Fixed in Fear

by T. E. Woods

  “It’s almost lunchtime,” Selby said. “Think we should order ’em some pizzas or maybe some sandwiches from the Subway?”

  Rita watched them for a moment. “I don’t think so, John. Let ’em in to use the bathrooms if they need to, but nobody gets past you without an appointment, okay?”

  Selby nodded. “You got it, Chief. Have a good day.”

  Rita wished him the same and went straight to her office. Her secretary handed her a stack of messages. A few were from out-of-state reporters hoping for an update on what the media had dubbed “The Sweat Lodge Massacre.” One call was from a news service in Paris. She understood a twenty-four-hour news cycle demanded a steady stream of juicy stories. And what could entice a viewing audience more than in-depth coverage of a sacred ritual turned bloody in a small rural town? She handed the messages requesting interviews and comments back to her secretary.

  “Shred these, will you, Kayla? And from here on out if any reporter calls let ’em know I won’t be answering any questions until I call a press conference. Get their information and let ’em know you’ll call them back when I’ve scheduled one.”

  “Will do, Chief.” Kayla set the pink message slips aside. “How’d it go in Seattle? That detective’s a good-looking man. You guys have breakfast together, maybe? I like that suit. Flatters your figure better than your uniform does. No offense intended. By the way, I talked to a friend of mine working up there at the Seattle station. She tells me Detective Grant’s single. Been widowed almost four years now. His son’s that writer guy. You know the one? Wrote about that Fixer lady killing all those bad guys? That’s one interesting family if you ask me.”

  Rita sifted through the remaining messages while Kayla rambled on. She’d grown accustomed to people identifying every man they considered available who happened to be crossing her path. They meant well, she knew that. She also knew it was impossible to stop them and had long ago developed a strategy of simply tuning them out.

  “I see the mayor’s called twice.” Rita interrupted Kayla’s comments about how much she and Mort must have in common. “Call her back. See if she’s available for lunch. If she is, order us something. I know the mayor likes Chinese.”

  Kayla nodded. “Kung pao chicken. Can’t get enough of it.”

  Rita knew the mayor would be dogged by the city council and the chamber of commerce to get this case solved. Mass murder was bad for business. Particularly a mass murder that occurred during a religious ceremony. The very name Enumclaw was derived from a Salish Native American term that translated to place of evil spirits. The mayor would want to announce an arrest long before some reporter put that particular tidbit on the airwaves. Rita understood that any pressure the mayor felt would roll downhill, picking up steam until it landed on her. The least she could do was feed the mayor a decent meal.

  “Make it two,” Rita requested. “And tell ’em if they can guarantee a couple of good-news fortune cookies, I’ll tip ’em big.”

  Rita went into her office. She was able to return a few calls before the mayor arrived, storming in and asking Rita if she had any idea how difficult the past couple of days had been for her even before Kayla had time to close Rita’s office door. Rita sat behind her desk with her hands resting open-palmed on her lap. She held her face in composed stillness and traced her breath from slow inhale to long exhale while she mentally envisioned a walk she’d taken a few weeks ago. Her eyes were directed to the mayor, who ranted about tourist dollars and public image. While it would have looked to anyone passing by that the mayor had her chief of police’s full attention, Rita Willers was somewhere else.

  It had been Monday night of Labor Day weekend. The combination of an extra day off, good weather, and special pricing at every liquor store in town produced a flood of calls into the station. Every officer, from patrolman to leadership staff, was working. Rita rode that day with Jenna Delvecchio, a sergeant with ten years on the force. They worked a twelve-hour shift and responded to calls ranging from backyard parties that uninvited neighbors found too rowdy to a domestic disturbance involving a drunken wife threatening to stab her meth’ed-out husband with a barbecue fork if he didn’t stop daring their seven-year-old son to throw back another shot of tequila.

  It was nearly midnight when Rita was able to clear the station and head home. She’d been too wired to sleep. Instead, she changed out of her uniform into shorts and a sweatshirt. She traded her department-issue boots for hikers and took off on the trail that led from the edge of town to a forested nature preserve. The moon was a thin silver crescent in an ebony sky. The glow from countless millions of stars lit her way.

