by C. A. Shives
Tucker placed a hand on Herne's shoulder and pulled him back.
Barber sneered. "What are you guys doing? Playing Good Cop, Bad Cop? Hell, you don't scare me."
Tucker eyes were somber as he spoke. "You're right, Eric. I'm playing Good Cop. I guess I like to play a game every once in a while. I wish I could say the same about my partner here. But he doesn't like to play. Everything he says is something he means. Look at him. He’s serious."
Barber looked at Herne again, then dropped his eyes. "Come on in," he said, moving to the side so they could enter.
He led them to the living room. Standing in front of a large flat-screen television, he crossed his arms and said, "So what do you want?"
Tucker settled himself into the plush sofa. "That sure is a nice TV for a man who's been out of work," Tucker said.
"I bought all this stuff before Jason threw me under the bus for the Bobby Flynn thing," Barber said. "I ain't dealing drugs or anything, if that's what you're implying."
Tucker said nothing. He just continued to look around the room, taking in the expensive furnishings.
Herne, still standing, sneered at Barber. "I don't give two shits if you're selling crack on the elementary school playground," he said. "That's a job for the police. I'm interested in one thing. Charlotte Allen. What can you tell me about her?"
Barber shrugged. "Not much. We went to high school together. Maybe took a few of the same classes. But you know how it is after you get out of school. The class kind of splits up. You run into each other at the grocery or the diner, and you say hello and ask how things are going, but you never really hang out together. Unless you work together, like I did with the guys at Hayes Construction."
"Charlotte worked at Hayes, too," Herne said.
"Yeah, but we didn't talk much," Barber said.
"But you knew her. And you knew her back in high school." Herne asked.
"Yeah," Barber said. "I guess. Charlotte was pretty nice. I’m sure we talked every once in a while back in school."
"Don't you think it's kind of strange that you were associated with every single victim in this case?" Tucker asked.
"Come on, Chief," Barber said. "You know how it is in Hurricane. Everybody knows everybody else. There's only one high school here. Hell, I went to high school with both Travis Miller and your wife. The only reason you and I weren't in school together is because you're older."
"Thanks for reminding me," Tucker snarled.
"I'm just sayin'," Barber said. “Now is there anything else?”
Herne shook his head. He knew they had nothing to pin on Barber. No real evidence. No real reason to suspect him. Most men who are fired from their job do not go on a murderous rampage. And although Barber was an ass, he didn’t seem insane.
Herne and Tucker were silent as they walked back to Tucker's car. As Tucker drove back to the police station, Herne said, "Miller never said that he knew Charlotte."
Tucker shrugged. "It's not like it's a big secret. I guess he figured it wasn't worth mentioning. Barber was right. In a small town like Hurricane, everyone went to school together. Hell, plenty of the people I arrest around here were either in class with me or Elizabeth. That's just the way it is."
"Miller might know something. He might remember something about Charlotte's past."
"I'm sure if he knew something important he would've mentioned it," Tucker said.
"I'm going to talk to him anyway," Herne said.
"Be my guest," Tucker said. "But he's a decent cop. I doubt he knows a thing."
CHAPTER 23
NOVEMBER 12 - MONDAY MORNING
Herne hadn't drank the night before, even though the call of the bottle had been strong. He hadn't slept at all. He had sat in the police station in a visitor's chair, staring at the floor and thinking about Charlotte. Tucker had told him to go home, but Herne ignored him. No one else spoke to him the entire night. Only Sheila acknowledged his presence once, and that was to bring him a cup of coffee.
Miller walked through the door and nodded to Sheila.
"Tough night?" she asked, cocking her head. A cascade of red hair fell across her thick jowls.
"Sure was," Miller said. "Seemed like everyone decided to get into a fight or something."
"Must've been a full moon," Sheila said.
Miller snorted and tossed her the squad car keys. "I'm headed home," he said. "I need some sleep."
Herne stood in the doorway, blocking Miller's exit.
