Chapter Five
1.
“…and those are the ten differences ‘tween loamy soil and peaty soil.” A large guy, Hugo Frost—the owner of Pot Belly, the missing pig, and a man who resembled Alan Hale Jr. in body shape—sat in the Sheriff’s office giving the most boring lesson about dirt Dewey had ever heard. Then again, Dewey wondered if there could even be an exciting lesson about dirt.
Hugo wore overalls and a blue button-up with half-moon sweat stains under his arms. A red ball cap reading: “Orchard Harbor Fishing Club” on its front, sat askew on his head. He had just finished a monologue showcasing his vast knowledge of soil farming.
Dewey sat behind his desk with his head resting on the palm of his hand and his eyes half closed. He had about a million things to do for an early Saturday morning, but since Hugo came all the way from the western part of the county, and since the pig story had become a minor news story, Dewey felt he owed the guy a few minutes.
When Mr. Hugo said, “Now chalky soil—that’s a whole other beast ta tackle…”
As soon as Hugo said this, Dewey ass shot up out of his seat. “Ahh, as interesting as this all is, the more we talk about Pork Chop—”
“Pot Belly,” Hugo corrected.
“Of course, Pot Belly. The more we talk about him, the less time we’re looking for him.” Leading Hugo toward the door, Dewey continued, “We’ll let you know if we hear anything about… about…”
“Pot Belly,” Hugo said.
Clapping the big farmer on the back, Dewey said, “You’ll be hearing from us soon.”
“With everythin’ else you got your plate, Sheriff, I sure do ‘preciate this. Without my Pot Belly, I find it hard to sleep at night.”
Glancing down at the man’s ample stomach, Dewey wondered how Gale would handle this double entendre. She’d probably come up with something deliciously devious, like… well… Dewey couldn’t think of anything; he was never as witty as Gale.
Taking his attention from the man’s belly, Dewey nodded, putting his best chin forward. “I understand. A pet means a lot to a man.” As gently as he could, he pushed the farmer out of his office and started to close the door. Before he could, however, someone stopped him.
“Sid!”
“Dewey!”
They hugged. Although they spoke weekly, it’d been about a year since they had seen each other.
“What are you doing here?”
“Allie got a call. She was told if I didn’t come back to Woodsboro, Dylan and Emily would be next on his list.” She shook her head. “I didn’t have to tell her to leave her house. She called me from somewhere on the East Coast. She wouldn’t tell me where.”
He held out his hand, directing her to the chair Farmer Frost had kept warm. She sat down, while he sat on the edge of his desk.
“Is this ever going to stop?” she asked.
Understanding the rhetorical nature of her question, Dewey turned his head, avoiding her gaze. Deep down, he knew none of this was his fault; still, he couldn't help feeling slightly embarrassed.
“Does Allie know?” Dewey asked, refocusing on her. “I mean… about the… You know.”
Shaking her head, Sidney answered, “No. I was going to tell her, then all this started happening. It’s for the best she doesn't know. If she knew, she might’ve stuck around. Right now she needs to keep herself and the kids safe.”
“Dudester,” Judy said, coming in through his half-open door. She didn’t even look at who was sitting in the visitor’s chair. “Crescent City Police just sent over the stills from Allie’s neighbor’s Ring Cam. Someone in the Ghostface mask was seen exiting the elderly woman’s residence.”
Communicating with his eyes, Dewey directed his wife to look over her shoulder.
When she did, her eyes widened. “Oh my God, Sidney.” The women hugged. As they released each other, Judy said, “You’re the last person I’d expect to see in Woodsboro.”
“Yeah, me too. How have you been?”
“Have my hands full with this one,” she said throwing a thumb over her shoulder. “But, except for the obvious, we’re good.”
“So, you were checking up on what happened to Allie?”
“Yeah,” Dewey said. “I called your local sheriff’s office and made sure they had a patrol car outside her residence until this is over. I guess that doesn’t matter anymore, since she’s not there.” Something then occurred to him. “Sid, she should’ve told you where she went. If she gets into trouble, you wouldn’t know.”
“She has my number.”
Dewey took his keyring off his belt loop and removed his house key. “Here you go, Sid,” he said, handing her the key. “I want you to stay with us. I’ll have one of my officers drive you.”
“I have a rental.”
“I still want someone with you.” He instructed Judy to have Deputy Waltrip follow Sidney to the house and sit outside until they got home.
“Yes, sir,” Judy said.
“Sheriff,” Deputy Higgins blurted, rushing into Dewey’s office and almost knocking Judy over.
“Deputy Higgins,” Dewey admonished, “In this office, we’ll have a little decorum—”
“You gotta see this,” Higgins said, unwilling to wait for Dewey to finish his scolding.
He handed Dewey his phone and pressed play. The sheriff watched as Stephen Jackson was stabbed to death in his car. Sidney, hearing the sounds of the man’s death, winced. Disgusted and unwilling to make Sidney uncomfortable, he paused the video before it could finish.
“What is this?” Deputy Judy asked.
“It was posted to Brad Anderson’s YouTube channel,” Higgins answered.
“What?” Dewey asked, his face a mask of alarm. “When?”
“Last night.”
“How come we’re just finding out about it now?”
“The video was made private,” Higgins explained. “You had to be one of his friends to see it. Kinsley Saunders, his podcast partner, brought it to our attention a few minutes ago. She and her friends emailed it to me. I dispatched a patrol car to his apartment.”
“Come on,” he said to Higgins and Judy, “We gotta go.” To Sidney, he said, “Sid…”
“Go. Just let me know if I can do anything.”
2.
A few employees of Quillory gathered in Stephen’s office, Kinsley among them. An email from Gale Weathers summoned them to the impromptu meeting. Being a paid intern, Kinsley didn’t have to attend. Yet, because she had just been given an important assignment, she thought it best to show initiative.
It was like a damp dishrag had been placed over the mood of the room. Understandable, considering their boss had been murdered less than twenty-four hours earlier. Two staff writers, Eve Kayson and Ellory Herbert, sat on the office couch—Eve bent over sobbing while Ellory had his arm around her back, soothing her. And the poor woman wasn’t just sobbing; there were intermittent moments of wailing scattered throughout. Kinsley thought Eve’s reaction a bit performative. She didn’t think people normally reacted in such a visceral way when their boss died.
“You know Stephen added her to his body count last weekend.” This bit of info came from Gale’s nemesis, Sylvia Ackermire.
“Excuse me?” Kinsley asked, horrified.
“They clapped. Smashed. Hooked up. Whatever it is you kids say nowadays.”
“Oh,” Kinsley said, relieved. At first, when she heard the term ‘body count,’ it struck her as something sinister. Under the circumstances, she felt justified in thinking this. Her mind was just in a bad place; that was all. Now that Sylvia had clarified her statement, Kinsley understood why Eve was crying.
“If you listen to her tell it,” Sylvia continued, “she was his new girlfriend.” Sylvia then laughed. “Such a naive girl.”
“He said I was special,” they overheard Eve say to Ellory.
“And I’m sure she was,” Sylvia leaned in and whispered to Kinsley. “For about ten minutes.”
“Aren’t you being a little too cynical?” Kinsley asked.
“Dear, I’m speaking from experience.” Sylvia flashed a glance that was one part knowing and two parts mysterious. “He had a father, you know.”
Kinsley raised her brow in response.
“If he hadn’t died, you would’ve found out. He had his eye on you, you know?”
“I don’t think so,” Kinsley said, feeling uncomfortable. Here’s a woman, fifty-six and miserable, speaking to her—someone more than half her age—about sex in the workplace.
