Authors: Dean Covin
Hank had laid out Vicki’s clothes for her—the ones he had fetched from her house—and left her to get dressed. She was happy they had made peace—surely the entire hospital ward was. The shocking revelation of Ivy’s killer aside, the real event was the explosive clash between the two partners.
Hank’s siding with Kempt had triggered Vicki’s verbal assault. She couldn’t tell Hank that her life, possibly even her soul, depended on her solving Ivy’s brutal slaughter—especially since the agents were so close to the truth now. She knew Hank’s outrage at her insane insistence—that she push forward with the investigation, that she didn’t need to rest or take it easy—came from genuine concern. But her nerves were so frayed that confrontation, in any form, brought out her worst.
She was very relieved when he returned from a twenty-minute walk—with an unspoken apology in his eyes. Without another word, they were good.
Both Kempt and Hank were right, of course. Vicki’s capture had added to her secret terror. But against the backdrop of the horrific torments she was experiencing since her arrival in New Brighton, even the latest of three brutal attacks, while adding embers to the slow burn of growing panic in her belly, paled in comparison to the mounting fear she could only arrest by pushing past her apprehension and fright, and solving this case.
The fact that, during his walk to calm down, Hank had called in his own favor and had lied for her, insisting to Kempt that she was fine to continue, showed a loyalty that she never would have expected from the disheveled man she had met days ago. The fact that he didn’t like it, but still honored her enough to back her, moved Vicki in ways she wasn’t ready to share—not now, not in this place.
Lying in her hospital bed, Vicki had realized her precarious situation. Threats surrounded her, both seen and unseen. The danger she doesn’t even know that is coming terrified her the most—the dread of uncovering something deeper, darker, still was gnawing at her bones.
The lack of a phone call, her father’s silence on her attack in the woods, was telling, fueling her suspicion, and, as much as she wanted to deny it, was heartbreaking. Worse, it was foreboding.
It’s what fought her impulse to lash out at him with the twin-sister revelation—to slash open his belly of lies, spilling his deceitful guts on the floor. But that was how Vicki would always react, what he expected.
Not gonna happen, Daddy. Not this time
. She would hold this one close for now.
She also felt her father’s fingers strangling the media. The lack of attention on this case had the hallmarks of a Lionel Starr intercession—that too terrified her, especially now. But it was also a distraction she could do without and so would take advantage of the media silence.
† †
†
Dressed, and taking the FBI’s replacement service weapon from Hank, Vicki’s head still spun in circles after her partner had blindsided her with the night’s astonishing details.
They had found Jason Oliver’s body in his car, parked on his new property in the woods where Vicki had taken her swim. There were two empty bottles of Scotch, a note and the shotgun.
Roscoe had rushed a laptop from the safe in Mr. Oliver’s office to the FBI’s Cyber Action Team. They found the explicit pictures Ivy thought she had bought back, as well as photos of her strapped down in the catacombs in various stages of her torture and of her mutilated corpse. The team confirmed they were from the digital camera found at Mr. Oliver’s office. And he had exclusive knowledge of the catacombs.
After profusely apologizing to his wife and daughter, and confessing to arranging the murder attempts against Vicki and Hank, the note had explained his motive for killing Ivy Turner.
He had tried to blackmail Ivy into having sex using the scandalous pictures he had found. In his nervous haste, he had hit a wrong key and a folder he previously forgot to close opened to his explicit collection of underage teens. This aligned with an encrypted volume CAT found on the hard drive containing the offensive content.
Ivy had tried to go to the police, so he had taken her and had decided to punish Ivy, rather than kill her right away.
I couldn’t help myself
, he had written.
The opportunity was overwhelming. I started to explore her sexually, but she had made me angry, and so I slowly cut her to pieces. She deserved it. But I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.
Eleven days prior to Ivy’s capture he had stumbled upon, and started visiting, a number of death-porn fetish sites—servicing the sexual desire for torture and death—the news of which had both Roscoe and Dashel horrified, the actual existence of forums like that shocking them to their core. And as ironic as Roscoe’s newfound desire was to
line up and fucking gut this class of pervert
, Hank couldn’t disagree.
Vicki stared in disbelief, sitting in stunned silence as Hank drove. She loathed Michelle and Morgan Oliver but couldn’t imagine being them right now.
† †
†
Vicki felt uncomfortable in the Olivers’ home. Forensics was focused at his office, but a smaller team was here—so were his wife and daughter.
Vinnie came down from upstairs with a grim smile on his face. He held a Ziploc bag containing a pair of women’s underwear. “The dust matches the catacombs,” he confirmed. “And the pubic hairs and discharge belong to Ivy Turner. I found trace semen—it matches Oliver. It’s more than enough to get a posthumous conviction.”
That’s what bothered Vicki. Hank as well because he whispered, “Why do I get the feeling we’re being orchestrated here?”
Michelle Oliver sobbed. “What kind of sick man keeps a trophy like that? It probably
stinks
of her!”
Morgan Oliver consoled her mother. “It’s not your fault, Mom. None of us knew what monster was living with us.”
Hank scanned the message on his phone. “It looks like he not only had copies of Ivy’s erotic photos but others as well, as if he had hunted down every photo of her that he could find—a complete set.”
“The Visa gift card we found in his safe had been used to subscribe to the member-only site that had her photos. The search history showed frequent attempts to hunt down more,” Vinnie added.
“Obsess much?” Roscoe said.
Vicki looked at the daughter for a moment when something caught Vicki’s eye. She turned to them. “And this is the
first time
you’d seen these photos?”
“Of course,” they both said, but Vicki wasn’t sure. The daughter, especially, didn’t sound convincing. If they had found out about his obsession, Vicki could see Michelle Oliver being the type to exact a lethal revenge against her husband—not only kill him but frame him for murder.
