by Alice Ayden
“Are you Cora Austen?” a green outfitted tourist asked. “Any relation to my favorite writer?” The tourist waited anxiously.
“Unfortunately, no. The Virginia Austens aren’t related to Jane Austen’s family.” Cora turned towards Bitty. “Did you screech this morning, Aunt Bitty?”
Bitty’s glare made a few of the tourists gasp. “The hell do you care?”
“Any single Mr. Darcy’s around here?” Another tourist asked.
Cora weighed her options against her aunt: high road or low. The high road offered dignity, but the low road provided snacks. “Possibly, and many of good fortune who ‘must be in want of a wife.’” Cora couldn’t help using Jane Austen’s most quotable quote.
Bitty rolled her eyes. “Hate it when you do that.”
Cora grinned. “I know.”
“How are the Austens this morning?” Johnston stepped forward and showed Cora a newspaper. “Have you seen this?”
Cora stared into his beady eyes. Bolstered by the audience, she took a deep breath. “Why have you been stalking me? Why do you hint of the things you’ve done to me? Why are you such a creepy asshole?”
Johnston’s eyes narrowed, and then he looked around. He wasn’t used to Cora being so bold, and he certainly wasn’t used to an audience. “Are you feeling okay?”
Cora ignored the pounding of her heart and continued. She had to do this. She was tired of being the scared little girl afraid of her own memories. Cora rolled up her sleeves to show her scars. “Did you do this?” She shifted her hair around to reveal another scar. “And this? Did you assault me? Mentally? Physically? Sexually?”
Johnston stepped back as if cornered. “What the hell are you suggesting?”
Cora stood her ground. “Did you not understand the questions?”
Johnston stepped forward, but Cora instinctively moved back. She didn’t want him to whisper anything to her that would make her forget or be out of earshot of the others.
“You’re insane,” he threw down the paper and stomped away.
Cora steadied herself. Her head hurt, her stomach churned, and she felt lightheaded. But she did it. For the first time in who knows how long, she didn’t hesitate. She took control. She looked around at those staring at her. “Nice day, isn’t it?” Cora hesitantly picked up the paper Johnston had tossed.
On the front page, there was an article about Jessica. Cora saw the resemblance immediately. “She looks like my mom.”
Bitty plunged through the tourists and grabbed the paper from Cora. “Jessica Suthers. She does look like my sister.” Bitty’s normal reddish face paled, and she thrust the paper back to Cora and stomped to the kitchen.
Cora read the article about how Jessica had been found along the side of a road. No evidence at the scene. Police indicated she’d been killed elsewhere. Officials were puzzled with the white chalky residue under her fingernails. Cora quickly skimmed over the more salacious parts reporters intentionally described in detail.
The reporter creatively wrote about Jessica’s life. A loving and large family. Economic hard times. Her older brothers had tried to salvage the family construction business, but Jessica dreamed of college. A scholarship fell through, the business dried up, and the family house foreclosed.
“An entire life in a few paragraphs to entertain people while they finish their coffee.” Cora continued to scan the article, but the white chalk under Jessica’s fingernails demanded attention. The reporter theorized about a basement or construction site or cellar.
Cora stopped when the reporter mentioned the cause of death for Jessica. Both of Jessica’s wrists were sliced like a suicide attempt. She had been stabbed in her thigh, her arm, and, finally, her throat.
Cora saw it. Each cut - cold, calculated, precise. Blood gushed out of the wounds like race horses out of the starting gate. The woman calmly stared at Cora with the blankest of expressions. Cora didn’t picture the events as the talented reporter spun his tale; she relived it.
“I’m sorry,” the woman whispered before her eyes closed.
Past and present flowed together in an instant. But the woman being killed...not Jessica. And not in the cellar.
Chapter 25: Deterrence
Oliver could still taste her blood. Anne’s last gurgled scream echoed in his ears. As he lingered on a bench at Ausmor and wrote in his journal, tourists probably believed him to be a poet inspired by Ausmor’s beauty, April’s warmth, or the sparrows chirping overhead. Their hearts would sputter if they knew what truly inspired Oliver.
