by David Banner
“Connie!” he yelled as she tightened the towel around her chest. “Look at this!”
She stepped out to see him pointing to an empty bottle of wine and a half-full glass sitting next to it. She stepped forward, looking down at the table then back at him. Her husband had found something else to argue about.
“What?” she snapped.
“Why didn’t you clean up after yourself?” he snarled. “We’re just leaving used glasses sitting out now? There are dirty dishes in the sink.”
“I know that,” she said. “I wanted to have a shower before I got to them.”
“So you just leave them here?”
“What is it, Michael? What’s this about, huh?”
It seemed nothing she did made the man happy anymore. She understood that this was a difficult thing for both of them. This wasn’t the life they were used to. This wasn’t the life they were supposed to be living. Still, did that make it okay for him to explode about every little thing? I won’t stand for this, she thought. Not much longer.
“Then clean it!” she snapped, slamming her hand against the table, causing the glass to tip over, roll off the table, and shatter on the floor.
She usually managed to keep herself calm, but this was getting old. She’d had enough of being the target of her husband’s rage. None of this was her fault. None of the mistakes made in their past were hers, and she couldn’t stand the thought of taking the blame for another day.
“What did you say to me?” he snarled.
“I said clean it, Mike. If you’re too anal to wait fifteen damn minutes for me to do it, then do it yourself. I don’t care. You’re not mad because there are dishes in the sink or a dirty glass on the table.”
“Then what am I mad about?”
“Damned if I know.” She turned, heading back into the small living room of their rental apartment.
She hated this place, the peeling paint, the stained carpet, and the flickering fluorescent lights. It was almost too much. The last thing she wanted was to spend another day here, but she was stuck. She had no choice. She’d followed her husband down this path of revenge, and now the whole world was out to find them and throw them behind bars.
“Don’t walk away from me.” He followed behind her, anger and rage flowing out of him like a raging river.
“I’ll do what I want, Michael. I should have done what I wanted from the start.”
“And what was that?”
“I should have trusted my instincts instead of listening to you. I shouldn’t have let your pride and arrogance be the reason we lost everything. I should have put a stop to it. To all of this.” She pulled a grey terrycloth robe from the couch and threw it on.
Her hair hung in long, soft tendrils around her face, her skin still shimmering from the steam of the shower. Michael looked at her, stopping just short of whatever he was about to say. Perhaps she’d finally gotten through to him. Maybe he would realize how difficult he had become and apologize. It was a simple thing, but it would make a world of difference.
“I’m going to bed.” He turned on his heels, pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it on the old tattered couch, and then headed into the small bedroom they shared.
She went to follow him, taking a few steps before stopping. No. She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t lie beside him as though nothing was wrong. She wouldn’t let the touch of his hands and the promises he would make in the dark change her mind. It wasn’t about the dishes or anything else in that apartment. This was something more.
Connie’s husband of so many years still didn’t know her. He didn’t think she was capable of anything other than being a housewife and following his lead. She needed to show him how wrong he was. She needed to show him that she could handle anything thrown at her, that she could do this by herself.
Quickly throwing on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, Connie headed back into the kitchen. There it was, the corkboard that laid out all of their plans. She studied each face, each line of cloth and each thumbtack. She was going to do this by herself, without her husband’s help. She was going to show him that there was more to her than met the eye.
Her fingers traced the yarn, slowly gliding over one photograph after another. She mused about which victims would be easiest to get to, but those weren’t the ones she wanted. She needed something challenging, something difficult.
“You,” she said, her finger landing on a face.
She pulled a gun from the drawer and headed out the door.
Chapter Twenty
WEDNESDAY, 10 PM
TAYLOR
Taylor stepped through the door of his apartment. He’d only worked a four-hour shift, but in the kind of swanky restaurant he’d found employment, it still made for good tips. That’s not to say he wasn’t tired, though. He often found wealthy people to be the most needy and meticulous kinds of people. Serving them was no treat in most cases. He wasn’t jealous or envious. He was just otherwise occupied.
It seemed no matter how much he tried, the man couldn’t get the thoughts of his article off his mind. He’d promised Virginia that he wouldn’t write anything down until it was over, and while he hadn’t published anything yet, he had been slowly working on his story. It was technically against what he’d agreed to do, but he thought, what was the harm if she didn’t find out?
He removed his work clothes and tossed them on the bed, changed into a pair of plaid pajama pants, and walked to the kitchen. He pulled a bottle of Kentucky whiskey from the cabinet and held it in his hands. He’d always loved the way those bottles looked.
He remembered seeing his grandfather slowly trace the shape of each bottle with his finger as he explained that no two bottles were ever the same, no two drip patterns alike. “That’s because they seal these things by dipping them in four hundred degree wax,” he would say. “How about that for one of a kind?”
Taylor slowly peeled away the wax, his mind now drifting to other things. He thought about Virginia. He pictured her long red hair and her tough smile. She wasn’t like the girls he was used to. She was strong and probably a bit too stubborn for her own good. He didn’t know why, but he was drawn to the idea of such a woman.
