Jessa Meets Her Match: Ch. 2, The Stairway

Jessa Meets Her Match

Chapter 2: The Stairway

After deciding that I wasn’t going to stick my head in the sand and shirk what suddenly seemed to be my responsibility – attempting to find Catherine’s killer – I concluded that the next step was for me to meet Dirk. Making a mental note to buy a security latch for my door so that I wouldn’t have to keep sliding the bed across the floor, I stripped off to discuss strategy with Catherine.

As it was Saturday, we’d wait until Monday. In the meantime, I’d research what it took to be allowed in to see a patient. Catherine had been there innumerable times, but she had no idea what might be required of a mortal to gain admittance.

As I was imagining it, I’d be driving alone and once there, I’d be going in alone. Catherine would be with me, but we’d have no ability to communicate.

“One request,” Catherine said. “Dirk knows I was killed. No way to keep that from him. But I could never bring myself to tell him that I was raped. So if you please…”

“Sure … no problem. That doesn’t need to come up. After all, this is just a trip to meet him and see what he knows. Which probably isn’t that much. But maybe he recalls things that you told him early on, things that you’ve since forgotten.”

~ ~ ~

The drive to Montpelier was uneventful. I would have enjoyed the company, but I wasn’t about to strip off. I didn’t know if they’d let me in to see Dirk, but the easiest way to find out was to walk in the front door and ask.

Signing in was surprisingly easy and a short time later, I was wandering down an impossibly long corridor looking for a four-digit room number. Finding it, I knocked. “Dirk Landers,” I said, stepping warily through the doorway.

He greeted me with a smile and a nod, but then his eyes shifted to the side. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he said, his words clearly not directed at me. “More visitors than I’ve had in ages.”

I introduced myself while he set up a couple of folding chairs. I could tell right away which one was mine as Dirk’s eyes made it easy for me to keep track of Catherine’s location in the room.

“Yep. Like you said. Looks just like you,” he remarked.

I did my best to get to know Dirk, but it was difficult. He was a man of few words, and half of what he said was little more than, “Umhmm,” typically directed at the chair where Catherine had to be.

“What did she say?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s talking about that night. You know, the night…”

I knew which night. “What do you remember about that night?” I asked.

“Nothing really … other than what she told me.” He returned his attention to her. After listening for a moment, he nodded. “Umhmm.” A moment later he added, “Really? You never told me that.”

“What?” I asked.

“Which stairs?” he asked.

The evening of the murder was being discussed, but it was clear that Catherine was doing most of the talking. I was getting frustrated. Dirk didn’t seem to understand that I couldn’t hear her – possibly he didn’t care. His nodding and his partial replies added up to nothing.

Standing up, I went to the open door and looked up and down the corridor. It was empty. I made my decision. Closing the door, I started undressing.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Catherine asked when my panties hit the floor. “Better not be trying to steal my man,” she said with the hint of a chuckle.

Hiding my body the little bit that I could behind my arms, I glanced over at Dirk. He was gaunt and his almost-white hair was scraggly – too long for a man with a good-sized bald spot. “Don’t worry,” I said, not wanting to say anything about how I was not at all attracted to him. There wasn’t really anything wrong with his appearance. It was mostly just that he was so much older – quite a bit older than my father.

“Stand next to me,” Catherine instructed. “So Dirk can see just how alike we look … especially since you had your hair done.”

Reluctantly, I did as suggested, even dropping my arms to my sides after she slapped at them a few times. I, of course, couldn’t feel it; I could only see her hand hitting mine. Dirk was indeed studying our hair – or lack of it – his gaze alternating between my crotch and hers, lingering on each for a few seconds before shifting over.

“Enough of this,” I said, sitting down and clamping my legs together while crossing my wrists over the center of my chest, a breast concealed in each hand.

Catherine steered the conversation back to what they had been discussing. “Dirk mostly knows just what I told him. And it got him in a lot of trouble. During interrogation, he mentioned when I’d gotten up and where I’d gone that night … even though he’d been asleep.”

“Yeah,” Dirk said. “If you want the police to believe you’re innocent, don’t talk to the murder victim before they question you.”

