Authors: Dean Covin
Vicki’s eyes flew open, expelling her from her dark dream. She sat up, shivering, and again her thin white T-shirt clung wet and translucent to her sweat—blankets tossed to the floor. The backs of her naked thighs trembled against the soaked bedsheet. She struggled to catch her breath as tears streamed down her face.
Recurring violent thoughts churned as her mind struggled to process the level of torment Ivy had endured before death. How much had she been forced to bear, mentally and physically, before her body blessed her with its final release?
Vicki had to remain objective—but the
brutality
of it. How could she—how could anyone? Vicki fought off the cruel thoughts, floating like cobwebs sticking to her mind. He truly hated women—a black hate, devoid of light.
The dim sixty-nine on her thermostat claimed her body was mistaken. She shivered.
Liar
. And could she trust the clock’s assertion that it was already 5:55 a.m.? She trembled as she peered through the window’s curtain, catching the first wink of the rising sun as it bloomed against the eastern horizon. “Okay, I believe you,” she whispered, hugging herself tight as she shuddered all the way to the bathroom.
She sealed the door and turned the shower on full hot, allowing the steam to build as she hung over her sink. The visions of live mutilation, flashing with every blink, didn’t fade with the icy splashes of water against her face.
Stripping off her sticky shirt and panties, she approached the steam as her gooseflesh tightened with anticipation. She stepped in and slid herself beneath the hot spray, letting it douse her quivering skin. Pain lanced her horrific thoughts as she winced against the burn. She began swaying slowly beneath the steaming shower, warming each side a small measure before returning to the other, longing for the wide, luxurious mouth of her own shower. The wet heat warmed her flesh to the core, but she continued to tremble.
Shake it, Vicki.
The spray retreated with a twist of the knob. Burning hot, she stepped out of the steam, through the bathroom door and into the cool bedroom. She stood naked, dripping on the hardwood, basking in the breezy blessing. Soft wisps of silvery steam snaked up the length of her body and into an invisible vapor as she drew the cool air deep into her—cleansing her of her terrors. Her glistening coat quickly slipped away into the ether, leaving only the need for a towel for her hair.
Enough steam had escaped the bathroom to clear a small reflection in the mirror. She stared into herself. “Make this one count, Vicki.”
She flossed, brushed and gargled. When she had finished rubbing the last circle of the coconut butter over her body, she began her ritual of sparse but enticing makeup and expertly drawn hair.
Her sufficiently distracting outfit hung on the back of the door. After squeezing into her navy denim, she pulled on her fitted white blouse and buttoned it to only just the right side of improper, finishing with the sassy angle of her stylish belt. Satisfied, she snatched up her bag, jacket and weapon.
Her Corvette woke with an enthusiastic growl as it winked a bright
6:45 a.m.
on the dash. The blessed christening of the cool air on her hot, wet body had vaporized her terrors. She felt so much better now.
Her respite was short as Hank rose to the surface of her mind. Her gut pulled inward. She shook her head and drew a deep breath—then saw the sign. She grabbed two large coffees from the drive-through—one with copious amounts of cream—and geared the Corvette down into a playful roar as she sped her car toward Hank’s motel.
† †
†
She jumped when the door swung open before her knuckle could rap a second time. “Look, I’m sorry about last night,” she said but had to look twice to make sure she was addressing the right man.
The eyes and nose were right, but a strong, clean-shaven jaw—no longer softened by long stubble—had replaced the scruffy overgrowth. The usual tousled crop atop his head was now tamed by product and held an edgy, swept-back style. The tailored cut of his dark sport jacket provided clean lines to his untucked button-down shirt, and his coarse deep-blue designer jeans met freshly polished boots at the hem.
“For me?” he asked, shamefaced.
“What? Oh, yeah.” She nodded, handing him the extra-creamy.
“Come in.”
His room was definitely much smaller than her rental, but it was impeccably neat—another surprise.
“You sure took my
grubby hobo
comment to heart.” She had regretted the nervous quip the moment it had left her lips.
“I’ve gotta keep up, don’t I?” he said, being tactful but obvious as he scanned her up and down.
She appreciated the gentle save.
Not wanting to stare at her too long, he turned, catching his reflection in the mirror.
Hello, stranger
. As if seeing an old friend, he felt fuller, better.
“We should get going.”
He nodded, holstering his weapon.
† †
†
As the agents approached the office, they heard Sheriff Roscoe yelling.
“I’ll shut up when it rains fucking teddy bears—and not a moment sooner!” He slammed the phone down on his desk.
“There was an incident last night,” he said before either of them could sit down. He looked up and drew out a long, distracted whistle. “
Holy shit
.”
