by C. A. Shives
She tried to think about her life. Her family. Her friends. But they had all faded. She remembered nothing. Even the dank odor of her surroundings had permeated the bra and panties she wore. Charlotte could not remember smelling anything else other than the musty mildew of the basement.
Although her eyes had been open, she’d remained still. Curled in the fetal position, she’d been unable to force her body into movement. Pain seemed to vibrate through her entire body every time she fluttered a muscle. Most of her thoughts—her logical, rational brain—was buried in the haze of agony that enveloped her body. She felt both aching and numb, creating a sensation that almost paralyzed her.
But the sunbeam—that tiny streak of white light pinpointing the brown stain on the mattress—aroused her. Charlotte’s finger twitched. And then, pressing her lips together in a grim line of determination, she rolled over to her other side.
The agony that shot through her body was like a sharp blade cutting her limbs. Her arms and legs shrieked with pain, and her belly and back throbbed dully. The hard metal coils of the thin mattress felt like fire against her skin.
Tears seeped from the corner of her eyes. She wanted to cry. Wanted to weep. Wanted to sob with all the grief and despair and misery she felt. But Charlotte could not allow herself the luxury of wails. Even the light brush of her tears as they slid down her cheek caused aches on her tender skin.
Then the quivering began. She couldn’t stop herself. Couldn’t prevent the tremors of her body as hopelessness overtook her. Her mouth opened in a silent cry, and then she whimpered.
Everything hurt.
~ ~ ~ ~
Piles of gravel, bags of cement, and stray wooden boards littered the job site. Jason Hayes, owner of Hayes Construction, kicked his boot against a stack of vinyl siding. Those lazy ass bastards, he thought. They're gonna hear it from me when they get to work.
He'd heard rumors around town that the Cloverfield housing development project was starting to look like a ghetto. Fifty large houses on fifty acres of property. All of the houses built in McMansion style. The developer wanted big homes with cheap construction, and Hayes knew how to slap lipstick on a pig. The houses featured spacious rooms, vaulted ceilings, and jacuzzi tubs. But the developer saved money on all the unseen items, like the budget pipes and basic wood framing. Despite his skill for making a cheap house look expensive, Hayes still had a reputation to maintain, and he didn't need the job site looking like it was being built by amateurs.
The crew wasn't scheduled to arrive for another hour, so Jason took his time examining his men's work. Some of the finished houses sported nail pops and mismatched edges on the baseboard trim. Another looked as if a Parkinson's victim had lined the bathtub edges with caulk, since the silicone bead wiggled along the edge. Two of the homes had visible bumps and lumps on the kitchen floor, as if the layer had left a pencil underneath the vinyl tile. By the time Jason walked toward the foreman's trailer, his face was crimson with fury.
Too lost in his own anger to pay attention to his surroundings, he didn't notice anything amiss until he felt the prick on his neck. He cursed, wondering if a pin or needle had gotten lodged in his shirt collar. Then his legs crumpled and he tumbled to the ground, his mind struggling to understand why his body refused to cooperate with its commands.
As his vision started to fade to a hazy blur of darkness, he saw a figure standing over him. Before his world went dark, he had time for one last thought: Fuck, I'm a dead man.
CHAPTER 12
NOVEMBER 7 - WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
Somewhere, in the back of her head, she heard her father’s voice. Deep. Heavy. Raspy from years of his pack-a-day habit. He’d been dead for a while—a heart attack took him years before—but now the sound of him was clear in her head. And he was telling her something. Saying something. Barking words at her that she remembered from her childhood.
Stop crying. Be strong.
She peeled open her eyes. She’d cried and then slept. But her father’s voice aroused her.
Daddy, she thought.
There was no response. A sharp pain struck her temple, and she heard nothing else inside her head. But his words remained with her.
Be strong.
She gritted her teeth. Trout had beat her. Hurt her. But there was no permanent damage. She had no broken bones. No open wounds. Nothing that wouldn’t heal with some time and rest.