"Can I talk to you for a moment?" Herne did his best to make his tone sound friendly and ingratiating. There was nothing he could do about his broad shoulders, knitted brow, and the vulture-like hunch of his shoulders. But if he wanted to, he could mostly eliminate the gravel growl in this voice.
"Sure," Miller said. "But can we make it quick? I just came off a long shift and I'm beat."
"I just wanted to ask you about Charlotte," Herne said. "Why didn't you ever mention that you knew her?"
Miller shrugged. "I guess because I didn't really know her."
"You were in the same class," Herne said. "You both graduated the same year from Hurricane High School."
"There were about a hundred kids in my class," Miller said. "And the school splits you up according to, you know, academic ability. I don't know if Charlotte and I even took any of the same courses. She was a brainiac. Really smart. And I was just in the regular classes."
"So you didn't socialize at all?"
Miller snorted. "No. Charlotte was a cheerleader and ran with the popular crowd. I was kind of a dork back in high school. I didn't have a lot of friends. She wouldn't have given me the time of day."
Herne's eyes narrowed. "Did you resent her for that?"
"Nah," Miller said with a carefree wave of his hand. "I barely gave her a second thought. I was busy trying to get through school so I could join the department. Kids like me—the ones who don't really fit in—are usually just trying to survive high school. We don't have the luxury of resenting the other kids."
But as Herne watched Miller walk across the parking lot to his car, he saw the stiffness in the officer's legs and back. It was as if the memory of high school—and the memory of Charlotte—had suddenly loaded his body with tension.
Herne was certain that Miller may have, indeed, found time to bask in the luxury of resentment.
~ ~ ~ ~
Faith didn't seem surprised to see Herne on her doorstep. "She's dead, isn't she?" Faith said, her eyes wide.
Herne shook his head. "We haven't found her yet."
Faith opened her door and moved to the side, a silent invitation to enter. Herne stepped into the foyer.
"Cup of coffee?" Faith asked.
Herne nodded. He wanted something stronger—needed something stronger—but he was grateful for the offer of coffee.
She led him into the kitchen and nodded to the oak table and chairs. He slid into one, waiting until she had handed him a steaming mug before he spoke again.
"I need to ask you some more questions," Herne said.
"I figured as much," Faith said. "I was pretty sure you weren't here to ask me out on a date."
"I know Charlotte was your best friend," Herne said. "I know you were close. But I need to ask you to forget that you were friends. Forget about any love and affection you have for her. Instead, imagine you hated her. I need to know how her enemies perceived her."
He paused, allowing Faith a moment to gather her thoughts. He suspected the task he had requested would not be terribly difficult for her to accomplish. In his experience, women who were best friends were always just one small step away from being each other’s rivals.
"Ask your questions," Faith said as she squared her sturdy shoulders. A wisp of brown hair fell from her ponytail, and she pushed it behind her ear.
"Do you remember Travis Miller in school?" Herne asked.
"A little. He was a loner back then. He didn't socialize much, even with the other kids that were kind of dorky, if you know what I mean.
" She eyed Herne, looking him up and down. "I'll bet you weren't dorky in high school. I'll bet you were a jock."
Herne thought about his days as an Offensive Tackle on the football team. He'd been known—maybe even liked—among his peers. But when he looked back, he wondered if some of them might have been a little bit scared of him even then.
"Did Charlotte and Miller ever socialize?"
"Oh no," Faith said. "Charlotte wouldn't have been caught dead talking to a guy like Travis. Not back then. Of course, after she aged and matured, she moved past all that petty high school shit. But in those days, she cared a lot about her social status. She was a cheerleader, and she acted like one."
"Did he have any personal reason to resent Charlotte? Any special reason to dislike her?"
"Not that I can remember," Faith said. "Well, except Charlotte spent a lot of time with the popular boys, and those guys liked to torment Travis some. I guess she was guilty by association, you know?"
"They tormented Miller? What did they do?"
