The Shimmering Blond Sister

by David Handler

  Later, after Yolie and Lieutenant Very had driven off to the casino in Yolie’s cruiser, Des and Mitch walked the island’s beach together in the moonlight, enjoying the quiet and each other. They shed their clothes and dove naked into the cool water. Floated on their backs and gazed up at the stars, bobbing up and down on the gentle swells until Des’s teeth began to chatter. Back at the cottage they jumped in a hot shower and Mitch soaped her, nose to toes, with a bar of L’Occitane milk soap infused with sinfully rich shea butter. He was very dutiful and thorough, his hands gently massaging and kneading her flesh, lingering lovingly over her booty. And lingering. And . . .

  “I think I’m good and clean back there now, Armando.”

  “Sorry, I got a little captivated. It’s like being allowed to stand in the Louvre running your bare hands over the Venus de Milo.”

  “Yeah, that’s me—Venus. Except I’ve got arms.”

  “And legs.” He knelt behind her, soaping them. “God, you’ve got legs.”

  She stood there smiling inside. No man had ever made her smile inside like Mitch did. For sure not Brandon. With Brandon she’d been one big knot.

  Upstairs in the sleeping loft, the oil lantern glowing soft and golden, she needed something different from Mitch tonight. Maybe it was that extreme dose of Richie Tedone and his tranny skank Eboni. But when Mitch reached for her, Des took his face in her hands and said, “Do me a special favor, will you?”

  “I don’t have to wear the handcuffs, do I?”

  “Nothing like that. Will you just hold me, squeeze me and never leave me?”

  “Done.” Mitch gathered her in his arms and hugged her tight. “This is the deal from now on, you know. Our parents aren’t getting any younger.”

  She blinked at him in surprise. It never ceased to amaze her how he knew her. “The Deacon just seemed so . . . vulnerable.”

  “Get used to it. Before long they’ll be the ones sitting in a diaper talking gibberish and we’ll be the ones spoon-feeding them vanilla pudding.”

  “You make it sound so appealing, Armando.”

  “Okay, my turn now. To ask you for a special favor, I mean.”

  “You want me to do that thing to you with the feather?”

  “No. Well, yeah. But no, that’s not where I was going. We, that is to say you, decided that since I’ve lost so much weight, my old pet name no longer applied. But the truth is I really, really miss it.”

  “You want me to go back to calling you that?”

  “More than anything in the whole, wide world.”

  She caressed his cheek, kissing him softly. “You got it, doughboy.”

  “About the Deacon . . .”

  “What about him?”

  “There’s more going on here than you’ve told me, isn’t there?”

  She nodded. “The Brass City boys want his job. They’re trying to use that scuffle I had with Augie to push him out. If he’ll retire then Internal Affairs will drop any investigation into my actions.”

  “But they have no case against you.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They can put a stink on me that’ll stay with me throughout my career. They know he won’t let that happen.”

  “So what are you doing about it?”

  “Pushing back. But please don’t ask me how, okay? Because I’m not real proud of myself. Which reminds me, I’ve got a loose end that’s driving me crazy. Can you think of any connection between the Dorset Flasher, Augie Donatelli and York Correctional?”

  “The women’s prison?” Mitch frowned. “Not really—aside from the fact Kimberly teaches yoga there two afternoons a week.”

  “She does?”

  “Yeah, she’s a volunteer. Does that mean something?”

  “I have no idea. Probably not.” Des yawned contentedly, feeling herself getting drowsy. Her eyelids were heavy, circuits fried. She surrendered, snug and safe in Mitch’s arms.

  Until her cell phone rang on the nightstand.

  She answered it and listened. “But I’m on desk detail now, remember?” And listened some more before she said, “Okay, Oly. I’ll be there in five.”

  “What’s up?” Mitch asked as she climbed hurriedly out of bed.

  “I’m not entirely sure. But it’s nothing good.”

  She could hear the screams from out on Maple Lane.

  It was just past 1:00 a.m. when Des pulled in at the same little dead-end road off of Dorset Street where she’d tripped over Augie’s dead body. Oly’s cruiser was parked there next to Dorset’s volunteer ambulance van. Rut Peck’s place was dark, same as last night. Over at Ray Smith’s, the porch light was on. Ray stood outside in his bathrobe, pulling on a cigarette and watching the action.