For now, she was lucky. But she knew her luck wouldn’t hold out much longer.
If she didn’t want to die at the hands of the lunatic who held her captive, she would need to be smart. Be tough. Be strong.
She could smell the acrid scent of her urine in the bucket beside the mattress. Trout had not bothered to empty it. The scent was strong—stronger than it should have been—because her daily ration of water bottles kept her on the edge of dehydration. In a way, the meagerness of the meals he provided was a blessing. There was no solid waste in her bucket.
A shiver shook her body as she wrapped her arms around herself. Clad only in her undergarments, the chill of the basement seemed to have seeped through her skin and into her bones. She longed for her thick angora cardigan. The one she always kept tossed over her dining room chair. The one she would wear when Thad was trying to save money on the heating bill.
Charlotte pushed thoughts of her husband from her head. It would not help her to dwell on the people she missed. The life she once had. The outside world. If she was going to survive, she needed to be focused on the present.
Her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the basement. The afternoon sun didn’t shine as brightly as the dawn, but the cracks in the painted windows provided enough light to prevent her from sitting in total darkness.
Charlotte gasped when she looked at her legs.
Enormous mottled bruises—purple and blue and black and red—peppered her limbs. The whiteness of her panties and bra contrasted with the dark blotches on her skin. Her belly remained mostly untouched since she would curl into the fetal position when Trout struck. Her arms and legs took the brunt of his blows.
She wanted to weep again. Wanted to bury her face and pray for unconsciousness to take her away from her prison of Trout’s basement. But her father’s words echoed in her head.
Be strong.
I won’t give up, Charlotte thought. Not without a fight. I’ll go down swinging if I get the chance.
Then she heard the sound of footsteps on the floor above her head. She knew he would be coming down the stairs soon.
And she was right.
It seemed like only a matter of minutes before the basement door opened and the overhead light illuminated the space. She saw his boots first, and then the rest of his thick body as he trod down the steps.
Charlotte smiled grimly. Be strong, she thought.
“I’d like to speak to someone in management,” she said. “I’m afraid these accommodations aren’t suitable for me.”
He loomed before her and then she could see the bloodstains on his shirt. Deep inside her gut she’d been expecting to see them.
Trout seemed satisfied when she swallowed hard at the sight of him. “I see you still have your sense of humor,” he said. “In that case, would you like to hear a funny story?”
The shrug of her shoulders was designed to convey nonchalance, but Charlotte knew the tension in her face belied her casual gesture. “If you want,” she said with a wave of her hand. “But make it short. I haven’t got all day. People to see, places to go. You know how it is.”
His fleshy lips stretched into a grin. “Funny, funny,” he said. “You’re quite the comedienne. So here’s my story.”
He flipped the folding chair around so that he straddled its back, resting his beefy arms on the top. Charlotte sat on the mattress, her legs folded and her hands clasped in her lap. She could feel the sharp edge of the spring beneath her tender flesh, but she ignored it. Fear and disgust tightened her stomach, and she willed herself not to vomit as he began talking.
&n
bsp; “I had a little fun of my own today with Jason Hayes.”
Trout seemed amused when Charlotte recoiled. When he spoke again, his tone was light, but Charlotte could hear the resentment in his voice. “You shouldn’t feel bad about his death. It didn’t have anything to do with you. Jason was simply another asshole who persecuted me in school. You should be thanking me,” he said as he narrowed his eyes. “He was your boss and I know he wasn’t an easy man to please.”
“He was a prick,” Charlotte admitted. “But he didn’t deserve to die.”
Trout waggled a finger at Charlotte. “That’s a matter of opinion. And my opinion was that the asshole deserved a long, slow, painful death. And that’s what I gave him.”
He paused as if waiting for a response, but Charlotte had nothing more to say. The man who sat in front of her was a lunatic. Insane. Completely unhinged. And she was at his mercy. A cold sweat coated her skin.
“Do you want to know how I kill them?” he asked.
No, Charlotte thought. No. No. No. No.