“Sure.” Sylvia rolled her eyes. “You would’ve been the exception.”
“If you don’t mind,” Kinsley said, beginning to move away from the editor, “I’m going to wait over here.”
She sat down on the couch opposite Eve and Ellory, beside Fern Lynch, Quillory’s photo editor. He had his laptop open, working on the latest cover in Photoshop. Picking up a magazine off the coffee table, Kinsley opened it, acting like she was reading. However, she kept her eyes glued to his screen. The cover was an impressionistic illustration depicting a path leading from a field of flowers and green grass to a barren wasteland of dead trees and brown ground. Using Photoshop’s AI function, Fern added an animal skull onto the wasteland half of the cover. He glanced over at Kinsley, trying to be as covert as possible, hoping she wasn’t watching him. When he saw she’d seen, he whispered, “I only use it for assets.” He paused before adding, “Here and then.” He paused again before adding, “Stephen knew.”
Although this was a whisper, guilt weighed down his tone like a fifty-pound dumbbell. Smirking, Kinsley shook her head and said, “I didn’t say anything.”
“Fine,” Fern said, erasing the skull and slamming his laptop shut. “I’ll just go onto Getty Images and pay a hundred bucks for a simple little hyena skull.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Kinsley repeated, trying like crazy to keep her smirk from turning into full-blown laughter. Guilt was a funny thing, she often found.
“Don’t be coy with me. If you don’t mind,” Fern said, standing up, “I’m going to go wait over there.”
The only other employee in Stephen’s office… former office… was Wilson, the researcher. Kinsley didn’t expect much in the small-talk department from him, though. He was rather introverted, usually speaking in one-word snippets—hello, goodbye, yep, nope, sure, okay—that type of thing. If he ever had more to say, he’d communicate in the form of an email. Once, Gale joked that Wilson was so socially screwy—her word—that he must’ve been voted as the one most likely to die a virgin in his high school yearbook.
“Hey, Wilson,” Kinsley said, looking over her shoulder at him.
“Hello.”
“It’s a really nice morning, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Have any plans for the rest of the day?”
“Nope.”
“Nice talking to you, Wilson.”
“Sure.”
Kinsley turned around, finding her co-workers odd but entertaining, nonetheless.
Out in the hall, the echoing clip-clop of heels could be heard beneath the confident voice of Gale Weathers. “I don’t give a damn what they want. You tell them to push back that deadline, or they’ll have bigger problems than a few pissed-off employees. You’re really going to have to get your shit together if you want to make it in this business.” She walked into the office and hung up on the victim of this verbal lashing. “It’s good to be back,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.
Gale waltzed over and stood behind Stephen’s desk. To Kinsley, it looked as though clouds were under her Christian Louboutins. “How are we all doing this morning?” she asked.
Eve let out a fresh wail in response to this question.
Rolling her eyes, Gale huffed, “For God’s sake, it meant nothing to him. Get over it already.”
This only made Eve cry harder.
“Enough with the pleasantries,” Fern said, frowning. “What’s this all about? I should be at home giving Foo-Foo his bath.” He then looked at his watch and said, “And it’s twelve-thirty, by the way. No longer morning.”
“Thanks for that, Fern,” Gale said behind a phony smile. “What, AI can’t give your poodle a bath yet?”
“I told everyone I only use it for assets here and there!” Holding his laptop to his chest as if it were a coveted treasure, Fern stormed out of the room.
Gale waved this away as if it were a minor inconvenience. “Now, everyone else, we have some work to do.”
“Hold on a minute,” Sylvia said. “Who put you in charge?”
“I did,” Gale said, her tone curt. “Why?”
“Because you’re one of us,” Ellory said, continuing to comfort Eve. The way he was pawing over the crying woman, Kinsley wondered if Ellory was trying to get some of Stephen’s leftovers. A crude thought, perhaps, but it was there, nonetheless.
“I’m not one of you,” Gale said. “With this fresh batch of murders, I have the experience and name that could lead this magazine over this rough patch.”
“His body isn’t even cold yet,” Eve sobbed. “How could you be so crass!?” Except for Ellory, no one paid attention to her statement.
“Your name isn’t what it used to be,” Sylvia said to Gale.
“That’s very good; coming from a woman who never had a name,” Gale shot back.
Sylvia met this with a clenched-jawed sneer.
“Aren’t you upset at all over Stephen?” Eve whimpered.
“Yes,” Gale said. “For about two and a half minutes. Then I heard a chirping bird and moved on.”
This prompted a fresh torrent of tears out of Eve.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Kinsley said.
Gale’s eyes met hers. Astonished, she didn’t know what to say for a second. “Thank you, Kinsley. I’m not sure if you’ll feel that way in a moment, because I’m working solo now. If you take that news like a professional, and not a whiny child,” Gale’s eyes shifted over to Eve for a second, “I might let you edit my story.”
“I understand,” Kinsley said.
With her mouth agape, Sylvia turned and fixed her eyes on Kinsley. “I took you as naïve, but not soft, kid.”
“I think she’ll do just fine,” Gale said.
“That’s because she’s agreeing with you,” Sylvia said. “If she didn’t, you’d slice her up and throw her out of the building.”
“I think slice is the wrong word choice considering what happened to our boss last night,” Ellory said.
More cries from Eve.
“Will you get her out of here?” Gale asked.
“I’ll stop,” Eve sniffled. “I just can’t believe he’s gone.”
Ignoring the Eve drama, Kinsley said to Sylvia, “It’s not that I’m giving up the assignment out of weakness. I just know I haven’t earned it. I think Gale’s history justifies her covering it.” Looking at Gale, she continued, “And if you allow me to edit your work, I’ll edit the hell out of it.”
“I’m sure you will,” Gale said. “But, until then, you could do what interns do. Get coffee, pick up dry cleaning. You know, that sort of thing.”
Sylvia smirked.
Plopping back into the couch and crossing her arms, Kinsley said, “Yeah, sure.” Under her breath, she said, “Bitch.” Fortunately for her, Eve’s sniffles drowned this out.
3.
Jennifer Jolie stood in a brightly lit kitchen, washing dishes. Outside, the sound of a chainsaw ground as its teeth dug through a tree trunk. A moment later, a massive tree branch crashed through the kitchen’s large picture window. It landed close to Jennifer’s head, but she didn’t jump—didn’t even budge. No, instead, her shoulders dropped as she continued to drag a soapy rag across a plate. A beat later, she called out, “Ballastar Hare? Are you there?”
Instantly, a cartoon rabbit appeared on the newly cleaned dish. “Oh, my, my,” the cute little hare said. “It looks like you have a problem on your hands.”
“I do,” Jennifer said, not to the rabbit, but to the camera. “But since I have Ballastar Home Insurance, this little…” she motioned with her head toward the tree branch, “…problem can be handled in a jiffy and with no hassle. You see, Ballastar Home Insurance makes it easy to…”
Rory sat on her living room floor, watching the commercial while Gale’s books and different police reports were spread out before her on the coffee table. She was really getting into helping Kinsley with her article. “Isn’t that the actress who—” Rory asked as the commercial continued.
“Yeah, that’s her,” Tyler said, knowing she was going to bring up Jennifer Jolie’s ill-fated attempt to play Gale Weathers in Stab 3. He lay on the couch behind Rory, half paying attention to the television, half scrolling his X feed.
“She was almost killed, wasn’t she?” Rory asked. “In real life, I mean.”
“Yeah. But she pulled a Dewey.”
