Page 19 of Open Season

SIX

Jack. Russo was in a good mood when he left the library. Sparring with Miss Daisy was a lot of fun; she pokered up, blushed, but didn’t back down an inch. She reminded him a lot of his great-aunt Bessie, with whom he had spent many of his summers right here in Hillsboro. Aunt Bessie had been as straitlaced and starchy as they came, but remarkably tolerant of having an energetic boy with her for at least two months every summer.

Though at first he’d been agonized at being stuck in the sticks!—as he’d thought of Hillsboro back then—he had grown to love both his great-aunt and his time here. His parents had thought it would be good for him to get out of Chicago and find out there was another type of world out there, and they’d been right.

At first he’d been bored to tears; he was ten years old and away from his parents and all his friends, all his stuff. Aunt Bessie had been able to get a grand total of four—four!—channels on her television, and she did things like crochet every afternoon while she sat in front of the tube and watched her “stories.” She went to church twice on Sunday, washed her sheets on Monday, mopped on Tuesday, shopped for groceries on Thursday because that was double-coupon day. He didn’t need a clock to tell time; all he had to do was check what Aunt Bessie was doing.

And it had been hot. God, had it been hot. And Aunt Bessie hadn’t had air-conditioning; she didn’t believe in such foolishness. She had a window fan in each bedroom and a portable one she moved around the rest of the house as she needed it, and that was enough for her. Her screened windows were open to let breezes flow through the house.

But after he’d gotten over his tears and sullenness, he had gradually discovered the fun of lying in the sweet-smelling grass at sunset and watching the fireflies—or lightning bugs, as Aunt Bessie called them. He’d helped her in the small garden she tended every summer, learning to appreciate the taste of fresh vegetables and the work involved in getting them to the table. He had gradually gotten to know the neighborhood boys and spent many a long hot afternoon playing baseball or football; he had learned how to fish and hunt, taught by the dad of one of his new friends. Those six summers, beginning at age ten and ending when he was fifteen, became the best times of his life.

In a way, he had never become absorbed into Hillsboro culture; because he came only during the summer, he never met any of the kids other than the boys in the neighborhood. Since he’d been back in Hillsboro, he’d met only one man who remembered him, but over twenty years had passed since he’d stopped visiting Aunt Bessie except for lightning stops during the holidays, when people were busy with their own families and he hadn’t had time to look up any of his old pals.

Aunt Bessie lived to be ninety-one, and when she died three years ago, he’d been both startled and touched to find she’d willed her old house to him. Almost immediately he’d made up his mind to make the move from New York City to Hillsboro; he’d just gotten divorced, and though he’d been steadily moving up the ranks in the NYPD, he was getting tired of the stress and bustle of the job. The Special Weapons and Tactics team was fun, but the danger associated with it was one of the reasons behind his divorce. Not the big reason, but one of them, and on this issue he figured his ex-wife was at least half right. Being a cop’s wife was tough; being the wife of someone who went to work only when the situations were the most dangerous took nerves of steel. Besides, he was thirty-six; he’d started at the age of twenty-one, in Chicago, then moved to New York. It was time to get out, look for something a little less edgy.

He made a couple of trips to Hillsboro, to look over the old Victorian house and see what repairs were needed, and at the same time put out some feelers for a job. Before he knew it, he was being interviewed for chief of police, and after that it was a done deal. He put in his notice—amid ribbing about being the Chief of Podunk—packed his stuff, and moved south. He had a staff of thirty, which was a joke compared to the size of the police force he’d just left, but Jack felt as if he’d found his niche.

Okay, so there wasn’t a lot going on, but he liked protecting his adopted town. Hell, he even liked the city council meetings; he’d gotten a big kick out of the last one, with half the citizenry up in arms because the council had voted to install traffic lights around the square. It was ridiculous that a town of nine thousand people had only one traffic light, but to hear those people talk, all ten of the amendments in the Bill of Rights were being violated. If Jack had his way, traffic lights would be installed all over downtown, and at all the schools. Hillsboro lagged behind the times—he hadn’t been joking when he called it Mayberry—but traffic was becoming more congested as people moved to the pretty little town, and he didn’t want a schoolkid flattened by a car before the citizens woke up and decided maybe they did need more traffic lights.