  Her footsteps crackled into the night as she walked across twigs and cones dropped from boughs of pine and cedar too tired from the long hot summer to hold them any longer. The sound alerted the residents of the dark cathedral that a stranger had arrived. She heard the hooted warnings of the owls high above her and the scampering escape of mice and voles on the ground. The air was moist and warm against her skin as she climbed the gentle slope leading to a clear-cut ridge in the center of the preserve. She breathed deep and inhaled the eternal perfume of pine and earth and musk. Her muscles tightened as the climb shifted to a more demanding grade. With each step she buried the demands of the day as her legs pushed her higher toward the ridge. Her breath was shallow and insistent when she finally reached the summit and looked down at the treeless slope cascading beneath her feet.

  She stretched her arms to the heavens, reaching through the aeons to elders who had lived before her. Thanking them for the contribution each had given. Someone with her eyes used them a thousand years ago to hunt the animals that once populated this plateau. She thanked them for giving her the eyes to see clearly now. A thousand years before that, an ancestor with her hands had built a fire to keep their family from harm. She was grateful to them for giving her the hands she could now use to keep the town safe. She stood on the ridge and felt the spirits of the ancients come to her, surround her with their protection and promise. She smiled and closed her eyes, alone in the night, sensing them dance about her. She asked them to guide her and felt their unified commitment. A few long moments later she knew in her soul that it was time for them to leave. Rita opened her eyes and looked up to see a shower of stars race across the sky. She thanked the universe for the blessed night, turned, and followed the trail back to her home.

  Kayla knocked on the door, bringing her out of her reverie. Rita called for her to enter and asked her to set the two bags filled with paper containers on the table at the far end of her office.

  “What’s this now?” the mayor asked.

  “A little something,” Rita said as she stood and waved the mayor over to join her. “With all you’re going through, the least we can do is offer you a decent meal. C’mon. You need the energy.”

  The mayor opened the larger of two containers Rita placed in front of her. Her stern face melted into a smile as she inhaled the spicy aroma of her favorite Chinese meal. Rita took a seat opposite her and reached into the restaurant bag.

  “Chopsticks or fork?” she asked the suddenly happy public servant.

  —

  Rita’s afternoon was filled with paperwork and meetings. Despite the urgency of solving these murders, she still had a department to run. And the criminal element of Enumclaw wasn’t about to go on hiatus just because five people got themselves killed in a sweat lodge. It was nearly seven o’clock when she decided the day had settled enough for her to leave. She was looking forward to an hour on the treadmill in her spare bedroom while she watched the latest episode of her favorite television show. She glanced outside. The media trucks were still there, but the reporters were nowhere in sight. She figured they’d retired to their hotels. Probably all gathered down at the lounge drinking red wine and swapping war stories. She sent a silent wish to her ancestors that they’d all have one glass too many and sleep past their wake-up calls.

  She jotted a few items onto her to-do list for the next
day. First on the list was to call Mort Grant and see what he and Larry had learned from their visit to Carlton Smydon’s place. She bristled at the small tug of excitement that tickled the corner of her mind when she wrote the name Larry on the yellow pad. She stood, pulled her keys out of her purse, and had just turned off her desk lamp when Dalton Rogers, the younger of the two officers who had first responded to the sweat lodge murder scene, knocked on the frame of her open office door. Since Dalton had spent only two years on the force, Rita wasn’t surprised to see him still working a few hours past his official shift’s ending. She understood the desire to make a name by letting the brass see you putting in the hours.

  “Got a second, Chief?” Rogers looked her up and down, his surprise at seeing her out of uniform written on his face.

  “What is it, Officer?” Rita dialed her tone a bit sterner than she would have to overcome the femininity of her pink blouse.

