“I’m right about the dragon, aren’t I?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Miss Jackson. But if we find anything about the person who left a Halloween mask on your stoop, we’ll be sure to give you a call. We greatly appreciate the hundreds and hundreds of tips the fine citizens of Antioch have provided to us over the last couple a years, and we document every single one.” He tapped his finger against a manilla file folder to emphasize his point. “It’s been real nice talking to you today, but I’m afraid I have a lot of work to do.” He stood up, signaling it was time for Bess to do the same.
She didn’t take the hint. “She said she was going to die in a basement. If I were you, I’d check houses with basements.”
“We’ll get right on top of that.” Detective Howland’s smile never wavered.
Bess stood to leave. She wanted to say more, to shake him and make him listen to her. Then she pictured the headlines: Officer Attacked by Deranged Black Woman. She’d be gunned down in self-defense and the world would hear about her overdue library books and how she hadn’t been reliable at work lately. She gazed up at his practiced smile and eyes that crinkled up at the corners and tried to decide if he was one of the good guys.
“I only want to help,” Bess said.
“I know you do, Miss Jackson. I really do. I appreciate your report and the time you took to come down here. And I do promise, we’re looking into everything, but there’s only so much collaborating I can do with a citizen such as yourself. If you remember anything else, feel free to call.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only if I really mean it.”
Back at home, Bess took a hot shower. She always thought more clearly in the shower. She didn’t know if she trusted Scott Howland to find Amy Eckhart. After all, Amy had reached out to Bess—not the police. Bess couldn’t ignore her.
She popped a bag of popcorn in the microwave and munched on it absently as she studied her notebook, wiping artificial butter on her pajama pants before turning the pages. There had to be some unexplored avenue to travel down. She re-read the article about Amy’s disappearance and realized there was an obvious source of untapped information right in front of her. Amy had a roommate: Monica Bortles. If she could talk to Monica, maybe she’d know something about the disappearance, the dragon, or both.
Bess logged in to Facebook and searched for Monica Bortles. A short list of women popped up on the screen. The first one on the list shared five mutual friends with Bess and also lived in Antioch. Bess clicked the “About” tab on her profile and spotted her cell phone number, right out for the world to see. Either Monica hadn’t gotten much publicity from her roommate’s disappearance, or she enjoyed it. Either way, Bess considered it a lucky break. She dialed the number and waited, already rehearsing what she would say if the voicemail picked up.
Three rings and then, “Hello?”
“Hello, is this Monica Bortles?” Bess asked.
“Who’s this?”
“I was calling about your roommate. To see if you could give me some information.”
“Seriously? I’ve told you guys everything I know.”
“I know it’s frustrating, Miss Bortles,” Bess said, trying to sound as poised and practiced as Detective Howland had in his office hours earlier. “But as we learn new information, sometimes there are questions we didn’t know to ask before.”
“New information?” Monica’s voice on the other end sounded painfully hopeful. It hurt Bess’s heart to hear the optimism.
“Yes, well, did Amy ever say anything to you about a, uh, a dragon?” Bess faltered and realized she should have planned this out. Made a script. She sounded like an idiot.
“A what?”
“Well, a dragon. Did she have any friends with that nickname, I mean. Or, ah. Does it ring a bell at all?” Bess asked.
“Not really. Amy and me, I wouldn’t say we knew a lot of people with nicknames. If that makes sense. We were in a book club, you know?”
“Is there anything at all you can tell me, something that maybe didn’t occur to you before? Any new friends she’d made?”
“I really don’t think there’s anything else I can tell you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.” There was a soft snuffling noise on the other end of the line and Bess realized she’d made the girl cry.
“I’m sorry, I won’t bother you anymore,” Bess said before hanging up.
Bess had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t going to help anyone by harassing the victims. She felt very small.
The phone rang in her hand and she answered it.
“Hello?”
“Hi. This is Monica Bortles again. I remembered something.” Monica sounded strange on the other end, distant, like she’d suddenly developed a cold within the last minute, or was doing an impression of herself.
“Oh, that’s great. What did you remember?”
Bess barely had the words out before Monica interrupted her. “Amy had a boyfriend you should talk to. His name is Greg Leeds.”
The name sent chills through Bess. “Thank you,” she said and hung up the phone before Monica could say more.
The room seemed to close in around her and she hugged her knees in toward her chest, making herself smaller. He’d been inside her house. The phone calls, the visit to her work, it all took on a sinister glow in her memory. If he’d never seen the radio, would any of this be happening?
Greg wanted to talk to her. Maybe she should give him the opportunity.
Bess dialed the phone again.
“Hello?”
“It’s Bess.”
“Bess! Holy shit, are you okay? I tried to call you. I’ve been worried,” Greg said.
“Tell me about Amy Eckhardt, Greg.”
There was a long pause. Bess heard his steady breathing through the phone. She opened her mouth to ask again, when he finally spoke. “I think we should meet up. Talk.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Bess said.
“There are things you need to know.”
“Did you put the mask in my yard?”
“What mask?”
“The dragon mask, Greg. The dragon!”
“Shit,” Greg hissed. “What’s been happening? Has anyone contacted you?”
“Where’s Amy?” Bess asked.
“Goddammit, I don’t know,” Greg yelled. “Please,” he said, regaining his composure. “Please, let me come over. We need to talk.”
“You can’t come here. Meet me. Meet me tomorrow, at the historical society.” It was the first place that popped into her mind and she regretted it immediately.
“Fine, great,” said Greg. “What time?”
“They close early. Better make it around one.”
She hung up the phone without another word. Padding into the kitchen she picked up a bag of Dove Promises from the mottled blue countertop. The blue was there when she moved in and she’d commented to the realtor that she’d replace them first thing. Those counters would be the first to go. And yet here they were, five years later, as dull and blue as ever. She unwrapped a chocolate and popped it in her mouth. All the wrappers had little sayings on the inside, many of which had apparently been submitted by loyal Dove chocolate consumers.
Live, Love, Dove!—Tricia K. Indiana
“Sounds like something a person from Indiana would say,” Bess thought, not truly knowing what she meant. But it felt true. Had she even been to Indiana? Perhaps once, as a child, on a road trip to some other location. Certainly never on purpose. Certainly never stopping there.
Wadding up the wrapper, she tossed it into the trash.
5
BESS LEFT THE house armed with her cell phone and a small pink canister of pepper spray. She’d called Carol the night before and told her she’d changed her mind—she did want to take a couple vacation days. She couldn’t concentrate on work, not when so much was going on. Growing up, Bess thought nothing bad could ever happen in Antioch. It was too small, too isolated from all the chaos of the rest of the world. But someone was trying to prove that a small town could hold just as much evil as any other.