Stillness Page 3

  As she fishes in her black purse for the money Mary asks, “So how is our dear reverend?”

  Smiling as always Marie answers, “He’s doing excellent. He’s working on this Sunday’s sermon. Can I tell him he’ll be seeing you in church?”

  Mary hasn’t attended church since she was a teenager. “Anything’s possible,” she says with a curt grin.

  “Well,” Marie begins handing over six dollars “I’ll be hoping to see you anyway. Keep the change.”

  Taking her package Marie turns on her heel and walks out the door. As the door opens ringing the bells, sirens wail out of nowhere.

  The speeding emergency vehicles flying down Main before taking a left up Alma grab the full attention of the café’s patrons. The scene is surreal and not something seen often in Stillness. Two cruisers are following a rescue vehicle of the local fire department.

  “Dear lord,” Marie gasps.

  Faces press to the windows inside trying to catch a glimpse of the action. Gradually voices murmur and speculate about what could be going on. The gossip mill picks up speed.

  Dropping a tip on the counter Jacob pockets his notebook and heads for the door. There’s a story brewing. He gruffly pushes past the shocked Marie Anjou and races to his beat up Gremlin parked by the curb. Behind him he can hear Marie condemning his poor manners.

  Sliding behind the wheel he turns the key over and on the second try the hulking beast sputters to life. Hanging a U-turn he pulls out and heads west down Alma in pursuit of the story.

  Arriving at the entrance to the cave Sheriff Walter Anjou puts his cruiser in park and shuts the engine off. He leaves his lights flashing—the ambient red hue dancing in the early morning shadows.

  Stepping out of the vehicle he surveys the situation. He’s not the first on the scene. The fire rescue truck and two other cruisers are crowded around the cave. He knows the M.E. is on his way from Des Moines.

  Adam Henson is busy running yellow police tape around the perimeter to secure the scene, while over by the entrance the huge Robert Oliver dwarfs Walter’s deputy Clark Starling as they talk.

  Pulling his cap down low over his head, Walt hooks his thumbs in his belt and hitches his pants up before heading over to them.

  Walter Anjou is a large, squat man of fifty-four years. As he walks the fabric of his pants rubs between his massive thighs. The buttons on his shirt seem on the verge of popping with each step from the weight of his stomach pressing against them.

  Reaching the caution tape he grips it between his stubby fingers and lifts it over his head. Taking a handkerchief from his pants pocket he wipes sweat from his brow. Like the rest of him, his face is pudgy. His skin is tough and worn from countless hours in the outdoors under the Iowa sun. He has a pug nose, cherub cheeks and little beady eyes. Those tiny black pinpricks now focus on the scene.

  “Clark,” his voice has a gravelly texture to it as he speaks—almost like rough sandpaper. “What’s the latest?”

  Clark Starling is everything that Walt Anjou is not. At just a shade past thirty years of age he is in top physical shape. His uniform hangs loosely on him hiding the muscular physique beneath. As usual a lock of his sandy brown hair is hanging in front of his green eyes.

  It lends credence to his boyish good looks that have yet to fade with age. Walt has often joked with him that he should’ve gone into modeling, what with his ‘Hollywood tan and pearly whites.’

  “We’re waiting for the M.E. to arrive before removing the body.”

  “Is it one of the Sullivan’s?”

  Clark shakes his head no. “From what I’m told, it’s a recent death.”

  “Morning Sheriff,” Robert Oliver extends his huge hand to Walt. At almost six and a half feet tall and two hundred and fifty pounds of sculpted muscle, Robert Oliver is an imposing figure. The captain of the local fire department, he’s known Walt since their days together in high school.

  “Morning Bob,” Walt greets him with a handshake. “How’s Judy keeping these days?”

  “Good, and Olivia?”

  “She’s well Bob, gossiping as usual I’m sure.” They share a brief laugh before Walt turns back to Clark. “Who found the body?”

  “Tyler Perry and Josh Woods.”