He didn’t wait for her to speak. Instead, he cracked his knuckles and smiled wide, flashing a row of even, white teeth. “I cut them open,” he said. “I slice right into their bellies and then watch as their guts spill out of them. And you know the best part? The best part is that they’re awake for it. They feel it. They know it’s happening to them.”
“You’re sick,” Charlotte said. Against her will, her body trembled.
Trout stood abruptly and the folding chair tumbled to the ground. “I’m not sick,” he said. “Society is sick. It’s sick that we allow these asshole bullies to walk around persecuting anyone they want without fear of judgment or punishment. Well, you know what, bitch? That’s the sickest thing I’ve ever heard. And I’ve decided it’s time to change it. I’m the judge now. And I’m handing out the punishment.”
In one quick motion he pulled a softball from his pocket. “You played softball in high school, right?” he asked. “All the popular girls did. I know you did. You were shortstop. Ever get hit with the ball?”
Charlotte said nothing. Her stomach tightened with fear, and she struggled to maintain control. She refused to let him see the panic that threatened to spill out of her.
“I used to get hit with them all the time in gym class. I was scrawny back then, you know. Skinny. Not athletic at all. Every time I missed catching a ball or struck out or fucked up the game, a bunch of the assholes would pelt me with softballs. It hurt like hell.” He dropped the ball into his white sock. “I’m sure you got hit with one a time or two. That’s part of the game, right? So maybe you should just think of this as a game.”
Charlotte threw her hands up to stop the first swing from hitting her face, knowing it could break her nose or jaw. Then she bowed her head and curled her body, waiting for the next blow, knowing it would come.
She wanted to be strong, but she couldn’t stop the cries that escaped her lips.
And then the words of her father were drowned out by the sound of her screams as they mingled with Trout’s laughter.
CHAPTER 13
NOVEMBER 7 – WEDNESDAY NIGHT
The same woman stood behind the bar of Harold's Tavern, her eyes watching two men shoot a game of pool in the corner of the room. Merle Haggard played on the jukebox, his husky voice crooning about the blues of the working man. The bartender nodded to Herne when he approached.
“Jack Daniels?” she asked.
He nodded, unsurprised that she remembered his preferred beverage. The lines around her eyes and the hint of desperation in her smile told the tale of a woman who'd been pouring drinks for a very long time. Every good bartender learned to associate the face with the drink.
“What's your name?” Herne asked as she slid a glass of whiskey toward him.
“I'm Roxanne,” she said. “What's your name?”
Herne ignored her question. “You work here every night?” he asked as he passed her a few bills.
“Your drink is only three bucks,” she said, holding the twenty dollars in her hand.
“I just need a little information,” he said.
The bartender cupped the money, her long fingers encircling the cash until it disappeared in her palm. She snapped her chewing gum, flashing Herne a view of her missing teeth.
“What do you want to know, handsome?” she asked.
“You know a guy named Gabe Vanderbilt?” Herne asked.
Roxanne tossed her straw-colored hair. “Sure. Everybody knows Gabe. He likes drinking almost as much as he likes screwing women.”
“Did he come here a lot?”
“A couple of times a week.”
“See him get in any fights lately?”
Roxanne scowled. “Yeah. Gabe was always scrapping with the customers. Mostly it was just shoutin’ matches. Two guys yanking out their dicks and a ruler, you know? Sometimes they'd have to take it outside, though. But last week he got into a pretty big argument. They threw a couple of punches.”
“Who was involved in the fight?” Herne asked.
Roxanne nodded toward the two men at pool table. “The big guy in the black tee-shirt,” she said. “The one with the short hair.”
As Herne stood to approach the two men, Roxanne reached over the bar and grabbed his arm, her long fingernails digging into his bicep.
“Hey, everybody knows all that stuff. You could've asked anyone. Why'd you pay me twenty bucks?”
“Consider it a tip,” Herne said.
Roxanne nodded her thanks. “Then here’s a tip for you,” she said. “Watch out for that dog.”