“Visit Ballastar Insurance at Ballastar.com,” Jennifer was saying on TV. The cartoon rabbit remained on the cleaned plate beside her, while a greasy, sweaty man wearing a hard hat, joined her, standing on the other side of the tree—“They have affordable options for car, life, home, and apartment insurance. The Ballastar Hare will keep problems like this,” she motioned toward the tree branch with her head once again, “out of your hair.” She then swiped at some leaves touching the top of her head as the jingle played. ‘The Ballastar Hare, it gets you there, keep…’ The sweaty worker looked into the camera and said in a gruff voice, “Problems like me…” ‘…out of your hair.’
“Alexa!” Rory said. “Turn off TV.”
“O-kay,” Alexa responded as the television turned off.
“What’s with all the animals in insurance commercials?” she asked. “Ostriches, rabbits, pigs, lizards…”
“Geckos,” Tyler corrected.
“Whatever.”
“I don’t know,” Tyler answered. While Rory typed notes on her Surface, he continued, “You feeling better after last night?”
“I guess.”
“Hey, listen to this,” Tyler said, reading a post off his phone. “Heather Graham will reprise her role as Casey in the upcoming Stab movie. Although killed in the first film, her character will return as an AI avatar of Casey Becker. Horror Gossip is unaware of how the movie will use such a storyline, but we’re anxiously awaiting to find out.”
“That sounds stupid,” Rory said.
“Tell me about it.”
There was a knock on the door. “That should be Kins,” Rory said, getting up and going to the door. Once there, she asked, “Who is it?”
“Kinsley.” A beat. A sigh. And then, “This is K.O.K.L.A. Red River Rock and Roll Request.”
With the help of Tyler, Rory went through the chore of getting to her door—which now included two dining room chairs along with the bookshelf—and opened it. As soon as she saw Kinsley, she opened her arms for a hug. Kinsley handed her a UPS package and walked past her.
“This was sitting at your door,” Kinsley said.
Rory turned her outstretched arms for a hug into an acceptance of the package with a scrunched brow. Hugs between the two friends weren’t as common as, say, animal mascots in insurance commercials, but they weren’t rare, either.
Kinsley had gone into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator’s door, grabbed a bottle of water, and took a swig. “I think a car followed me,” she said.
“What?” Rory put a hand over her mouth.
“I can’t be sure. They kept going straight when I pulled down your street.”
“Why do you think they were following you?” Tyler asked.
“Because they stayed behind me.”
“Good reason,” Tyler said, raising his eyebrows, understanding he just asked a stupid question.
“But look at this,” Kinsley said, taking out her phone. As she tapped and scrolled, looking for what she wanted them to see, she explained, “Five months ago, Brad and I were going to make some video shorts for YouTube and TikTok—to promote our podcast; listen to this text thread.” Kinsley then read, “I wrote, ‘Brad, Kins, did you cut up those sections of video we talked about? Can you post them?’ He wrote, ‘I’m down in Santa Cruz for the weekend; the shorts are on a hard drive in my room. Evan can go over there and post them. He has my logins for YouTube and TikTok from a collab we did a couple of years ago.’” She then looked up at her friends.
“So Evan has Brad’s login,” Tyler said.
Rory’s eyes shifted from Kinsley to Tyler… then back to Kinsley. Understanding what her best friend was getting at, she asked, “Do you really think Evan is a killer?”
Shrugging, Kinsley said, “I’m sure people didn’t think Jill Roberts or Billy Loomis were killers.”
“Why would he have killed Brad, though?” Rory asked. “They’re best friends.”
“I don’t know,” Kinsley stammered.
“What was Jamie Kennedy’s line from the first Stab movie?” Tyler asked. Then, recalling the line, he said, “There’s always some stupid, bullshit reason to kill your girlfriend. Maybe that goes for best friends, too.”
He said this much to the chagrin of his girlfriend, who gave him a knit-browed look. He lifted his shoulders and raised his palms upward in a ‘What?’ gesture. “I didn’t mean…” He then swiped at the air. “Never mind.” Wanting to change the subject, Tyler asked, “What’s that package, anyway?”
“Oh,” Rory said, forgetting that Kinsley had even handed her a package. Given a moment to consider it, realization hit. “I bet I know what it is.”
Her excitement excited Tyler, too. It seemed that her realization sparked something in his head. “Open it,” he urged.
“What is it?” Kinsley asked, confused by their eagerness.
“Yep,” Rory said, ripping the box open and taking a plaque out. “Our YouTube Silver Play Button!” Then, reading the inscription, she continued, “Ror and Ty React.”
“That’s cool,” Tyler said, taking it from her and looking at his reflection in its shiny surface. “We can put it behind us when we’re reacting to movies.”
“You got a Silver Play Button already? Your channel is younger than mine.”
“I know,” Rory said. Her tone contained a hint of guilt. “It’s just… reaction channels are popular right now.”
“Yeah, Kins,” Tyler added. “It’s really just an algorithm game.”
“I’m not mad,” Kinsley assured. “Congrats.” This ‘congrats’ sounded like it had been rolled around in a big pile of shit. If Rory or Tyler noticed, they didn’t show it.
“Hey,” Rory said to Kinsley, wanting to change the subject herself and wishing she had waited to open the package, “I got some killer notes for your article.” After saying this, she bit her bottom lip, replaying her words through her head. “I mean, I got some really good notes for your article.”
“I appreciate that, but I’m no longer co-writing. Gale kicked me off the project.” Then, in a tone dripping with sarcasm and anger, Kinsley added, “If I’m really good, though, she’ll let me edit her work.”
Tyler held the YouTube plaque above his head and took a selfie. Seeing this, Rory slapped the countertop, getting his attention. She pursed her lips and widened her eyes. Getting the hint, he put it down on the dining room table.
“But I worked really hard on the notes,” Rory said.
“There’s nothing I could do. She came into Quillory this afternoon and took over. Although I wasn’t spared, it was really something to see. I kind of admire her for it.”
“So what are you doing now?” Tyler asked. “At the magazine, I mean?”
“Getting coffee and dry-cleaning,” Kinsley answered, smiling to keep from blushing.
Kinsley’s phone pinged. She looked down at her texts and read something that made her mouth fall open.
“What is it?” Rory asked.
She turned her phone around so Rory and Tyler could read the screen.
A Snapchat post from Evan read: ‘In memory of our friend, Brad Anderson, and his favorite decade for horror movies, I’m having an 80s-themed memorial service at my house tomorrow night. Dress will be casual. There will be drinks and light refreshments. Sorry for the late notice, but I can’t have Woodsboro Police finding out about it, or they might shut it down. If you received this message, you’re invited. Please, keep it quiet. Starts at sundown.’
Both Rory and Tyler checked their Snapchat.
“I got one,” Rory said.
“Me too,” Tyler said. “But we’re not going, right?”
“I’m not,” Kinsley said. “With all this going on, along with the text thread I just showed you, that wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Hold on a second,” Rory said, thinking.
“Oh, God,” Tyler said.
“Normally,” Rory continued, “a party leads to a higher body count. But this isn’t a party. It’s a wake. If one of the rules of a… um…”
“Pentalogy,” Kinsley reminded.
“Yes, one of those. If one of the rules is that they break the formula, maybe a wake is where we’d go to be safe? And if we stay away, we’ll get killed.”
“But why would Evan invite us in the first place?” Tyler asked Rory. “I can understand why he invited Kins—she ran a podcast with Brad. But, it’s not like we’re good friends with him.”
“Well,” Rory said, thinking, “Evan invited us because Kins is my best friend, and you’re my boyfriend. Plus, Evan doesn’t have many friends. So he has to invite somebody.”