  “I don’t mean to interfere with any plans you might have for tonight, but I thought you’d want to know.” The twenty-five-year-old averted his eyes, as though he was embarrassed seeing his chief in anything other than official departmental issue. “I just picked up a call from Blue Dancer. You know, she used to be Cindy Easton.”

  Rita knew. “She works at Tall Oaks Lodge. She was the driver who took the victims up to the sweat lodge that day. What did she want?”

  Officer Rogers looked at his feet. “She called all panicky. Sounded scared. She’s in her car, driving from Seattle. Said it was her day off and she wanted to do some shopping. I told her she needed to calm down. It’s not good driving in that kind of state. Especially now that the days are getting shorter. Dusk’s the most dangerous—”

  Rita interrupted the obviously rattled policeman. “Why did she call?”

  “She saw him. She’s scared out of her mind. Wants police protection.”

  Rita stepped clear of her desk. “Saw who?”

  Rogers took a deep breath. “One of the Andrews brothers. Or whoever the hell they are. Pardon my French, Chief. She didn’t know if it was Sam or Ernie. But she said she saw him.”

  Rita Willers tossed her keys back on her desk. Sam and Ernie Andrews were the aliases of the two men driven up to the sweat lodge the day of the murders.

  Two men whose bodies were not found.

  Two men she was betting were killers.

  “Where’d she see him?” Rita asked.

  “I don’t know. I just know she called, said she’d been in Seattle all day, was coming back home, and she saw him. She’s wanting to meet me here. Right now. Well, like in an hour or so when she makes it back. I thought you’d want to know.”

  A jolt of electricity surged through Rita’s body, eliminating any fatigue she felt from the long day. “You have her cellphone number?”

  “I do. I told her to drive safe but come straight here.”

  “Call her back. Get her exact location. She’s probably on I-5 but she may be on 164 already. Find out where she is then get in your unit and meet up with her. Follow her right back here. I’ll be waiting for you both.”

  “I’m on it, Chief.” The young officer turned on his heel, pulling out his cellphone as he sprinted to his car.

  Rita Willers turned her desk lamp back on.

  Chapter 14

  It was a few minutes past seven o’clock when Mort saw Lydia walking down the pier toward his houseboat. He’d called her after dropping Larry back at his university office. Mort had asked if his friend wanted to grab a burger down at the Crystal, but he knew Larry would want to spend the evening reading the letters he’d discovered in the dead man’s study. And he’d want to do it alone. Mort understood. If he had found a pile of writings from Edie, he’d lock the world away until he’d memorized every line. Mort wasn’t ready for a quiet evening. So he called Lydia to see if she’d be willing to drive up after work. He needed to clear the air with her.

  “Are you alone?” Lydia asked as she reached his boat. She wore jeans and a soft sweater, the color of which reminded Mort of mint ice cream. Even though she was dressed casually, Lydia had a way of carrying herself that would have made her modest ensemble worthy of Seattle’s snootiest white tablecloth restaurant. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a soft knot at the nape of her neck, but the gentle breeze drifting over the lake teased wisps around her face. Lydia’s blue eyes scanned the entirety of the houseboat. A person who didn’t know her would assume she was simply admiring the quaint nautical cottage, but Mort knew she was assessing the situation, preparing herself for any contingency. Lydia Corriger was never at ease. Mort knew her history and understood why. But that didn’t make him stop feeling a hopeless sense of sympathy for the woman.

  “Just me.” He waved her aboard and back to the rear deck where he was sitting. “I’ve got a bottle of merlot open if you’re interested.”

  Lydia stood motionless at the stern of the houseboat, watching Lake Union’s early evening activity. “Where’s Aggie? Out for a paddle?”

  Mort liked that she remembered his neighbor. They’d met a few times. Agatha Skurnik had the discernment that came with eight decades of intelligent living. She’d told Mort, upon first meeting Lydia, that she liked her.

  She also warned him to be careful, commenting on the low pulsing note only the most astute could detect in Lydia’s calm demeanor. “That girl’s scared, Mort,” he recalled her saying. “And scared people can be dangerous.”

