Pieces of Ivy

by Dean Covin

  Vicki fought the urge to leap up and hug the man.

  The father’s voice was calm, smooth, as if leveled paternally at a misbehaving child. “No, Harold, not like me.” His head shook with belittling understanding—addressing a simpleton. “While we are, indeed, all sinners in His glorious eyes, there are the sinners who embrace the pure path, His path, on the road to redemption”—he held his arms out wide—“like the precious members of my congregation. And then there are those who have the arrogance to choose their own path and see it, too, as divine. This ego is born of the devil and only serves his corrupt mastery. Oh, it is so easy, especially in these times, in this nation, to not see the errors of these blindly selected steps through life.” The man opened his mouth to respond, but the father’s eyes burned into the man as he cut him short. “Much like you have admitted to, Harold. I know you have tried to make amends, but you cannot deny your transgressions against your son’s wife.”

  Instant panic beset the man. A growing muttering of quiet shock and admonishments stirred through the crowd. The old man stood paralyzed, staring up at the priest charged with holding confidences and betraying the same. The others that had stood in support sank to their seats without a sound.

  Vicki had just bore witness to how this shepherd tended his flock.

  “But of course, that is why I am here—in God’s service—to guide your wayward journeys. So that when you, too, meet your end, Harold, you can greet Our Father with a heart that lived His path—the path that I alone can show you. So you can be embraced in the arms of the Lord with His heart open to yours, regardless of your immoral offenses.” He canvassed the room. “People, do you not see?”

  “I do!” a woman cried aloud among the sea of bobbing heads.

  “Do you not see how we can all grow stronger from Ivy’s sacrifice?”

  The man sat in silent shame for only a few moments before he quietly moved toward the doors at the back of the church.

  “Oh, thank you for coming, Harold,” the priest announced, robbing the man of a discrete exit. “Can I hold to faith that I will see you again on Sunday?”

  The man quickly nodded, turning in shame and slipping through the closing door.

  Father Reilly continued as if uninterrupted.

  † † †

  “Fucking windbag,” Vicki spat as she stepped up to Hank’s car. “Didn’t let anyone get a word in edgewise. The few that did got shot down immediately. Totally pointless.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Hank pulled open his driver’s door.

  “We didn’t get a chance to hear any reasonable reactions from the attendees. And all I saw were mindless bobbing heads. What did you see that I didn’t?”

  “Him.”

  “Him, who?”

  “Father Reilly—he’s officially on my list.”

  † † †

  Hank cursed under his breath as he barely managed to navigate his hulking Buick out from between the calamity of parked cars that had packed in around him—his sacred spot invaded by fools who should have their licenses revoked.

  The worst offender was a squad car. Hank prayed it was Roscoe’s—but it wasn’t. Pity—he would have enjoyed pumping a few bullets through the hood.

  As he pulled down the dark street, Vicki pointed ahead. “Don’t go under the bridge—there’s construction.” Too dark to see now, but she had noticed the workers earlier that day.

  “I can’t go any other way—we’re blocked by cars.” He craned his neck back toward the church as hard as he could to see the metal mayhem of double, triple, and even quadruple parked cars he left behind and grumbled, “It’s as if we’re under siege.”

  She saw that he was right, so she continued with Hank’s accusation. “I can’t stand the guy, obviously—but a murderer? To that degree?”

  “I’m just saying that even a priest—”

  Hank’s windshield exploded into a white mesh of glass spiderwebs as Vicki screamed.

  Twenty

  Hank seized the steering wheel, unable to see into the darkness past the tiny jagged panes of glass etched in the shattered windshield. The steering resisted him; his tires fought for traction as Hank wrestled for control. At the mercy of a slick road, the car was sent into a spin—Hank couldn’t fix his sight on anything.