He told his parents about his thoughts and what he dreamed of doing to others. He expected fear that couldn’t be articulated and tears that needed to be shed. Instead, they tried to hug him and tell him it was just a phase. When they found his baby brother dead, they believed it accidental. Crouching on top of him, Oliver heard his bones snap. He digested his fear, and it made him stronger. He held his hand over his quivering mouth until he turned blue.
Faced with his true nature, Oliver’s parents couldn’t contemplate the possibility. An accident? Not a looming threat? He saw what existed behind their eyes: pity. People reserve pity for the weak and worthless. Oliver stood outside the small house after he’d set the fire that killed them, and they finally saw him. The real Oliver. His only regret? He should have taken them sooner, and he should have made it infinitely more painful.
Only a few like Cora and Natalie glimpsed the truth about him. Natalie’s fascination with Oliver quickly turned to terror, but Cora’s memory wouldn’t let him saturate. Her family provided little encouragement. The Austens and Morgans expertly avoid anything of consequence. The shame of Emily. Cora’s spiral into the abyss. Oliver’s presence.
Ausmor festered in deceptions, half-truths, lies, and assumptions. The Austens and Morgans dismissed anything uncomfortable or embarrassing. Truth would have banned Oliver. Truth: simple and powerful. People self-medicate to avoid it, lie to deny it, and shed tears to reveal it. Honesty would have cemented Oliver out. Instead, Ausmor stewed in its own fermentation.
Oliver scribbled one last note…
I will not go silently. I will not go at all. I cannot be swept aside like dirt on the kitchen floors or scrubbed like mold off a fence. I am in the walls, under the floorboards, hidden deep within the cupboards. They cannot destroy me without annihilating themselves.
Satisfied, he looked up from his journal to see Cora talking with her aunt. He enjoyed watching Cora’s jagged memories return painfully. He still had to keep his distance. He didn’t want to risk her memories rushing back in and being unable to endure the weight of the past. He enjoyed their game.
“Oh,” he said, recognizing Cora’s pained expression. “Must’ve read about Jessica. Cora will recognize her immediately. I chose her specifically because she resembled Emily.” There was no other reason. Jessica fit Emily’s description which would have jolted Detective Maines from his inaction and forced Cora to confront a painful truth.
Oliver smiled. “Cora thinks she’s in pain now. Wait until the party.” By then, Johnston will be dead, Natalie will no longer be of use, and Cora will disintegrate. If all goes as planned, maybe Maines will eat his gun. Oliver sighed. So enjoyable to plan destruction.
Chapter 26: The new plan
“Put this on.” Johnston threw the blindfold at Natalie.
“Where is he?”
Johnson smirked. “Busy with Cora. Don’t worry. I have my orders. Besides, you’re beyond used.”
Natalie squirmed. She wouldn’t miss the stove or chains, but she hesitated. She didn’t trust Johnston; she placed the blindfold over her eyes and waited.
Johnston unlocked the chain and handcuffs that had bound her for so long to the stove and tied her hands in front.
Maybe if I comply, Natalie thought, Johnston wouldn’t hurt me. Maybe. He had his orders, but Johnston enjoyed broken rules. She jumped when Johnston gripped her hands and hauled her through the cellar, and out. She struggled to keep up with him praying she would
n’t trip or fall. Outside, Natalie grabbed a deep breath. Non-putrid air - a mixture of fresh hay and the heavy dampness before the rains - stabbed at her lungs. Distant owls gossiped. Night, Natalie thought.
Johnston opened the trunk of his car. The rot and decay stench assaulted Natalie, and she wished the blindfold draped over her nose. Johnston shoved her inside. She didn’t resist. Natalie held her breath and didn’t think about the dampness she rested on or how many others had been in the trunk.
He started the car, and they were off. From movies and television, Natalie assumed she should be listening to how many grates or bridges the tires rode over and how many stops or turns were made. She’d calculate distance and pinpoint her exact coordinates on a map for her desperate rescuers, but no one searched for Natalie.
