Authors: Wendy Potocki
The storm kicked up, the rumble of a tow truck capturing his attention. Through the intermittent flurries of snowflakes, he saw Mulligan’s old Chevy. The front wheels were being lifted off the ground by a thick chain wrapping around the chrome bumper.
“Hey! Hey, excuse me!” he yelled, jogging over to the two workers dressed in green. “What’s going on here?”
“Mrs. Marks called. Said to get this out of her lot,” the shorter one replied. His bulky body encased in layers of clothing to keep him warm, the three sets of long-sleeved thermal shirts showed under the cuff of his jacket.
“Did she say why?”
He
shrugged. Squinting, he gave as best an answer as he could.
“We don’t really ask questions, but you could I suppose.”
His colleague nodded in agreement to his partner stating the obvious.
“Why don’t you ask her yourself? There she is now,” the taller one suggested, bobbing his head in her direction.
Pivoting, he saw a cart being towed behind a middle-aged woman entering 112.
“Mrs. Marks!” he shouted. Running straight into the headwind, he made minimal progress., Regrouping and digging in, he tried again. “Mrs. Marks!” he screamed, the harsh winter’s wind subduing his voice.
A harried older woman with dishwater blonde hair looked around, unsure whether she’d heard her name or imagined it.
“Mrs. Marks, I’m Todd Cavanaugh and I’d like a word with you if I might,” he said, his credentials making an appearance. Scrutinizing the official ID, the woman put her hand up in objection to him taking them away before she made sure his face matched the one in the photo.
“Sure, come on in,” she replied, not caring whether he came in or fell under the wheels of a bus. The only time cops came around was when there was trouble, and she didn’t like trouble. It was bad for business. Like the people that disappeared; when travelers thought about stopping for the night, it wasn’t in Holybrook. They drove the extra hundred miles to get safely to the next town where they were sure goblins wouldn’t carry them off in their sleep.
Hauling in the cleaning wagon after her, it creaked in obedience, not cracking under the weight of green-friendly supplies.
A bit of black mascara was smudged under one eye, the lines around her mouth harsh. Smoker’s lines, her raspy, baritone voice was a testament to the addiction. He hoped that she’d seen the light and given up the filthy habit, but the stench from her baggy woolen sweater told a different story. Tossing her parka on one of the chairs, she began the rigorous job of cleaning up so the room would be move-in ready.
“Damn girl called in sick today,” she complained bitterly, spraying cleanser on a cloth. Rubbing the nightstand, she picked up the lamp and gave it a once-over for any dust. “She’s always calling in sick, that stupid, little bitch,” she muttered under her breath.
“Mrs. Marks, you called to have Robert Mulligan’s car towed. I’d like to know why.”
“You would, would you?” she countered, vigorously running the rag down the legs of the furniture. “How about he owes me a month’s back rent?”
Unzipping his coat, he shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Why not just ask him?”
“Oh, you’re the clever one, aren’t ya!” she snapped sarcastically. Pushing on the bed, she helped herself off her knees. Putting on an expression of someone wandering through a haunted house, she called out weakly. “Mr. Mulligan? Mr. Mulligan? Can you please write me a check? One that don’t bounce, please?” she queried to dead air. Cupping a chapped hand around the periphery of her ear, she craned her neck for an answer that wasn’t about to come. “Well, aint’ that something. He’s ignoring me,” she stated, pulling at a dresser drawer.
Todd didn’t appreciate the floor show.
“Mrs. Marks, I’m just doing my job.”
“Which is?”
“Which is to find the whereabouts of Mr. Mulligan. He’s needed for questioning,” he replied, making up the answer on the fly.
“Well, he ain’t here!” she sneered, starting to strip the covers off the bed.
“Since when?”
“How the hell do I know? I think I saw him yesterday, but I don’t keep tabs on these people!”