I smiled. That was exactly the reason I thought I had a chance at succeeding where the police had failed. They’d never had the chance to interview the victim.

“So which stairs?” I asked, wanting to hear that part.

“Oh, I can show you,” Catherine replied.

I nodded, wondering where they were. Wouldn’t her showing them to me require nudity?

Just then the door banged open. Spinning in my seat, I saw a heavy-set woman stride into the room. “Dirk, you know the rules. The door stays…” she said, stopping mid-sentence. Her mouth fell open as her eyes landed on me. She stepped back and pushed a button on the wall.

Panicking, I’d barely gotten my feet into my shorts when the sound of running feet reached my ears. I yanked them up, fumbling with the zipper. I’d just started buttoning my blouse when two male orderlies burst into the room.

“I’ll take those,” the woman said, snatching my bra and panties from my hand before I could cram them into a pocket. “Just what was going on here?” she demanded, her face so close to mine that I could feel the warmth of her breath.

I was doing my best to gather my wits. Trying not to hyperventilate, I sat down and started working with my socks and shoes. I was suddenly aware of the heat of embarrassment in my cheeks.

A minute later, the three staff members were marching me down the hall. As we walked, I was trying to think up a story that might limit the damage. Nothing was coming to mind. The truth wasn’t an option. They surely knew exactly how to handle people who talked about seeing ghosts. They’d be injecting an antipsychotic before I could count to ten.

Having no better idea, I decided to take the fifth. After all, what could they do? No crime had been committed – two consenting adults in a closed room, but not even touching. Considering that, I started wondering if a patient in a mental hospital qualified as a ‘consenting adult.’

“Wait here,” the woman said, depositing me in a small area just off the hall. I took a seat, the orderlies remaining on their feet, vigilantly keeping their eyes on me.

A few minutes later, I was ushered into a brightly lit room. It might have been an office, but the interrogation vibes were strong. A matronly woman entered. “I’m the director here,” she announced, not bothering to give a name. “Kara has told me what she observed. It seems that you were fully naked. With one of our older residents. The door closed. I suggest you tell me what was going on.”

“Nothing was going on,” I mumbled, looking at the floor.

Shifting my eyes down caused me to catch a glimpse of my nipples. There was a reason I wore a nude bra with that particular light-weight top. Not only were my nipples evident because of their pointy shape, but the contrast of my areolas against the untanned skin of my breasts also stood out. Feeling the heat rise in my face, I folded my arms across my chest to hide them.

“Modest, huh?” the woman asked in a condescending tone.

I didn’t look up.

“So … just how do you know Mr. Landers?” she continued when I didn’t reply.

I decided not to respond. I’d shown my Arizona driver’s license upon entering and my name had been recorded. I hadn’t been paying that much attention, but I vaguely remembered the woman scanning the license as well. So they had that, but my last name was Wilson – from my father’s side – a relatively common name. They probably wouldn’t be able to make the connection if I said nothing. I had to do what I could to keep this from getting back to my family.

After giving me an eternity to respond, the woman continued, “Kara thinks you’re a prostitute. A craigslist prostitute. Are you a hooker, Ms. Jessa Wilson?”

I cringed. “No!” I felt as if I had just been punched in the gut.

“Okay then. Tell us what you were doing. I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for why a young woman, such as yourself, would visit an older man and take off her clothes.”

I took a deep breath, but remained silent. I couldn’t think of a logical explanation. The circumstances were incriminating. I knew that.

“Okay, Ms. Jessa Prostitute. Tell us how Mr. Landers contacted you.”

“I’m not a prostitute!”

I imagined Dirk being questioned in an adjoining room. If so, I found myself hoping he was talking ghosts. That might deflect their suspicions. Hopefully, he wouldn’t say anything connecting me back to Stonefield. It was horrific enough being caught naked with a sixty-five year old mental patient. I couldn’t deal with having family and friends find out.

“How was he going to pay you, or did he do that already?” the woman asked.

“I’m not a prostitute!” I muttered under my breath. It wasn’t quite taking the fifth, but I couldn’t stand idly by and let her call me that.

I started wondering if they had called the police. I didn’t imagine they had enough evidence to charge me with anything, but the police might find a way to get in contact with my parents.