“So, you’re saying we should go?” Kinsley asked, one brow raised.
“I think we should,” Rory answered.
“Hold on,” Tyler said. “If the rule says part 5’s break the formula, then wouldn’t the formula break be going to the wake? Because a normal person in this situation would think it’d be dangerous to be around a large group of friends, so not going would be the right choice.”
“No,” Rory argued. “The formula is the party. If we don’t go, that’s breaking the formula, and if we do go, we’re keeping the formula the same, which, ultimately, breaks the formula that creates the formula… or something.” Rory pursed her lips, looking puzzled. Shaking this confusion away, she continued, “What I’m trying to say is, if we keep with the formula, we break the rule. Does that make sense?”
“No,” both Tyler and Kinsley said in unison.
“I didn’t think so either. What I’m trying to say is—”
“Please,” Tyler interrupted, running a hand through his hair, “not again.”
“This whole thing is confusing,” Kinsley said.
“I think she’s saying we’re going,” Tyler said, his brow crinkled.
4.
Like a cherry on top of a shit sundae, a crispy and blackened body lay atop a pile of burnt and wet garbage in the alleyway behind Garden Brew coffee shop. He or she—Dewey couldn’t tell which—was face up, and their back was bent at what would be an impossible angle if they were alive. Discarded fried rice lay across their shirt, and one leg was wedged between two moist, melted garbage bags. The plastic stuck to the cadaver’s crusty skin.
A few firefighters refolded their hose behind Dewey, while two others checked the garbage pile’s perimeter for hot spots. Deputy Judy stood a few feet from the scene, blocking the lookie-loos from coming down the alley. Next to Dewey, snapping pictures for evidence, was Tricky McAdams, Woodsboro’s medical examiner.
“Looks like a scorcher if I’ve ever seen one,” Tricky said.
Dewey didn’t acknowledge.
When he looked at the victim’s face, he saw that both eyes were missing. During his time as an officer, he had seen two burnt bodies—both car accidents. In neither case were the person’s eyes completely missing. This could only mean one thing. The killer must’ve removed them before…
“What do we got here, Dudster?”
Sneering, Dewey backed away from the smoldering garbage mound. “We haven’t got an ID yet, but I think it might be Stu Macher.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because he was supposed to meet Gale for an interview at Garden Brew.” He motioned with his chin toward the wall beside them in the alley. “It’ll be a while before we get concrete ID.”
“Shan’t be too long if it is him,” Tricky said. “We can get the dental records from the state prison within the hour.”
“So that’s why Gale called him?” Ward said. “For an interview.”
Dewey asked a question of his own in response. “What were you getting at with Becky Macher yesterday? All those questions about her husband?”
“If someone’s mad enough…” Ward paused, looked at the body, then back at Dewey, “…they’re capable of anything?”
Raising his brow, Dewey swiped Ward’s theory away.
“It’s not out of the question,” Ward said. “Maybe he’s committing the murders to frame Stu Macher.”
“Then why would he kill him today?” Dewey asked in disbelief.
“We don’t have an ID yet, Dudster.”
“It’s still a ridiculous theory.”
Flies had begun feeding on the open holes where the victim’s peepers used to be. Dewey winced and covered his mouth to keep from vomiting.
“You never could get used to the sight of a dead’un, say?” Tricky said, noticing the shade of white Dewey had turned.
“I wouldn’t say that, Tricky,” Ward said. “I think it’s just our Sheriff here.” Ward put an arm around Dewey’s shoulders, has a weak stomach.”
Quickly, Dewey threw his arm off of him.
Taking no offense, Ward said, “Well, I guess his cousin got her wish.”
“Not now, Officer Ward,” Dewey said.
“What’s wrong with you, Dudester?”
Instead of answering, Dewey rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. In truth, he did have one. Ward didn’t say anything too out of sorts. It was just that with Sidney back in Woodsboro, not only did he have the town’s safety to worry about, he had to protect her. This only complicated matters.
Behind them came the clip-clapping of heels echoing off the close walls. Immediately, Dewey’s headache got worse.
“Dewey! Dewey!”
Both Dewey and Ward turned just in time to see Deputy Judy move to her side and block Gale’s path. “No press, Gale.”
“Get out of my way, Judy.”
“I can’t let you pass, Gale.”
“You’re going to have an awfully hard time sitting down with a red heel sticking out of your ass.”
“You can’t threaten law enforcement, Gale.”
“Gale,” Dewey said, approaching the two women. “You gotta get out of here!”
“How the hell did she know about this?” Ward asked. “Did you tell her?”
“She has a police scanner on her desk,” Dewey answered. “Look, Officer Ward, you’ll have your new title soon enough. Until then, stay out of my way.”
“Whoa. The Dudster is standing up for himself. Say it ain’t so.”
“And stop calling me Dudster,” Dewey said, poking Ward in the chest.
Surprised, Ward stepped back. His face crumpled when he stepped on something that felt like a full ketchup packet popping open under his heel. Lifting his shoe, he scraped whatever it was off with his fingers. “The damnest-looking slug I’ve ever seen,” he said, wincing at the feel of it in his hand.
When he went to flick it off with a flip of the wrist, Tricky grabbed his arm. “Wait, wait.”
“What?” Ward said, looking sick.
“That’s not a slug. It’s an eyeball.”
“Shiiiiit,” Ward said. Then, his eyes got wide, and his gag reflex started working on him. Within a few seconds, he ran over to a garbage can, leaned over, and puked.
“Dewey!” Gale continued. “You’re going to want to hear what I have to tell you!”
Sighing, he walked over to where Judy had Gale contained. “Good work, deputy,” he said to his wife.
“Thank you, sir.”
“What is it, Gale?”
“Stu Macher is in Garden Brew right now.”
If Ward hadn’t run off to clean his hand, Dewey could only imagine the look he would’ve gotten.
“Well, well, well, look at what the cat dragged in,” Gale said, approaching Stu’s table. Dewey and Judy flanked her. Stu looked up and responded with a smirk. “You’re about a day late for our meeting.”
“Lay off,” Stu said dismissively. “I don’t have a car. You try being on time when you have to hitchhike.”
“Ever heard of Uber?” Gale asked.
“What the hell’s an Uber?” Stu asked, honestly.
Knowing she walked into that one, Gale composed herself.
Stuart Macher didn’t look good. A quick glance in his direction wouldn’t tell this story; physically speaking, he looked fine. However, when Dewey looked into his eyes, he saw a ghost—someone whose heart continued to beat, but they no longer knew what it meant to live life. Also, there was something else Dewey couldn’t quite put his finger on. Gun to head, he might explain it like this: ‘Standing near him felt like standing near no one.’
“What are you doing here, Stu?” Dewey asked, his tone serious and gruff.
“Drinking coffee?” Stu answered, holding up his cup of joe. “I came here because this is where she,” he nodded toward Gale, “wanted to meet me yesterday. I thought maybe I’d run into her if I sat here a while. It looks like I was right.”
“Do you know anything about the body found in the alley around back?” Dewey asked.
“Easy, Sheriff,” Judy whispered. “Don’t lose your temper. If he knows anything, we haven’t Mirandaized him.”
Knowing his wife was right, Dewey, like Gale, composed himself.
“No,” Stu said, answering Dewey’s question. “I heard the sirens, but I didn’t know they were around back of this place. What’s this all about, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Gale mocked. “Maybe we’re here because a new Ghostface murder happened days after your release.”
“You think I did that?” Stu asked, a smile cracking his lips.
