Lover’s Cross Part II
My name is Sunny Alexander. And I’m Henry James and we’re writers for Dark Sides of the Truth magazine.
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Conclusion
What a way to start a Monday.
Barely nine AM and we’re both sitting in the bull pen staring at each other trying to figure out next steps. Neither of us expected our Editor in Chief, Rick McDonnell to ask us to investigate a murder.
This was something better left to the police.
The problem was at this point we weren’t even sure the police department in Rockburn Illinois knew what was going on.
Worse still, we weren’t sure Rockburn even had a police department.
From the looks of things someone or maybe more than one someone killed a friend of our Editor in Chief and they wanted him to know it.
This duck was certainly walking and quacking like a duck.
Come on folks. Surely you don’t think Daryl Hoenig hung himself on that cross on his own do you?
“What are you doing Alexander?”
“Calling the travel department. We can fly into St Louis and rent a car. Rockburn is about an hour and half drive from there. Just north of the Shawnee National Forest.”
It’s amazing how quick tempers can flare when a certain someone who hates to fly presses an index finger against a telephone button and disconnects the call of his partner.
“What the hell are you doing James?”
“We’re driving. Your car or mine doesn’t matter to me, but we ain’t flying. At least I’m not.”
“Oh hell no old man.”
“Oh hell yes princess.”
“Dammit James, what’s with this fear of flying shit?”
“I ain’t afraid.”
“Then what the hell is it?”
“It pisses me off.”
“What does?”
“Everything. The lines, the uncomfortable waiting areas, the security checks, the downright rude ass people, the cramped seats, the delays, the…”
“Okay, okay I get it Henry. Come around here and take a look at my screen.”
“Is that the best route?”
“Yeah but it’s still a thirteen hour drive anyway you look at it.”
“Better thirteen hours in a car you can pull over to the side of the road when you want than three hours stuffed into a metal tube breathing recycled air.”
“Fine have it your way. Please tell me your car is clean.”
“Guess that depends on a body’s definition of the word clean. Your clean is sterile. My clean means all the shit in the back seat I dumped in the trash over the weekend.”
We pulled into Rockburn around eleven PM Monday night, found a half decent motel on the north side of town and booked a couple of rooms.
Rick had described Rockburn as a one horse town where the horse had died. Maybe the town found another horse. Maybe they found more than one.
From what we saw driving around Rockburn that night our perception of small and his understanding of small seemed to be diametrically opposed. After agreeing to meet up the next morning and discuss next steps over breakfast we tucked it in.
Now some of us are early risers. You know, those people who kick the roosters in the butt reminding them to crow?
And some of us…well, not so much.
Not a big deal though. Nothing some serious and continued pounding on a motel door won’t fix.
Thank God the doors to these motel rooms open inward. Otherwise the person doing the pounding would have gotten their nose broken.
“Dammit James, do you have any idea what freaking time it is?”
“Seriously, you wear a sleeping mask at night?”
“None of your damn business what I wear.”
“It’s almost seven princess. Time’s a wasting.”
“I swear to God James, I’m going to kick your ass one of these days. You know I can right?”
“Probably. I’ll meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes.”
“I need at least an hour.”
“I’ll give you thirty.”
“Forty five or you won’t see me for the rest of the day.”
“Deal.”
Our first order for the day aside from breakfast was to find the police station and check in. There were two ways to play this. Either go in with the photos and turn over all our cards at the get go, or kind of dance around the subject and wait until some answers started slipping out.
Since neither of us had tangoed in a while we decided to dance.
We both hit the double glass doors of the police station like Ichabod and Nicole from Sleepy Hollow then stopped at the front desk. An emaciated looking young man wearing a regulation shirt which looked like it had swallowed him whole flashed a smile at us.
“Morning folks. Can I help?”
“Why yes you can. My name is Sunny Alexander and this tree trunk standing next to me is Henry James. We’re from Dark Sides of the Truth magazine. We’re doing a feature story on weird things that happen in small towns and Rockburn is last on our list. So tell us have you lived here long?”
“No he hasn’t, but I’ve lived round these parts most of my life.”
We both turned and faced a woman standing with her hands on her hips. To be a little more precise, one hand was on the hip of her Sam Brown belt, the other was perched atop the butt of a pistol. She was wearing a regulation uniform. A crisp, white, short sleeved shirt, tucked into milk chocolate toned pants. Centered on the outsides of both pant legs a narrow black stripe trailed from her waist to the cuffs. On her head rested a camel tan ball cap with the letters RPD embroidered on it.
Neither of us missed a pair of chrome bars on the epaulets of her shirt. She stepped forward and shook both of our hands then flashed a smile of perfect teeth.
“My name’s Penelope Layne. Captain Penelope Layne. Can I help you folks?”
“Sorry Captain,” the young man said.
“Don’t worry about it Jessie. Look folks, why don’t you follow me to my office? We can sit a spell and chat. Anybody want some coffee? It’ll rot your gut out but it’ll damn sure keep you awake.”
“No we’re good thanks.”
A whispered sidebar conversation between the two of us broke out as we followed the woman down a long hallway.
“James, will you please put your eyeballs back in your head?”
“Did you see how tall she is? And she drinks rot gut coffee, and carries a weapon. I think I’m in love Sunny.”
“Henry just put a sock in will you?”
After making ourselves comfortable we watched Captain Layne remove her cap and toss it on her desk. Her ginger hair was wrapped in a tight bun, but several wisps had freed themselves. Unconsciously, she pulled them behind both ears then smiled at us again, her leprechaun green eyes twinkling mischievously.
“So you’re writing about weird things happening in small towns right?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Oh don’t be so formal. Just call me Penny. Henry right?”
“Yes ma’…uh right Penny. You must have gotten kidded a lot with that name.”
“Penny Layne? The Penny Lane song of the Beatles? Wow, if I had a nickel for every time I heard that one.
“Or a penny.”
The sound of the woman’s laughter caught us both by surprise. A water fall of cascading chimes tinkling against themselves, soft and pliable, magical and yet mysterious.
“Sense of humor. I like that.”
“Henry’s humor notwithstanding can you think of any strange things happening around Rockburn lately?”
“Sunny right?
“Yes.”
“Well Sunny, strange creepy or strange weird?”
“Either one is fine.”
We sat in silence as Penelope steepled her fingertips together and stared at the top of her desk.
After a moment of reflection she said, “no, don’t think I recall anything. Rockburn’s a pretty tame little community.”
“Does the name Daryl Hoenig strike a chord?”
“No, should it?”
“According to recent information we’ve received Daryl at one time lived here in Rockburn.”
“Well Sunny, your information is wrong. No one by the last name of Hoenig has ever lived in Rockburn, and no one by the name of Daryl Hoenig has taken up residence here.”
Penelope Layne stood and rested the fingertips of both hands against the top of her desk.
“I believe that’s all the time I have folks. Just take the same hallway on your way out. Enjoy your stay here in Rockburn.”
As we walked along the sidewalk back to the car we both knew something wasn’t right about our conversation with the good Captain.
We just didn’t know what it was.
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