Snake Skin

by CJ Lyons

"WDDE, Channel 2," he supplied.

  "Track them down and act real formal. Tell them you have a situation. That I was witness to a public," more than two people being public, "and on the record conversation where one of their reporters Cindy Ames committed libel—"

  "You mean slander," Taylor said. "Libel's in writing."

  "What are you, a lawyer?" She asked, then remembered he was. Had his JD although he'd never practiced law or taken the bar exam. And his PhD and a MBA. Damn whiz kid.

  "So I'm like going undercover?" he bubbled.

  A thirty-four year old whiz kid-puppy.

  "No," she said in a tone that usually made Megan jump. "You are not going undercover. You are representing the Bureau in an extremely delicate situation. Tell the manager that while I would prefer not to testify, unless he removes this particular reporter from the story, I may be forced to go public. Make sure he knows we have Ashley's safety foremost in mind and appreciate his cooperation, all that jazz."

  "Oh, cool. A con job. Should I say I'm the SAC? No, no, Assistant Special Agent in Charge would be more believable, wouldn't it? Or I could—"

  "Taylor." He kept rambling. "Taylor."

  "Yeah?"

  "Burroughs and I are headed over to Fegley's. I want you to take however much caffeine you drink and cut it in half, all right?"

  "Yeah, sure, but—"

  "But what?" She started the Subaru and waved Burroughs into the lead.

  "I don't drink caffeine, LT. It's bad for—" She hung up and followed Burroughs.

  What would Vixen do? became Ashley's new mantra as she tried to gain control of the situation. Vixen would never surrender, for starts. Okay, then neither would she. After all, she was Vixen.

  That was just a game, playing, a contrarian voice echoed through her mind. Ashley shook it off. Her fingers curled with the desire to cut, slice—just once, please—but she denied herself the pleasure. Vixen didn't cut—she killed.

  First, know your enemy. Call him Mr. Skankypants. He'd thought this out, prepared, planned ahead. But what about Bobby? Had Mr. Skankypants prepared for Bobby?

  Bobby's either dead or out there thinking you stood him up. Either way, forget about him, he's no good to you. The voice was Vixen's, all calm, cool, collected. The killing machine skulking in the shadows, hunting.

  But Ashley couldn't let go of Bobby's face, pulled it up in her mind. He wouldn't give up, that just wasn't in him.

  So then he's dead. Just like those girls who came before you, Vixen continued in her merciless drone. What else did you think that stench was? Skankypants has killed before, he's planning to kill you next unless you move your ass and find a way out of here.

  Ashley had blocked out the odor that engulfed the room, but suddenly it was back, smothering her, dirt thrown on a grave.

  A shallow grave, Vixen taunted.

  Ashley rocked back and forth, gnawing on her fingernails. Not the thumb, the sharp one, that one she saved. But the others were fair game, all bitten down to the quick, ragged and torn. It wasn't as good as cutting.

  She pulled her fingers from her mouth. Wolves and coyotes gnawed their legs off when caught in a trap, so did foxes...

  A focused calm seized her. She stroked the inside of her left wrist, feathering old scars and the fresh welt that still ached with satisfying memory.

  Bending her leg, she inched her sock off, tugging against the tight restraint that held it in place. The wire cable sat right above the bones jutting out from either side of her ankle, resting against her bare flesh. She couldn't get a regular finger between it and her skin, but her pinky finger she could jam in. Not much room, but she would make it work.

  Poking, prodding, taking mental measurements, she decided it wouldn't be necessary to cut off the entire foot. First, she'd try lubrication, see if she could move the cable below the ankle joint. Then she might need to trim a little of the padding around her heel, that was all.

  The picture in her mind didn't scare her or gross her out, instead it intrigued her. No way she could do all that with one fingernail. How long would it take to chew it off?

  Could a person even do that?

  Last resort, she promised herself. First the simple things. She slashed her nail along the skin above the cable, the searing pain a release, bringing her body and mind together in a sharply focused instant.

  She was alive, she was in control, and she was going to stay that way. No matter what it took.