Again, Gale reset, positive Stu was right, and that he had nothing to do with what happened on Kinsley’s podcast.
“I heard you were at my cousin’s place yesterday.” He directed this at Dewey. “Now I gotta hear shit from her about that. Look, man, I did my time, I’m not going to sit here and be interrogated.”
Unable to take it anymore, Dewey slammed his palms on the table, causing the napkin dispenser and fork to rattle. Startled, everyone in the coffee shop turned. “You did your time for giving my sister a life sentence.”
Even Gale swallowed the lump in her throat. She hadn’t seen Dewey this angry in a long time.
Stu could only stare at him. Except for a quivering lip, his expression remained remorseless. And until Judy pulled him back from the table, Dewey’s eyes remained locked in battle with Stu’s.
Sighing, Stu said, “Look, man, if you’re gonna take me in, take me in; my cousin wants me out of her house anyway. But if you’re not, then get the hell outta my life.”
“What about my interview?” Gale asked.
Getting up, Stu walked past them, brushing against Gale as he went. “Shove the interview up your ass.”
Having had enough, Dewey grabbed Stu by the right wrist and twisted it behind his back. Although surprised, Judy jumped into action, quickly securing the suspect’s left wrist.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Dewey began. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in—”
“What the hell are you arresting me for?” Stu cried.
“We’re detaining you on suspicion of murder.”
5.
Lying on her bed, bathed in the soft glow of her television, Marta watched Party of Five, alone. Mark might not have liked that she started without him, but for now, at least, he didn’t know. After watching Bailey’s intervention episode, she couldn’t wait to see what would happen, especially between him and Callie. Besides, she was wearing his favorite pajamas. When he got home and saw her in them, Party of Five would be the last thing on his mind.
The curtains billowed in a soft breeze coming through the open window. Other than the illumination coming from the television, Marta had a candle lit on her nightstand. She was home alone; her parents had gone out for the night—karaoke at the Fettermans’. This meant she and Mark would have the place to themselves until at least one in the morning.
She knew about the Sunday night party at Evan’s house, and although Mark said he wouldn’t mind going, she put her foot down. “I’m not going to that with all this stuff going on,” she had told him. When he pointed out that she didn’t even like horror movies, she asked, “What does that matter? People are getting killed, aren’t they? Whoever’s doing this likes them.”
Her phone rang. Looking down, she saw it was Mark. She paused the DVD and answered, “Hey, baby.”
“Hey,” Mark said. “I’m on my way over now.”
“You were supposed to be here a half hour ago.”
“Sorry. Zach was late for his shift. Overslept again. I couldn’t leave.”
“It’s okay. And, just so we’re straight, we’re not going to that party tomorrow, right?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t.”
“Then we won’t.”
“Thanks, baby. Hey, who loves you?”
“I do. And who loves you?”
“You do,” Marta said, giggling.
“You’re not…” Mark paused before completing his question. “You’re not cheating on me, are you?”
Marta pulled the phone away from her ear and gave it a queer look. Putting it back to her ear, she said, “I know you didn’t just ask me some stupid question.”
“You know what I mean…”
She got quiet as her eyes shifted to the television screen where Matthew Fox, Lacey Chabert, and the other girl, whose name she couldn’t remember, were frozen in mid-conversation. Next, her eyes shifted to the Party of Five Season Three box next to her PlayStation 5. Finally, guilt washed over her face like the shadow of an eclipse.
“Oh, come on,” Mark said. “You couldn’t wait for me?”
“It’s only a few minutes into the episode, baby. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it—not after that intervention episode. Look, I’ll stop it now. We’ll watch the rest together, I promise.” She neglected to mention that it was only a few minutes into the second episode she watched without him.
“It’s fine,” he said, laying his pity-party voice extra thick. “I see how it is.”
“Don’t be like that, baby,” she said, falling for his act. In fact, she did feel bad. They were watching it together, as a couple. She shouldn’t have gone ahead without him. “Don’t be too mad at me. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Oh, yeah? How?”
“I’m wearing your favorite Pj’s.”
“Well I’d better hurry on home, then, huh?”
“You better. Although I’ll never understand why you like these plain ol’ pajamas. Wouldn’t you rather see me in something sexy? Like some lacy lingerie?”
“You don’t need all that to be sexy, babe.”
She smiled, suddenly wanting him next to her in the worst way. “What do you want to do to me?”
“I wanna have sex with you.”
“I can’t wear my pajamas if we do that,” she giggled again.
“You can keep the top on. Just unbutton the top few buttons.”
“I’m here waiting. But you better be safe. Don’t drive like a crazy person. I’m not going anywhere. I miss you, baby. And I’m really sorry about the show.”
“It’s alright. I’ll live. I’ll see ya in about fifteen.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Tossing the phone on the bed, she grabbed her PlayStation controller and got into a mental wrestling match with her thumb. It wanted to tap the play button. But she knew she had to stop the DVD. And that’s what she did.
Her phone rang again. Thinking it was Mark checking to make sure she stopped watching the show, she didn’t look at the caller ID. “I stopped it like I said I would.”
“Stopped what?” a voice asked.
“Um,” Marta said, sitting up in bed. She took the phone away from her ear and looked at the caller ID. UNKNOWN. Biting her bottom lip, she put the phone back to her ear and asked, “Who is this?”
“Who do you think it is?”
“Boy, stop playin’ games with me. If you think I’m gonna stay on this phone like a dummy, you have another thing coming.” She ended the call. She’d never seen the Stab movies, but, living in Woodsboro, she knew the voice. And with Rory getting a call and all the murders taking place in town, it scared her, whether it was a prank or not.
She went to dial Mark and tell him about it, but the phone rang again. Like before, the caller ID read: UNKNOWN. Rolling her eyes, she answered and immediately ended the call.
Outside, a fox cried out in search of a mate. The cry’s screeching quality gave her a start, and her heart rate picked up. Looking over at her open window, she watched as the curtain moved ever so lightly. This subtle movement of fabric caused the shadows cast by her TV to dance a bit. “Damn wildlife,” she mumbled—a look of consternation masking her face. “I’ve gotta move to the city.”
Focusing on her phone lying on the bed, she waited for it to ring again, while hoping it wouldn’t and wishing Mark would hurry his ass up.
It didn’t ring. Instead, a text appeared on the screen. It read: Answer the fucking phone BITCH, or I’m going to make your death extra painful.
She covered her mouth as she whispered, “Shit.”
The phone rang again. UNKNOWN. She sent it to voicemail and called Mark back.
“Hey, babe,” Mark answered.
“That voice is calling me,” Marta said.
“Voice?”
“You know, from those stupid-ass movies y’all watch. That Ghostface voice. I hung up on him and won’t answer his calls. Now he texted me that if I don’t answer, he’s going to kill me. Baby, get here, quick.”
“Is your mom or dad home?”
“No. I’m here alone.”
“Call the police. I’ll be there in ten.”
Over the phone, she heard his engine rev as he pressed harder on the gas. At the same time, her phone buzzed in her ear. She looked at it. UNKNOWN! “He’s calling again,” she told Mark.
“Answer it and merge the calls.”
Huffing, she said, “I don’t want to answer it.”
“I’ll talk. Just do it.”
After tapping the ‘Hold and Accept’ option on her phone, she then tapped ‘Merge Call.’ Finally, she put the phone to her ear without saying a word.
“Hello,” Ghostface said.
“Hey, who is this?” Mark demanded, putting some bass into his voice. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Marta would’ve found his attempt to sound intimidating comical and a little sweet.