It was the most uncomfortable hour of my life. I really didn’t like being called ‘Ms. Jessa Prostitute,’ and the woman’s tone – so demeaning. But after learning that I wasn’t going to talk, they did eventually decide to let me go. The director lady explained that under no circumstances was I to come back – ever. That if I did, I’d be locked up on the premises and the police would be called – but maybe not right away. I gulped, picturing padded, windowless cells with exposed toilets – probably in the basement.

The whole time they were grilling me, I’d been eyeing my underwear. They were on the desk in the middle of the room. I was hoping to find a way to grab them and discreetly stuff them into a pocket on the way out. That opportunity did not materialize. The two orderlies, one on each side of me, escorted me from the room. I probably could have rushed the desk and gotten them, but I didn’t know how they might react. Getting myself out of that God-forsaken place seemed more important than anything else at that point in time. Losing my bra and panties seemed like a small price to pay.

The orderlies walked me directly to my car, one of them photographing our Arizona license plate. A few miles from the institution, I pulled into an empty parking lot. I was still shaking. I sat there for upwards of an hour trying to get my nerves to calm down. I’d never imagined that it would be so traumatic to be accused of being a hooker, but I’d also never pictured it happening under caught-in-the-act circumstances.

Parking in front of the house, I sat behind the wheel, again trying to gather my wits. I needed to act normal – so that my mom didn’t start interrogating me. I saw Mazzie. She was peeking around the corner of the house. Climbing out of the car, I said, “Cathers, can you give me some space. I need some Mazzie time.”

I sat down on the bottom step and waited. A few minutes later, Mazzie came over. I picked her up and held her on my lap. I wanted to erase the day from my memory. I spent an hour with Mazzie. Eventually my mom came out with a glass of lemonade.

“What, no bra?” she asked.

“It’s summer. I didn’t think it would show.”

“You had one on when you left this morning. Is something going on that I should know about?”

I got up and went inside without replying. It wasn’t at all surprising that she had noticed, but I didn’t like that it was the second time she’d caught me coming home without one.

It was more than forty-eight hours later, and under the cover of darkness at the pond, that I finally undressed to clear the air with Catherine.

“You didn’t need to get naked,” were the first words out of her mouth. “I would have told you everything later.”

“I know, my bad,” I replied. I’d even been thinking that at the time. “It’s just that I wanted to hear it first-hand … and I wanted to be able to ask questions as we went.”

“But now you’re banned. You can’t go back.”

A shiver ran down my spine. It didn’t matter to me that I was banned. I couldn’t imagine going within fifty miles of the place. “No reason to visit Dirk again,” I said. “I mean, he’s nice enough, but he doesn’t know anything. Or is there something I’m missing?”

“You’re right,” she agreed. “And I can’t have you waving your shaved 2025 vagina in his face.”

“It’s not a vagina. That’s the inside part. It can’t be shaved. Call it a pussy.”

“Don’t you mean, it cunt be shaved?”

I laughed. I couldn’t help myself.

“See. I can be just as nasty as you,” she said, a smug look on her face.

I gave her a nod of approval. “Touché.” I did like Cathers. She and I had chemistry. “So how’s Dirk? Not being punished, I hope.”

“Well, he did lose his computer privileges. He was mostly worried about what they were going to do to you.”

“I guess I have a new name. I’m now Ms. Jessa Prostitute. Do you think that woman really believes that I’m a whore?”

“I suppose so, but we both know you’re not. However, before you again do something stupid … like getting dressed and staying that way for days … I remembered something while we were talking to Dirk. The night I was murdered, I wrote in my diary. It’s been forty years, so I can’t tell you what’s there, but you might be able to find it.”

“Your diary? Where?”

“My room wasn’t carpeted until later. There was a loose board. I pulled a nail or two, and made use of the space below. My secret stash! Maybe they found it when the carpet went down, but maybe not.”

A short time later, we were in my room – our room. I was walking back and forth near the wall where she was pointing. There was a squeaky board, but there were a lot of squeaky boards.