  It was going on at Nan Sidell’s. Lights were blazing inside the little farmhouse that the blond middle school teacher shared with her two sons.

  The screams grew even louder as Des rushed up the front steps to Nan’s open screen door. They were the screams of a terrified boy. And she could make out words now: “We’re next, Petey! Look out, we’re next!”

  In the parlor, Oly was seated on the sofa with Dawn’s wide-eyed ten year-old, Peter, who was wearing a pair of Boston Celtics pajamas. The family’s big yellow Lab, Josie, was stretched out at Peter’s feet, whining uneasily. The screams were coming from Nan’s bedroom, where Des found Nan’s gangly older boy, twelve-year-old Phillip, in a state of uncontrolled hysteria.

  “Look out, Petey! Look out!” he screamed, his eyes bulging with panic as he scrabbled around on the floor underneath his mother’s antique four-poster bed, trying to hide from a monster that he alone could see. Sweat was pouring from him, soaking his pajamas. “We’re next! Run, Petey! Run!”

  A distraught Nan knelt there by the bed in her nightshirt, trying to calm him. “Philly . . . ? Mommy’s right here, honey. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”

  But the boy wasn’t responding. Didn’t hear her. Didn’t know her. Just kept screaming: “Run, Petey! Run!”

  Marge and Mary Jewett, the two no-nonsense sisters in their fifties who ran Dorset’s volunteer ambulance service, were standing just inside of the bedroom doorway. It was a small, sparely furnished room. Aside from the unmade bed, which had a patchwork quilt on it, there was a nightstand, a chest of drawers. No art on the walls. No rugs.

  “Don’t make any sudden movements,” Marge cautioned Nan in a quiet voice as the boy continued to scream his head off. “Just be real gentle. Don’t grab for him or try to shake him. He’ll come out of it on his own.”

  “Come out of what?” Nan sobbed, tears streaming down her face. She was trembling. “What is happening to my son?”

  “We’re next, Petey! Run, Petey!” Phillip cried out, bug-eyed with terror as he crawled frantically around under the bed. Until, abruptly, he stopped and became quiet. And calm. So calm that he curled into a fetal ball right there on the floor and fell asleep.

  Marge knelt before him and felt for his pulse. “Returning to normal,” she whispered, lifting one of his eyelids to check his pupil. “Let’s get him back into bed.” She started to pick Phillip up off of the floor but halted with a grunt of pain. “Dang, my old back isn’t what it used to be.”

  “Here, let me . . .” Des gathered the tall boy up in her arms and carried him into the other bedroom, which had twin beds and Celtics posters all over the walls.

  “His bed’s the one over by the window,” Nan said softly.

  Des set him down there. Nan wrestled him out of his sweat-soaked pajamas and into fresh ones. The boy mumbled a bit in his sleep but was docile and compliant. She tucked him in and turned out his bedside light. They backed slowly out of the room into the narrow hallway, shutting the door.

  “He’ll be okay now, honey,” Mary assured Nan.

  The tears were still streaming from Nan’s blue eyes. She was such a tiny little thing in her bare feet that she looked more like a girl than a full-grown single mother. “Are . . . are you sure?”

  “Positive. We’ve seen thi
s before.”

  “I-I didn’t know what to do. I had no idea. I’ve never . . .” She ran a hand through her long blond hair, exhaling slowly. “Des, I’m so sorry to drag you out of bed like this.”

  “Not a problem, Nan. What I’m here for. Want to fill me in?”

  “Little Petey came in and woke me up about, I don’t know, a half hour ago. Told me that Philly was having a terrible nightmare and he couldn’t wake him up. That’s when I heard Philly screaming. And then he came running into my room, too. He followed Petey in there, I swear. His eyes were wide open. He-he was awake. I swear he was awake. And he was screaming and screaming and I-I couldn’t get him to stop. Or get him out from under my bed. He was panting and gasping and-and . . . well, you saw him. He was possessed. So I called the girls.” Nan turned to Mary now and said, “You’ve actually seen this sort of thing before?”

  Mary nodded. “They’re called night terrors. Not at all uncommon among kids Phillip’s age. The episodes can last ten, fifteen minutes. Sometimes longer. It’s basically an extreme nightmare.”