“A three-way,” Ghostface said. “Very kinky.” He then laughed. “I’m into it.”
“Look, we’ve called the cops, so why don’t you just hang up and leave us alone?” Mark said.
“Mark,” Ghostface said. “You’re supposed to be the funny one, huh?”
“How do you know my name? Who is this?”
“Let’s just hang up,” Marta said to Mark.
“Go ahead and hang up,” Ghostface said, ignoring Mark’s questions. “But if you do, the opportunity I’m giving you will go away.”
“What opportunity?” Mark asked.
“The opportunity to save your girlfriend’s life,” Ghostface answered.
“You better not touch her, you son of a bitch,” Mark screamed into the phone.
His outburst stunned Marta. Compared to his initial attempt to sound gallant, this demand was pure rage. They’d known each other since they were kids. Mark had always been so happy-go-lucky. Even in times of sadness or anger, he handled these situations with calm and humor. Though she never questioned his love for her, in that moment, she felt loved.
To the contrary, Ghostface laughed at his rage. “Answer my questions, and you’ll have nothing to worry about. It would be such a shame to harm someone like you, Marta. A nice young woman lying in her dark bedroom, binging a 90s drama, with her window open.”
Marta jumped out of her bed as if her mattress had burst into flames. She stumbled on the floor as she beelined to her window. Once there, she slammed it shut and locked it. Then she pulled the curtains closed.
Ghostface laughed at the commotion he heard over the phone.
“This isn’t fucking funny,” Mark spewed.
“It’s not supposed to be funny,” Ghostface growled. “Does this sound like a romantic comedy to you? This is deadly serious. And, Mark, I’d stop trying to play tough guy. Both of us know that no casting director would put you in that role. Now, enough stalling. Marta, if you don’t answer my questions, I’m going to slice your neck open and rip out your spine through your throat!”
“What the hell is this?” Marta asked, her voice as shaky as her hand.
Over the line, she heard Mark rev his engine harder. “Get outta the damn way!” he yelled at a driver.
“This is your lifeline. Answer my questions, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
While Ghostface spoke, something came to Marta. She tapped the ‘Home Screen’ button on her remote. Her television switched from the paused Party of Five episode to her Amazon Fire’s splash screen. From there, she opened the Ring camera app. On screen, various camera angles of her house came up. Scanning the six different angles, she didn’t see anything out of place.
“First question,” Ghostface said. “Let’s say I wanted to get a hold of Rory. And by ‘get a hold of Rory, I mean get my hands around her fucking neck. How long would I have to squeeze before she dies?”
“I… I…” Puzzled, Marta had no clue how to answer such a terrible question. “What are you talking about?”
“I swear if you touch her…!” Mark shouted, becoming more frantic with each passing second. He honked at someone, and his wheels screeched. Marta prayed that he didn’t get into an accident.
Ignoring Mark’s anger, Ghostface continued, “This is an easy question for someone majoring in forensics.”
“Digital forensics,” Marta said through a clenched jaw. Her fear level remained high. However, a fair amount of anger began coursing through her veins. “I don’t know how long it would take to choke someone to death.”
“That’s the wrong answer,” Ghostface said, offering another long, drawn-out cackle.
While Ghostface spoke, Marta kept scanning the different cameras. Using her remote, she cycled through the angles, making them larger on her television screen. There was nothing to see.
“There is no answer!” Mark yelled. “It’s a trick question!”
“That doesn’t bode well for your girlfriend,” Ghostface said.
“I’m right around the corner, Marta!” Mark screamed. “Lock your bedroom door!”
Rushing over to her door, she did as Mark said. It’s something she should’ve thought of in the first place.
A moment later, Marta watched Mark’s Mazda turn into the driveway at a shade under a million miles per hour. He came to a screeching halt. She heard his tires outside as she watched the silent screen, leaving her senses disoriented.
“I’m here, babe,” Mark said, getting out of the car so fast he left it idling and the headlights on.
“Be careful!” Marta shouted over the phone while watching him sprint down the walkway leading to the portico and front door. “I don’t see him on the security cameras; he could be anywhere.”
“Do you see me now?” Ghostface spoke as Marta noticed movement on the portico’s small roof.
He’d been lying down the whole time! That’s why she couldn’t see him! Now, as he started to get up, she could see the white mask made famous by the Stab movies. Mark was a few feet away from the porch when…
“Mark! Look up!” she cried!
…Ghostface jumped down on top of him. It wasn’t a far drop—ten feet at the most. Yet, the force was still enough to knock Mark to the ground.
“Mark! Baby!” Marta yelled into the phone. Yet, as he began a struggle for his life, his phone lay on the ground beside him. She could see its screen illuminated on the infrared camera.
She ran toward her bedroom door, grabbed the knob, but paused. What the hell was she going to do? Stepping back in front of her television, she watched as Ghostface held a knife to Mark’s neck; her boyfriend had a death grip on the hooded figure’s arm.
Without another thought, she unlocked her bedroom door and ran through her house. Yes, she might get killed, but that was her man out there—the guy she’d known since second grade—her person, her ride or die. She couldn’t just leave him to die.
Rushing to the foyer, she snatched an umbrella from a metal container just inside the door. Sure, it was no match for a knife, but she didn’t have time to run to the kitchen. Opening the door, she found only Mark, lying on the walkway, with blood fanning outward around him. In the moonlight, the crimson looked as black as oil.
“No,” she sobbed, rushing to his side, kneeling, and setting the umbrella down beside her.
Through thready breaths, he wheezed, “Marta… go back in…” He coughed. A fine spray of blood flew from his mouth.
Bending down, she wrapped her arms around him and tried to lift him. “I’m taking you in, baby. Come on.”
“Arrgh,” he moaned.
Not wanting to hurt him, she let go immediately. Although Ghostface’s unknown presence remained a concern, it had taken a backseat to witnessing her boyfriend lying in a pool of his blood. The crimson felt warm and water-like on her feet, shins, and knees.
“Baby, please don’t die,” she pleaded.
“Go back,” he wheezed. “Go back.” Then his eyes closed, and he said no more.
“One down,” Ghostface said behind her.
Turning, she saw him standing over her, a knife over his head, catching the moonlight in a glint of illumination.
She screamed and put her hands up as the hooded figure’s arm came down. She blocked the knife from hitting anything vital, but it did cut her right forearm. She screamed again—this time in pain instead of fear.
Thinking fast, she picked up the top half of the umbrella, hooked Ghostface’s ankle with its J-shaped handle, and pulled as hard as she could with her good arm. This was enough to send Ghostface onto his back.
Getting to her feet, she hurried toward her open front door.
“What’s going on out there!?”
This voice came from Mr. Westerbrook, her next-door neighbor. With no time to explain, she screamed for a third time, hoping this would be enough for him to get the message. That’s when she felt the knife sink into her right shoulder blade. At first, a sensation of painful cool expanded from this spot on her body. Quickly, the coolness turned to heat. The pain wasn’t as bad as she thought it might be, but it still hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.
“Help!” she yelled into the dark night.
From his yard, Mr. Westerbrook shone a flashlight in her direction. “What the hell?” he said.
The force of the stab sent Marta falling forward. She lay out on the brick walkway, looking like a baseball player sliding into second base. Along with her other injuries, her knees and elbows were now skinned. Small potatoes compared to the sensation, like gooey hot water, spreading on her back.
“I’ll call the cops!” Mr. Westerbrook yelled.