I was so excited. I dressed and went downstairs to ask my dad about the carpet. He was planning to replace it. He said it would be fine if I tore it out, but that I didn’t have to. The carpet installers would take care of that – after the walls were painted. But I’d heard all I needed to know. The next morning I was busy pulling up the carpet.

Mason came in to see what I was doing. Destruction spoke to him, so he joined right in. With the two of us working, it took less than an hour. I was eyeing a certain board as it came into view. It blended in color wise, but I could see where a nail had been removed.

Mason wanted to keep going – to do the rest of the upstairs. I told him to ‘go for it’ – which he did, immediately starting on the carpet in the hall just outside my room.

I could hardly contain myself. I wanted so bad to look under the board, but I wasn’t going to do that until I could do it with Catherine. After putting my suitcase over it, I borrowed the car and drove to the hardware store. It was finally time to get a security latch for my door.

That afternoon, my mom went grocery shopping, taking Mason with her. That gave me the chance I needed. My dad, figuring out what I was doing, helped me install the latch. He didn’t even ask why I wanted it. I guess he knew what brothers were like, especially my brother.

That evening, Catherine and I, two butt-naked blondes, one of us a bit more see-thru than the other, got down on our hands and knees. With Catherine showing me what to do, I pried the board loose with a screwdriver. There was more than one diary. “Multiple volumes,” she explained.

Before reaching in to lift them out, I paused to consider what we were doing. Might I destroy forensic evidence – fingerprints or DNA – by touching what was there? I decided that wasn’t a concern. Any such evidence would only tie Catherine to the items in her stash. The murderer had surely never been in her room.

There was quite a lot of stuff in with the diaries. One item, a rose, disintegrated as I attempted to pick it up. Catherine shrugged. “From my high school prom. I can’t even remember who I went with.”

“Concert tickets!” I exclaimed, looking through a number of stubs. “Aerosmith, ZZ Top, Rush! My God, Cathers! All these concerts?”

“Yep.” She pointed at a pair of tickets that were unused.

“Mötley Crüe. Theater of Pain Tour, July 31, 1985, Glens Falls, NY,” I read.

“Dirk and I were planning to go. Didn’t live long enough. I went anyway, but it was sad. Hard to enjoy a concert when you’re alone … and dead.”

I chuckled at her morbid humor, but started sniffling, then sobbing. Her murder really did a number on me. I’d developed a few coping mechanisms, but at times they failed me. I leaned into her and we hugged. It seemed odd to be holding a nude woman, but especially strange since I couldn’t feel her. At first, I thought her skin felt cold, but I decided that it might be just the absence of the anticipated warmth of a human body.

Also in her hiding place was a small bag that contained three packs of pills along with a prescription from Planned Parenthood. “I’d forgotten about those,” she said.

I looked at them. One of them was open and partway empty. I was surprised by how similar my own modern pill packs looked, but a menstrual cycle was the same length, then as now.

Catherine pointed out a few of her other mementos, but none of them seemed relevant to the murder we were investigating.

I opened the diary and read the final entry aloud, but in a hushed voice.

June 24, 1985

I’m so excited. Going to sneak out after midnight. Dirk doesn’t know, but I started on the pill this cycle. No more condoms! Lucky him! And what he also doesn’t know is that last week when I borrowed his car, I made a copy of the key to his apartment. So he’ll wake up in the middle of the night and find a naked girl in bed with him. Tee-hee!

It was short and sweet, bringing yet another tear to my eye – because it never happened.

“I wish the police would have found this,” I said. “Think how much grief it would have saved Dirk. It doesn’t prove that he didn’t murder you, but almost. It says where you were going and why. It paints a picture of a happy couple, deeply in love.”

“I didn’t think of that,” she replied. “But Dirk was the only one I could talk to. If I’d told him, and he’d told the police, they would have been suspicious. Everything he said made them suspicious. Innocent until proven guilty, right?” She laughed.

“But if the police had seen this, they might have spent more time following up other leads,” I argued. Catherine looked unconvinced.

I glanced through a few more journal entries, but they didn’t seem especially helpful. They’d all been written earlier, during similarly happy times.

The next day, I went back to painting, but my mind was elsewhere. I knew what was next, but the very thought gave me butterflies.