"Oh, you know, high school stuff. The kind of shit bullies like to do to kids who are weaker and smaller. They'd throw him into the girl's restroom. Or they'd yank his shorts down in gym class. Or they'd trip him in the hallway. Or they'd toss their lunch leftovers on him. Shitty stuff. Mean stuff. But nothing that was really going to hurt him."
"Some bullies take it too far," Herne mused.
"Yes, they do. And Gabe and his friends liked to push the envelope a bit. I remember one time out on the soccer field. It was gym class. Gabe made Travis kiss his ass. I think some of the other boys held onto Travis’ arms, and then Gabe dropped his shorts and made the ol’ Trout kiss his hairy butt. It was ugly to watch, but you couldn't tear your eyes away. Like a really bad accident on the highway. You know you shouldn't look, but you just can't help it."
Gabe made Miller kiss his butt. The words reverberated in Herne's head. The X carved on the victim's buttocks. A kiss. A kiss on the ass. It all made sense.
Herne almost ran out the door to his car, but he paused on the front porch to ask Faith one final question.
"Why did you call him Trout? Was that a nickname?"
"Yeah. I had forgotten all about it until you started asking questions. ‘Trout’ was kind of the nickname he got in high school. On account of his flabby lips. They, uh, they kinda looked like fish lips, you know?"
Herne considered it. He supposed Miller's lips might be a little full, but he didn't think they are unusually big or floppy. Kids will tease each other about anything, he thought.
"Who gave him this nickname?" Herne asked.
Faith dropped her head as if embarrassed. "I don’t remember for sure,” she said, “but it might have been Charlotte who first mentioned something about his lips."
~ ~ ~ ~
She scraped the edge of the metal spring against the hard concrete. She had bent the coil into one straight piece—and had the cuts on her hands to show for it. Now it was about the length and size of a pencil.
The repetitive scraping motion made her shoulders hurt, but she didn't stop. Her whole body felt numb to pain. Trout had wounded her so much for so long that she was in constant agony. Every muscle screamed when she moved. Every tendon cried out with the stress and tension and ache she felt. But she kept moving. It was her only hope of escape.
She heard the heavy thump of his footsteps above, and she hastily scrambled to hide her work. When he first came home, she never knew if he would wait to come visit her or if he would immediately head for the basement.
She slipped her weapon into a hole in the mattress, flipped the mattress over to hide the hole, and slid the mattress until it covered the scratch marks she had left on the concrete. In a few minutes she heard the basement door open and saw the light from above, and she knew he was coming to see her.
As usual, her heart thumped with each of his footfalls on the wooden basement stairs. She knew what could come. Talk from him. Perhaps a taste of his gallows humor. Perhaps just rants and raves. And then the pain. Always he finished with pain.
His knitted brow and the hunch of his shoulders told her that he was tense. I've only been his captive for a few days, and he's done nothing but hurt me, but already I can read his body language, Charlotte thought.
His tread was heavy on the concrete floor, as if they carried extra weight. He stopped in front of her—just beyond her reach—and looked down at her, his hands clenched in fists. She sat on the mattress, her knees pulled to her chest and her arms wrapped protectively around them. A chill stabbed her gut when he spoke.
"We're almost done," he said. "I had hoped to draw this out a little longer. To keep you a few extra days. But I have to push ahead in our schedule."
Her stomach twisted into a knot as she thought about her metal stick buried inside the mattress. Even if she moved now—even if she was faster than she’d ever been in her life—she’d never get to it before he stopped her. Oh God, she thought. I’m too late. I should have my weapon in my hand right now.
She tried to make her tone light. "Why rush?" she asked. "Isn't the anticipation half the fun?"
When he didn't grin in response, she felt her heart sink.
"Artemis Herne," he spat.
Artemis Herne. She'd heard the name in the past. Read something about him in the newspapers. And she'd heard Elizabeth mention him once or twice. Charlotte remembered that once when Elizabeth spoke his name, there was an extra tenderness in her tone. And for just that moment Charlotte had wondered if her cousin had considered infidelity with this man who softened her voice.