“So you saw him yesterday and …”
“Not today. Yes, that’s right. I came here at 8 AM for my money. There was no answer, so I let myself in. I waited for a couple of hours, but no more. It’s adios to Mr. Muliigan’s car. And these,” she said opening up the dresser drawers and dumping his clothes into black trash bags.
He wasn’t here, but his car was? Looking in the corner, there was Mulligan’s guitar. Todd’s brain lined up the clues, catching up with what instinct told him the first time around.
“Mrs. Marks, I’m going to have to ask you to stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“That,” he said taking possession of the black plastic.
“Hey! What the hell you doing?” she squawked.
“And I’ll remind you not to speak like that to an officer of the law.”
Agitated, her head furiously wove as it soaked in the transfer of Mulligan’s property to police custody.
“But what about all this?” she questioned, her arms flinging outward.
“It’s all evidence. Consider this a crime scene. Just leave everything where it is. I’ll come back later with forensics, but you have to leave. Now!” he barked.
Jumping, she grabbed her coat, throwing a hostile look at Todd that could have landed her in jail if he’d had a mind. Luckily, he didn’t—but he did have a tow truck to stop.
Chapter Fifty
Headphones on, Melissa was finishing her warm-up. Finally asking Madame Velofsky for permission to use the empty studio, it had already been culled for clues and returned to its formerly pristine state.
The atmosphere in the studio was less than ideal, but in spite of the whirlpool of mystery sucking the town of Holybrook into it, she was having a good dancing day. Her mind wandering, a warm flush spread throughout her body as the tantalizing memory of Todd’s kisses became way too real. Wondering if he was the reason that she was able to keep from being dragged down into the mire, the smile on her face supplied the answer.
As quickly as the pleasant thoughts chased out the horrible events, a cold shiver tapped its way up her spine. Quickly turning, this time being watched wasn’t her imagination. A pair of dark eyes in the studio door’s small observation window, she yanked the headphones out of her ears, running to the portal. Flinging it open, she spotted Viktor at the top of the stairs casting an angry blast in her direction. The severity of his expression was enough to frost over her morning with ice crystals.
Retreating back into the studio, she slammed the door, leaning against it. Wishing it had a lock, she closed her eyes, reminding herself that it was morning and that she wasn’t alone. Only a scream away, Una and Anna were downstairs, as were Debra and Franklin. The two instructors were set to leave on Friday. There was also Alexei.
Telling herself that nothing was going to happen in the light of day, she just needed to get a hold of herself. Taking off the ratty sweatshirt that had been returned, she went into the center. Intent on shaking off the encounter, Viktor’s face had looked positively demonic. Anna was right. She’d dismissed the elderly woman as being dramatic, but now saw the wisdom in the words that had been imparted. She’d stay away from him, as should Una. Whatever the reason for ending their relationship, she’d been right in breaking things off.
Hooking up her music to external speakers, the music of Saint-Saens filtered through the air as raindrops through a web of leaves. Posing for a second, she launched into the choreography Alex
ei had taught her. The steps matched beautifully with the powerful strains of the piece. Trying to picture herself in costume and onstage, it would be a dream dancing Desirée.
No more than a puppet to her muscle memory, invisible strings pulled. Taking a tentative step, she immersed herself in an indulgent pas de bourée. The sunlight dappling the studio in light as if shot through a prism, splotches of colors splattered on her white leotard. Forming a weblike pattern on her pink tights, she let her back leg lead the way. Rushing across the studio in a graceful blur, she achieved a sensation of floating,
Launching into a tricky series of pirouettes, her head spun to meet her own image again, and again, and again. Her frightened face staring back, her pale skin looked as if it had been blanched in ice water. Catching a balance, she held it, stretching out into infinity. Time slowing as if caught up in molasses … the forest outside glistened, sparkling an evil design.
