The Dirty Secret

by Brent Wolfingbarger

  INNOCENT DO NOT BELIEVE LIES.

  Monica wiped away tears and clamped down on her rising rage with an iron will.

  I don’t know who killed him, but I know he didn’t kill himself. Now I have to convince these people Marcus was framed so they can start figuring out who murdered him.

  “Before you jump to any conclusions, Sheriff, could you have someone who understands sign language watch this video? I think you’ll be shocked at what they tell you.”

  CHAPTER 102

  ESQUIRE HOTEL

  CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA

  SUNDAY DECEMBER 14, 8:20 P.M.

  Tabatha lounged in bed watching a movie on Lifetime. Wearing a peach silk camisole and matching French-cut panties, a bag of microwave popcorn and a glass of wine sat on the bedside table to her right.

  The movie’s heroine had learned that her supposedly devoted husband was actually a convicted murderer living under an assumed name in California after escaping from an Alabama prison. Making matters worse, he was living a double-life, spending half his time with another wife he maintained in a city two hours north.

  You should have known better, sister. Men are dogs. You need to use them before they can use you. Get leverage on them and never give it up.

  The lying dog begged the heroine for forgiveness. “She means nothing to me, I swear! I just married her because she got pregnant and she wouldn’t let me see my son otherwise.”

  Don’t believe him. Act like you believe him, then clean out his bank account before his other wife beats you to it. Take care of Number One first. Everyone else can fend for themselves.

  The phone rang. Tabatha answered without even looking away from the TV. “Hello?”

  “Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but you have a visitor down here,” a husky male voice said.

  Tabatha sat up, smirking. “Oh, really? Who is it?”

  The caller paused. “Someone from the Capitol, ma’am.”

  A-ha. How very thoughtful of you to drop by, Mr. Governor. I knew you couldn’t resist the chance to tap this again.

  Swinging her pedicured feet to the floor, she smoothed her camisole. “Tell him I need five minutes to freshen up. After that, you can send him up. The door will be propped open.”

  “I’ll let him know.”

  Tabatha hung up and walked into the bathroom, toting the bag of popcorn with her. Throwing it away, she quickly brushed her teeth, put on some lip gloss and sexed up her hair.

  There. You look absolutely edible. Now you can give the governor some of that pussy made of sunshine God gave you. Then he’ll remember why it’s good to keep Momma happy. Because if Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

  As she walked out of the bathroom, preparing to provocatively drape herself on the bed, the door creaked open, then shut. She donned her best studio-perfect smile, and just as she turned toward the door, she heard three quick, heavy steps ominously rolling toward her.

  The collision knocked her to the floor. She landed with one arm trapped beneath her.

  What’s happening?!

  It felt like a Volkswagen was parked on top of her. Thick, gloved hands clutched at her hair, ripping her head backward.

  “If you scream, I swear to God I’ll fucking kill you,” the man said, grabbing a fistful of hair with one hand and rolling her onto her back. Then he slipped his humongous fingers from her hair and began gripping them tightly around her throat.

  Oh, God! I can’t breathe! Help! Somebody help!

  Tabatha clutched at her throat to no avail. The massive bald man on her chest brushed her hands aside while closing his grip on her windpipe even tighter. Wearing black denim jeans and a matching long-sleeved mock turtleneck, he looked old but was as strong as a bear. “I know you’ve been paid a lot of money for your vote tomorrow, you fucking cunt. That vote is the only reason you’re still alive. Do you understand me?”

  Wide-eyed, Tabatha kept squirming, desperately trying to hurl her attacker off her chest.

  Get off! Can’t breathe! Oh, my God!!!! Help!!!!

  “You better get real smart, real quick, Tabatha,” he growled. “I’m not talkin’ to hear my fuckin’ head rattle! Do you want to live another five minutes or not?”

  Wordlessly, she nodded emphatically though he was jamming the back of her head into the carpet and pinching her trachea shut.

  “Good. Then listen closely, because you only get one chance to get this right.”

  Tabatha stared into the man’s eyes and was terrified by what she saw there. Unshakable, dark, cold, pitiless, non-negotiable rage stared back at her as the Lifetime movie played through the television’s speakers.

