David Handler - The shimmering blond sister

“I think I’ll run up to the Mohegan Sun after dinner,” Yolie said. “Try to nail down what time Beth and Vinnie checked in last night. I’ll need pictures of them I can show around.”

“You’re welcome to whatever you need,” Very said. “Want some company?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I could ride along with you.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

Des’s right foot collided with Yolie’s shin under the table.

Yolie looked at her, startled, before she cleared her throat and said, “If you want to ride along, it’s fine by me. Happy for the company.”

“Cool.” Very drained the last of his beer, swiping his mouth with the back of one hand. “Anybody in class have anything else they’d like to share?”

Mitch raised his hand. “Yeah, I do. Dinner’s ready. Let’s eat.”

Later, after Yolie and Lieutenant Very had driven off to the casino in Yolie’s cruiser, Des and Mitch walked the island’s beach together in the moonlight, enjoying the quiet and each other. They shed their clothes and dove naked into the cool water. Floated on their backs and gazed up at the stars, bobbing up and down on the gentle swells until Des’s teeth began to chatter. Back at the cottage they jumped in a hot shower and Mitch soaped her, nose to toes, with a bar of L’Occitane milk soap infused with sinfully rich shea butter. He was very dutiful and thorough, his hands gently massaging and kneading her flesh, lingering lovingly over her booty. And lingering. And…

“I think I’m good and clean back there now, Armando.”

“Sorry, I got a little captivated. It’s like being allowed to stand in the Louvre running your bare hands over the Venus de Milo.”

“Yeah, that’s me-Venus. Except I’ve got arms.”

“And legs.” He knelt behind her, soaping them. “God, you’ve got legs.”

She stood there smiling inside. No man had ever made her smile inside like Mitch did. For sure not Brandon. With Brandon she’d been one big knot.

Upstairs in the sleeping loft, the oil lantern glowing soft and golden, she needed something different from Mitch tonight. Maybe it was that extreme dose of Richie Tedone and his tranny skank Eboni. But when Mitch reached for her, Des took his face in her hands and said, “Do me a special favor, will you?”

“I don’t have to wear the handcuffs, do I?”

“Nothing like that. Will you just hold me, squeeze me and never leave me?”

“Done.” Mitch gathered her in his arms and hugged her tight. “This is the deal from now on, you know. Our parents aren’t getting any younger.”

She blinked at him in surprise. It never ceased to amaze her how he knew her. “The Deacon just seemed so… vulnerable.”

“Get used to it. Before long they’ll be the ones sitting in a diaper talking gibberish and we’ll be the ones spoon-feeding them vanilla pudding.”

“You make it sound so appealing, Armando.”

“Okay, my turn now. To ask you for a special favor, I mean.”

“You want me to do that thing to you with the feather?”

“No. Well, yeah. But no, that’s not where I was going. We, that is to say you, decided that since I’ve lost so much weight, my old pet name no longer applied. But the truth is I really, really miss it.”

“You want me to go back to calling you that?”

“More than anything in the whole, wide world.”

She caressed his cheek, kissing him softly. “You got it, doughboy.”

“About the Deacon…”

“What about him?”

“There’s more going on here than you’ve told me, isn’t there?”

She nodded. “The Brass City boys want his job. They’re trying to use that scuffle I had with Augie to push him out. If he’ll retire then Internal Affairs will drop any investigation into my actions.”

“But they have no case against you.”

“Doesn’t matter. They can put a stink on me that’ll stay with me throughout my career. They know he won’t let that happen.”

“So what are you doing about it?”

“Pushing back. But please don’t ask me how, okay? Because I’m not real proud of myself. Which reminds me, I’ve got a loose end that’s driving me crazy. Can you think of any connection between the Dorset Flasher, Augie Donatelli and York Correctional?”

“The women’s prison?” Mitch frowned. “Not really-aside from the fact Kimberly teaches yoga there two afternoons a week.”

“She does?”

“Yeah, she’s a volunteer. Does that mean something?”

“I have no idea. Probably not.” Des yawned contentedly, feeling herself getting drowsy. Her eyelids were heavy, circuits fried. She surrendered, snug and safe in Mitch’s arms.

Until her cell phone rang on the nightstand.

She answered it and listened. “But I’m on desk detail now, remember?” And listened some more before she said, “Okay, Oly. I’ll be there in five.”

“What’s up?” Mitch asked as she climbed hurriedly out of bed.

“I’m not entirely sure. But it’s nothing good.”

She could hear the screams from out on Maple Lane.

It was just past 1:00 a.m. when Des pulled in at the same little dead-end road off of Dorset Street where she’d tripped over Augie’s dead body. Oly’s cruiser was parked there next to Dorset’s volunteer ambulance van. Rut Peck’s place was dark, same as last night. Over at Ray Smith’s, the porch light was on. Ray stood outside in his bathrobe, pulling on a cigarette and watching the action.

It was going on at Nan Sidell’s. Lights were blazing inside the little farmhouse that the blond middle school teacher shared with her two sons.

The screams grew even louder as Des rushed up the front steps to Nan’s open screen door. They were the screams of a terrified boy. And she could make out words now: “We’re next, Petey! Look out, we’re next!”

In the parlor, Oly was seated on the sofa with Dawn’s wide-eyed ten year-old, Peter, who was wearing a pair of Boston Celtics pajamas. The family’s big yellow Lab, Josie, was stretched out at Peter’s feet, whining uneasily. The screams were coming from Nan’s bedroom, where Des found Nan’s gangly older boy, twelve-year-old Phillip, in a state of uncontrolled hysteria.

“Look out, Petey! Look out!” he screamed, his eyes bulging with panic as he scrabbled around on the floor underneath his mother’s antique four-poster bed, trying to hide from a monster that he alone could see. Sweat was pouring from him, soaking his pajamas. “We’re next! Run, Petey! Run!”

A distraught Nan knelt there by the bed in her nightshirt, trying to calm him. “Philly…? Mommy’s right here, honey. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”

But the boy wasn’t responding. Didn’t hear her. Didn’t know her. Just kept screaming: “Run, Petey! Run!”

Marge and Mary Jewett, the two no-nonsense sisters in their fifties who ran Dorset’s volunteer ambulance service, were standing just inside of the bedroom doorway. It was a small, sparely furnished room. Aside from the unmade bed, which had a patchwork quilt on it, there was a nightstand, a chest of drawers. No art on the walls. No rugs.

“Don’t make any sudden movements,” Marge cautioned Nan in a quiet voice as the boy continued to scream his head off. “Just be real gentle. Don’t grab for him or try to shake him. He’ll come out of it on his own.”

“Come out of what?” Nan sobbed, tears streaming down her face. She was trembling. “What is happening to my son?”

“We’re next, Petey! Run, Petey!” Phillip cried out, bug-eyed with terror as he crawled frantically around under the bed. Until, abruptly, he stopped and became quiet. And calm. So calm that he curled into a fetal ball right there on the floor and fell asleep.