After a while, the car stopped. Johnston opened the trunk and pulled Natalie out. He clumsily cut the rope and nicked her wrist. Natalie didn’t acknowledge it. Johnston shoved a piece of paper in her hands and leaned close.
Natalie anticipated the worst. He smelled of his usual vinegar and Cora’s lavender perfume. He whispered, “Wait until I’m gone. Take off the blindfold. Read the instructions. Remember, you don’t want to disappoint him.”
Her body tight from violent expectations, Natalie couldn’t speak. Johnston lingered a few moments, hours, or days. Natalie heard him walk away. The car door opened, and he left.
A trap? Another one of his sick games? In the distance, a television game show screeched, and a trash can lid tumbled to the ground. She expected at any minute to be hit, yelled at, pushed. Natalie hesitantly lifted the blindfold. Standing barefoot on dirt and grass, Natalie faced trees and darkness with a building behind her.
She waited. No one attacked. She unfolded the piece of paper Johnston had shoved in her hand. She couldn’t read what it said, but a key plopped out and hit the ground. The key had a number. Natalie picked it up and stumbled around the building.
She stood in front of a cheap motel. She struggled to find enough light to see the room number on the key and then frantically searched for the matching room. She found it, but the lock wouldn’t give. Natalie tried the key and pushed against the door until it opened. She spilled inside and slammed the door behind her. She quickly locked the door and faced the darkened room. She had to be sure he didn’t ambush.
She waited for a few minutes before fumbling with the light. Once her fingers found the switch, she flipped it and braced herself. She didn’t expect electricity, but the lights flickered on. “Not abandoned.” She expected him to be waiting for her. He wasn’t. Natalie’s glance darted from rickety desk to nondescript paintings of a dying cactus to the dirty mustard print covering bedspread, drapes and carpet. It was a room Norman Bates would have renovated.
With a burst of adrenaline, Natalie yanked the drapes closed and dropped to the ground to peer under the bed. “One black sock and dental floss.”
She shot up and into the bathroom throwing open the shower curtain expecting him to lunge at her. A strange, yellow ceiling stain snaked to the main room. Natalie rushed to the window beside the door, checked the lock and tightened the drapes making sure not even a sliver of her could be seen from the outside. She dragged the only chair in front of the door and positioned it under the handle.
She quickly scanned the room. No other ways in. She rushed to the wall and sat down with her back against it. She rocked back and forth expecting him to magically appear. She wouldn’t move until the sun arrived. Bad things happened in the dark.
****
After a few hours, sunlight trickled in around the curtains. Natalie stopped swaying and stood up. She’d made it through. She wandered into the bathroom and jumped out again. “He has another girl in there!”
The realization hit. She slowly stepped back in and stared at her own reflection. She gently touched her gray face and swollen lips. Her light brown eyes, once so alive, resembled an old banana peel tossed in the garbage. Natalie winced. Her mind flashed through photos of genocide and terror victims. She had the same hallowed, haunted expression. She remembered the paper still crumpled in her hands.
As per the usual, I have planned for all contingencies. You will be impressed with me. I trust Johnston will have done what I asked. You will use this room as you acclimate yourself to life outside the cellar. I have generously left you an envelope of cash in the top drawer.
Natalie opened the drawer. Three hundred dollars waited inside the envelope.
I would have provided more, but your taste level is not exquisite. Please opt for a more non-homeless look; also, the ashen complexion will not impress. Purchase makeup. In a few days, I need you at Ausmor.
Natalie closed her eyes to steady herself. After a few seconds, she continued.
The upcoming 120th party will be a distraction. You will tell no one about me, Johnston, or what you’ve witnessed. You have recently returned from an overseas trip. If they press, change the subject. Of course, I will be at the party watching you. Do not run or call the police. And do not attempt to warn anyone or your little Grace will never live a normal life.
“Grace.” Her little girl. The little girl she couldn’t remember.