Her morning preparations were justified. He scanned up and down her skintight jeans, coming to a rest at the low cut of her blouse beneath her fitted tanned-leather blazer.
Vicki took advantage of being in the field by extending her liberties, dressing covertly sexy rather than overtly slutty—there was a distinct difference, and she knew how to wield this craft.
Many viewed this as vain, but, to her, attractiveness was an asset—be it for currency or distraction. She leveraged all of her gifts—mental and physical. According to her father, all the best champions did—that’s what made them great. Vicki Starr was willing to do whatever it took to get the job done. If it raised a few eyebrows, she didn’t care. Her results spoke for themselves.
Roscoe showed no signs of letting the linger wane.
“Incident?” Vicki asked, reclaiming his attention as she took a seat.
† †
†
Hank decided to ride shotgun on this case for a while and let Vicki do the talking. John Roscoe didn’t like Hank, and he knew it. He wasn’t sure why, but he had a few guesses. From the way Roscoe furtively took in Hank’s cleaned-up appearance, Hank figured at least one of his hunches was right.
“No one was hurt, but there were a few shots fired.” In response to their visible shock, he added, “Just watch.” He turned his screen toward them and played a shaky video.
“iPhone?” Vicki asked. The footage was sloppy but discernible.
He nodded.
The stage filled the view, where the mayor stood at the podium and the sheriff remained beside his wife. There was a loud, angry man’s voice in the background. The view swung around to a woman yelling at a man, who was not named
Earl
.
There were more voices out of view, which were finally overtaken by the mayor. Then another woman’s voice cried out.
Raped by a tree?
A thunderous bang filled the room as inaudible screams came from the back. The screen jostled, filling with a puffy hand swinging past stretched-denim-clad thighs, then rounding up a fat-rolled back framed by a yellow-flowered sundress. The screen crested above her enormous hat to show the rampant blur of a crazed female ignoring the exploding wood and molding spraying at her from walls and the open doorframe behind her as gunshots overtook the now terrified screams in the crowd. Sheriff Roscoe could be heard barking commands to lay down their firearms.
The video fought to steady in its frame as the wild woman’s cries trumped all other sound.
“
What have you done? How could you
?”
Her cry managed to increase even further. “
You
deserve what is coming!
You
deserve what is coming!
You
—”
They watched the shaky mass of two large men tackle the woman’s unfocused form to the ground. She flailed wildly and was immediately released by the recoiling men, as if she were a rabid creature and her madness contagious. The sheriff’s voice called for her to stop, but she turned and vanished through the dark frame of the splintered door.
“Who is she?” Vicki asked.
“The witch.”
Hank straightened. “The
what
?”
“The assembly was so shaken after she left that it disbanded early.” Roscoe kept the conversation between Vicki and him. “Besides, I had to issue firearm discharge fines.”
“Lethal hostility warrants a
fine
?”
“You have to understand”—the generally overconfident sheriff offered a cautious look—“there are … sensitivities.” He read their indifference. “She scared the hell out of those folks. Don’t blame them. Blame the government.”
“The
government
?” Vicki asked.
“They let fools carry and conceal. How do you expect armed idiots to behave when someone like her crashes through the door?” He glanced at Hank, impressed by his silent attention. “Loose gun laws are either government-led population control or sanctioned Darwinism.” John Roscoe liked the power of holding a gun—he just didn’t enjoy sharing that power with the unworthy masses.
Vicki remained unconvinced. “It was a pretty loud bang, and her voice carried, but a bit of an overreaction by the crowd, don’t you think?”
“Not just the noise.” Roscoe muted the sound. “People were shocked because she showed up. She rarely comes out of the forest. And quite frankly, even at the best of times, she scares the hell out of people. Worse, Gerald Jeffries had claimed minutes earlier that he had heard the witch yelling dark incantations in the forest on the morning of Ivy’s death.”
“Did you follow up?” Hank asked.
The sheriff looked annoyed that Hank was speaking. “No point. Jeffries is only this side further from nutty than the witch is. People in this town love to make shit up about her—wears thin after a while.”
Intrigued, Vicki asked, “You said she
rarely
comes out of the forest. Why does she come into town?”
“To eat small children,” Roscoe said.
Their expressions dropped.
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. She picks up deliveries, meager supplies—she’s not stealing. No one’s sure how she survives out there on her own.”
“Isn’t it your duty to check up on her?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Not even to follow up on suspicions?”
“I’m not going out there.”
Vicki wanted to laugh but wasn’t sure he was joking. Someone stepped into the office unannounced.
