by Rex Miller
“Fair enough,” she said, totally unconvinced, “and now I do have your assurance that—"
“AbsoLUTELY you have that assurance. You'll never hear from me or see me—guaranteed."
She said, “All right,” and the connection was severed. And he had accomplished what he wanted to do. Eichord wasn't too good to kiss some ass when necessary. And when it looked as good as hers did ... But it went against his grain all the same.
He would like to have been able to tell the truth to this cold lady and watch her face while he told her. See what her reaction would be. But he'd forgo that luxury. Still, he'd just about had it with the telephones. One more call and he'd have to get away from the telephone before he barfed into the hunk of plastic. He had managed to embarrass himself so badly at every turn on this damn case.
He wanted to go back and lose himself at the bar, but he forced his fingers to move toward the coin slot of the pay phone and he inserted money and dialed.
“Hello."
“Donna?"
“Yeah.” A big sigh. Oh, Christ in his mercy.
“I'm so sorry.” The opening of every alcoholic since the beginning of time.
“'S awright. No problem."
“Tell me I didn't call you and make a horse's ass out of myself last night."
“You didn't call me and make a horse's ass et cetera."
“I did, didn't I?"
“You don't remember, right?"
“I'd had a few drinks."
“You can say that again, oh...” A loud noise. “Hang on a minute.” She went to turn her boiling kettle off and banged the phone down giving Eichord a nice little shot in the ear as she did so. Oh, blessed art thou. She thought about this man as she turned the flame off. The horrible thing that had overturned her life had left only tatters of the former woman. She could not dredge up any interest in this man as a partner. Someone to be with. But she could see he was interested and in her mind many emotions tried to spark. There were misfires. One or two flashed enough for her to identify what was in her head.
Donna was not a woman to play games. The role of bitch goddess was not one she found acceptable, despite her love for melodrama. She had some character, whether or not her own personal standards of what might constitute sexual misconduct were the average woman's. She lived by her own code, which she had always thought of as—before all else—humanistic. She was an honest person and she knew what drew men was the open free-spirited display of awareness. She could look at a guy, as—they most women can, and tell him everything she wanted him to know in that one frank glance. But she had that gift in even the most asexual encounters, and anyone who spent time close to her felt the visceral quality and realness.
Yet the horrors of her abduction had changed her. She no longer felt in touch with herself, no longer trusted, no longer wanted to be liked. She hated cold people and was both mad and sad about her own growing coldness. Donna did not want to end up alone, closed, pointing inward with her focus, living only for self as she saw so many do. She wanted her life to be full of others, and for her that meant men and that meant sex.
And all of this filled her with mixed emotions and a disconsolate awareness of how badly the status of victim had mangled both her own esteem and her life's longitudinal axis. And she saw, for reasons that were unknown if not unimportant to her, a good man who appeared to be crumbling at a dangerous time, and he had reached out to her as a fellow human being for companionship and she'd cut him off at the pass. In that moment's pause as she turned the flame off and walked back to the telephone she shrugged to herself and the decision she made in those few seconds saved both of them.
“You still there?” she said, making herself sound like she cared.
“Still here. Am I calling at a bad time?"
“No.” She laughed. “But funny you should mention it.” He winced. “I guess you don't remember calling me in the middle of the night asking for a date?"
“I don't suppose I can convince you that was somebody impersonating me."
“Oh, you mean you DON'T want me to go out with you?"
“No! I mean ... Yes, I do. Of course. I meant—"
“I know. Forget it,” she said. She knew if she didn't plunge on ahead that would be it. Now or never. Do it. “You still want to ask me out?"
“Sure,” he said, waiting for the put down.
“How about six-thirty, seven ... something like that? We can go to a show or something.” There.
“Fine. Wonderful. Sure. Six-thirty tonight?"
“Yeah. One thing. I don't like guys to get drunk. I mean, I'm not a what-do-you-call-it, I don't care what somebody else does. But I don't like—TEMPERANCE, that's it, I'm not into that. I just don't like somebody that I'm with that way."