  Chapter 14

  Saturday, 5:52 pm

  Seventeen-year-old guy with a fourteen-year-old girl. Creepy, but not an uncommon situation. Lucy sighed, remembering her first serious boyfriend—seventeen to her fifteen.

  Here in Pennsylvania, it could still technically be rape since there was more than two years difference in age. As long as Ashley wasn't coerced. Then it was definitely rape.

  If any sexual activity occurred. If Ashley was with Fegley. If she was alive.

  Still, it was the best lead they had. Even if it did mean Burroughs was right and she'd been wrong about Ashley. Better wrong than to have a dead kid on her hands.

  But how did Ashley's watch end up with Darlene's corpse? Could she and Fegley have killed together? Thrill-seeking, loving the planning, the anticipation, never seeing Darlene as real, as a person, just an object to satisfy their needs.

  Lucy scissored her jaw, breaking the tension, popping the ligaments until they crackled. Had she built up such a fantasy about Ashley being the pitiful, unloved teen that she'd blinded herself to the facts?

  If so, maybe she should listen to her boss and stick to her office and desk, get off the streets.

  She took advantage of the privacy to call home. Megan and Nick were watching football, assuring her that other than Pitt being down by twelve, everything was fine. She wanted to ask Nick for advice but didn't have the heart to interrupt their daughter-father bonding. Although she felt a little jealous that he was the one doing the bonding instead of her. Okay, maybe more than a little jealous.

  Mostly she wanted her little girl back. The perfume of No More Tears. The singing together in the car, heads rocking, palms drumming. The pride that filled Megan's eyes every time she introduced her mother, the FBI agent.

  Those times were long gone, maybe forever.

  Next, she dialed her mom. She used the speakerphone, hating the hands free ear thingy that looked like something out of Star Trek.

  "Lucy, I thought you were working. Did you find that little girl?" Coletta Guardino answered.

  "Not yet, but I've got a lead. Nick said you were going out tonight?" Silence. Lucy squirmed, adjusted her rear view mirror. More silence. "Mom, I'm not prying."

  "Your father has been gone for twenty-five years. Don't I have the right to make friends? Find some happiness?"

  Guilt settled down on Lucy's shoulders like a worn out shawl. Make that a hand-crocheted, labor of love, fingers bleeding from being pricked and worked to the bone, worn out shawl.

  "Mom, you are the happiest person I know. You're so happy you wear people out. Between bridge and bingo and St. Vincent's and helping at the shelter and the library and your book club..."

  "I know, I know." An exasperated sigh vibrated through the cell phone. "But this is different. This is someone who's interested in me. Just me. As a person."

  "Tell me about him. What's he do? How'd you meet?" Lucy tried to keep her tone casual. Was her mother really dumb enough to meet a guy on the internet? Knowing what Lucy did for a living, the kind of predators she hunted?

  "He's the sweetest man. Charlie, that's his name. He's sixty-one and he lost his wife to cancer three years ago."

  "Go on. Charlie, does he have a last name?"

  "He does."

  "Mom." Lucy drew the syllable out, very aware she sounded just like Megan, but not caring.

  "Once I told Charlie what you do for a living, he said you'd want to run a background check or something. He even gave me all the information you'd need to do it. Said people these days couldn't be
too careful."

  "Great. Give me the info and I'll take care of everything for you."

  "No. I trust him. That's good enough for me."

  "Not for me. Come on, Mom. You're smarter than this."

  "I didn't need any background check on your father when I met him. I used my own good judgment, followed my heart."

  "This," she almost said "creep" but hastily bit the word back, "man isn't Dad. And times have changed. A woman in your position can't risk—"

  "A woman in my position can't risk wasting any time. I'll see you tomorrow. Love you."

  The dial tone echoed through the car. Lucy stabbed the End button and cranked up the radio. Metallica, King Nothing. Perfect.

  She drummed her wedding band against the steering wheel, wishing she could bang her head instead and wondering how many sixty-one-year-old white males, first name Charles, lived in southwestern PA, and what the odds were that she could track down the right one before tonight.

  Jimmy's heart staggered as he watched Ashley slice into her own flesh. He jumped up, toppling his chair, ready to run to her, save her.