“You were up late,” Rose said to her husband. “I suppose you were jerking to porn all night.”
“No”—he shot an accusing finger-pistol at his wife—“that would be you, my darling. I was busy compiling a list of probables for Agents Starr and Sanchez to get started with.”
“
Dashel
,” Hank corrected.
“Right.” The sheriff didn’t care and handed Vicki the list.
† †
†
Hank scowled as they left. “Do I look Mexican?”
She laughed. “Not even close.” Stopping to smooth the crumpled paper against her thigh, she added, “I see it all the time—just male bravado. He’s trying to subliminally raise his station with me by diminishing the man I’m with.” She caught his smirk. “Down boy—not with me that way.”
He shrugged as they sank into her car. “Sheriff’s more mangy-mutt than alpha-dog,” he said, enjoying her hint of camaraderie.
She feigned a grimace. “And he’d probably jump at the chance to hump my leg.”
† †
†
“Hey, that’s Father Reilly,” Hank said, pointing at the church where a priest was getting out of his car. “Shall we?”
She pulled up behind him. The sudden pop of gravel beneath her tires startled the cleric. He peered at the windshield of the sports car. “Can I—can I help you?”
Vicki stepped out first. “Father Reilly?”
He offered a tentative nod.
Hank joined her, and they approached. Vicki offered her hand. “I’m Agent Starr and this is—”
Hank interrupted, “Agent Dashel.”
The priest moved from her hand to Hank’s, shooting him a quizzical stare. “
Dashel
? As in—”
“I’m sure you remember me.”
The priest tensed, staring cautiously, but continued to shake his hand. “Yes, I believe I do.”
Vicki watched the two men, locked in a stalemate—neither offering another word. She interrupted, “I don’t remember seeing you at the town assembly last night, Father.”
“No, I’ll be holding my own mass on the subject—cut through the liberal bull that Travers likes to spew.” He looked at Vicki. “People don’t need answers—they need the truth.”
Hank wiped his hand on his jeans. “And
you
know the truth?”
“I don’t, but God does. And if He feels fit to share with me, I’ll happily share with the good people of our church.”
“So are you going to wait until you hear from
Him
before calling your flock?”
Father Reilly scowled at the insinuation. “No, son, we come together in prayer—as a community—and then, at that moment, He will make His truth known, and I will share that truth.”
“Father, I’d like to attend your mass,” Vicki said as a courtesy—she was going regardless. “Please ensure we’re made aware.”
He turned to her, offering a warm smile. “I’d love for you to be there. Please, let’s speak inside.” He walked up the steps to the entrance, unlocked the door. “Tea?”
“We’d love some,” she said, shooting Hank a futile admonishment.
The priest led them into the sitting room off his personal chamber and then left for the kitchen.
Vicki confronted Hank with a harsh whisper. “What’s your problem?”
“He’s a righteous asshole.”
Vicki wasn’t actively religious, but she still held an inbred reverence for the sanctity of the church. Hank’s curse sent reactive shivers of guilt through her spine.
“
Saint Prick
back there excommunicated my devout mother for leaving my abusive father—it destroyed her. The church was her family. Because of him, they turned on her. He’s a pillar of the community.”
“I think that’s more the Church’s position than one man’s.”
Hank didn’t care.
Vicki forced a pleasant smile when the priest returned.
“Our kitchen’s finest,” he said, placing the tray of black tea on the table in front of them. “Milk and sugar. What do you take, miss?”
“Black is fine. And Agent Dash—”
“I’ll pass.”
“Very well.” The priest turned his attention to the friendlier agent. “How can I help you?”
Hank answered, “You know why we’re in town, Father. Why don’t you just tell us what you know?”
Father Reilly sat back with his small cup, glancing politely at Dashel. “Yes, well, I can tell you that the unfortunate girl, Ivy, was
not
a member of our church, and I saw very little of her in town—not someone I knew.” He took a tentative sip of the hot tea. “I believe she was fairly new to town.”
Hank’s response was curt. “You make it your business to know everything in this town, don’t you?”
Vicki shot him a reproachful glare. “I’m sorry, Father—Agent Dashel’s not a morning person.”
Hank didn’t like what lurked behind the cleric’s wide smile.
“Oh, I do understand, Agent Dashel. I, too, detest early mornings. But it is
His
work that wakes me each day.”
“I don’t—”
“I can understand your resentment toward me,
Henry
. I realize that you were too young to understand the decisions I made with regard to your family. But believe me when I tell you that I made the right decision, and your mother came to understand, as I hope you will. She forgave herself for her misdirected hatred toward me and the church.”