I spent two full days painting, finishing my bedroom and then moving downstairs and starting on the living room. My dad had hired a company to redo the roof, so during breaks, I went outside to watch them, telling my unseen ghost friend to go for a walk so that I could hold Mazzie. One of the roofers was really hot, broad shoulders and washboard abs. He worked with his shirt off and I worked at not getting caught staring.

Fortunately, being from Arizona, I owned the perfect pair of sunglasses for ogling members of the opposite sex. I imagined he probably had a girlfriend. I’d given him ample opportunity to approach me, but it wasn’t happening.

I regretted that we were losing a couple of days, but it was time that I had budgeted. I was continuing to recover from the visit to the institution, but more importantly, I was psyching myself up for our next adventure.

Catherine’s memories of that night were returning. Each little thing, such as seeing the birth control pills, seemed to shake something loose in her brain. She’d told me about the stairs. That was where she had encountered her murderer. She couldn’t describe him, but it seemed as if she might get there.

Our plan, once I was mentally up for it, was to recreate that night. We’d head out late, just as she had. Catherine would lead the way, telling me her thoughts as they came to her. I’d spent a lot of time trying to figure out a plan that did not involve nudity – my nudity. Nothing had come to me. Nudity had to be a key component.

I started my own diary, writing down everything that had happened that summer – everything. And, while waiting for midnight, I made a final – I hoped it wouldn’t be final – entry, describing our plan in detail. I left the diary on the dresser where it would be found – in case my evening ended as hers had forty years prior. I didn’t expect that. Her rapist, her murderer, had surely moved on. Fortunately, there weren’t many like him.

But even so, going out into the night went against my grain. It certainly involved risk, but at least I wouldn’t be alone. I’d be with Catherine. And if I got into trouble – she’d be able to go and … what? Tell Dirk? And then Dirk would be able to… Okay, it was hardly a foolproof plan – that’s where my diary came in – for the postmortem.

Catherine and I sat in my room waiting, talking in hushed voices. Shortly after midnight, I slipped on a T-shirt dress, one that I was able to put on or take off in just seconds. When my head emerged from the neckline, Catherine was gone. I then put my arms through the straps of a small backpack that contained a pair of slip-on shoes.

I opened the door and peeked out. All was quiet. I stepped out into the hallway, closing the door gently behind me. Tiptoeing as silently as possible, I made my way past Mason’s door. I assumed he was still awake, likely watching something on his laptop. Actually, that was what I hoped he was doing because, if so, he’d have his earphones in.

Moments later, I padded cautiously down the stairs, quickly exiting out the front door. From there I made my way to the mailbox. I was regrettably sober. I’d wanted some wine – some liquid courage. Catherine had talked me out of it. She was right. This wasn’t skinny dipping or streaking. It was a night for serious investigative work. Fortunately, I didn’t feel alone. I couldn’t see or hear her, but Catherine was with me.

At the road, I took off the backpack. I then slipped off the dress, stuffing it inside. Suddenly Catherine was there, watching me. My fingers crossed, I picked up the backpack. She disappeared. Cursing my misfortune, I tried putting the backpack on. Still no Catherine. Setting the backpack down, I tried one more thing, holding just the dress in one of my hands. Even that was too much.

I’d never actually tested it – I’d just been telling myself that it would work – that if I was carrying clothes, not wearing them, that I’d be able to see and talk with her. That assumption now lay in tatters. I decided to bite the bullet. Stonefield was one of those towns that rolled up the sidewalks at 8pm. It was almost 1am.

Leaving the backpack next to the mailbox, we started walking. It was unnerving to say the least. There were two of us – two naked blondes. I didn’t feel alone, but in a way, I was. If someone were to see us they’d only see me. My insides were doing somersaults.

But after a short distance, I had yet another problem. My feet couldn’t take the gravel.

“Dammit,” I said. “Cathers, why naked? Couldn’t you at least have been wearing your fucking shoes?”

“Excuse me? I’ll have you know, I went out fully dressed. It’s not like I stripped myself.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Jessa, you don’t have to do this.”

“No. I do. You paid the ultimate price. It’s the least I can do. We’ve got an asshole to catch. Doing it together. I only hope he’s alive … so that he can fry in the electric chair. Or whatever they do to violent criminals in this state.”

