  “And me? And me?” All the ghosts were back now, shouting at her. “Why? Why? Why!?”

  “Because I was bored!” Chrissy exclaimed, through the sobs. “Because… because I didn’t think you were as good as me. Because I was dumb, and mean, and spoiled, and I’m sorry! Okay? I’m so sorry!” Chrissy closed her eyes and sobbed. She’d never been sorrier about anything in her life, and she wished she could take it all back.

  When she opened her eyes again, there were no voices, no questions, no ghosts.

  Chrissy wiped her tears, then felt the tingle up through her hips and her waist. She exhaled to gather her strength. She launched her hand up at the door handle and managed to twist it.

  The door opened and let in sunlight, the smell of grass, and the sounds of birds. She was almost free.

  Chrissy laughed and cried again, this time out of happiness. She pulled herself out onto the wooden veranda and opened her mouth to scream for a neighbor, for anyone.

  Her scream stuck in her throat. Nothing but endless forest, overgrown grass, and water lay in front of her.

  She heard a car door close and panic grabbed Chrissy. She pulled herself off the veranda, and landed in the dry grass.

  Soon came the sound of someone shuffling through the thick weeds nearby. Chrissy clawed the grass, trying to escape.

  “Chrissy…” his deep voice was close. He was right behind her.

  “No! No!” Chrissy cried, elbowing forward, though she knew she couldn’t get away.

  “Chrissy!” He grabbed her ankles, and pulled her back toward him.

  She turned over and stared up at the evil man above her, the one who had taken her nails, hopes, and perfect life away. He knelt down and held onto her. She screamed and cried, hitting his face, his hands, his arms.

  “Chrissy, it’s me! It’s me!” He grabbed her wrists and shook her.

  Everything was spinning, and suddenly, the man’s face warped into someone else.

  Then the face vanished, and Chrissy fell into darkness.

  Chapter 15

  Dark, bloody cracks lined Chrissy’s lips and her skin didn’t bounce back when Sapphire let go of her. No wonder she’d been hallucinating, Sapphire thought. She was severely dehydrated.

  When Sapphire looked at the Polaroid of Chrissy and saw the item up in the corner of the photograph, she realized why her father had been on the freeway leading away from the city. It didn’t lead to nowhere. The item in the corner of the photograph was the “don’t-worry-be-happy” fish Sapphire bought for Charles’s birthday years ago. Chrissy had been held in the old fishing cabin by the lake.

  Sapphire sprinted up to the car, grabbed her water bottle and hurried back to pour it into Chrissy’s mouth. Her friend gulped it down, but remained unconscious. Sapphire pulled her phone out to call an ambulance. Her fingers froze before they slid over the numbers.

  She couldn’t call. Aston had been right. She couldn’t have another incident involving yet another serial killer.

  Sapphire hated what she had to do but, other than dehydration and the infection in her fingers and toes, Chrissy seemed okay enough to handle the drive.

  She grabbed her friend by the arms and pulled her toward the Range Rover. She loaded Chrissy into the back and swerved through the dirt roads to get to the hospital in the closest town.

  When she arrived, she drove around twice to find a spot near the entrance that wasn’t covered by security cameras.

  She pulled Chrissy out of the car around the corner from the glass doors.

  “Everything’s going to be okay, Chrissy,” Sapphire whispered, carefully placing her friend’s head on the ground. “Someone’s going to help you soon.”

  She climbed back into her car and didn’t take her eyes off the rearview mirror until she saw a medic bolt toward Chrissy.

  Sapphire exhaled and focused on the road. Her best friend was safe.

  The sun was setting in front of her, which meant the masquerade ball had just begun. Her father would still be there.

  She stepped on the gas and merged onto the freeway. She had to get to him, before he got to the witch.

  • • •

  Th
e Beverly Hills Country Club was filled with people in evening gowns, tuxes and masquerade masks. The women wore elaborate pieces with rhinestones and feathers, while the men had stayed with classic black.

  William Dubois fit right in with his mask and tux; it was a relief to walk around his old community without having to worry about being recognized. The masks, however, made it hard to find the witch. He knew too little about her body type and mannerisms to separate her from the other women.

  He hadn’t seen Sapphire yet, but he’d only just arrived. He’d manipulated two security guards and a doorman to get into the invitation only ball. It was nothing; William could charm his way out of Hell if he had to.

  His eyes stopped in the crowd and latched onto her. Even with the mask, this woman radiated such beauty that it turned all other women in her vicinity into gray blobs of unattractiveness. Viv.

  Great, The Hunger mumbled. Her again.

  William moved closer to her, taking advantage of his mask. He didn’t stop until he was close enough to smell her Chanel No. 5.

  A thought hit him, and he smiled. He took a few steps back, then placed a hundred in the music director’s palm and whispered his instructions.

  Don’t do it, The Hunger warned, but William’s hand was already out.

  “Excuse me, Miss. I couldn’t help but notice you across the room and I was wondering if I could have this dance?” William’s arm was straight and his palm was up, the proper way to take a lady to the dance floor. Charles taught him this years ago, along with other conducts. His big brother had no idea he was polishing a killer’s social skills.

  Vivienne turned and looked him up and down. He took her hand before she could answer.

  The orchestra played Glenn Miller’s “In The Mood” as William had requested.

  “I love this song,” Vivienne said as they entered the dance floor.

  “What a coincidence, me too.”

  It was the song they played for their first dance at their cheap wedding in Oregon.

  “May I say you look stunning, Miss…?” William moved to the music, hand on the small of her back as she followed.