Weak, naïve, intellectually challenged Natalie. Did you think you could hide her from me? Boston wasn’t that far away, and your mother? So distracted after a few glasses of wine and not shy about explaining what a colossal disappointment you turned out to be. Meander but a little from my plan, and I’ll leave Grace so damaged you’ll wish I killed her. It’s Cora or your daughter. You decide who lives.
“So, this is it,” Natalie whispered. “I knew it would come. No more wondering…I’ve officially chosen Cora to die. But I had to…” Natalie thought about her daughter. “Any mother would have done the same thing.” She just hoped Cora’s family would forgive her.
Chapter 27: Closer
Weever followed Maines around the grocery store. “I have a dream that someday before my retirement party you’ll tell me what we’re doing.”
“I wanted to talk with Stacy again. Jessica Suthers’ friend from the coffee shop.” Maines searched the shelves and picked up a jar of vinegar. Then he spotted apple cider vinegar. “What’s the difference?” He shrugged as he grabbed both. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”
“Uh huh.”
They waited outside their car in the coffee shop’s parking lot of Jessica’s abduction. Maines held onto the vinegar bag and a folder.
Stacy, now with purple and blue hair, opened the back door, looked around, and hurried over to them. “I only have five.”
“How are you doing?” Maines noticed Stacy wasn’t as confident as the last time they’d seen her. She jumped as cars whizzed past and constantly scanned the area.
“Been looking for another job away from this crapfest.” Stacy took a deep breath. “Got some pepper spray, and this hair screams, ‘Piss off.’ Try not to work the late shift. Be aware of where I am and what I’m doing at all times.”
Maines could tell she’d read that in a brochure.
Stacy continued with her list. “Stay clear of vans. Notice everything. Trust my instincts. Yadda. Yidda. Yudda.”
Maines handed Weever the bag and took out both bottles of vinegar. He opened the lid and held it to Stacy.
She smelled it and crunched her nose. “Gross.”
“What about this one?”
“Ewww.” Stacy jumped back. “Wait a minute.” She leaned forward, closed her eyes and smelled the plain vinegar again. “That’s what creepy man smelled like.”
“Jessica’s customer the day she disappeared?” Weever glanced quickly at Maines.
Stacy pushed the vinegar away and held her nose. “Never forget it.”
Weever took the vinegar from Maines as he opened up a folder, took out a picture of Johnston, and held it for Stacy to see.
Stacy jumped back. “That’s the guy. Total creepazoid. Sat at Jessica’s table all damn day with his precious tea. What a dickhead.”
; Maines glanced at Weever. They had their man, but they’d need more proof than a waitress’ sense of smell and off the charts creep-o-meter.
****
Maines and Weever waited outside a boutique.
“Let’s bottom line this,” Weever said. “No DNA on file. We’ve got witnesses who place this Johnston at the scene, but how many others ate there that day and creeped out the waitress? And we have a knife that may be similar to one he allegedly has.”
“Financial transactions proves he’s always been a prick.” Maines shuddered thinking about the number of families involved. “No judge will touch it because of how we acquired the information. No one will press charges, and he’s from one of the founding families. Can’t stand how they can just waltz in and out of trouble while the rest of us pick up their...” He quick glanced Weever and stopped himself mid-rant.
Weever sighed a few thousand times. “What exactly are we doing here?”
“Love the mood.”
“Sorry. My sister.” She didn’t look at Maines. “Don’t ask.”
“Hold on. There she is.” Maines and Weever jumped out of the car and caught Iphigenia Morgan Stonston as she left with an armful of shopping bags.
She jumped when she saw them and ran back into the boutique.
“Just my day. Why do we always get the runners?”
Maines stopped her. “Don’t bother. I know the owner.”
Weever frowned. “How?”
Maines hesitated. “Maeve Austen knows the owner.”
“Ah.”
Maines and Weever meandered inside the boutique that oozed money. Subtle golden shelves held tight to next season’s shoes. Disinterested staff barely took notice of customers, and Maines could swear old hundred dollar bills accounted for the green hue of the carpet. He held up his badge.