“Go back and get the dress. Put it on. You can slip it off whenever you like, and we’ll be able to talk.”

Even though that was appealing, I’d made up my mind. The risk seemed minimal and what I had in mind required constant contact. We continued on. Fortunately, the weeds on the shoulder were much easier on the feet.

“Now Cathers, back to that night. It’s June, 1985. Tell me everything, everything you saw, everything you did. Maybe pretend we are making a vlog.”

“A what?”

“Never mind. Just talk to me. Take the exact same route. We’re looking for clues, and they’re probably not out here. They are in the recesses of your memory.”

She assured me that she was on board. We’d already talked about this. We were on our way to the stairs – the place where she had met Mr. X. Hopefully by doing this, we’d learn his identity. It was a small town, then as now, just two thousand inhabitants – same as Mayberry. It seemed likely that she’d known her attacker – possibly the reason he’d killed her – because she could identify him.

I’d never felt more naked, the cool air touching things that were not accustomed to the exposure. And what was much more unsettling, my nearest clothes were back by the mailbox, already a quarter mile away – a distance which increased with each step. The country road wasn’t especially scary, but we were going to Stonefield. Hopefully, everyone was asleep, but there would be streetlights.

A car passed, but there had been plenty of warning. I’d stepped over into the ditch squatting down low enough to disappear. “So far, so good,” I said, standing back up. “Anything coming to you?”

“I’m trying. I really am.”

“I know you are,” I said. I knew I was asking a lot of her, but it was my ass on the line. She couldn’t get seen or caught, but I could. I didn’t want to think about what might happen. I couldn’t take being called a prostitute again. And this time, I wouldn’t be able to get dressed.

As we rounded the bend, the first lights of Stonefield came into view. I slowed down, my feet telling my brain that this was a bad idea. “Pretend you’re invisible,” Catherine suggested.

“Easy for you to say.”

“No, really. It works.”

“Duh. Because you ARE invisible.”

“When I first became a ghost, I had trouble going anywhere … because I was naked. So I learned to pretend that people couldn’t see me. That made it easier. And now, I don’t give it a second thought.”

“Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”

“Just try it.”

As odd as it seemed, it did help. I wasn’t being seen, but that was because there was no one to see me. But somehow, pretending I was invisible made it easier. In the back of my mind, I knew it wouldn’t keep me from being seen.

As we came to the intersection at the edge of town, I glanced back. I had a shadow. I hated seeing that. “Should I pretend that I don’t have a shadow?” I asked.

“Good idea.”

I chuckled. “It’s not a good idea. I need to avoid having a shadow. Like maybe we should walk over there,” I said, pointing down a side street.

“But you said to take the exact same route that I took in 1985.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

“You’re going to hate me, but I went right down Main Street … on the sidewalk. Walking alone at night is scary. Less so on a well-lit street.”

“I’m not feeling it.”

“So what do you want to do? Back streets or Main Street?”

“Don’t give me a choice. We’re taking the route you took.”

She walked on ahead, stepping into the light in front of the drug store. My feet didn’t budge. They were smarter than I was.

Somehow I got them moving, also stepping up onto the sidewalk. A moment later, I ducked into the alcove where the store’s front door was. There was a bit of a shadow there. But then it occurred to me that they might have CCTV. Instead of looking for it, I stepped out, hurrying on after Catherine.

Keeping up with her would mean less time on the street. I also didn’t want to be a distraction. I wanted Catherine’s mind to be on 1985, not the chicken-shit naked woman walking down the street with her, hopping from shadow to shadow. Rather than imagining that I was invisible, I started focusing on my feet. Stepping on a piece of glass would be disastrous.

“I don’t remember anything about this portion of the walk,” Catherine said. “But that probably means that nothing happened.”

“That’s fine, but stay focused, keep trying. Maybe you were being followed.”

Suddenly, up ahead, I noticed the front end of a car appear at a stop sign. The businesses were all even and flush against the sidewalk right there – no place to duck in. But there was a telephone pole. I skipped over to it. Turning sideways, facing the street, I stood bolt upright, my right shoulder against it. I was slender, so if anything was visible, it would be my ass, but also possibly my nipples protruding out in front. I waited, scarcely daring to breathe.