  “You will vote for Melanie Wilson and Luke Vincent tomorrow at noon,” the man said flatly. “You can keep every fucking penny you’ve been paid to prostitute yourself that way, I don’t give a shit. Enjoy it. But you will never speak to Luke Vincent again. I could live with you screwing his brains out as long as you were discreet. But for you to have the fucking gall to use that against him – threatening to tell his wife about it and then trying to bribe him to leave his wife in exchange for the vice-presidency …” The man sneered, using his grip on her windpipe to jostle her head. “That’s unforgivable. You’re way out of your league here, Little Missy. Stupid, greedy sluts like you have been gang-raped and left floating dead in a river for less than that.”

  Tabatha feared she was losing consciousness, as her brain vainly screamed for oxygen. She wanted to sob, but her lungs were empty. Lying on the floor with this monster on top of her, she realized she was very much in danger of dying. Her lips trembled uncontrollably and she felt the hot sensation of urine trickling down the backs of her thighs.

  “Do I make myself clear?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. She nodded like her life depended on it.

  “Good,” the man spat, easing his grip on her throat. “Because if you ever try to contact Luke again, or speak of your affair to anyone, I will hunt you down and do vile, mortifying things to you. I will treat you like the unspeakable whore you are. And then I will kill you.”

  With that, he let go of her throat and kneed her once in the stomach. As she doubled over in pain, gasping for air, he stood up, casually walked over to the door and exited the room.

  As oxygen re-entered her lungs, Tabatha laid crumpled on the floor in her own urine. The sound of hysterical screaming filled the room. Then she realized she was the one screaming, and she clapped her hands over her mouth as she stared around the room through tear-filled eyes.

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God! I have to call the police! No, I can’t call the police! He’ll find me. He’ll kill me. He’ll kill me. He’ll kill me.

  Rising from the floor, she flung herself onto the bed and cried uncontrollably with her face planted in a pillow, muffling the noise.

  Think, Tabby! Think! You’ve got to get control of yourself! Think!

  CHAPTER 103

  ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 14, 8:50 P.M.

  Three slender candles lazily burned atop the coffee table. Rikki reclined on one sofa arm holding a glass of red wine. Wearing a pink cotton sweater and light blue jeans, her feet were curled beneath her as she watched Dave sitting at the other end of the sofa. As he stared into the gas logs, the flames’ shadows flickered across his face. Instrumental music from the Big Band era softly flowed from the stereo speakers.

  As she studied her ex-fiancé’s profile, Rikki smiled faintly. His green eyes sparkled, hinting at the intelligence she had long admired and found desirable. The gray flecks scattered through his short-cropped brown hair gave him an air of maturity, and the youthful cocksureness that used to grate on her nerves at times had been replaced with an aura of gravity and serenity.

  No one has ever accused him of lacking self-confidence. But he seems more humble now, and that combination of confidence and humility is downright sexy.

  The sound of upbeat saxophones filled the room and Dave grinned widely. Gl
ancing at Rikki, he bopped his head and snapped his fingers in beat with the music. “I love this song! It reminds me of my grandparents.”

  “What is it?”

  “Little Brown Jug. Glenn Miller Orchestra. It’s just … catchy.”

  God, it takes so little to make him happy. He’s like a kid at Christmas all the time.

  Rikki sighed. “How you can be so aloof, knowing what we’re facing in the morning?”

  Dave shrugged, still bopping. “No sense worrying about what we can’t control. There’s nothing else we can do tonight, so why worry about it?”

  It must be nice to be so carefree. Care to bottle some of that attitude for me?

  Rikki raised her wineglass. “Here’s to stopping Tabatha in her tracks tomorrow.”

  “Here’s to you,” Dave responded. “For having the courage to seek justice for Jack, even though you think Melanie Wilson should be President. You’re a brave, amazing woman.”

  The prosecutor bit her lip. “You’re too kind. I’m just doing what my father would have expected me to do. But thanks for acknowledging my dilemma.”