“Oh, I don’t hate you, Father.” The priest’s victorious smile fell away as Hank’s voice grew cold. “I just
know
you”—he leaned forward with intent—“and I don’t like you.”
“I—” The response caught in the man’s throat, but he pushed through, quickly sweeping into an air of confidence. “I sense your pain, Henry.”
“It’s Agent Dashel.”
The father’s professionally trained tone was the antithesis of Hank’s coarse response. “Yes,
Agent
Dashel—of course. Well,
Agent Dashel
, I sense your pain, and I know you’re troubled. But I also know that forgiveness and penitence are in your heart, if you would only truly listen.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
Vicki broke in, “Hank, maybe I should continue this conversation while you get some air.”
He stared at the priest. “Not on your life.”
She watched for a long moment, seeing no movement. “Okay. I’m sure you have a steady hand on the pulse of this community. I can’t ask you to break the confidence of your parishioners specifically, but did it come as a shock to you when you heard about the murder?”
Hank was impressed by how she had handled this question. He would have pinned the man to the floor.
Father Reilly relaxed back into his chair, steepling his fingers, as if preparing to offer some well-rehearsed wisdom. “I was disheartened, of course, to hear that such violence had befallen our small community. However, I was none too surprised—after all, Miss Turner was an obvious target.”
Vicki looked confused. “But you said you didn’t know her.”
“Oh, I didn’t know her to any great extent, Agent Starr. But I defiantly knew
of
her.”
“How so?”
“Well, let’s just say that her
sexual transgressions
were … known to most. She was like many young girls in this town—lost and wicked in their ways.” He appeared to disregard Vicki’s sudden uncomfortable shift. “Young girls these days cultivate their promiscuity. Worse, even the more mature women, like Miss Turner—the ones who ought to know better—cavort themselves in all manner of immoral display.”
Hank grinned.
“Just so I’m clear,” Vicki interrupted, asking her cool, probing questions. “Women are
immoral
because we embrace the power inherent in our sex? Because we’ve taken control of our bodies back from men? Because of the way we choose to dress? To embrace our own beauty?” She caught his errant glance at the opening in her blouse. “Surely you can’t judge us on that.”
“Surely I can.” He revealed a crooked smirk as he gave Vicki’s attire a quick but pointed scan. “In fact it is my place to
absolutely
cast upon them in judgment. I am
His
voice,
His
trust—
His
law. I see their sins, and I am bound in servitude to awaken them to their failings.”
Her response remained strong but even, regardless of the stirring in her belly. “You don’t believe they have the right to—”
His voice overwhelmed hers with impunity. “They tempt and taunt the weaknesses in men to defile their minds and corrupt their senses. They splay their wicked bodies, every vile opening, in all pornographic forms. They move to seduce. They dress to derail. They speak out of place with wicked tongues—”
She buried her budding rage. “You can’t honestly believe that.”
“I do not fault them for losing their way, Miss Starr—they are all born of sin. However, I do hold them to account for failing to renounce their wickedness and for not coming back into the light of God.”
She ignored his intentional slur, referring to her as Miss.
“And what of wicked men?” Vicki asked, her level tone defying her growing outrage. “Is it not the men who perpetrate all evils against women?”
He stood, shaking his raised finger. “It was
she
who bit the apple! It was
she
who led him unto temptation!” His ferocity cooled as he seated. “It is
she
now who continues to ensnare mortal man in her wickedness. In that there can be
no
dispute.”
“Jesus Christ, it’s the twenty-first century!”
Hank watched with self-satisfaction. Vicki had cursed in the holy sanctum.
“And His judgment comes faster still. For me to rest silent—quieted by the sin of political correctness—of
equality
—would be as wrong as the feminine sins that
infect
our world. Listen to yourself. How easily you take our Lord’s name in vain. How you choose to parade yourself, even in a profession so guarded by strict decorum.”
Vicki’s flesh burned hot as she cooled her voice. “You have a problem with the way I dress?”
He sneered, shaking his head in disgust. “So shameful.” He stared into her. “How so like the corrupted youth you are. It is the liberalization of sin that is forcing upon us these wicked hates. They have turned their backs on God. Just look at the depravity inflicted upon that girl—deserving or not. It was dealt—”
Vicki stammered, “Did—did you say
deserving
?” Horrific flashes of Ivy Turner’s mutilated face singed her mind—the sticky black-crimson gore of her scalp where her hair had been torn out in bloody chunks. The inconceivable torment of having her eyelids carved away so that her eyes could witness their own burning. Vicki strained in disbelief. “Who could deserve such a sadistic act?”