  Nan shook her head. “Philly was awake. You saw him. He was awake.”

  “They seem to be awake,” Marge said. “But they’re actually asleep. Generally, they return to normal sleep when the episode’s over—and they don’t remember a thing. That’s why it’s best not to shake them out of it or frighten them.”

  “Night terrors,” Nan repeated, sounding unconvinced. “I was afraid he’d gotten into drugs of some kind.”

  “That’s a definite no,” Mary assured her. “His heart rate slowed right back down. His pupils were normal. He didn’t ingest anything.”

  “But you were smart to play it safe,” Marge said. “We had a pissed-off eleven-year-old girl on Whippoorwill just last Wednesday night who swallowed a whole bottle of her mother’s Vicodin.”

  “That’s why I wanted you here, Des,” Nan explained. “You know what these kids are into. Not that Philly has ever given me the slightest reason to think he’s . . . I just . . . he was like a totally different person. I’d better let Petey know he’s okay. Will you excuse me for a moment?” She darted into the parlor to comfort her other boy.

  Des and the Jewett sisters went out onto the front porch. Oly joined them.

  “How did it go out there tonight?” Des asked him.

  “Nice and quiet,” he replied. “Until now.”

  “No Flasher sightings?”

  “Not a one. I think our Flasher’s on a slab in the morgue, don’t you?”

  “Oly, I don’t know what to think.”

  Nan followed them outside a moment later. The boy remained on the sofa with Josie at his feet. “Petey seems just fine.”

  “Sure he is.” Oly smiled at her. “He’s a rock, that one.”

  “Please explain these night terrors to me,” she said to the Jewett sisters. “Because Phillip has never, ever had anything even remotely like one before. What causes them?”

  Marge and Mary exchanged an uneasy glance. They were, as a rule, careful not to stray too far above their pay grade.

  “They’re often caused by a psychological trauma of some kind,” Marge answered gingerly. “It’s entirely possible he won’t ever have another one, Nan. But you should phone his pediatrician in the morning. He’ll want to see Phillip.”

  “Did you folks happen to have a family situation this weekend?” Mary asked her.

  Nan frowned. “Such as . . . ?”

  “Did their father visit them? Not that I mean to pry, but an emotional upheaval like that might explain it.”

  Nan’s face hardened. “Donald hasn’t made time for our boys for over a year. He and Heather have a baby girl now who occupies all of his attention.”

  “I’m standing here wondering about something else,” Des said, shoving her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “Phillip and Peter were right there in that room of theirs last night when Augie Donatelli was murdered. Something pretty awful was happening out there in the dark. Josie was barking her head off. That’s scary stuff. Major bogeyman material. Seems to me it would be perfectly natural for a boy’s imagination to get the best of him.”

  Marge nodded. “I absolutely agree.”

  “Then again, it’s possible there’s more to it than that.”

  Nan studied Des closely. “You think the boys saw something, is that it?”

  “Did they, Nan?”

  “I honestly don’t know. They haven’t told me a thing.”

  “Do you mind if I talk to Peter?”

  “No, of course not. As long you don’t upset him.”

  “Not to worry. I won’t.”

  “We’re going to take off now,” Mary told Nan. “If anything changes, just call us. Don’t even hesitate. We’re here for you.”

  Nan walked them to their van, thanking them profusely. Oly climbed into his cruiser and took off.

  Des went back inside and joined Peter, who was sitting there petting Josie. The boy had his mother’s big blue eyes and soft blond hair, but not her delicacy. His jaw was strong and stubborn, his hands unusually large for a boy of ten.

  “Hey, Peter,” she said, showing him her smile.

  “Hey,” he responded sullenly.

  “Listen, I need for you to man up. Can you do that for me?”

  He peered at her suspiciously. “Man up . . . how?”

  “By telling me what’s really going on.”

  The boy shrugged. “Mom said Philly had a bad dream.”

  “A bad dream about what, Peter?”

  He didn’t answer her.

  “Phillip is real scared about something,” she said. “And so are you.”

  “Am not.”

  “Yeah, you are.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Because I’m a professional, that’s how. That’s why I get to wear this big hat and carry this big semiautomatic weapon. Because I know things.”