Eva Fay Storie, his secretary, was on the phone when he entered his office, but she held up one finger to stop him, then handed him a cup of coffee and a sheaf of pink message slips. “Thanks,” he said, sipping the coffee as he continued into his office. He didn’t know how Eva Fay did it, but no matter what time he came into the office, she had a hot cup of fresh coffee waiting for him. Maybe she had his parking space wired, and a buzzer went off under her desk when he pulled in. One of these days he was going to park on the street just to see if he could throw her off. He’d inherited her from his predecessor, and both of them were satisfied with the status quo.

One of the calls was from a detective in Marshall County whom he’d become friendly with since moving to Hillsboro. Jack laid the other messages aside and immediately dialed the number on the slip.

“Petersen.”

“What’s up?” Jack knew he didn’t have to identify himself. Even if Petersen didn’t have Caller ID, Jack’s accent was enough to give him away

“Hey, Jack. Listen, we have an unidentified body on our hands, young, female, probably Mexican. Some kids found her last night.”

Jack leaned back in his chair. There weren’t any missing persons from Hillsboro who fit that description; they didn’t have a large Hispanic population anyway, but no one at all had been reported missing in the past several months. “And?”

“Well, we don’t have shit to go on. The rain washed away any tracks, and there’s no obvious cause of death. No wounds, no strangulation marks, no lumps on the head, nothing.”

“Overdose.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking. What has me worried, though, are the cases of GHB that’ve been cropping up in Huntsville, Birmingham, all over, with more every day.”

“You think she was raped?”

“No way of knowing for certain until we get the autopsy report back from Montgomery, but I’d say so. She had on a dress, but no underwear. Anyway, I remembered a case Huntsville had a couple of months ago—”

“Yeah, I remember. It was pretty much the same.”

They were both silent. If a guy was willing to slip one woman GHB so he could have sex with her, it was stupid to think he’d balk at doing it again. The problem was, GHB was so damn common and easy to get; it was a cleaning solvent, for God’s sake. And guys took it, too; it was a high, and bodybuilders used it. The odds of finding any one guy weren’t good, because too damn many women woke up without any memory of where they’d spent the night, or with whom, but with their bodies showing the evidence of sexual activity. To make it even harder to track the slimeballs down, very few of the women reported it to the police.

“How do you think I can help?” he finally asked, because Petersen had to have called him for a reason, and not just to tell him about the case. Jack would have found out about it when he read the reports, anyway.

“I was wondering, have you had any GHB cases in Hillsboro?”

“Not that I know of, but we’re dry.” GHB went hand-in-glove with the bar scene, because alcohol disguised the saltiness so well. Without any bars in Hillsboro, it wasn’t unusual that he hadn’t had any date-rape cases involving Ruffles or GHB—yet. Sooner or later, some local kid would die from it, or a body-builder would get caught with it, but so far his little town hadn’t been hit. That didn’t mean there weren’t users in Hillsboro; it just meant that they’d been lucky in that none of them had died.

“I still don’t know where you’re going with this,” he said.

“Do you hit many of the area bars? Off-duty, of course.”

“Hell, I’m too busy and too old for that.”

“You never get too old for it, buddy; just go in one someday and check out the gray hairs. Anyway, I was thinking: you’re fairly new to the area, and if you don’t wander up to Scottsboro or over to Madison County in search of a little entertainment, then you aren’t likely to be known outside of Hillsboro, are you? So you could maybe cruise the clubs and bars, listen to what’s being said, maybe keep any eye out for someone slipping that shit into women’s drinks. Go undercover, I guess.”

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