  Rikki took a sip of her wine. Its sweet, yet somewhat tart taste filled her mouth as she pondered the strange twists of fate that had brought her to this moment.

  I’m sitting here drinking wine with my ex-fiancé. It should feel bizarre, but it just feels … right.

  The stereo played the finishing flurry from Little Brown Jug and, after a few seconds of silence, the haunting clarinet intro to Moonlight Serenade began to play. Dave sat his wineglass down and extended his left hand across the couch, palm up. “Care to dance, Rik?”

  Rikki’s stomach dropped. As if in a dream, she took his hand and stood up, allowing him to guide her to the middle of the floor. Dave wrapped his right arm around the small of her back, grasped her right hand in his left, and they slowly began moving in rhythm with the song.

  Following his lead, her pulse slowly quickened. Softly rubbing her left hand against his muscular shoulder, she tilted her face toward his cheek and got a whiff of his aftershave. The scent made her smile, as did the feel of his hand holding her close without forcibly pulling her against him.

  God, this feels right, she thought. Closing her eyes, she leaned closer as they slowly rotated again, and she felt Dave’s fingertips softly nudge into the small of her back.

  Then, as the hypnotic tones of the muffled brass instruments played on, she felt his lips press gently against her cheek. Consciously attempting to control her breathing, Rikki subtly turned her head to the right, and his lips softly made contact with hers.

  The kiss went on, slowly at first. Opening her mouth slightly, she felt his tongue delicately explore the inside of her full lips. After two more circles on the dance floor, Rikki felt Dave put his left hand on her cheek and the passion from their kiss built in her chest.

  “I have missed you so much, Rikki,” he whispered between nibbles on her lips.

  Her breathing sped up and she ran her long fingers through the short tufts of hair on the back of his head. “I’ve missed you, too,” she said breathily. “God knows I wanted to forget you ever existed, but being in your arms just feels so right. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t.”

  Staring into his green eyes, Rikki saw a hunger she vividly remembered. It was matched by the longing growing inside her.

  Three soft claps sounded from the dining room. Turning her head, she felt her knees buckle as she saw a tall, muscular man with a blond crew-cut standing there. Bright white teeth peeked out from beneath his sneer, and the lower half of his left ear was missing.

  “Wow,” Yuri Petrenko said caustically. “How touching. What a shame it took 15 years to reach this point.”

  “How do you know that?” Dave demanded, squaring his shoulders and placing himself between Petrenko and Rikki. “And how did you get in here?”

  Oh, God, Rikki realized, I left the doors unlocked.

  Petrenko laughed. “You know AIS. We know everything about everybody. I could recite your wedding date, your divorce date, her dad’s date of death, yada yada yada. All that really matters is this goody two-shoes girl of yours started sniffing around Jack McCallen’s unfortunate demise, and she left her backdoor unlocked tonight. Not a good combination of decisions. It seems she has this mistaken belief that people are inherently good and trustworthy.”

  Dave cast a sour glance over his shoulder at Rikki. “Nobody’s perfect,” he muttered.

  Petrenko reached down to his belt, unsheathing an eight-inch-long blade that shimmered in the firelight. “If it’s any consolation, I do feel guilty butting in like this. Part of me wanted to wait until after the humping was over to kill you both, but I couldn’t risk waiting any longer.”

  “Hey!” Rikki blurted. “What makes you think there was going to be ‘humping’ going on here tonight anyway?”

  “Please! Moonlight Serenade? That nostalgic crap isn’t playing by accident, lady.”

  Suddenly, the floorboards between the front door and the living room creaked. Looking to her left, Rikki saw Silent Doug Vaughn standing there in a blue WVU sweatshirt, gray cotton sweatpants and gray felt slippers, holding an empty Purex measuring cup. The flames from the fireplace reflected off his glass eye while menace flared in his flesh one.

  “If I was you, Roosky,” he said slowly. “I’d put down that knife and stop badmouthing Glenn Miller. You’re under arrest for burglary, and you don’t want me to add anything else.”

  Petrenko sneered and shook his head in disbelief. “What’s this? The local neighborhood watch hero making a citizen’s arrest? You’re in slippers for God’s sake!”