  “Christ,” Walt draws the first syllable out in a long exasperated moan. “What are those two fuck-ups doing out here?”

  “Well same as always I’d imagine,” Robert offers “Getting sauced or medicated.”

  The three of them share a conspiratorial laugh at the expense of the well-known reputation of the local screw-ups. Every town has someone who never seems to get the idea that to succeed in life you have to work—that you have to grow up at some point.

  Stillness has two people like that in Tyler Perry and Josh Woods.

  “Where are they now?”

  Clark points over to the fire rescue truck saying, “They’re being checked out. Josh is fine and except for a few scrapes and bruises so is Tyler.”

  Walt narrows his eyes in their direction asking, “We find anything on them?”

  “The cave is littered with quite a few bottles and Woods had some meth on him.”

  Looking back Walt asks, “How much?”

  “Misdemeanor at most.”

  “When they’re checked out have Henson take them down to the station for questioning. I’ll do it myself later and in the meantime let them sober up in a cell.”

  The sound of an approaching vehicle draws all of their attention to the road where the battered car of Jacob Castle pulls to a stop.

  “Jesus,” Walt swears “Take care of that asshole Clark before Henson tells him anything.”

  Clark rushes off to greet Jacob while Robert asks Walt, “Any idea who’s down in that cave?”

  Shaking his head Walt answers, “Clark pretty much knows everyone in town so if he didn’t recognize the face I’d have to say some poor tourist got lost.”

  “Maybe he’s one of those Agri-Chem boys.”

  “Unlikely,” Walt quickly shoots the idea down “They would’ve reported a missing employee.”

  “Yeah,” Robert agrees “I guess you’re right.”

  They spend the next few minutes in silence listening to Clark placate Jacob with promises of information to come later. The boy does have a way with people, Walt muses. Lighting up a Lucky Strike, he takes a deep drag and breathes blue smoke into the morning air, impatiently waiting for the medical examiner for the county, Dr. Hyman Allen, to arrive.

  Chapter 3

  Loud abrasive rock music envelops Scott Lee in a cocoon.

  Speeding down the county road in his classic Ford Mustang convertible he’s on his way home after two weeks on the road with his band and away from his girl.

  The lead singer in the punk band Dick Nixons, Scott has shoulder length wavy black hair with a shock of flaming red dyed in, deep black eyes, handsome cheekbones, and a captivating singing voice.

  Today as usual he’s wearing some combination of dark colors; always playing the brooding, loath filled rock star. In the waning light the metal in his face glitters—an eyebrow piercing to go with four earrings including a dangling star and moon number that was given to him by Jaime.

  Under his black shirt are the three tattoos he has—a spider web, knife, and half a heart. Jaime has the other half on her lower back.

  As the sun races for the horizon ending the day Scott is coming alive. The twilight is his time. Coming up on the outskirts of town he sees the rotating lights of a cruiser and wisely shifts down a few gears. The last thing he needs is another speeding ticket to add to the collection in his glove compartment.

  As he reaches the scene around the conservation area he slows way down and rises up in his seat to get a better look at things.

  From the road all he can see is yellow police tape flapping in the faint breeze before he’s seen slowing down and is cast a look that he knows means move along.

  Falling back in his seat he shifts back up and takes off for tow
n though not as fast as before.

  Killing the music he reaches into his bag on the passenger seat and removes his cell phone. With one hand he punches the speed dial for Jaime and puts the phone to his ear.

  After five rings he gives up and tries another number. More rings before the answering machine picks up “This is Guy, leave a message.”

  Beep!

  “Guy its Scotty. I’m coming into town now, how about we meet at The Still around nine. Hope to see you there buddy.”

  Tossing the phone on the seat he cranks the tunes to max again and smiles as he passes by the old familiar sign: Stillness. Pop. 3000.

  “Home again.”

  The gothic church spire looms above Mary Street. It looks down on the cherry blossom trees that line the sidewalk in front of the Church of St. Paul.