“My word of honor—” He started to do a tap dance.
“That's okay. I just wanted you to know. Okay?"
“Sure. Okay."
He wasn't used to people being so direct. The women in Dallas came on so forthright. He liked it, you understand, he just wasn't used to it. He fumbled around and told her he'd pick her up and thanked her, a little more enthusiastically than either of them liked, and that was that.
Donna Scannapieco puffed up her cheeks and blew out a big stream of air as if she'd inhaled a third of a cigarette, shaking her head at her own moves as if to say, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” And then she just sort of sighed and collapsed on a couch and stared out the window at nothing. What the hell is the difference? she thought. What can it hurt?
For his part it changed everything. He straightened up to his full height, put his shoulders back, and walked out to the car. Mostly what he wanted to do was make it all right. Back to square one.
He sensed or he knew what she was doing. This was a rape victim, somebody to whom the idea of a date—not to mention a date with a booze-hound of a cop—a chauvinistic, booze-hound cop at that—had to be at the bottom of her wish list. Yet she felt enough of his need that she was making one super effort in his behalf and that effort, which some men might have found demeaning or patronizingly insulting, it turned him on as nothing else could have. He loved, treasured honesty in a person insofar as personal relationships went, and she was giving him a priceless gift. Her no-strings-attached forgiveness. And it gave him the necessary shot of strength to get through the day.
Eichord was a full-steam-ahead kind of guy. All or nothing. And there was no thought of failing again. He was back on course as he hadn't been in months. He stopped and bought some dog food in a convenience store, walking past the package goods as if the liquor wasn't there. The last thing he craved was a drink. He craved a toothbrush. He wanted to go home and brush his teeth. But he didn't. He bought a toothbrush and toothpaste and went back to work.
He spent an hour and a half in the cop shop, taking care of some details that had been floating submerged beneath the layer of alcohol. He called someone who's name he obtained from the MCTF computers. The man was very elderly and Eichord pondered whether or not to handle it on the phone or call someone up in the Midwest to send a detective out and question him. He decided he'd gamble first and dialed the man direct, expecting a forgetful old codger who could barely hear, and he was in for a nice surprise.
“Hello, Mr. Lloyman?"
“One and the same. What can I do for you, sir?” Chipper voice.
“My name's Jack Eichord, sir, and I'm with the police department in Dallas, Texas. We're investigating a number of homicides and I need to ask you a few questions please."
“Ah. Okay. All right. Fire away, Mr. Eichord."
“According to some records we've come across you were with the Branson Social Services Agency for many years."
“Yes, sir, I ran that agency for nearly thirty years."
“Do you remember ... Let me ask this, it's a kind of personal question but the records say you're ninety-one. Is your memory such that you can still recall individual cases that you were involved in? Forgive the question."
&n
bsp; “No. That's all right. I must say my memory isn't what it once was. I used to have a fine memory. But I notice this last five or six years it's not what it was when I was in my sixties or seventies, say. I'm awfully lucky, though. I know most ninety-one-year-old men aren't out painting their houses each year like I have for the past fifty-eight years. My health is wonderful for my age. Legs are starting to go, but, well, you asked about memory. Go ahead. Maybe I can remember the case."
“Great.” Eichord loved the guy. “There were twins. They were placed by your agency into a foster-home situation.” He mentioned the year.
“Oh, boy. That's so long ago now. I was about to be forced to retire then but I sort of remember some twins placed with a couple. I couldn't tell you the name."
“Hackabee."
“Hmm? Speak up please?"
“HACK-A-BEE.” He spelled it for the man.
“No. Nope, I don't know that name at all. There was a Hackaberry here in Topeka some years ago, but no. I don't recall a family by that name in Branson."