  Vaughn wiggled the glass measuring cup. “The wife’s baking cookies for her book club meeting tomorrow morning. It’s Sunday night and the grocery is closed, so she sent me next door to borrow some sugar from Rikki. I heard the music playing and figured she didn’t hear me knock, so I let myself in.”

  “You left the front door open, too?” Dave asked, incredulous.

  “This is the safest place in the world!” Rikki replied. “We leave our doors unlocked all the time!”

  “Quit jabber-jawing and get your asses behind me right now,” Vaughn growled. Dave and Rikki quickly complied while Vaughn slowly stepped toward Petrenko. “I’m trying to talk some sense into your visitor before he does something stupid he’ll end up regretting.”

  Petrenko laughed so hard Rikki thought he might pee himself. “Listen, Grandpa. There’s no chance those two will be alive tomorrow. You’ve got a lot of balls, and I really don’t want to have to gut you, too. So why don’t you just walk out of here … Tell your wife the prosecutor was asleep and she’ll need to finish baking her cookies tomorrow.”

  Vaughn snatched a grey velour throw from the loveseat and wrapped it around his left forearm. “You’ve never met my wife. She makes Stalin look like Gandhi. I’d rather take my chances with you than walk back in that house without sugar.”

  Petrenko sighed and shifted the knife, gripping it with the blade protruding from the pinky side of his right hand. “Suit yourself,” he said, bouncing toward Vaughn like a boxer emerging from his corner.

  The sheriff stood still with his hands dangling at his sides. Petrenko lunged forward, throwing a right-handed punch and the blade flashed in the firelight. Vaughn nimbly moved his left foot back a half step, using his thickly-wrapped left forearm to brush aside the punch just as he jabbed Petrenko in the face with the Purex measuring cup. The blow jolted the Russian off-balance, leaving him wide-eyed and gape-mouthed.

  Awestruck, Rikki watched Vaughn move like a whirling dervish. Sliding his left hand under Petrenko’s right forearm, he crashed his right elbow down on the Russian’s tricep, causing the knife to shoot violently from his grip. Vaughn then reared back and smashed the glass cup into Petrenko’s face, causing it to explode. Discarding its shattered remnants, he pummeled the man’s face five more times with his bare fist. Petrenko crumpled onto the floor in a dazed and bleeding mess before
losing consciousness.

  Vaughn quickly solidified his grip on Petrenko’s now knifeless and lifeless right hand and forearm, extending them away from his body, backwards and behind his head. Bringing his knee down on the middle of Petrenko’s back, he forcefully pushed the man’s face down into the carpet, balancing his weight between Petrenko’s skull and back to keep him immobilized.

  “Dave,” he said calmly, panting slightly. “Make yourself useful and grab this bastard’s legs for me. Rikki, go fetch my flex-cuffs out of the cruiser. Now!”

  Dave kicked the knife away before pouncing on Petrenko’s legs. Rikki paused briefly to slip on Birkenstocks then rushed out the front door. A minute later, she returned with a fistful of two-foot-long plastic straps. Vaughn hauled the dazed Russian’s hands behind his back. “Do me a favor: Strap a cuff on his wrists and pull it tight. Not so tight that you cut off the blood flow, but too tight for him to weasel out of it.”

  Rikki swiftly looped a strap around Petrenko’s wrists, tightened it, and fastened it into place with a stainless steel barb. She repeated the process with a second strap for good measure.

  “Good,” Vaughn said. “Cuff his ankles, too, and strap his ankles to his wrists. I’ll keep my fat ass on him so he can’t wiggle around.”

  Dave sat on the back of Petrenko’s knees, holding his ankles with a white-knuckled grip, but his face was sweaty and pale. Moaning loudly, Petrenko began kicking against Dave’s grip. Rikki quickly threw a set of flex-cuffs around his ankles and tightened it until it almost cut into his skin.

  The sheriff examined Rikki’s handiwork and smiled. “Okay, Dave. You can get up now. That stupid Roosky ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  Petrenko thrashed wildly against the restraints, gritting his blood-spattered white teeth. Veins popped out on his forehead and arms. It did not matter.