  No. Follow the plan. She has to see that she's powerless, she must surrender.

  He righted the chair, sat back in front of the computer, hypnotized. Ashley was mixing her blood with water, smearing it below the leash. He heard her grunts of frustration as she tugged and yanked on the metal cable, trying to force it over her ankle joint.

  After a good half hour, she finally collapsed, hugging the support beam as if it were a lost lover.

  She didn't cry like she had earlier. Instead she was talking to an unseen presence in the darkness. "Please. Please, help me."

  She was calling to him. For him. Jimmy stroked his fingers across the image of her face as she pleaded.

  "Yes, Ashley. I'll save you."

  Step three, almost complete. Next came step four: offer a new reality.

  Chapter 15

  Saturday, 6:03 pm

  Burroughs led Lucy to an address off Fifth Avenue in Point Breeze. The Pittsburgh Center for the Arts was situated on a lush spread of grass a block away, adding a touch of class to the blue-collar neighborhood. She pulled up behind the detective's Impala and waited for him on the sidewalk. Her little blue Subaru looked distinctly unimpressive parked beside the oh-so-obvious unmarked cop car.

  "Willie Stargell lived here." Burroughs swept a hand at the brick ranch house before them. They started up the drive. There was a long porch with a handicapped ramp.

  "In this house?" she asked, noting the curled shingles on the roof and the stained, sagging gutters.

  "Well, no. I don't think. This block—or maybe the next one over."

  So much for Burroughs' treasure trove of baseball trivia. Lucy pushed the doorbell. The front door was open, only a screen door laced in white wrought iron curls barred their entry. She looked inside. A long, narrow hallway with oak hard wood floors led into a darkened space in the rear of the house.

  A man appeared, flipping on a light switch, and she saw that the space was the kitchen. He stomped down the hallway as if he were climbing steps, his beer belly sloshing to and fro beneath his Steelers T-shirt. He wore Bermuda shorts—the kind that men of a certain age and physique really, really shouldn't ever wear—and had white socks on with dirty flip-flops.

  "Yeah?" he asked by way of greeting.

  "Detective Burroughs," Burroughs flipped his shield. "Is Robert Fegley here?"

  "Where else would he be? What'cha want with Bobby?"

  "We need to speak with him." Burroughs opened the screen door, not waiting for an invite. The man, who appeared in his mid-forties, twisted his mouth as if he'd swallowed some stale beer and stayed where he was, blocking their way. "And you are?"

  "His father. William Fegley. He ain't done nothing."

  Lucy ignored the two men, more interested in the shadows playing against the wall of the kitchen beyond them. A motor whirred. The shadow of a man's head and torso, grotesquely deformed by the angle of the light became visible. It appeared much too low on the wall, slowly inching up as it grew larger, reminding her of the monster the boy and girl in Ashley's drawing fought. A bizarre half-man, half-machine demon.

  The whirring stopped. A man's voice called from beyond the kitchen. "Who is it, Pops?"

  "The cops. They want—"

  "Have you found Ashley?" The unseen voice broke with excitement, now sounding boyish. The whirring resumed, higher pitched as if a motor were being pushed to burn out. Lucy edged past Fegley in time to see the shadow collapse.

  A motorized wheelchair spun around the corner, filling the narrow corridor. "Where's Ashley? Is she okay?"

  The boy-man in the wheelchair was tall but rail-thin. Spindly legs velcroed into white plastic splints stuck out from a pair of gym shorts. His arms were equally wasted, one hand fastened to the wheel chair controls by another swath of velcro. His face was the only thing animated, alive—the rest of his body was rigid, supported by belts and buckles, but his face...His face was the face of an angel.

  Ashley's angel. From her artwork. Blonde hair, wavy, past his collarbones, skin unmarred by either the shadow of a beard or too much sun, crystalline blue eyes that tugged at Lucy as if she alone held the answers he needed.

  "Ashley?" he said again, slumping back into the chair, his face falling into the shadows.

