Mystery Dance: Three Novels

by Scott Nicholson

  Even in that drunken darkness, she should have known. Maybe she had known but deceived herself. Maybe she’d craved that side of Jacob he would never let slip from his control. And the wanting had brought Joshua to her.

  Wish me, cooed the mad voice in her head. Wish me that two Wells are better than one.

  “Come on,” Joshua said, reaching down and grabbing her arm. He pulled Renee to her feet and put an arm around her. His sweat drowned out the wet smell of the river. She leaned against him, a rag doll with a hot wire girding its spine.

  “Well, Jake, let’s get ‘er done,” Joshua said. “Sounds like Carlita’s getting a mite restless.”

  “Wait a second,” Jacob said. “Don’t you get it? I killed your goddamned kid.”

  “Big whoop-dee-shit.”

  “I won, see? I fucked you over harder than you ever fucked me. I’m more of a Wells than you are.”

  “Oh, I get it now. That blame thing. It’s all my fault you killed Momma, right?” Joshua slipped a cigarette between his lips and lit it. When he exhaled, the smoke strangled Renee. “You won nothing,” he said to Jacob.

  “Carlita,” Jacob replied.

  “You could have had her for a few thousand, dumbass. My first time, it only cost twenty bucks. But four million ain’t bad.”

  Jacob nodded at Renee. “Paid in full, brother.”

  Renee’s legs trembled. Her mind was crushed by the wild clouds above, the fog of God’s breath, the rising twilight that darkened the eastern horizon. Joshua eased her toward the Chevy.

  Two million.

  Her line on Jacob’s M & W insurance policy.

  Jacob was getting rid of her, too. Cashing her in, just as he had done their children.

  Means to an end.

  And Jacob’s end was to become his brother.

  “I figure the bridge,” Joshua said.

  “Not bad,” Jacob said. “She lost her footing in the dark, fell into the river, and smashed her head on the rocks. Blacked out and drowned. Another tragedy.”

  “Them Wells sure do got bad luck.”

  “The grieving husband and father. No one will blame me for marrying Carlita so soon after my loss.”

  “And the money suits me. Carlita’s kind is a dime a dozen. I don’t know what it is about her that drove you so donkeyshit.”

  “She was yours.”

  Joshua opened the car door on the rear driver’s side. Renee tried to pull away, but he shoved her into the stinking seat amid the fast-food wrappers and empty beer cans. Jacob climbed in behind her and slammed the door while Joshua got behind the wheel. Renee sat up but Jacob put his weight on top of her.

  His mouth pressed against her ear. “Sorry about the kids. But this is the only way.”

  “You’re crazy,” she managed to say.

  “No, Joshua’s crazy. Because this is the kind of thing I would never do unless I was him.”

  Joshua started the car with a rumble of pipes. Music blasted from the speakers, Johnny Cash singing about the green, green grass of home. She crawled across the seat and lunged for the door, but the handle was missing. She tried to climb over the seat but Jacob grabbed her hair and yanked. The engine gunned and the car lurched forward, bouncing on sprung shocks as it crawled along the narrow dirt road.

  Renee slumped against the rear of the seat, her head turned toward the dark window. Only the outlines of the trees were visible and the ridges were black humps against a violet sky. Johnny Cash hit the last verse of the ballad, awakening from a dream to find himself in prison facing a death sentence.

  “Why, Jakie?” she said to the window. In the dashboard’s dim glow, she could see his reflection in the window. His twisted face, narrowed eyes, and bright scarred skin made him look like a demon.

  “Because you wanted me to,” he said.

  Joshua reached down to the floorboard and pulled out a can of beer. He steered with his elbow while he popped the tab. Foam sprayed across the windshield, lathering the twin troll heads that hung from the mirror. “No, she wanted me to,” Joshua said. “Ain’t that right, honey?”

  “Shut up,” she said. “You made Jake do this.”

  “It was his idea. All I did was nudge him along. See, I always wanted what was best for him. Not like you.”

  “I gave him everything.” She turned to Jacob. “I gave you everything.”