The dark whiskey shimmered as it hit the glass, creating a small torrent of glistening gold waves. Taylor held it to his lips, letting the sweet nectar wash over his tongue. No matter where he was or what he was doing, the taste of his home always brought him back into focus.
“All right.” He grabbed the bottle and headed for the couch.
He scooped up his laptop and began typing.
Now, with bodies lining up like Savannah’s rush hour traffic, where does that leave our city’s citizens? How long will Connie & Clyde continue their rampage of carnage? How many more lives will be lost while the Savannah police do nothing? He typed furiously.
And what of Miller, Maynor, & Mont? What does the CEO of our city’s most trusted and exclusive law firm have to do with any of this? Is it true his name was overheard at one of the murders? Did homicide detective Virginia Nixon really visit his office?
As most journalists tend to do, Taylor posed more questions than he gave answers. The article was a mix of fact and hearsay, suspicion and truth. He’d taken everything he knew so far and laid it on the line for the world to see.
“Connie and Clyde . . .” he muttered to himself, taking another shot of Kentucky.
He tried to picture the killer couple. What must they look like? What had started this level of hatred within them, and where would it end? Had they always been this way, or was this thing the product of a perfect storm? Perhaps each one enabled the other. Maybe it was Connie. Maybe she was the mastermind behind all of this. He had no real idea, but it sure sounded good.
Is Connie just a victim in all of this? He wrote. Or is she the one calling the shots? Would you know a killer if she stood next to you at the grocery store? Is she your mother, your sister, or your coworker? And finally, can she be forgiven?
He licked his l
ips and sat back in his chair. It wasn’t much, but his name had gotten out there with his first article about this story. He’d been the one to coin the phrase ‘Connie & Clyde’. What if just sitting around, waiting for another murder, only allowed someone else to break his story? He couldn’t allow that. Snapping forward, he pulled the laptop back and began typing. He knew just how to finish this thing. He knew the perfect call to action.
And where are you, Virginia Nixon? Where is Jacob Hindle, and how long will you allow this to go on? What’s really going on here?
The detective wouldn’t be happy seeing her name again, nor, he wagered, would her boss. But that wasn’t his problem. He hadn’t set out to forge a lasting relationship with this woman. He’d simply set out to draft an article, and that’s what he was going to do.
Taylor’s finger hovered over the mouse. One click and his article would be seen by the masses. One click, and everything he’d learned so far would be public knowledge. Virginia would be upset, he knew that, but time heals all wounds, right? She would forgive him in time. He was sure of it.
He took another shot and swallowed hard before bringing his finger down on the mouse. He felt the cool aluminum against his fingertip as his skin grazed the button. This was it. This article would make or break him. He took a breath. Then . . .
He lifted his phone from the table as it began to ring. Virginia Nixon’s name read across the screen in large, bold letters. Was it fate trying to tell him something, or was it just coincidence? He pulled his hand from the mouse, saved the article, and closed his laptop.
He stared at her name as the phone rang over and over in his hand until finally stopping. He didn’t know why he hadn’t answered her, only that seeing her name had sent him crashing down from the high of writing. He needed to wait, to find out why she’d called before going too far, before losing her forever.
Chapter Twenty-One
THURSDAY, 1 PM
VIRGINIA
Virginia hated feeling tired. Not in the same way most other people do, though. She truly hated the feeling of uselessness and listlessness it gave her. The tough Southerner prided herself on being devoted to her work. But when the better part of her night saw her wandering through her house, drinking decaf coffee, instead of being in her bed, the next day’s work never went to plan.
It wasn’t something that happened all too often. But from time to time, things got under her skin, and this case was one of them. Leaving the house and stopping by the shooting range before work hadn’t done much to calm her, either. She was just rattled, and it seemed the only cure was solving the case.
She clicked away on her computer, scrolling through page after page of news related to Patrick Maynor. His name was mentioned plenty. It all just seemed like fluff as opposed to news. There was the time he donated enough money to keep a small food bank open for another two years. He’d also been featured in one of Savannah’s business journals after reporting profits for an eighth straight year. It seemed as though plenty of people knew the man’s name, but very few actually knew the man.
Virginia compared her own leads against everything she could find, yet she still came up pretty much empty. The internet, it seemed, was a dead end, and with little in the way of police or federal information on the guy, he may as well have been a ghost.
“I’m missing something,” she said aloud, standing from her desk and heading back to the murder board.
The rest of her team had gone, leaving behind a mess of empty coffee cups and half-eaten protein bars. She grabbed a small trashcan and sat it on the table as she began cleaning up behind them. Cleaning up behind a group of adults wasn’t something she would have normally considered, but at that point, she’d have done nearly anything to fill her time.
“Oh,” a young officer said as he passed the door. “I’m sorry. I meant to get that. Let me help you.”
“It’s fine,” she said without raising her eyes. “I’ve got it.”
“Are you—”
“I said I’ve got it,” she repeated.