  Vicki spotted the sharp corner of the cinder block projecting its thwarted threat, hanging wedged in the glass, pointing at her chest. Their car smashed into something backward, snapping their heads in that direction, and then spun, careening in a wide arc forward, crashing into something solid as Hank’s face slammed into his white knuckles. The smell of gasoline flooded the compartment.

  An old terror sealed the screams in her chest. Vicki’s lungs were unable to match the measure of her panic as the lethal scent of her nightmares filled her consciousness. The car’s final impact finished what the the first fall of the cinder block failed to do, this time forcing it through the splintered glass and successfully driving the heavy cinderblock into her belly, viciously punching all air from her lungs.

  “Vicki, get out!” Hank spat as blood and fumes filled his mouth. He wiped splashing fuel from his eyes and turned to see Vicki struggling to push the heavy cement block off her stomach, gasping for breath.

  “Oh, God—Vicki!” He twisted in his seat, fighting against his locked seat belt as the cold wetness of the gasoline spilled over his thighs and hands from the shattered window. Even in his panicked state, he realized that the gasoline was coming from above—not his fuel tank below.

  Fuck! He pulled at the cinder block with his one arm as the other scrambled to release his seat belt. A thick, gas-soaked rope tied to the heavy block extended up and out of the windshield.

  Vicki pushed with him. The pain released her scream as the coarse, rough-hewn surface scraped against her tender belly, and the sharp, heavy corner bit down into her thigh. No longer locked, Vicki’s screams morphed from injury into something terrible. Panic—laced with the terror of a small child facing her greatest terror—filled the interior as her hands frantically slapped against the heavy stone and her vehicular cage, fighting to escape the deadly toxic wash.

  Hank knew he had to get her out of here quickly, understanding more about the level of her fright than he wanted to let on. Within the eternity of a few seconds, his clip released. His other hand seized the far side of the cinder block, and he lifted the punishing weight from her.

  Vicki scrambled for her own seat belt as Hank rolled the cinder block onto the dash—the top of the shattered windshield let go, and a gush of gasoline doused Vicki’s torn blouse, burning a sharp sting into the large scrape across her reddened, exposed midriff. Her hand was already releasing her door latch when she felt Hank’s hands shoving her out the side, and he crashed down on the ground on top of her.

  They rolled, scrambled and then dashed across the street. As they hurled over the hood of a parked car, Hank caught a glance of a blinding red streak a fraction of a second before they felt the powerful whoomph at their backs as flames instantly enveloped his car.

  Even though the agents were still dripping with gasoline, Hank was certain they were far enough from the fire. They remained huddled behind the car—Vicki shaking uncontrollably—as they heard the inevitable boom of Hank’s exploding fuel tank. Through the reflection in the large house window in front of them, they watched the massive ball of churning orange and black fire roll toward the night sky.

  “Are you okay?” he screamed.

  She was shaking, fighting her demons, but she nodded.

  “You sure?” He glanced down at the bloodstains on her shirt.

  † † †

  She struggled to reclaim her breath. “Yeah.” She didn’t sound convincing, and the tears she fought betrayed her true state—these were not from the physical sting of gasoline. Vicki was slipping too fast into
the vicious snap of a bear trap that she had worked for years to leave buried in her mind. As she tried to distract that smell with handfuls of torn grass, her breathing steadied, and her emotions battled back from the sharp maw of her childhood trauma.

  Fortunately the car’s second impact had only managed to slide the heavy block into her. Winded, she was scraped, bruised and reeling from shock but, otherwise, physically okay. Had the block’s first attempt succeeded in fully breaching the windshield at that speed, the damage to her would have been crippling, if not fatal. She shuddered to think of how exposed they would have been in her convertible.

  † † †

  Hank was comfortable enough with the distance between his flaming car and their fuel-soaked bodies to look directly at the carnage. He could hear the sirens approaching from a distance as people slowly emerged from their homes, drawing each other’s attention to the extravagant evening spectacle on their quiet street.