“The coast is clear,” Catherine announced a few moments later.

I let out a gasp of relief, leaning forward to look. “Where did he go?”

“Straight across. It was a police car.”

“Oh, great. Just a police car,” I said, imagining it circling around.

“Probably heading back to the police station. It’s over there.” Looking over at Catherine, I saw where she was pointing.

From there, hurrying along, I felt my breasts wibble-wobbling around on my chest. For some reason, I had always been more conscious of bras when I wasn’t wearing one than when I was. Supporting my boobs in my hands, I pressed on. I wanted to get through that well-lit section as fast as possible. Those were scary blocks, but they passed uneventfully.

Leaving the business section of town, the road took a dogleg turn to the left and then angled up to an overpass that crossed above several railway lines. Beyond that, the road stayed high, continuing on to a bridge over the river.

We’d crossed the overpass and were heading toward the bridge, when Catherine stopped. “Right here,” she announced.

Looking to my right, I saw the stairway. There was a narrow section of town sandwiched in between the rail lines and a sweeping bend in the river. It was a mixed neighborhood, nice houses on the river, but smaller, less well-maintained houses backing up to the railroad.

I shuddered. The thought of her encounter on that spot forty years earlier gave me the creeps. This was where she had met the psycho who had raped her before taking her life.

“So, best as you can, describe for me what happened,” I said, attempting to corral my thoughts to get important information from her. I’d tried before, but she hadn’t been able to come up with anything more than the location.

“I was just going past. He jumped at me from below. Down there,” she said pointing. “No greeting, just grabbed me. I tried to scream, but his hand was over my mouth. I felt cold metal on my neck. ‘If you want to bleed, go ahead and scream,’ he said into my ear. A moment later, he removed his hand from my mouth. I didn’t scream. Whatever it was, surely a knife … still against my neck.”

I was delighted she was remembering things, but it made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end – to be hearing about her attack right where it happened – and when it happened – after midnight. And my nudity didn’t help. I felt so vulnerable. As horrific as it was, this was exactly the breakthrough I had been hoping for. “And then what?” I asked.

“We went down the stairs. He was half-carrying, half-manhandling, me. Always the blade – it was pressing into my throat. I had no choice but to cooperate. His car was down there. He forced me into the trunk.”

“Is that the trunk your remains are in?”

“No. A different trunk. One in a junkyard.”

Just then, a car drove by. I hadn’t been watching the road. I saw brake lights, and then it angled into a three-point turn.

“Oh, shit,” I yelled, my muscles clenching. It was a police car. A moment later, I was sprinting back toward town.

“Not that way,” Catherine called out. “The stairs. The car can’t follow. He’d have to take the long way around.”

She was right, but I didn’t like those stairs and I was already running – faster than I’d ever run barefoot. It was surely impossible, but I’d have to try and outrun the car.

A moment later, Catherine passed me. “Follow me!”

“Thank God for Cathers,” I mumbled to myself, committing myself fully into her care. If anyone could get me out of this mess, it was her.

Rather than taking the first turn, she took the second. I saw why. It was an angled merge lane for the other direction, an acute turn with concrete curbs – easy for us, but probably impossible for a car heading downhill. As Catherine must have expected, the police cruiser sped by.

“Okay, back the other way,” she shouted, turning on a dime.

I did my best to keep up, and a moment later, we were racing back up the arterial, running toward the turn we had passed. We took it, dropping down onto the surface streets.

“Now we can hide. And wait,” I called out.

“Not yet. They’ll search this area. Let’s go a few blocks.”

I followed and we did just that. My feet didn’t like what I was doing to them, but I was prepared to sacrifice them to avoid getting caught.

One intersection later, the police car was in front of us, screeching to a halt to block the road. Somehow, they’d anticipated our moves. Or maybe it was just that it was a small town. We wheeled around, but just as we were turning into the closest side street, I felt arms encircle me.

“Gotcha,” a male voice called out. I fell, but the man held onto me as we rolled, miraculously managing to get his body between mine and the pavement.