The Holybrook Woods outside clearly visible, the blanketing of snow led up to the forest’s edge as a runner to an altar. It was in that idyllic setting that people got lost. The morning light glimmered off the snow, sending flashes of a white so brilliant that it could blind, but it was all for show. The real threat was inside the boles of the trees. Remembering the story told on Halloween, t
he beating breasts were alleged to cover a massacre of flesh. Having a sinking feeling that the story told ‘round the fire wasn’t fantasy, there was so much hidden away. She didn’t know why Robert Mulligan had returned, but she had no doubt that he’d find more than he bargained for.
Let sleeping dogs lie.
It was so true. Secrets, like bodies, should remain buried, but deep within the woodlands where they were festering. The brotherhood joined by a fascination of death whispering phrases as eloquent as any poetry to victims found along the way, it was in that marshland she danced. Her feet bogged down in the soil soaked from lathering traces of force.
As the adagio approached, she felt the same tremor go through her that she’d felt the night she was drugged. A cold whistle invading her body, she began to relive the torment of the ordeal that she’d survived. It had been so frigid and dark … just like the studio was fast becoming. The four walls closed in, capturing her as if in a plastic bag. The air coming in short supply, her lungs burned, her brow sweating from exertion. The music spoke, telling her she would be reborn into something grand, but how could she trust something she couldn’t see?
The room spun, the woods coming closer. Surrounding her as hungry wolves. they would devour her if she let them.
“No!” she screamed, speeding through the rest. Her eyes filling with tears as she rushed ahead of the music, she’d punched the lid off the bell jar. Leaning on her hands, she heard the door behind her open.
“Why did you stop?”
Whirling around, she saw Alexei. Dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck, his thick blond hair curled over the tip of the woolen sweater.
“Why?” he repeated.
Her eyes met his, her resolve trembling as withered twigs in a winter’s breeze. She numbly shook her head having no idea what to say. The explanation was too deeply embedded in her psyche to be condensed in a sound byte. Mutely, she pantomimed a child’s vulnerability in the face of authority. She had let him down. More importantly, she’d let herself down.
“Come,” he said taking her hand. Bringing her to the corner, he picked up her sweatshirt and handed it to her. Pulling it over her heated body, she sank to the floor, cross-legged and ashamed. “You will make a beautiful Desirée, but you have to stop holding yourself back. Does dance mean that much to you that you feel you can’t express it in words? Is that it?”
‘Yes,” she nodded softly. Licking her lips, she brushed back a feathery wisp of hair. The old fears came back. Ensconced within her comfortable cotton shirt, she shuddered from the terrible cold. A shadow fell across Alexei’s face. It gave his warm expression an ominous note. Scared of him as she was of this studio, she was terrified of being at Velofsky’s, and of being so near the woods. Her father’s guest no longer important, she suddenly wanted to go home.
“But is there more?” he probed.
The question striking at the heart of her fears, perhaps it was time she shared her secret with someone.
“Yes,” she confessed, staring out the window. “I know this sounds crazy, but I feel as if I’m going to … die. Like if I surrender to dance, I’ll disappear.” Her eyes fixed on the solidity of the window frame, she anticipated a hand reaching in and pulling her through it.
“How long have you had such thoughts?”
“Ever since I was a little girl.”
“And would that be so bad?”
“What?” she answered, peeking up, startled by the question.
“Losing yourself, I mean.”
“Well, yeah! I mean, of course!” she said, struggling for the right words to convey her feelings. Sitting straighter, she searched the planes of his face for a reason as to why he would ask her such a thing. No one wanted to die, did they?
Smiling tenderly, he tilted his head.
“Melissa, you’re misinterpreting what you felt. You see in dance, losing yourself is the whole point, and yet so few can come to this realization. It’s why I chose you. You have that ability within you—the ability to transform and become something you’re not. It is what separates a handful of true artistes from the crowd, and yet, you fight it? Give into it, Melissa. By doing so, you become your character. You go beyond pretending and begin to live it. Do you understand?” he asked, his eyes burning with an inner fire.