“Of course.” The young man quickly exited the room. “Sorry.”
It wasn’t like her to be so rude or quick with other officers, especially ones that young and green, but she was aggravated and there was nothing she could do about it.
She finished cleaning the room then headed for the board. There it was, all of it, everything that had kept her up at night, all laid out in front of her like a puzzle. Her eyes focused on the photo of Maria Juarez, on her three side-by-side gunshots. They weren’t perfect. They weren’t in any specific pattern, as far as she could tell. This likely meant the killers didn’t have much in the way of shooting experience. It was a small observation, but it was something.
“Vee.” Chief Hindle came to the door. “There’s been another murder.”
She felt her heart drop to her stomach, the weight of it pulling at her like an anchor. It was the news she’d been both expecting and dreading. Her mind raced and her blood boiled. She was failing and failing hard.
“Where?” she asked.
“Forsyth Park.”
“With the fountain?” she asked.
That’s the one.” He shook his head.
“How many?”
“One dead, one survivor.” His eyes met hers.
She was sure she’d misheard him.
“Survivor?” she asked.
“The wife,” he replied. “Get over there. And Vee . . . I want this thing wrapped up.”
“Of course.” She headed for the elevator.
Survivor . . . the word kept ringing in her ears. This could be the lead she’d been looking for. This could be exactly what she needed to finally put a stop to this thing. It was like a weight had lifted from her. She could move again. She could breathe.
The park sat right in the middle of Savannah’s busy downtown. It was a well-known place with a lot of buzz and plenty of visitors. She couldn’t help but hope that by the time she got there, maybe there would be even more witnesses. Perhaps someone had overheard something. Maybe someone recognized the killer couple. Or was she being silly, hoping for such things?
Chapter Twenty-Two
THURSDAY, 1:30 PM
VIRGINIA
“What is this?” Virginia asked, choking down what was supposed to be coffee.
“It’s our newest blend.” The barista grinned. “Sumatran Voodoo.”
“Sumatran V—” She stopped, sliding the cup back across the counter. “Sumatran coffee is grown in Asia. Voodoo is New Orleans, and whatever this is, it isn’t coffee. Give me Columbian, no Voodoo, no magic, and no frills. Got it?”
“This flavor has been wildly popu—”
“Listen, kid, I don’t have time. Give me the coffee. No more talk. And I’ll take an extra cup for my troubles.” She flashed her badge.
Coffee wasn’t really under her jurisdiction, but in her time on the force, Virginia had discovered many things about herself. Number one among them being that she didn’t have time for suffering fools. Especially when it came to her coffee. Secondly, a quick flash of her badge could send pretty much anyone running the other way. Case in point, the young barista.
“Of course.” He nodded, spinning on his heels and dashing back to the coffee machine.
She turned her gaze toward the television, which was already covering the most recent murder in her investigation. It only took a few seconds for the young man to come back, this time with something the detective approved of. She thanked him and went on her way.
Forsyth Park was a large place with winding sidewalks, a beautiful fountain, and the kind of downtown city view people pay thousands of dollars in rent to see. Granted, Virginia herself hadn’t set foot in the place more than a few times, but she knew its location well. She couldn’t help it. Strolling through grassy meadows and walking along picturesque trails just weren’t the kinds of things she found herself doing. Most of the detective’s free time was spent at the shooting range. It was there she found herself the
most relaxed. Today was different, though. Today, she found herself excited to visit a park, for once.
“Detective Nixon.” Donnie placed his hand on her shoulder as they ducked under the police tape. “This way.”
Donnie Davis was only a few years away from Virginia, though not nearly as experienced. He was what the force called a late bloomer, joining the police after his thirtieth birthday. He was a little shorter than Virginia, with light blond hair and the kind of baked-in tan that let her know he hadn’t spent much time in the city.
He’d asked her out for dinner a time or two shortly after joining the force, but she’d always found a way to politely decline. It may not have been the best reasoning in the world, but Virginia Nixon just couldn’t see herself with a man shorter than her. Some might call it superficial, but she just called it preference.
“She’s pretty shaken up,” he said as they marched toward the rear end of the large park.
“Is she hurt?”
“Not a scratch,” Donnie said.
“Where was she?” Virginia took a sip of her coffee.
“Right beside him.”
“So it was a hit,” Virginia stated.
“Looks like it.”
If that were true, then Virginia’s case had just taken on a whole new life. So far, she’d had nothing to prove that the killings were anything but random. Leaving a witness alive, though, meant something else entirely. That meant the couple had targets.
“What do we know about the guy?” she asked.
“Nothing yet. We haven’t been able to get much out of her, but we’ve got guys on it,” he replied as the two approached the crying woman.
Her hair was short with a two-color dye job that made her look a little younger than she probably was. She wore high-top sneakers and a simple pair of black leggings. As she sat on the bench with her face in her hands, Virginia stopped. This was one of the things she hated the most. She knew nothing about this woman’s husband, of course. Maybe he was a horrible person with a horrible past. Or maybe worse. Maybe he was actually a good person.