  The tears came and it was as if she was looking through greased glass. Jacob sneered at her and said, “You gave Joshua everything. You had Mattie for him.”

  Her voice cracked like her mind was cracking. “I didn’t know.”

  “I thought Christine would make up for it. But she wasn’t as perfect as Mattie. She wasn’t a Wells.”

  “How could you?”

  “Christine was easy. No whimpers with a plastic bag, no blood, no questions asked.”

  Renee said nothing. She was next to die, but she didn’t care anymore. Perhaps in heaven she would have her children back. She could spend an eternity begging their forgiveness, and maybe one day on the far side of forever, they would love her again.

  Johnny Cash went into a song about a highwayman, dying and coming back again and again. The vocal part was taken over by Willie Nelson, then by someone she couldn’t recognize. She lost herself in the slick guitars, a “Wish me” game of dissociation and despair.

  Joshua finished his beer and tossed the can behind him. The car hit a rut and he bounced high enough that his head hit the roof. He cursed and slowed down a little. The night had become liquid and the Chevy moved through it like a bottom feeder.

  “I mean, you’re sweet and all,” Joshua said to her. “But you ain’t as sweet as money.”

  “You know what’s funny?” Jacob said to his brother.

  “What?”

  “You’re going to be richer than the old man.”

  “Shit fire. That’s great. Maybe I’ll dig the old bastard up and prop his skeleton at the dinner table. Piss in his coffee cup.”

  “He always did love you best.”

  “Naw. That was Momma.”

  “You would have killed her if I hadn’t gotten to it first.”

  “Well, you beat me at one thing, I reckon.”

  The Johnny Cash was winding down in a repetitive guitar riff. Joshua stopped the car and killed the engine. “Here we are.”

  He opened his door and the dome light blinked on. Renee could hear the river churning below. She recalled her drive over the bridge and pictured the water thirty feet below. It wasn’t a far enough fall to kill her unless her head hit a rock. But bad luck followed the Wells family.

  And, sometimes, you had to make your luck.

  Joshua left the door open after he exited, and the dome light cast a dirty yellow glow. Jacob grabbed Renee’s wrist, his face a mask of wicked joy. She didn’t struggle. These two men had already torn her to shreds. There was nothing left worth fighting over.

  Joshua opened the back door. “Bring her on.”

  Jacob’s Southern accent returned, a bizarre replica of his brother’s. “Reckon we ought to bash her head in first, or just chuck her over the side?”

  “You want to make sure. It ain’t the kind of thing you leave up to chance. What if she turns up alive six miles downstream?”

  “That would be sand in the craw, all right.”

  “You do it. You’ll enjoy it more than I will.”

  “Why, thanks, Josh. I appreciate it.”

  “I’m Jacob, remember? Don’t go getting all confused on me, or we’ll never get the story straight.”

  “Right, Jake. You’re the Wells now. I’m just pig shit, rolling around with a Mexican whore in a Tennessee trailer park.”

  “And you’re going to love every minute of it. I know I did, but now it’s time for the big switcheroo.”

  Jacob’s hand tightened around Renee’s wrist, sending sparks of pain up her arm. Joshua handed his brother something, and Renee saw its rusty bulk in the dome light.

  A pipe wrench.

 
She could almost see the police report: Blunt head trauma, followed by asphyxiation due to drowning.

  Jacob’s latest accidental victim.

  And who would be next? Joshua? Carlita? Or would he plant more seed, each sprout insured for a million dollars?

  “Hold her for a sec.” Joshua got out of the driver’s side and went to the back door. He yanked it open and leaned in, his breath sour with beer and cigarettes and the lingering tang of salsa. “Come here, sweetie.”

  Renee backed away, kicking, until she was across the seat. Joshua climbed in, and now she recognized that perverse grin, one glimpsed in the dim light of a night nearly a decade ago. The night of Mattie’s conception.

  She shoved her foot toward his face. He caught it and his eyes twinkled in the greasy dome light, the cut on his forehead oozing blood again. “Hmm. She still got a little fight in her. Tempting me to go one more round. What say, brother, wanna watch just for old times’ sake?”