  While the agents’ current position was safe, Hank sensed a chill when he saw many of their first panicked footsteps alight in flames on the road, striding toward them—footprints from Hell.

  Past the burning brightness, Hank could see that they had slammed into a concrete barrier that was pulled out of its place and into their lane. There was no way he would have been able to miss it—this was a trap.

  Hank watched Sheriff Roscoe rush from his pickup, ignoring the hurled curses coming from the owners of the lawn he had skidded his truck upon. He drove his personal vehicle, but a red light carved wide cherry arcs through his windshield.

  “Holy mother of fuck!” he yelled as he approached the flames. Shielding his face from the inferno, he struggled for a closer look inside as he screamed indistinguishable commands into his cell phone.

  “Over here!” Hank yelled as he stood waving at the sheriff.

  Roscoe shielded his face against the firelight, forcing his eyes to adjust. “Is that you, Hank?”

  “Yeah!”

  He ran faster. “You hurt?”

  “No! Vicki took a hit!”

  The sheriff broke into a full sprint.

  Three patrol cars rounded the corner, lights blazing, slicing at the night with red and blue, followed by two speeding ambulances. The fire engine screamed behind at a close third.

  Roscoe crashed down on his knees beside Vicki. “Where are you hurt?” he asked, his face washed with genuine fear. He took no opportunity to comment on her torn blouse.

  “I’m good—just a scratch.”

  He didn’t look convinced. He glanced up at Hank who shook his head. “Terry!” the sheriff yelled over the sirens, frantically calling a paramedic.

  “I said I was fine.” She winced, too sore to stand. Really, it was the overpowering fright that struck the weakness in her thighs.

  Roscoe ignored her statement, then Terry arrived. “Check her,” he said, stepping out of the paramedic’s way.

  The sheriff looked from the burning car to Hank. “What happened?”

  “Ambush.” Over all the noise, Hank could still hear his heart pounding in his ears.

  The two men stood together, staring in awe, as the car’s flames challenged the powerful sprays of water.

  The paramedic called from behind them, “Sheriff?”

  They both turned.

  “She’ll be okay. A few serious scrapes and bruises but nothing internal to worry about.”

  “Told you,” she said as the paramedic helped her to her feet. She pushed past the fear, forcing herself against gravity.

  Roscoe ran to his truck for a moment and quickly returned. “We’ve got to get you out of those clothes,” he said, handing them each a blanket.

  Vicki waited for it, but the lewd remark never followed. Roscoe was as shaken as they were.

  Roscoe updated them that two units had pursued the black Escalade. The dangerous high-speed chase had taken them an hour east of town even after two other county units and a California highway patrol vehicle had joined the hunt. They said the vehicle went dark, like a ghost in the night—vanished. They were still looking, now with air support. The plates were registered to a man in Monterey. The local PD ran it down, but the man was home with his partner—and the plates were still mounted on his black Escalade. Roscoe schooled Dashel on the obvious impossibilities of bending space-time from within the cab of a speeding vehicle. The plates Hank had memorized were counterfeit.

  † † †

  Other than Hank insisting that they drop off Vicki first, no one in Roscoe’s truck said a word. Hank walked her to the door. “I don’t like this.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Don’t make this into a bigger thing than it already is.”

  “Bigger? Vicki, you almost—”

  Her glare warned him off.

  He could tell terror still laced her stubborn stare, but, like a wounded animal insisting on solitude over support, he knew its bite could be worse.

  She gnawed her lower lip to stop its incessant quiver as she glanced past his shoulder at Roscoe’s truck, then around into the night, anywhere to avoid eye contact.

  Looking to steal an extra moment before leaving her alone, which was all kinds of wrong in his mind, he asked, “You think it was him?”

  “You know that’s impossible. Roscoe said his men chased him out of town while we were in the church.”

  “Only if he’s working alone.”

  She paused. “Would it sound stupid if I told you that I’m sure he is?”

  “No.” He smiled, knowing the feeling.