A second later, the car again pulled to a stop just a short distance away. As I struggled to my feet, I saw Catherine standing there, a look of consternation on her face. Our eyes met. “I’m so sorry. I tried,” she said.

I knew not to reply – not in the presence of someone else. But in that moment, I felt cold steel against one of my wrists.

“Handcuffs? Really?” I complained. The second one went on such that my hands were in front. With both hands over my pussy, I turned to look at the officer who had a firm grip on my upper arm. He had a relaxed look about him, especially considering that we’d just been running.

“Yep, handcuffs,” he replied. “A naked woman. My first thought is victim, especially if she runs toward me. You didn’t.”

His partner got out and walked toward us. The next thing I knew, he was circling, his eyes sweeping up and down my body.

“Stop it,” I yelled, causing them both to laugh. I shifted an arm up to my breasts, but it lifted the other hand away from my pussy. Making my choice, I returned both hands to my crotch. My nipples were painfully hard, but with no good option, I left them jutting out into the cool night air.

“Our lucky night,” the officer from the car said, staring at my ass. “What should we do with this one?”

“The usual,” replied the officer who had tackled me. I studied him. He was younger than his partner – early thirties. He had a rugged-looking face, a mustache, and eyes that were attempting to bore into my soul. That bothered me, but it was preferable to what the other cop was boring into with his eyes.

“The usual? I don’t think I want to know what that means.” I was doing my best to sound unfazed by my predicament.

“Don’t worry. I’ll stay with you,” Catherine remarked. I’d almost forgotten she was there.

“To serve and to protect,” the young officer replied. “I’m Officer Harris. This is Officer Bixler. Now why don’t you tell us what brings you out tonight … so that we can figure out how best to serve and protect you.”

“Umm. Umm,” I mumbled, racking my brain for a believable excuse. Just as had happened at the institution, my wits failed me. “And before you go there, I’m not a prostitute.”

Officer Harris chuckled. “No one’s accusing you of that. Furthest thing from my mind, actually. I’ve seen and arrested prostitutes.”

“Sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.” At least Harris had a congenial manner about him. I started considering telling him the truth. Maybe he’d help me. “Just how big is the police force here in Stonefield?” I asked.

“First, you have to answer my questions,” he said, staring into my eyes. But as I looked at him, his eyes slid down to my chest.

To test him, I turned my body, shifting my nipples to the left. His eyes followed.

“This isn’t a crime. This isn’t a dare. So why don’t you tell me why you’re out running around in the middle of the night.”

“Will you promise to take me home if I tell you?”

“No promises, and certainly not in that order.”

“What do you mean?”

“First, you tell me. Then, I decide what to do. We take you home only if it’s appropriate.”

“Okay, but it’s a long story. Who investigates murders in Stonefield?”

“Why is this so hard to understand. My questions first. What brings a pretty girl like you out in the middle of the night – without a stitch of clothing – not even shoes?”

“Don’t tell him Jessa,” Catherine interjected.

I glanced over at her, but then back at Officer Harris. “Parts of this are going to be hard to believe. It’s about a crime. Forty years ago, a family member was raped and then murdered. She was attacked at the top of that stairway – right where you saw me. Forty years ago, so 1985.”

“You’re serious? That’s how you answer my question?”

“Forty years ago. Look it up. Catherine Marshall. She was my grandmother’s kid sister. Died long before I was born. I have her diary, so I know things that the police didn’t. Want to help me solve a cold case?”

He smirked. “First, I’d like to solve a warm case. The case of the naked woman. What’s your name?”

“Jessa Wilson.”

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. Jessa?”

“Yes. Jessica without the ick.”

“I can see that.”

“Now don’t get nasty on me.”

“And where are you from, Jessica without the ick?”

“From Arizona, but I’m spending the summer here, in my grandmother’s house. I’ll show you, if you give me a ride.” I thought it was worth a shot. I certainly didn’t want to see the inside of the police station – not in the middle of the night – certainly not naked.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any ID on you,” he said, tilting his neck to the side and looking down at my bare hip.

“Not on me,” I replied, imagining that it was obvious.

“Well, then we’ve got a problem,” he said, his eyes tracing up my body.

To Be Continued…

 

 

 

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