Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 4 (Boxed Set)

by Scott Nicholson

  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,” Renee said. She wanted to vomit, but her gut was like a clenched fist. “You taught me that, if nothing else.”

  “I can’t help it if you’re lousy at choosing.”

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

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

  “You don’t know what I want.”

  Jacob leaned over the railing. “He’ll be downriver soon. 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.

  She loved him.

  When you loved somebody, you owed him.

  “Mattie,” she said, her voice breaking a little. The rush of the kill had faded, leaving her feeling washed out and limp. Her heart was a husk rattling against her dry ribs.

  Maybe all the tears were gone forever.

  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.

  He reached into the car, 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 swin
ging.

  Just like Joshua. He looks just like his brother.

  And on the heels of that thought came another, rising bright and strong from the murk of her confusion.

  What if we killed the wrong one?

  But maybe there was no right one.

  Renee looked over the rail. In the gloom, she could barely make out the broken form on the rocks below.

  “Oh, God, Jake, he’s moving. He’s still alive!”

  Jacob ran to the railing, cigarette smoke pluming from his mouth along with his whispered “Shit.”

  He leaned over, straining against the darkness. “I don’t see nothing.”

  “I do,” she said. “I see it all now.”

  The wrench was heavy. But she managed. Oh, yes, she managed.

  The crunch was subdued, like hitting a bag of ice wrapped in a towel. Jacob gave a small bleat of surprise and collapsed onto the rail, head and arms trailing over the far side.

  She didn’t check his pulse. She didn’t want to touch him. If he took a long time to die, he deserved it.

  She patted her belly.

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

  Whether it was Jacob’s or Joshua’s, she would never know.

  But it didn’t matter. One Wells was as good as another.

  And a Wells never fails.

  As she headed up the dirt road to free Carlita, she glanced at the house, the orange flames now rising to heaven in a wavering thread.

  I love you, Mattie. I love you, Christine.

  She was relieved to see the burning house blur in her vision.

  She was still human, if only barely.

  As long as she could cry, there was hope for her yet.

  Renee staggered across a land long polluted and ruined, tears streaming down her cheeks. The tears wouldn’t wash away the past, but they might clear her vision for the future.

  She had a child to raise.

  One last chance.

  THE END

  Table of Contents

  ###

  Crime doesn’t pay…but neither does journalism.

  CRIME BEAT

  By Scott Nicholson

  Copyright ©2011 by Scott Nicholson

  Published by Haunted Computer Books

  Table of Contents

  CRIME BEAT

  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 BMW’s.

  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.

  “John,” he said. He was tall, dark, and, if you like that sort of thing, I guess he was handsome. Solid jaw, a little twinkle in his black eyes, built like he’d played football in high school but had turned in his jock for a Sunday afternoon armchair. He looked about 30, not so threatening, since I had a few years of longevity on him.

  After all, he was the one looking for a job. I had one. Not a great one, but a job nonetheless.

  I browsed his clips. He’d won third in a press association feature writing contest with a piece about an old lady with 30 cats. The Picayune’s audience, like that of most local newspapers, is old, slightly educated, and fairly conservative. I browsed the article and noticed John Moretz (bylined as John J. Moretz) had not once given in to sarcasm or ridicule. An unbiased treatment, journalistically solid, fair and balanced.

  Big deal. Could it swing advertisers?

  “So, John, this position is for the crime beat. We haven’t had a real crime reporter since I’ve been here. I like the writers we have now, but they don’t know how to go for the throat.”

  That was an understatement. Westmoreland was an aspiring actor whose last big role was playing the narrator in the local community theater performance of “Our Town.” Baker had served with the Picayune as an intern before my tenure, dropped out to tour with a bluegrass band, then got his girlfriend pregnant and needed health insurance so he’d crawled back on his hands and knees, bloody mandolin strings trailing out behind.

  Of course I rehired him. I do have a heart, despite all other evidence to the contrary.

  “I can do the job, sir,” John said.

  Major points. I studied him to make sure the “sir” bit wasn’t resentment. The black eyes stayed black, not squinting, not blinking, not smirking. He was a possible keeper.

  “This job means you’ll have to maintain good relations with the local police. You don’t have to like them, but you need to respect them. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Sure.” He didn’t say, “Yes, sir,” which would have come off as toadying. I started to respect the guy, especially since he respected me first. And that probably meant he could pretend to respect cops.

  “We’ve had other serious candidates for the position, so I’m sure you understand this is a tough decision.”

  “I know you have to do what’s best for your paper.”

  Your paper.

  Your goddamned paper.

  The guy hit me in my soft spot. I checked my watch. I had a Chamber of Commerce luncheon in half an hour. I’d gained twenty pounds since I took the helm of the Picayune, most of it to blame on the Chamber.

  I sometimes wondered who ultimately picked up the tab, because there’s no such thing as a free lunch. Unless you’re in the journalism business.

  “Your work looks good, John, but of course I’ll have to talk it over with the higher-ups.”

  Which was complete fabrication. In the era of corporate mergers, broadsheets like the Picayune were nothing more than tax write-offs, and the publisher sat in his corner office and calculated salary cuts. The Internet was killing us all but we were too stubborn to admit it.

  “I understand,” John said.” I appreciate it if you’d let me know as soon as you can. I’m looking for an apartment right now and I’m trying to fi
gure out my price range.”

  I couldn’t tell if that was a dig for sympathy. Probably not. John’s clothes were clean but inexpensive, his shirt tucked in, shoes not terribly scuffed. He was taller than the county sheriff, which might be a liability, but he had a manner that suggested he could be trusted.

  Cops in Pickett County were notoriously tight-lipped and didn’t like media coverage unless they were photographed grinning next to a pot plant or standing outside the contaminated remnants of a trailer park methamphetamine lab. If John could play Good Ole Boy and still make the cops accountable as public servants, he might score some good stories.

  Damn. And I had been dreaming about that female journalism major’s calves.

  There comes a time in a man’s life when he has to do the right thing, no matter how much he hates it. Johnny would benefit the Picayune a lot more than the journalism major would benefit me, even though at my age all I would manage was the occasional wistful fantasy.

  The truth hurts, and they say journalism is nothing more than an unbiased search for the truth. Sometimes I hate being a born editor, and we should pity all those burdened by an unfortunate sense of morality.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said, though my decision had already been made. I wanted to call the other applicants first. Give them the bad news and invite them to apply later if circumstances so merited. I planned to call the journalism major last. Maybe ask her for coffee to talk about her future.

  John and I shook hands and that was the last I saw of him until Tuesday. I’d left a message on his cell phone that the job was his if he wanted. He returned a message saying he was pleased to be part of the Picayune team and was looking forward to helping me take the paper to the next level, blah blah blah, but he needed Monday to move.

  One more round of phone tag later and another vapid, crime-free edition of the Picayune had hit the street. The front page featured a color photo of the mayor shaking hands with the president of a new bank, an article on the local community college’s board of trustees’ meeting, and the planning board’s vote on a twelve-unit condominium complex.