  The church itself is one of the largest edifices in Stillness, built around the turn of the 20th century. Its gothic spires loom high above the vaulted ceilings and dark stained glass windows of the church.

  Next to the church is the old rectory built of granite and brick after the completion of the church. Its style is slightly more modern as since the 1950’s it’s been used to house the Reverend and his family.

  Combined with the courtyard out front the lot is picturesque most days and simply spectacular on others when the sun shines just so through the branches of the trees casting the whole place in a holy light. Seeing the Church of St. Paul it’s easy to understand why gothic architecture so swept over Europe.

  Coming up the flower lined front walkway is the athletic figure of Gaetano Anjou. Wearing a denim shirt and khaki slacks with sandals he walks with a purpose. He casts a glance skyward at the spire before ascending the front steps and entering the church.

  Once inside he waits a few moments to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Dipping his fingers in the basin of Holy water he makes the sign of the cross and enters the church proper.

  From the back of the aisle he can hear his uncle’s booming voice from the altar. Marcos Anjou is and always has been about the sermon. Though he’s lost some of his fire with age, he still has the voice that reaches not only the back aisle but into the soul of the believer.

  Seeing his nephew walking towards the altar he stops his run through of Sunday’s sermon and smiles warmly at him. “Gaetano my boy, when did you return home?”

  In the soft spoken manner that won over many a young girl’s virtue Gaetano answers “Just now.”

  “You’ve been to see your mother?”

  Stopping below the altar Gaetano answers, “Not yet, but I did run into Aunt Marie on my way here. Still have a taste for the croissants I see.”

  Stepping down from the altar Marcos embraces his nephew. It feels good. He’s missed him in recent months with Gaetano off at school. Not that he’s that far away, but Marcos understands why Gaetano hasn’t been home to visit more often.

  Always hanging in the air between him and his father is the sting of Gaetano’s decision to pass on Law Enforcement in favor of the University of Iowa and a degree in Applied Mathematics.

  “All is well with you?”

  “Yes,” Gaetano begins “And with you?”

  “Oh you know,” Marcos dismisses the question “Keeping busy shepherding the flock mostly. Almost exclusively at times but a town needs spiritual guidance. It’s consuming work.”

  Gaetano nods his agreement while focusing his intelligent green eyes on his uncle’s kind face. Biting his lip he asks, “You’re not going to ask me how school is?”

  Warmness comes into Marcos’ eyes as he places a hand on Gaetano’s shoulder. “Of course, how are the studies going?”

  “I’m doing all right.”

  “Well of course you are,” Marcos jabs him “You’re an Anjou after all.”

  As they laugh, Gaetano lowers his gaze momentarily before looking around the church—resisting eye contact with his uncle.

  “All right,” Marcos prods “Out with it. What’s troubling you?”

  Eventually Gaetano looks him straight in the eye saying, “Same as before I guess. Has dad been around lately?”

  Turning back to the alter Marcos replies, “It’s a small town Gaetano, you know he’s been around. What you want to know is, is he still angry with you?”

  “No,” clenching the tip of his tongue between his teeth Gaetano answers “I already know the answer to that question.”

  “Then you’ve been to see him?”

  “Not yet. I thought I’d get the heads up as it were before going to see him.”

  “Well in that case,” Marcos wags a finger at him “You don’t know the answer to the question.”

  “I can guess Uncle Marcos. You know he hasn’t called me once since I’ve been away.”

  “Have you called him?”

  “Why should I call him?” Gaetano protests in the all too familiar way of his. It reminds Marcos so much of how Walt used to react when they’d have a fight. He is his father’s son—stubborn as a mule.

  “Listen to your uncle now Gaetano. Sometimes your father can be pigheaded. It is that way with all fathers and sons. But in the end a father only wants what’s best for his son. Give my brother a little time, and things will get better.”

  “He’s had time Uncle Marcos. I don’t even know why I want to see him.”

  “Oh, I think you do. What does the Good Lord preach?”