  He glanced at her uneasily. “What things?”

  “I know that you boys saw what happened to Mr. Donatelli last night. That’s why Phillip had his bad dream. That’s why he kept screaming, ‘We’re next, Petey!’ Because he thinks the killer will come back for the two of you. That’s why Phillip’s so scared.”

  “I’m not scared,” the boy insisted.

  “Peter, I can’t protect you unless I know what you boys saw.”

  “We didn’t see anything! Philly just had a bad dream is all.”

  “Tell me the truth, Peter. Who killed Mr. Donatelli?”

  “I don’t know!” he cried out. “And don’t try to make me say I do because I don’t. We didn’t see anything, okay? Not a thing!”

  Peter jumped to his feet now and ran out the front door of the house to his mom—leaving Des alone in there with Josie wondering just exactly what in the hell was going on.

  If Josie knew anything she sure wasn’t talking.

  CHAPTER 15

  Waa-eeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . .

  Mitch was up at dawn, beloved sky blue Stratocaster in hand, sitting in with Hendrix on “Red House” while his coffee brewed. There was no sleeping late on Big Sister Island. Not with the early morning sun streaming through the skylight over his bed. Not with Augie Donatelli’s murder gnawing at him like it was. Because he was missing something. They were all missing something. The key to the whole case was right there in front of them and they weren’t seeing it. Mitch was positive of this. But, damn it, he just couldn’t figure out what it was.

  Eeeee-yahhhhhh . . .

  So he played. Standing there in his living room in a sleeveless T-shirt and gym shorts, eyes closed, bare toes wrapped around his wa-wa pedal and Ibanez tube screamer, monster amps cranked all of the way to the proverbial eleven, shaking the cottage to its stone foundation. Reaching for it. Feeling it. Nailing it. Yeah, there it was. Oh, yeah . . .

  Scareeeeeeeeeee . . .

  He’d awakened alone—unless you count Clemmie pad, pad, padding at his full bladder to let him know that her kibble bowl was emp-emp-empty.
Des had gone back to her own place from Nan Sidell’s. It had been nearly three a.m. by then. He’d insisted she phone him when she found out what was up—no matter the time—and so he’d heard all about Phillip Sidell’s night terrors. Mitch knew the Sidell boys. The pair of them used to be in and out of Rut Peck’s house day and night before Rut moved into Essex Meadows. Mitch used to stop by Rut’s regularly. The old fellow had been one of the housebound villagers he’d bought groceries for. Phillip and Peter missed having their dad around but they were good kids. Sunny kids full of energy and jostling enthusiasm. Night terrors? No way.

  Wa-eeeeeeeeeeeee . . .

  The coffee was ready. Mitch set his guitar aside, poured himself a cup and discovered he was nearly out of low-fat milk. He had enough for his coffee but not for his healthy Grape-Nuts breakfast. He’d have to go out and get some. He sipped the strong coffee gratefully, gazing out his bay window. It was another warm, humid morning. Not a whiff of a breeze. The sky was the color of dishwater, the Sound as calm as a bathtub. Haze hung low over the water. He could barely make out the Old Saybrook lighthouse just across the river.

  Outside the front door, Quirt began yowling impatiently for his breakfast. Mitch let him in—and discovered that Yolie’s cruiser was still parked there in the driveway next to Lieutenant Very’s Norton Commando.

  Well, well . . .

  Mitch had loaned Yolie a coded card for the security barricade so she could bring Very back to the island after they’d finished doing their thing at the Mohegan Sun. He’d heard the crunch of her tires on the gravel outside sometime in the middle of the night. The engine idling for a long while before she shut it off. Soft voices as the two of them strolled down the path to the beach, talking easily, laughing. Mitch had fallen back to sleep after that.

  Well, well . . .

  He raised his coffee mug in silent tribute to them, then padded down to the beach with his coffee and his nagging thoughts about Beth Breslauer. Beth and the Seven Sisters. Beth and Bertha Peck, her grandfather’s mistress. Beth and Vinnie Brogna, the great, secret love of her life. Beth and Lieutenant Very, who it turned out was a blood relation. Beth and Kenny. Kenny and Kimberly. Kimberly and J. Z. Kimberly and Hal . . .