“The records show they died many years ago but they were apparently the adoptive parents of these twins. We can't find anyone who remembers the twins, which seems unusual. But the records being no longer available and you are the only living survivor of the agency—"
“No! You mean something happened—a fire or something?"
“Not that I know of, sir. I see in the records here"—Eichord turned a page of notes—"that all of the other people who might have worked for the agency back in that time period seem to have pre"—he caught himself before he said predeceased—"passed away or cannot be located."
“Well, my stars. I can't hardly understand that. Some of those people like Marty Burrows and the little Morton girl, what was her name, Ruella Morton—you mean they're all dead now?"
“According to these records, yes, sir, they are."
“See, I moved away, moved out of state in the, oh, guess when I hit sixty-seven, sixty-eight. Opal and I went to Alaska. It was wonderful up there. I had always wanted to go up there. We had a son working up there and so we moved up there. Beautiful country. Anyway, she took sick a few years after that and when she passed away, oh, let's see, I guess after I lost her it was two years before I moved back to the Midwest. We had a little piece of ground we'd bought in Kansas years ago—"
“Mr. Lloyman, the individuals we're investigating. One of them, the twins, is a suspect being held in connection with multiple homicides so it's very important we are able to trace their background. They claim the orphanage there in Branson burned down and the state does not have records on them and the Hackabee family didn't have surviving relatives. Wouldn't it seem odd to you that you don't remember twins with a name like Hackabee?"
“It certainly would. I placed a few twins over the years. But I could swear up and down there wasn't any foster family named Hackabee. I just never recall hearing that name before."
“Did you place any twins in foster homes—identical male twins—during that time period—any instances occur to you that you might think back on as unusual—anything out of the ordinary?” He waited while the man thought.
“Ummm ... No. Can't say as I can think of anything out of the ordinary. Identical male twins ... Didn't place too many. I remember one set we placed with a couple—the Houtchesons was the name of the family they just loved getting those kids so much. I often wondered what happened to them—the boys I mean. They were so cute and smart. Poor little devils. We'd got ‘em from a lady rescued them from an awful situation back in the woods. Rumors of them being tormented and such. Some no-good hillbillies back in a hollow there had ‘em. Poor little tykes. This schoolteacher gal got ‘em somehow and she came to us with the thing. I believe they were there in the hospital for medical attention for a time so you should be able to get their medical records if that would help?"
“Oh.” Eichord was excitedly making notes. “I'll say it would. Do you recall any more details? About the hillbillies that had them or who the schoolteacher was—her name? Anything?"
“No. Nope. Surely don't. So many years ago. ‘Course now you should go to Helen Houtcheson. Or the husband. Let's see what was his name ... I just don't. Richard. Robert. I—uh, it just doesn't come to me. I'll think of it though. ROY! Roy Houtcheson—that was their name."
“Great. This is really a big help.” He thanked the man, extracting a promise he'd allow Eichord to phone back for a follow-up if necessary and giving him the Dallas number and extension in case he'd think of any more details. He was still dialing Branson families with the last name Houtcheson when one of the other phones rang for him.
“Jack,” the voice said, “Doug Geary."
“Hey, Doc. D'jou get the tapes yet?"
“Yes. That was fast. I don't have anything on them myself, but a guy was watching them with me, that is in the lab where the machine is, and he made a comment, I have no idea whether this is worth even passing along. He's a sharp fellow. Was in commercial broadcasting for a number of years and he knows all about voices and accents and such. He made the suggestion to me that y'r buddy Ukie is not speaking in his real voice. I asked him what the hell he was talking about and it turns out that he gets the impression that Ukie is pitching his voice up higher than he normally would. It was such a crazy thing—I mean, what would be the point?—but something you said lit up TILT inside my noggin when he told me that.
“You remember you said something about how they looked just alike but one dresses sloppy and doesn't have as deep or mellow a voice? Wouldn't those be characteristics you could easily change? Get me? If you were a twin and wanted to try and put as much distance between your own appearance and your same image, you could dress differently, walk funny, talk in a different pitch of voice—things like that."