She thought she was done for. Ghostface would turn her over and put his knife into her heart. Still, she crawled—clawing her way toward the open door of her parents’ house. The house she grew up in. The home where she and Mark were supposed to watch all six seasons of Party of Five. Tears ran down her face. One of her nails broke off on the brick walkway as she scraped her way home. And, just as she imagined it would happen, Ghostface turned her over and straddled her.
She stared up at him. Her eyes fixed just beyond the white mask, on the high branches of an oak tree that had been old when she was born, silhouetted—black—against a dark night sky in zigzagging, tangled tendrils. Then another Ghostface appeared over the shoulder of the one on top of her. It surprised her, but she didn’t react. She was in too much pain to react. Besides, it was clear her life was over. Really, she had given up the fight when Mark died. Despite this, she had to know…
Her breathing grew thready, and she struggled to get air in. Still, she had to know…
Reaching up, she grabbed the mask of the Ghostface on top of her, paused a moment, waiting for a fight; when none came, she yanked it off. The face behind the mask was the biggest surprise of all—certainly not her guess. Regardless of the pain, she couldn’t help but offer a misery-filled laugh.
“Who would’a thought?” she said a moment before the person stuck the knife into her heart.
6.
Looking as though it had been plucked from one of the fancier parts of San Francisco or L.A., Hepburn’s Bistro sat off the road by itself, about half a mile from Woodsboro’s main business district. Landscaping with sprawling ground vines, flowering shrubs, and rose bushes lined the parking lot. The bistro’s sign, lit in white with a bold, cursive font, was prominently positioned above the door. Exterior wall sconces cast triangular pools of light across the stone façade, while inside, warm, elegant light spilled out of the windows.
Growing up, Sidney recalled this area as a big field where neighborhood kids played baseball or football, depending on the season. They broke ground to build the restaurant just after she left Woodsboro. When she pulled into the parking lot, it had been the first time she’d laid eyes on it.
“This is definitely Gale,” she said to her empty car.
A greeter opened the door for her. “Good evening, Madam.”
“Thank you,” Sidney said, crinkling her brow. She was still in Woodsboro, right?
Yet, that was nothing. A few feet inside, standing behind a podium, was a maître d’. “Good evening, madam. Miss Weathers is already seated. May I take you to her table?”
“Yes, please,” Sidney answered, looking down at her clothes—slacks and a blazer over a black blouse. Suddenly, she felt a bit underdressed.
She met Gale with a hug and sat down across from her. “I thought I was on time,” she said, noticing one empty glass and another half-filled—gin martini—in front of Gale.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m early,” Gale responded.
“Whenever you’re ready, ma’am,” their waiter said, handing Sidney a drink menu.
“Um, a French 75,” Sidney said without looking at it. “And a water, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After he left, Sidney leaned in and said, “This place is…”
“Nice, I know.” Gale raised her brows up and down. “You like it?”
Sidney wanted to say no. But because this had been the first sit-down conversation she had with Gale in years, she remained agreeable and smiled in response.
“How are you feeling?” Gale asked.
Again, Sidney wanted to tell her she felt better when people didn’t ask how she was feeling, but refrained. “Not so good. This Woodsboro shit is the last thing I need to be dealing with right now.”
Gale shifted her eyes in an uncharacteristic way. It almost looked like guilt. Then again, it could’ve been embarrassment, sorrow, or compassion. With Gale, it was dangerous to guess. But since she had no reason to look guilty or embarrassed, she figured it was one of the latter two. Sorrow over her condition or sorrow over certain aspects of her past; things from the distant past that she couldn’t take back.
“It’s okay,” Sidney said, reaching across the table and grasping onto Gale’s hand, hoping to ease whatever her friend was fretting over. “Let’s not talk about that tonight. Tonight’s about catching up. How are you doing? What’s going to happen with the magazine now that… Well…” Sidney didn’t have to finish the statement.
Brightening a bit, Gale met Sidney’s eyes. “I don’t know what’s going to happen once his family gets a hold of it, but for now, I’m in charge. For the first time in a long time, I feel alive…” The look that swept her face couldn’t be mistaken this time—embarrassment, for sure. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
“It’s fine.” Sidney smiled, hoping to hide the contempt she currently felt. “You’ve always excelled in the face of tragedy.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want this to happen. But if it does, someone has to cover it.” When Sidney didn’t respond, Gale asked, “You don’t feel even the slightest bit of excitement.” This time, Sidney did respond, but not with words. Instead, she glared at Gale. If butter had been on the table, it would’ve melted. “I guess not.”
Sidney pursed her lips before saying, “Don’t take this wrong, Gale, but I’ve never been the type of person who thinks what happened to me—to us—in the past gives me worth. Instead, I strive for the future I…” Pausing, Sidney considered what she was about to say. Knowing her words would’ve been too ironic, she said, “Never mind.”
“Sidney,” Gale started before pausing to collect her thoughts. “I don’t…” She paused again. “Look, I’m my best self when I’m taking charge. For the past decade, I haven’t been that. I’ve been a cog instead of the wheel, and…” She shook her head, looking like someone visualizing the face of regret. “… and I’ve hated it. Right now… I’m not only the wheel, but I’m driving the car.”
Staring past Gale, off into the distance, as if she were watching a memory stroll by, Sidney said, “That’s good for you, but… it took me a long time to come to terms with what had happened. For a long time now, I stopped hating my past and came to terms with it. I adopted a child, thinking I could take all that pain and turn it into something good for a misunderstood little girl. And although I like my life now—love it, in fact—I’ve put her and, now, my grandchildren in a bad spot.” Meeting Gale’s eyes, Sidney continued, “It makes it really hard not to start hating everything all over again.”
The same expression Sidney couldn’t place earlier re-stole Gale’s expression. “Sidney, you didn’t put anyone in a bad spot.”
“Would you ladies like a few more minutes?” the waiter asked, setting Sidney’s French 75 and water before her. He was a handsome man with short black hair, slicked back and stylized. His uniform—a white pressed shirt under a black satin vest, and black slacks—looked sharp on his V-shaped body.
“Please,” Gale said.
“Certainly.”
“Sid, life is what it is. If you don’t make something constructive out of terrible situations, you’ll be miserable.”
There might’ve been wisdom somewhere in what Gale just said. Sidney didn’t feel like thinking about it. Most likely, it was Gale’s half-assed attempt at moving past an uncomfortable subject. Tired of Gale’s defense, Sidney said, “Dewey told me about another body found behind Garden Brew.”
“Yeah. Before you got here, I got a text saying they ID’d her. Another WCC student, Taylor Andrews.”
“Oh, God,” Sidney said, feeling sick.
“Twenty years old.” Gale took a sip of what looked like bourbon. The ice made a delicate sound as the cubes rolled around in the glass.
Sidney looked around the room, trying to push the thought of another young person dying from her mind, and failing at it.
She focused on the restaurant’s décor in lieu of thinking about another dead twenty-year-old. Each table had a white linen tablecloth and a glass-encased candle in the center—the booth tables were bare. Light conversation filled the dining room; now and then, a chuckle broke the muted noise. Dark wood columns ran symmetrically throughout the place. Each had sconces on each side, illuminating the dining room. The white ceiling bore numerous decorative emblems. Here and there, greenery sat atop dark wood dividers and overflowed down the sides.
“Dewey also said Stu was near the crime scene.” It seemed that regardless of how much she didn’t want to talk about the murders and the circumstances surrounding them, she couldn’t help herself.
“He was in Garden Brew having coffee,” Gale confirmed.
“Do you think he has anything to do with the woman’s death?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What do you think he’s doing in Woodsboro, then?” Sidney asked.