Charlotte knew Herne was a detective of some kind. And she knew that he was a dark man with a dark past. Though Elizabeth had never told Charlotte details about him, she had relayed one story. A story where Herne had beaten a confession out of a suspect that he knew to be guilty, because there wasn't enough evidence for a conviction.
Beaten him with his bare fists until the man gurgled his confession through the blood that poured down his face.
Her heart lifted. If Trout was frightened of Herne, then she might still have a chance. Might still have some hope.
But she needed to buy time. "Who's Artemis Herne?" she asked.
But Trout wasn't in the mood for games. "Spare me the shit," he said. "You know the man. He's friends with the chief, which means he must be friends with the chief's wife. Hell, he was a local celebrity when he caught The Healer last year. I figured he was just lucky. Lucky and maybe a little bit crazy."
"Didn't you work with him on The Healer case?" Charlotte asked. Stalling. Always stalling for time. Always trying to delay the inevitable pain.
Trout acted as if he didn't hear her speak. He was momentarily buried in his own world. "The guy's a drunk. He barely manages to stumble into the department. I don't understand how he caught my trail so fast. He doesn't seem particularly smart. He's just…"
His voice trailed off. Charlotte waited.
"Dogged. Dammit, the man is as stubborn as a mule." Trout's eyes finally focused on Charlotte. "You know, even after I kill you and your body is discovered, I think he'll still come looking for me. It won't matter that you're alive or dead. In fact, I don't think he gives two shits about you at all. He just wants to find me. I think that bastard just loves to hunt."
Even after I kill you. Charlotte tried to shut out the words that echoed in her head. Trout must have seen the emotions flicker across her face—the grimace of fear that momentarily twisted her features—because he grinned at her.
"Oh yeah, bitch," he said. "Don't for a minute think that Herne is going to get here in time to save your sweet little ass. I'm going to kill you first. Believe me."
He opened his fist to reveal a sock inside his hand. "Care to guess what's going into the sock today?" he asked. He patted the pocket of his pants. "It's right here."
"Well, I know it's not your cock," Charlotte said, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice. "You've probably got the tiniest pecker on the block."
He
smiled again, his good humor restored. He's probably happy because he gets to beat me soon, Charlotte thought.
"Oh, don't worry, bitch," he said. "You'll get to see my cock soon enough. In fact, as soon as I get my last job done, you'll get to see it up close and personal. Right before you die."
He seemed please when she didn't respond. Trout leaned forward so their noses were almost touching. "You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you, slut?"
Charlotte averted her eyes, swallowing down the bile that rose in her throat.
Trout pulled a pair of batteries from his pocket. They were big. The kind used in a large flashlight. Size D.
He dropped them into the sock and grinned. "Batteries are probably my favorite thing to put inside an impact weapon," he said. "Except maybe a pool ball. But this thing is hard to control, you know? The sock is so elastic that I don't always have the best aim. And I'm pretty sure that a good shot to the melon with a pool ball would kill you. And I'm not ready to kill you. Not yet. For now, I’m just going to hurt you. Badly.”
When the first strike hit her body, Charlotte started weeping.
CHAPTER 24
NOVEMBER 12 - MONDAY NIGHT
Herne paced the floor of his kitchen. Every time he passed the cabinet with the whiskey bottle, his gaze went to it. But he clenched his fists and resisted. Instead, he listened to the rhythmic sound of his footsteps against the cold tile floor. They matched the thump of the headache that was just beginning to start at the base of his skull.
He recognized the quick knock at the door and shouted for his guests to enter. In a few moments the three of them—Herne, Tucker, and Saxon—sat around his kitchen table. Tucker stretched his long legs and leaned back in his chair, seemingly unconcerned. But Herne could tell by the creases around his eyes and mouth that his friend was tense.
The tension did not seem to be caused by Saxon, however. She sat next to Tucker—almost touching—and their relaxed body language told Herne that at some point, maybe even recently, the two of them had finally consummated their relationship.