If the real killer was caught, Oliver’s written admission could be brushed off as a plea for help. But would Michelle Oliver deliberately stomach the town-wide embarrassment of this false confession? That didn’t fit right either, so why did Vicki’s stomach pinch?
Jasmine Boss and Brenda McQueen pushed past the police tape.
“You can’t be in here,” Roscoe said.
They ignored him and went straight to their friend.
“I’m so ashamed,” Michelle said. “I had no clue.”
“No one will fault you. He had us all fooled. Don’t worry. We stand fully behind you.” Boss looked up at Roscoe. “And the town will too. Isn’t that right,
Sheriff
?” Then she looked at the two agents. “They’re staying with us at our house until they’re ready to talk more—understand?”
† †
†
“They alibied out,” Hank said, tossing his room key onto his nightstand. “I double-checked.”
“Let me guess, they were with their
girlfriends
.”
“Look, even if they found out about the pictures, that doesn’t mean they knew he was the killer.”
That was true. Vicki’s blind hate for the women was starting to skew her judgment; she could feel it. Then her own words surprised her. “You’re glad this is over, aren’t you?”
“You’re not?”
“I think you’re looking for a quick solution so you can get out of here.”
“That’s not fair. I
just
told you—”
She feared she was losing an ally. “You hate this town—I know you do.” Vicki had a serious personal stake in getting this right—and everything about this felt wrong. “You never wanted this assignment—or me as your partner. This gives you a clean exit.”
“You have no right—”
“I have every right!” She slammed the door.
† †
†
Vicki blamed the demons in her dreams for inflaming her suspicions, fueling her insanity. This didn’t feel done enough to save her from her bloody torments—still weighing as a heavy threat.
She decided to satiate her lingering fears from the previous evening’s nightmare and take the long, dark walk to the bridge—a serious mistake. She had barely made it across. But again, on the far side, she felt better.
Smoke and the scent of fresh tea lured her to her savior’s house.
“I wanted to thank you, again, for saving me.”
And make sure you weren’t eaten by a pack of rabid she-wolves.
“That’s not why you came.” She poured a cup of tea. “So tell me. Sit.”
“My gut tells me this is all wrong. Even though my head, our evidence—my partner—all say it’s right, obvious and done—case closed.
“To me, it’s just too convenient—too tight a package. Nothing drew me in his direction—even his knowledge of the catacombs.” She took a long hot sip. “I’m a better agent than that, damn it! My instincts are good. They’re solid.”
“There’s more upsetting you than a bruised ego.”
“I blew up at Hank today. I think the case has been just as frustrating for him, and he’s happy to be done with it, regardless of how the resolution came. That it had nothing to do with any of the hard work we did together.” She absently stirred her tea. “Maybe I am crazy.”
“People think
I’m
crazy,” the witch offered.
Vicki looked at her and laughed. “That doesn’t help me, Sky.”
But the tea and conversation had.
† †
†
She breached the shadow of Cherrybrook Forest, and, more than ever, she was convinced she hadn’t pressed Michelle Oliver enough.
Hank was nowhere to be found, and she couldn’t reach him on his phone. The terror was tearing her apart. Vicki could feel normal one moment, in blissful ignorance, and then the next overwhelmed by the onslaught of fright. She fought against the burgeoning fear, the haunt of her attack—the wolves in her mind.
She tried Hank’s number once more as her throat dried to paper. No answer, so she drew in a deep breath and drove to the Bosses’ house alone.
† †
†
Jennifer Boss did nothing to hide her surprise, but escorted Vicki to the front room where Michelle and Morgan Oliver sat, holding each other. Jennifer excused herself to make a phone call.
“Why don’t I believe you hadn’t seen Miss Turner’s photos before?”
“How dare you? We’re devastated enough as it is!”
“Yeah, leave my mother alone. Can’t you see she’s hurting?” She stroked her mother’s hair. “It’s okay, Mom—she’s just being a rabid cunt.”
Vicki was happy to be stirring the nest. All kinds of dirt flew when dust was agitated.
“What’s going on in here?” Jennifer asked.
Her turn. “Mrs. Boss, your daughter had a few run-ins with Miss Turner, did she not?”
“What does that have to do with any of this?”
Vicki liked the growing tension. “She did, didn’t she?”
Oliver’s widow stood and shouted, “This is bullshit! You have no right to rake them through the coals. Isn’t it bad enough that you’re still here prying, tormenting us for your sick pleasure? These are my friends,
my sisters
—you have no idea!”
The woman was seething now, and Vicki felt no remorse.
Michelle continued her rant. “They’re taking good care of us through our time of grief, and you reward them by outrageous accusations.”
“I’m doing my job, and I
will
get to the bottom of this. This here”—she circled her finger at them—“there’s something wrong with this, and I intend to—”
Jennifer Boss pointed at Vicki and yelled, “You’re done! You’re here as a guest. You’ll leave now and not come back without a warrant. I let you into my home as a courtesy, but you’ve overstayed your welcome. Now get out of my house, you horrid little bitch.”
Vicki knew she had pushed a button. She stood—locking eyes on the woman—and flashed them wide. “We’re
not
done here.”
But then a chill ran through her bones as she saw the icy eyes stare back into her. Vicki’s threat had not taken at all. In fact, it was turned back on her in that glare. Failing to hide her nervous swallow, the urge to flee surged through her. She pushed past the two women, and she stepped through the front door. She had to draw in a deep breath.
No one—not the career killers she had interrogated, not the drug dealers nor the brutal, misogynist pimps—had ever looked at Vicki that way, lancing such fear into her core.