  Smiling a little Gaetano answers “Forgiveness.”

  “That’s right,” Marcos returns to his notes as he says, “Just give it time my boy, and everything will work out for the best.”

  Absently Jaime Lincoln wipes the feather duster across shelves crowded with body creams, tanning solutions, exotically named bottles, and various charms.

  Adrienne’s Attic, a spa/health store, is empty this afternoon which has relegated her to dusting the inventory. As Adrienne—her boss—has told her it wouldn’t do for the place to look dusty.

  Personally Jaime doubts it makes a difference. The only customers they get are the few regulars who hardly care about dusty supplies and the occasional tourist who happens by looking for that special charm to remember their vacation by.

  “Hey Jaime you with us or what?” From behind the counter Dominique Trembley says, “You’ve been dusting that fertility charm for awhile now. You’re not trying to say something are you?”

  Smiling mischievously Dominique reveals the small chip in one of her eyeteeth. She is dressed in a small hooded sweatshirt with the words Iowa University printed across the front and hip hugger jeans. The first thing anyone would notice about her is how absolutely pretty she is. Up close she seems delicate, vulnerable and tiny. Her hands and feet are doll-like, her body slight.

  “And how is it you just happen to know this is a fertility charm?”

  Flipping a page in the magazine lying on the counter Dominique smiles coyly, “Would you believe I know the inventory that well?”

  “No I would not!” Jaime points the duster at her friend as they both share a laugh.

  Jaime sets the duster down on the counter and runs her lithe fingers through her blond hair letting it fall cascading around her shoulders. She’s blessed with skin the color of porcelain, rounded cheekbones, a wide smile framed by cherry-red lips, and deep blue eyes. All of which sits atop a tapered neck and curvaceous body. She’s the spitting image of many a magazines’ stylized version of beautiful—only she’s real.

  “So what are your plans for tonight?”

  “Nothing yet,” Jaime says, “But I’m hoping Scott will be home by tonight.”

  “Where was he when you talked to him last?”

  “He’d just played a club in Chicago and was going to head for home. So that was last night and I figure he’ll be here tonight. After all I think he has a gig at The Still Sunday.”

  “You guys will be staying in?”

  “Not necessarily, we can control ourselves you know. It’s not like we’re you and Guy.” Dominique feigns offense, putting her hand over
her heart. “What are your plans for this wonderful Friday night?”

  “I don’t know yet. I know Guy’s having dinner with his parents and then he’ll be over. We’ll find something to do.”

  “I bet you will.”

  The ringing of the door chimes interrupts their conversation as they both look up to see only the third customer of their shift.

  “I got this one Dom.”

  Approaching her Jaime notices the shy mannerisms that she carries. Dressed all in black, her slumped shoulders, down cast face and soft voice all serve to make her appear almost invisible. Or so Jaime imagines she wishes they would. But the one thing you can never be in a small town rest assured is invisible.

  “Can I help you?” As she looks up from her Doc Martins Jaime notices the smudged black mascara around her eyes. “Are you all right? You don’t look well.”

  “I-I need to get some supplies. Do you have anything to boost energy or immunity?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I just,” turning away from Jaime she covers her mouth as she coughs. The spasm seems to Jaime to be especially violent. “I just feel tired and s-sick.”

  “Well let’s see if we can get something to fix you up with. I haven’t seen you around here before.”

  “I was just passing through when I came down with this…cold I guess.”

  “We do have some vitamins and herbal remedies that tend to work well, but you might consider seeing a doctor about that cough.”

  “Thanks,” she takes the advice and the package of supplies and is on her way.

  Something about the whole experience seems off to Jaime who exchanges a bewildered look with Dominique before putting the last few minutes out of her mind completely.

  Chapter 4

  With a file in his left hand Walt Anjou waddles into the tiny interrogation room and closes the door behind him without raising his eyes from the file.

  Seated across the battered wooden table—with his right wrist shackled to said table—William Sullivan shows no sign of acknowledging the sheriff’s entrance.