Gale looked at her. “Oh… Dewey didn’t tell you?” Sidney shook her head. “He was there to meet me. I was going to interview him for my magazine article yesterday.”
“Oh,” Sidney said, crinkling her brow and leaning back in her chair.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Interviewing him would’ve been valid. It’s just…” It was just the simple fact that Stu Macher tried to kill both of them about thirty years ago. And Gale was going to interview him? Then again, this shouldn’t have surprised her. Gale would try to interview Ghostface as he was stabbing her if she could. What were they just talking about after all?
“Sidney,” Gale said, taking Sid out of her thoughts. “It’s just what?”
Sidney shook her head in a way that conveyed shame.
Gale’s cell rang. “I have to get this,” she said before getting up and walking away from the table.
Sidney leered as Gale excused herself. While alone, she began to feel funny. What was she doing? Out with Gale Weathers at an expensive restaurant during a murder spree. If it wasn’t Gale’s idea in the first place, she wouldn’t have come. She felt so out of place. And although she and Gale grew to be friends, hearing the way she talked over the past few minutes reminded her of why she slugged her… Twice!
Flustered, she considered making up an excuse to leave. She didn’t need—
“There’ve been two more murders,” Gale said, returning. “Out on Frostburg Road. Two more students from Woodsboro Community College.”
7.
Working late gave Officer Ward a pleasant feeling in his gut. The way the light from outside pole lamps slanted through half-closed blinds and spread across the floor. How his desk lamp cast a lenient glow while the rest of the room was cast in shadows. Any subtle move he made caused his chair to creak softly—a library sound he found quite relaxing. Every now and then, the bullpen’s Coke machine’s cooling system turned on in the small kitchenette, providing a quiet hum.
It reminded him of when he was eighteen and worked overnight as a bank security guard. He figured once he turned twenty and eligible for the Police Academy, that particular job would look good on his application. During his two-year career keeping Farmers First National secure—which mainly consisted of watching a lot of overnight television, reading a ton of magazines, and playing a fair amount of Game Boy Color—he never had a single interaction with a potential bank robber. The alarm never even sounded by accident.
He didn’t get to the police academy until he was twenty-five, however. After his security job ended when the bank went under, he served four years in the Marines. All in all, both experiences helped him become an officer of the law.
Earlier, he was out with the rest of the Woodsboro police force at Marta Bradley’s house. By the time he got there, the bodies had been shipped off in the meat wagon. Dewey put him on press duty. This burned his ass. That job belonged to one of the grunts like Deputy Higgins or Wyman. He couldn’t believe it—him—the man who’d be taking the sheriff’s role in less than a week, answering questions from assholes whose sole purpose in life was to sell deodorant and erectile dysfunction pills, in the form of ad time, for whatever news bureau they worked for. If he thought Dewey was smart enough to embarrass him on purpose, he might’ve challenged his authority in front of everyone. But the dummy wasn’t doing it on purpose; Dewey was merely being judicious. At least in his own mind.
“Dudester, you suck,” Ward said to the empty office. Despite the whispered statement, his voice sounded loud in the quiet space.
Outside, light rain tapped against the windows. Yawning, he removed his reading glasses and rubbed the exhaustion from his face. He glanced at his wristwatch—twelve-thirty. Around one, Higgins and Wyman should be back from their patrol; he planned to leave with them. He didn’t have to be there now. The only reason he stayed late was to get a few things in order before he took his new position—filing some paperwork and making sure the I’s were dotted and the T’s were crossed on old forms. Over the years, neglecting paperwork turned into a kind of sport for him. Now that someone else would be taking over his desk, this practice finally bit him on the ass.
On second thought, he had a few more days to get things in order. With that in mind, he closed the current folder, leaned back in his creaky chair, pulled his cap down low enough to cover his eyes, and put his feet up on his desk. He could go home and sleep in his bed, but his wife lived there, so that wouldn’t work. If he were being honest, she wasn’t that bad. Yet, after twenty years of marriage and her new demands for attention after their youngest son went off to college—attention he didn’t want to give anymore—sometimes he wished he had a Judy Hicks to mingle with. Besides, his wife snored.
Five minutes later, he was asleep… and snoring quite loudly.
Ten minutes later, a strange noise woke him. He had been a light sleeper ever since his squad was ambushed in Iraq many years earlier. Unless a sound was expected—like his snoring or the rain against the window—the slightest sound got his eyes open. Not wanting his creaky chair to give his position away, he didn’t move. Certainly the sound could have been his imagination—a remnant of a dream, perhaps—but he didn’t think so. He listened for another noise. With all this Ghostface crap going on, he figured it was best not to make any sudden movements.
Peeking down, he turned his wrist. Through the small gap between the bill of his cap and the triangular space between the base of his nose and his cheek, he read: 12:42.
Another tink sound. Slowly, he reached up and fixed his cap back on his head. His chair squeaked a little, but he didn’t think it was enough to alert anyone who might be sneaking around the room.
The noise came from his right. Looking over, he saw nothing but a group of desks bathed in shadows. But that wasn’t true. The janitor’s closet was over there, too.
Tink. Clink.
That’s where the noise was coming from. The janitor’s closet.
Slowly, he lifted his legs off his desk one at a time, trying to keep the chair’s squeaking to a minimum. Standing, he started moving toward the closed door, placing the palm of his hand on the butt of his revolver as he went.
Clink. Tink. Ping.
They were glassy, delicate sounds.
He undid the snap on his holster, releasing his revolver. As he approached, within ten feet of the door, he reached out, ready to grab its knob when it started turning. Someone was coming out!
Quickly, he sidestepped and stood on the hinge side, ready to leap at whoever emerged. Half of his face was cast in a diagonal shadow cast by the blinds.
The door opened, and someone walked out. The instant he saw the person, he grabbed them and pulled them to the floor. A glass bottle of turpentine shattered. A pungent, pine smell filled the air around them.
“What the hell are you doing?” a voice shouted.
“Higgins!” Ward exclaimed. He got off the deputy. “What the hell are you doing!?”
“Getting some turpentine,” Higgins said, sitting up and rubbing his shoulder. “I got paint on my uniform and wanted to get it out. Damn, man, you’re heavy.”
“I’m heavy!?” Ward asked, flabbergasted. “That’s the least of your concerns. For God’s sake, I could’ve used this on you.” He grasped the butt of his sidearm, keeping it holstered.
Around one, Ward walked through the back parking lot toward his truck. The rain had picked up quite a bit. Heavy drops pounded his head and shoulders and made the parking lot look like a bubbling lake’s surface.
He left Higgins to clean his uniform and the mess they made outside the janitor’s closet. Higgins told Ward that Wyman had already gone home. When their soon-to-be sheriff objected to this, saying that their shift didn’t end until one, Higgins reasoned that they were both on call anyway, so it really didn’t matter.
“Plus,” Higgins confided, “After seeing what that maniac did to those students,” he shook his head, “we both needed to clear our heads.”
To Ward, this sounded like the type of stuff Dewey let his deputies get away with. Then again, he didn’t see the bodies. But that was beside the point; he’d seen his share of bodies in Iraq. Hell, he’d stepped on an eyeball earlier that day. He let Higgins’ bad decision go without much of an argument. But once his term started, things around the office would change.
Opening his truck’s driver’s side door, Wyman’s body tumbled out into his arms. Surprised, Ward fell under the weight of the dead lawman. His throat had been slit, long and deep.
“What the hell!?”
That’s all he got out. A knife was jammed into his throat, cutting off any more words. Blood poured from the wound. A few moments later, he was dead.