  “No.” Mort handed Lydia a glass of wine. “Aggie’s down in Portland for a few days. Learning how to paddleboard.”

  Lydia’s smile was generous. “On the Columbia? She could have taken lessons here, I’m sure. Why would she choose one of the windiest rivers in the world?”

  Mort shrugged. “What can I say? The woman lives for challenge.”

  Lydia clinked her glass against Mort’s bottle of Guinness. “Here’s to challenges, then. May Aggie find them for years to come.”

  “And may we have fewer of them,” Mort said before taking a sip.

  They sat in flanking deck chairs. Mort knew she’d wait for him to speak first. Lydia wasn’t one for small talk. She’d want to know the reason for his invitation before she spoke.

  “Like I said on the phone yesterday, I’m proud of you.” Mort didn’t explain further. She’d not admit to any involvement with Eddie Dirkin’s capture. “And also like I said, I’m worried about you.”

  “I can take care of myself, Mort.” Lydia’s eyes were fixed on a pair of ducks paddling past.

  “I hope you can, Liddy. But if an addict visits a crack house often enough, well…let’s just say it’s easier to avoid the pipe if he steers clear of those types of situations.”

  “Or if she steers clear? You’re comparing me to a crack addict now?” She tracked the ducks as they swam to the right. “I’m okay, Mort.”

  “You’re a strong woman. No doubt about that in my mind at all. But sometimes we can think we’re a little too strong. Maybe get to thinking we can handle certain situations, but the next thing we know we’re getting run over by them.”

  “If this is what you want to talk about, maybe it’s best I leave.” Her voice was steady. She meant what she said. But it was also warm. Like someone who hoped he’d drop the topic because she really wanted to stay.

  “How’s life for you down in Olympia?” Mort hoped she’d relax if he changed subjects. “Business good?”

  She smiled. “Too good, I think. I thought it would take me longer to rebuild my practice. But I’m to the point where I’m only taking cases that really interest me. My patients are working hard. I like that.”

  “Yeah, well, they’ve got a damned good psychologist. I hope they know that.”

  Lydia turned toward him, a curious look in her eyes. “And just how would you know what kind of psychologist I am? I’d know if you had my office bugged.”

  Mort was certain she would. Her sense of self-preservation was the legacy of a childhood spent with her very survival depending upon her ability to pr
edict what the adults around her were liable to do. One slip—and from the files he’d read about her time in the foster system he knew there’d been many—could lead to rapes or beatings. The younger Lydia hadn’t been able to assure her safety. The adult Lydia employed every resource available to ensure she was never again the victim.

  “I see how you care for your patients. How you care about them. I see how you are with me.” He took another pull from his Guinness. “I’m not always the cool, calm, and collected man about town you see before you.” Her smile was coming more easily. He liked that. “You’ve been there for me, Liddy. I’ve not forgotten.”

  Her silence reminded him how uncomfortable she was with praise. Poor Liddy, he thought. Hungry to know you belong and are welcome, yet so unfamiliar with genuine affection you’re awkward and unnerved by the simplest compliment. He decided to shift topics again.

  “I wonder if you’re working too hard. You getting out much? How’s that relationship going? I don’t typically endorse great women dating anyone who’s ever been near a police academy, but as far as cops go, you couldn’t do better than Detective Paul Bauer.”

  “Edie seemed to do all right with you.”

  A gentle soothing came over him at the mention of Edie’s name. He took that as a good sign. The days the thought of her caused nothing but white-hot crushing pain were gone. Even the sad times were getting shorter and farther apart. Now the memories of his late wife usually brought him peace. He knew better than to hope the constant missing of the woman who’d been his truest companion for over thirty years would ever disappear. He’d settled into acceptance, and that seemed to be enough.

  “Yeah, well, if she did it was none of my doing. But don’t change the subject. It’s not good to stay in that fortress you’ve built for yourself. Gorgeous as it is, a bunker’s still a bunker.”

  He knew she was considering his words. Mort watched the light shift on the water and gave her the time she needed.