  Jacob yanked her wrist. “I can fantasize about it later. Right now, we better get her in the river.”

  Joshua’s face sagged, his smoker’s wrinkles deepening. “Reckon so. Give the water more time to wash away evidence.”

  “Besides, we’ll still have Carlita.”

  Renee wondered if they would play this sick game the rest of their lives. Swapping partners, playing with money and murder, tricking each other. But that was the future. She had none.

  Joshua dragged her by the ankle. She grabbed for the armrest but it came off in her hand. Her fingernails broke as she clawed at the nylon seat covering. No saving grip there.

  Jacob released her and got out of the car to join his brother. She knew this was her final chance. The passenger door was open, though it seemed miles away.

  She twisted upward, reaching for the front seat, but Jacob had her other leg now and she was being worried between them like a butcher-shop bone in the mouths of two dogs.

  “Treat her like a wishbone, brother,” Jacob said.

  “I’m wishing for two million goddamned dollars. On three. One….”

  She wriggled, nothing.

  “Two….”

  “Jacob,” she said. “Honey?”

  But the word was a lie. Even his name was a lie. He had always been Joshua.

  “Three.”

  She was jerked into the moist night.

  “Do her,” Joshua said.

  He had Renee pinned to the rail, shoulders leaning toward the river, facing the whispering, frothing water below. Jacob tested the heft of the pipe wrench. How would she hit if she had actually fallen?

  No, not “if.” When.

  Think it out, Jakie, just like always. Momma’s cane…an accident. Could have happened to anybody. Anybody with a murderous son, that is.

  Christine. That one had been the saddest. But she was barely formed, not even talking. All I did was save her from the life of a Wells. So that was a mercy killing.

  Mattie. Too bad about her. But she was Joshua’s fault all the way, from sperm to burn victim.

  The moon was out, the clouds like violet sheep counting down to a restless sleep. He wondered if blood would spatter onto the bridge railing. He’d have to strike her at an angle, so the pattern would fly out and into the water.

  “Smash her up,” Joshua urged. “Just like you did the chickens.”

  The wrench grew heavy in Jacob’s hand. “I didn’t do the chickens.”

  Joshua, holding Renee’s arms behind her back, his crotch pressed against her rear, gave a thrust of his hips, causing the wooden railing to squeak with their combined weight. “Hell, yeah. You went donkeyshit, brother. Chopping their heads off, licking blood from the hatchet–”

  “Stop it.”

  Red. The night had gone from purple to red.

  “You’re one sick fuck, all right.”

  “Shut up. That wasn’t me. It was never me.”

  “Tell it to the judge. I got a date with two million bucks.”

  “I was only doing what you’d do, if you had the brains.” Jacob gripped the wrench so tight his hand hurt. The metal was slick with his sweat. He thought of the fingerprints he would leave behind. And the DNA, which he shared with Joshua. The DNA one of them had passed to Mattie.

  And maybe Christine. He didn’t know how often Joshua had slipped into his bed over the years.

  The blood in the Chevy would be Joshua’s. The cops would figure it out. Even though Jacob had the same blood.

  “Do it, Jakie,” Renee wheezed from constricted lungs. “Just like we talked about.”

  Joshua turned toward him, his face as twisted as the rubberized troll heads hanging from the rearview mirror. Confusion. The dumb bastard had been late out of the womb, and had always been two steps behind his entire life.

  Jacob swung the wrench.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Blood everywhere,” Jacob said, mopping at the stains on the railing.

  “No murder is perfect.”

  “And you should know.”

  “Live and learn. I guess you should go get Carlita. Think you guys will be happy together?”

  “What do you care? You’re getting what you want.”

  “Sure.” With Joshua dead, Jacob would inherit the house. As Jacob’s wife, no one would question her receiving it in the divorce settlement.

  Jacob leaned over the railing. “He’s downriver now. As drunk as he was, nobody will question a fall.”

  Renee glanced at her husband’s exposed neck, alabaster in the moon’s warm glow. The wrench lay on the seat of the Chevy. She could have it out and bring it down in a matter of seconds.