  She tried hard to return his smile—and failed.

  “Last chance,” he said. “You sure?”

  She looked at him and simply nodded; then she stepped through her door. She turned as he was stepping down the first step, trying her best to sound funny. “How ’bout I drive tomorrow?”

  He chuckled and nodded. “Good plan.” His gaze lingered on her door as it closed, waiting for the lock to click, the sick threat building in his belly as he stepped away.

  † † †

  Roscoe pulled up in front of Hank’s motel. “I’ll let you know what the team finds as soon as I get the report.”

  Hank nodded. He slipped out of the seat, closed the door behind him and then paused. Before Roscoe pulled away, Hank turned to the open window. “Thanks, Sheriff.”

  He nodded—but didn’t smile—and drove off.

  † † †

  The instant Roscoe’s taillights pulled away, Vicki had started to tremble. Everything around her—her blanket, her clothes, her shoes—threatened to destroy her.

  She hurried through her kitchen—snatching a garbage bag as she went—and walked straight out to the garbage bins by the back lane. She stripped naked, stuffing the stinking blanket and clothes into the bag, and then shoving it as far down into the can as she could. She traipsed barefoot across her garden, into her house and straight into the shower.

  She couldn’t crack the window wide enough. The steam reeked of gasoline—terror trapped in vapor. Her flesh grew hot pink from the intense heat of the shower, turned as far left as she could bear. For forty minutes she scrubbed raw every surface, corner and crevasse of her body, willing the hateful fluid off her skin between heavy sobs. But even under the intense temperature, Vicki couldn’t stop shaking. She continued to quake as she stepped from beneath the hot stream and crossed to the mirror; her only solace knowing that Hank was not here to see his partner falling apart.

  “Stop it!” Vicki cursed as she attempted the sink faucet again. Her trembling fingers managed to twist the chrome and release the water. She oversqueezed the toothpaste and shoved it into her mouth too hard, nicking her gum with a painful split as she voraciously scrubbed her teeth.

  Today’s fuel had washed a
way years of expensive therapy. Again Vicki saw her as the costly blocks continued to crumble and dissolve. The girl went up in flames in front of Vicki’s eyes, doused in gasoline—the child’s liquefying screams fused into Vicki’s memory. The only way to quiet the preteen’s screams was to find mental blocks that never completely sealed the dead girl away but allowed Vicki to function.

  Special Agent Vicki Starr still panicked at the simple act of fueling her car. She had forced herself to remain composed and complete the necessary task successfully since she had mustered the courage to finally start driving at eighteen. She knew her fear was an issue, but that result was better than the outcome that had been meant for her.

  She slid on her panties but glanced in the mirror before pulling on her cotton T-shirt. She had made it through the ordeal. She was alive—her flesh remained unburned. Safe in her bathroom, it was only the smell that lingered—not the actual gasoline. She looked into the mirror, into her eyes, and, against her strongest will, they filled with tears.

  Twenty-one

  In the dark of the early morning, the lights around her mirror flooded the spacious bathroom, framing the cool, refreshing blackness of the open window beside her.

  The woman in the mirror was a welcome surprise. Considering the ordeal last night—and the lack of sleep that followed—Vicki actually managed to recreate her flawless self.

  Her belly was sore, and the thin surface-level scrape was raw, red and stung a lot; and a viciously black bruise medallion had presented on her left thigh. However, considering what might have been a full-on attempt on her life, she had come out of it pretty fair.

  She had scrubbed her body as hard as she could again this morning—double the soap—pressing through the pain on her already raw and tender bits. The shower continued to reek of gasoline, but she was building a tolerance and felt better this morning.

  She looked herself over in the mirror. “Mmm hmm—lookin’ good, baby,” she said, surprising herself. She admired her high cheekbones, her flawless skin, slight nose and perfect lips. Her wet hair gave her a sexy let’s ride motif that she dared not don for work—even though she toyed with the idea.