“Interesting.” Eichord couldn't think of anything else to say. “I appreciate anything like this that might come to you. Please."
“No problem. I realize it wasn't earthshaking but I thought you'd want me to call you on it. I'll let you know if I find anything after I've had time to really give them some thought. So far it just looks like I'm watching a man who is scared half out of his gourd."
“Well, I do appreciate the other information. Please lemme know soon as possible—whatever you think might help.” He told him how grateful he was and they hung up. A couple of calls had grown into an hour and. a half and nothing much. He put the Houtcheson thing in the hands of MCTF and walked away from it for the rest of the day—or so he hoped. He had a lot of soul-searching to do. He needed to get his head screwed on right, first of all. And the second he had the thought he burst out laughing at his choice of phrase but it was nonetheless true. He wasn't a tap dancer, he said to himself, he was a cop. Start behaving like one.
He wondered about Joseph Hackabee. Oh, yes. Nothing was right about any of it but his vibes counted and at this particular moment his vibes were shouting to him. He wanted to unfog so he could hear what they were saying. He let himself momentarily visualize them together, Joe and Noel. He had a phrase from one of the task-force background checks that bounced back via Houston PD, “surfer, ultra-light-aircraft pilot, hang-glider, subject is athletic and extremely competitive...” In shape. He and Noel would be a handsome couple. He envisioned her posing in the string bikini. Letting Joseph Hackabee see the little spur of bone at the base of her spine, letting him have a little vestigial tail. A little piece of tail. And that was the last time he would ever think of Noel in a sexual context. He shut her out with the booze.
Right now he was grateful more than anything else. Gratitude was his single overriding emotion. He was grateful to God for letting him come through this somehow. And he thought as he drove, God, just let me nail this one, and Lord, I'll never touch another drop of that stuff. Never. Strike me dead if I'm lyin'. And then he caught himself immediately as he framed the thought and apologized to the Lord. God. Forgive me, Heavenly Father, Blessed Heavenly Father. Forgive me for trying to make a deal with you. Thank you, Lord.
Just thanks, is all.
He was grateful, too, that he had Donna to look forward to. He wanted to be with her and it amused him that he could think of her now so ... How did he think of her? As such a warm, attractive person, just because she took pity on him? No. She was a good woman. She was decent. He liked her a lot. And they'd both been through similar if totally different ordeals. It seemed to Eichord as if they both had a lot of memories they'd just as soon forget.
This was the same Donna he'd sized up as a hardboiled, invulnerable toughie that it was hard to feel any sympathy for. This was the same Donna whose book he'd judged by its cover, so to speak, without the slightest regard for the content. And this is the Donna who has enough compassion to forgive a copper in whom she couldn't have less interest or for whom she couldn't feel less attracted.
But that I can work on, he thought. And he wondered how some pretty flowers would do for openers. Would she be a flower lady, with a home full of plants and ferny things and a garden and stuff growing everywhere? Would Donna be a flower child?
The Ozarks
The tar-paper shanty stands on an unfarmable piece of ground called Deadman's Cut. Inside two little boys, eyes tearing, noses running, filthy, hear Mah-maw scream again and one reaches out to take the other's hand and they wait behind the feed sacks. They know he will come soon. It is only a matter of time.
The woman, their biological mother, is at the end of her third trimester. It is bad this time.
“CLETUS,” she shrieks again.
The two children shudder and wait. They are just little boys. Extraordinary, to be sure. But nevertheless little boys like any other. Yet in this brutal and depraved environment, in this primitive and evil world of horror, they are treated as freaks.
Because they are identical. Eyes, nose, mouth, even ears. Perfectly formed from the convexities to the concavities, twins so startlingly, shockingly alike their appearance staggers the viewer. But they are just little children. Molested. Tortured. Abused. Their twin lives an unending nightmare of depravity. They wait silently, waiting for the next pain or degradation or moment of terror.