  No. She loved him. And because she loved him, he owed her plenty.

  Besides, another “fall” would be too coincidental. Divorce would be much cleaner.

  Jacob didn’t know it yet, but Renee planned on taking the two million, too. It wasn’t blackmail. It was simply the price of pain and suffering.

  “Go to Carlita,” she said.

  Jacob came to her, took her hands. He almost kissed her. Then he glanced up at the hill, where the Wells house stood dark and brooding, as if remembering some memory tucked in a far, dusty closet. The first flickers teased the windows, and smoke drifted on the air. Davidson and her crew would be on the way soon, late as always, left to sift through the ashes of the Wells family secrets.

  “See you in court,” Jacob said. He walked around the Chevy and slid behind the steering wheel. He looked at home there.

  He grabbed the wrinkled pack of cigarettes and stuffed one in his mouth. He lit it, then reached under the seat and pulled out a beer. Warm, it sprayed foam all over his pants when he pulled the tab. He reached up and tapped the twin rubber heads, sending them swinging.

  Jacob would never be Joshua, but he would enjoy trying.

  He reached for the ignition and the engine burst to angry life. He shifted and backed the car off the bridge, waving before turning off the dome light.

  Renee watched the headlight beams bouncing up the road.

  She patted her belly.

  She’d never mentioned it to Jacob. Three months along.

  Of course, on one of those dark nights, it could have been Joshua who entered her bed and rode her into pregnancy. Stranger things had happened.

  Not that it mattered.

  A Wells was a Wells, after all. One was as good as the other.

  And, if things didn’t turn out as planned, there was always life insurance for the child.

  A woman lived and loved, and a woman often lost. But, no matter what, a woman always learned.

  THE END

  Table of Contents

  ###

  Crime doesn’t pay…but neither does journalism.

  CRIME BEAT

  A novella by

  Scott Nicholson

  Copyright ©2011 Scott Nicholson

  Published by Haunted Computer Books

  1.

  Moretz started work on a Tuesday, but maybe his real work didn’t begin until a
few weeks later.

  Moretz was the last guy to apply for the crime beat position. I wouldn’t have hired him if I wasn’t down to the bottom of the applicant pool and drowning in my own fatigue. As editor of the Sycamore Shade Picayune, if one of my writers didn’t come through, it would be my cheeks in the sling when the corporate bosses swooped down in their BMWs.

  The overlords had kept me on a tight budget for the past year, and the two slackers already on payroll when I started this job were killing time until they figured out what they wanted to do when they grew up. I had already nailed my career track: I was going to win the Pulitzer and move on to the New York Times. Except the step from a Blue Ridge Mountain tri-weekly with a circulation of 5,000 to the big time was going to be murder.

  Which is where Moretz comes in.

  I didn’t figure him for much. He had decent clips as a feature writer for some weekly shopper on the West Coast, one of those rags that whined about the decline of the redwoods and how Big Sur had been taken over by old acid heads that cut their hair and became developers.

  But Moretz had taken a few detours along the career path, according to his resume. A stint as a short order cook in Des Moines, a gap where he claimed to be taking community-college classes, and a year running the political campaign of a state senatorial loser in Orange County–Republican, for the record, though like most true journalists, Moretz could switch-hit in a heartbeat if the money was better.

  At the time Moretz came in for the interview, I already had my mind set on another candidate, a girl with long legs whose ink on her journalism degree was still sopping wet. I had delusions of offering her the benefit of my experience.

  Moretz interviewed on a Friday, the press day for our weekend edition, the busiest time for the Picayune. I’d just put the paper to bed, which is a lousy industry term for it since our paper went out mid-day. My eyes were dry and burning, the victims of a 4 a.m. date with the computer screen. I blinked twice when Moretz walked in, and then checked my PDA to make sure I’d scheduled the appointment.

  I had. Damn it.

  “Hi, Johannes,” I said, reading from the resume. I pronounced it “Yo-hann,” not sure if that was some sort of Austrian pronunciation. I figured somebody with a name like that got beat up a lot as a kid.