Herne glanced over at the Doberman Pinscher that sat in the corner of the bar. It seemed to be intently watching the game of pool. The dim lights above the pool table shimmered on the dog’s short, black fur, accenting its lean muscles. The dog’s mouth was clamped closed, but Herne was certain that the animal’s teeth were very, very sharp.
“Must be against code for you to let an animal in like that,” Herne said.
“You with the health department?” Roxanne’s eyes narrowed. But before Herne could reply, she shook her head. “Nah. You ain’t no government official, that’s for sure. Anyway, I let the dog in because her owner leaves fat tips and because the dog is a good one. She never makes a sound.” She cackled at her own joke before turning away.
Herne eyed the dog warily as he approached the pool table. The animal glanced at him, seeming to assess him, before returning her attention to her owner. Despite the dog’s nonchalant behavior, Herne had the distinct feeling that she would rip out his throat if he so much as twitched a finger in an aggressive manner.
The man in the black shirt had finished his final shot, sinking the eight ball into a corner pocket. His opponent shook his head in disgust and said, “I gotta get home. The wife's gonna be bitchin' since dinner's already on the table.” As he left, he gave Herne a quick, appraising glance.
The man arranged the balls on the pool table, his hands and eyes on the task. As he finished setting the rack, he spoke without glancing at Herne. “I guess you want to talk to me,” he said.
“Is there a reason I should?” Herne asked.
The big man nodded and picked up his pool cue. “I know who you are. I've seen you in the newspapers and around town. You're pals with Chief Tucker.”
“That's right,” Herne said. “You got a name?”
“Robert,” the man replied. “I'm guessing this is about Gabe Vanderbilt, seeing as how he and I had a little disagreement a few weeks back, and now the news is saying he's dead.”
“Yes,” Herne said.
“And I'm also guessing that you think I might have had something to do with his murder, since Gabe and I didn't get along so well.”
Herne shrugged his broad shoulders. “Depends on what you tell me,” he said.
Robert leaned on his pool cue, the stick almost bending beneath his weight. His beefy biceps flexed beneath his black shirt. Herne guessed that he and the man were about the same age. Early forti
es, maybe late thirties.
“Well, I'll tell you this: Gabe was a lowlife little punk who thought picking fights with big men made him look tough. But really, he was nothing but a blowhard.”
“What caused the fight?” Herne asked.
“I guess it started over the pool table,” Robert replied. “Gabe accused me of cheating, and I don't take too kindly to that type of talk. He wouldn't shut his piehole, and before I knew it he took a swing at me. We went outside.”
“Some men would let a fight like that get to them,” Herne said. “Some men might take it serious.”
“Listen, mister. I’m a guard at SCI in Greene County. You know what kind of shit I have to take from inmates? Do you really think I'd let a loser like Gabe get under my skin? The fight was quick, final, and finished, as far as I was concerned.” He picked up his pool stick and, in one hard stroke, sent the cue ball sailing down the table.
Herne had visited SCI a few times during his time with the Philadelphia Police Department. The maximum security prison was home to some of Pennsylvania's most dangerous criminals, including the inmates on death row.
“Easy to hold a grudge against a man who accuses you of cheating,” Herne said. “The kind of grudge that might make you want to kill a man.”
Robert shook his head. “I don't have a problem killing a man if he deserves it. Hell, I've even given a lethal injection to a death row inmate. But that guy was a fucking mass murderer. He deserved the big jab. I'm not going to kill someone just because he's an asshole.”
Herne's phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket.
“Art? We found another body.”
“I'm not investigating murders, Rex,” Herne said as he nodded to Robert and moved away from the pool table. “I'm looking for a missing woman. Homicide is your department.”
“The victim worked for Hayes Construction. He probably knew Charlotte. And his guts are all over the floor.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Despite the late hour, a few residents stood outside their homes in the Cloverfield housing development. They clustered in small groups, their arms wrapped tight around their bodies to protect themselves from the night chill. Herne drove through the winding streets to the construction site trailer, which was beyond the view of most of the houses.