  His father made a strangled noise but remained frozen as Lucy stepped past him and approached Bobby Fegley. When she drew near, she saw his tears. Twin tracks of anguish more heart-felt than any of the wailing she'd witnessed from the Yeagers.

  "Bobby, I'm Lucy Guardino. I work with the FBI and I'm the one in charge of finding Ashley. Is there some place we can talk? I need your help."

  He nodded, torquing his face far enough to one side to wipe it against the roll of terry cloth that covered his neck support. Using two fingers, he maneuvered the chair's controls, spinning it ninety degrees and propelling it through the kitchen. His father's clomping footfalls sounded behind her and she turned.

  "He's a minor, I should be there, watch over him." He strung the three sentences together into one exhalation, his expression a mixture of anguish and confusion.

  "No, Pop. This is private," Bobby said without pausing or turning around. He crossed over a wide threshold into another room.

  Instead of following Bobby, Fegley stopped at the kitchen table and turned to them, hands held palms up. "Someone's gotta work, ya know? And he's so damn independent, he don't need me—"

  She caught Burroughs' eye and inclined her head. He engaged Fegley's attention while she sidled to the side, out of his line of vision, listening. Fegley sank into a chair and Burroughs took the seat opposite him.

  "Bobby's seventeen?" Burroughs started. Fegley nodded. "Technically he doesn't need a parent present unless he requests it. And he hasn't done anything wrong, right?"

  "Of course not! How could he? Look at the kid why don't cha?"

  "What happened?"

  Fegley blew his breath out, his face dampening to neutral. "His mom and him, in the car. He was twelve, so she lets him sit in the front seat, special treat, ya know? Anyway, they never saw it coming—eighteen wheeler lost his brakes on the hill coming into Murrysville. Her airbag didn't help her none. His worked too damn good, snapped his neck."

  Burroughs nodded in unison with Fegley's bobbing head, his body language mirroring the other man. Lucy left them and crossed into the next room. Originally a dining room, it had been converted to a bedroom suitable for a wheelchair bound boy. A hospital bed with an electric lift took up most of the space. But the center of attention was a large flat screen computer monitor rivaling anything they had at the Federal Building.

  "My tech guys would love this," she told Bobby, watching as he stretched his thumb and first two fingers to manipulate a mouse. The screen came to life and with it Bobby's expression.

  "Yeah, I use it for school, so my dad lets me dip into the settlement money for upgrades."

  "You do
n't go to regular school?"

  "I tried. At first. But," his voice caught, "it just didn't work out. So I do cyber school."

  "Isn't that lonely?"

  His right shoulder twitched, she guessed it was the closest he could come to a shrug. "Frank and Andy are here most of the time. And there's Dad."

  "Frank and Andy?"

  "My personal care assistants. They help me, ah," he glanced in the direction of a doorway leading into a large bathroom, obviously not part of the original house design, "get around and stuff."

  She noticed the clear tubing running from beneath the leg of his shorts and down into a plastic collection bag. Kid had it rough, but he seemed to handle it all right. Better than his dad, five years later. She reminded herself to call Megan again as soon as they were done here.

  "How did you meet Ashley?" She drew up a wheeled desk chair and sat beside him as he fiddled with the computer controls again. The screen filled with a graphic: Shadow World.

  "Here. It's a MPRPG," he added.

  "You lost me already."

  "A multi-player role-playing game. The DM—domain master—creates a world and the rules and anyone, anywhere in the world with a computer can create a character and join in."

  "Both you and Ashley played this game?"

  "I play lots of these. This was the only one Ashley played—she was kind of obsessed. Ran five different characters."

  "It was a way to be anyone she wanted?" Lucy hazarded a guess.

  "Right. To tell the truth," his cheeks colored with a blush, "that's why I like SW best. Maestro, the DM, he's set it up so girls really get into it. It's not about killing monsters as much as being smart, working together, that kind of thing. Shadow World has more female players than any of the others, except for Sims of course."

  "Of course," she agreed, having no idea what Sims were or why girls were drawn to them. "Can I see Ashley's characters?"

  "I can show you the data sheets and avatars, but wouldn't you rather see the way she drew them? They're so life-like, it's amazing."