Hangdogs

By Douglas Egan

One morning, Ellie Reckowski's daughter, visiting from Seattle, goes for an early morning jog along the quiet rural roads of Wilno, but Felicity never returns. Weeks later Hilton Money is charged with her murder. A lack of evidence and a slick country lawyer help him beat the rap. Consumed over the injustice, Ellie's husband, in an act of misguided revenge, accidentally kills a young woman on the snow-covered streets of Pembroke, and shortly after suffers a fatal heart attack. Now Ellie is broken and alone in an old farm house far from anywhere and anyone.
Soon the phone begins to ring. A sadistic caller who delights in detailing how he raped and murdered Felicity initiates a cruel discourse. Ellie tries not to listen, but the calls give her a fraction of hope she can't ignore. Suspecting Hilton Money, Ellie begs him to divulge the location of Felicity's body -- all she wants is to give her child a decent Christian burial -- but the man refuses to play his trump card, and the situation grows more violent and frightening.
But Ellie fights back, and with the help of a young reporter, begins to track the abusive caller. The hunt takes them cross country to the Pacific coast where Ellie learns of her daughter's secret past. And when a mysterious Romanian offers to help, Ellie realizes she may be taking the hand of the devil to catch a killer, and that there's a price to pay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Douglas Egan
• Release date: Apr 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9780987922618

Douglas Egan

Douglas Egan is a west Coast writer

Book preview

Hangdogs

By Douglas Egan

Copyright 2012 Douglas Egan

Smashwords Edition

ISBN 978-0-9879226-1-8

1.

Hot. The day smelled of dry grass and lost crops -- the bounty of a drought-plagued summer. A wild tom cat strolled out from amongst the barn buildings, passed a weed infested garden, and the dog laid out in the shade of the house. The dog, too hot to be bothered, sniffed once and dropped its head back on the ground, its belly stretched against the cool earth, the only relief from the heat.

The dog watched the cat. The cat watched the barn swallows. A swallow dove at the cat, chattering above its head. The dog considered making a run on the cat, now that it was distracted by the birds, but when the dog heard the women in the house, snarling at each other, shouting, it froze, century-old instincts warning of strife within the pack.

Mother? ...

He wouldn't do such a thing, Ellie Reckowski said, her hands clenched by her sides. How could you say --

He did, Felicity Reckowski said, her face flushed and tears in her eyes. He did he did he did.

Ellie Reckowski couldn't recall the last time she'd seen her daughter cry, and the tears made her think what her daughter had said might be true. But such a horror could not be true.

No, Felicity, it can't be.

Yes.

Felicity slammed the screen door and rushed outside. The flies settled back and Ellie watched her daughter march down the lane, dodging potholes, swinging her arms, the dog Topper at her heels.

She kicked into a slow jog, picked up speed to a run, her long legs eating the distance, arms pumping hard. Graceful and sleek, a ribbon winner in high school, she always ran when she was upset. She'd been running all her life.

Frank Reckowski stomped into the kitchen, dropped into a chrome chair at the table and opened the newspaper. Where she going?

Going.

What she mad about?

Nothing.

The August sun shimmered in a hazy sky the color of gravestones and in the distance, at the edge of a pine and cedar forest, a cicada shrilled.

She'll be back.

Only that she can leave again.

She'll be back, Frank said, rattling the newspaper. Nothing but bad news and sad news, is that all they can print? Man, do you hear those crows?

Across the field from the house an old Elm held host to hundreds of raucous crows, drawn by the bloated carcass of a dead porcupine wedged between branches.

Know what they call that? he said. They call that a murder of crows. Goddamn things. Ought go over with the gun.

Frank?

Yeah?

She was silent.

Frank looked over at his wife, standing at the screen door, her back to him. What?

Nothing.

His fingers were black from the ink, and he left fingerprints along the edge of the paper. Only the guilty are fingerprinted, used to be that way, but now they were doing it to kids so that if one disappeared they be able to identify the body. Talk about planning for disaster.

Frank said, You're always on her.

No ...

Yeah, you are.

No, and she turned to her husband. What about you?

The tattoo? Who cares, she wants to tattoo her arm, who cares, looks like a whore.

Frank.

Probably on her ass too. He tapped the paper with a blunt forefinger. Says heat wave's going to continue. Just what we don't need. He moved his bare feet across the floor, the tile the only cool thing in the house, the fan only blew hot air around, hardly helped at all.. Don't worry, she'll be back.

Ellie turned from the screen door.

Were you ever on her?

Eh?

Ellie turned away from him.

She dabbed the palms of her hands with a tissue. Felicity was still running, moving fast, rounding the curve in the road, a blur in the heat waves, slipping out of view, Topper still with her. She said she ran marathons in Seattle. A runner.

Ellie said, She hardly has any clothes on, half naked.

She's old enough knows what to wear.

She says she's a secretary.

Yeah?

She's lying.

Makes you say that?

A mother can tell.

Yeah?

Yes, Ellie said.

Felicity was gone, had vanished into the mirage created by the heat waves, and in the distance the crows spoke of doom, and the cicada sounded like a scream.

2.

Clarence Toplice sat on one of the wooden benches that lined the hall of the Pembroke Court House, legs crossed to support his lap top, talking to Val on his cell phone.

What the doctors say?

Your mother's not well, Clarence.

Other journalists were crowded in the hallway with him, and there was Debbie Baxter, the Toronto Daily ace, sitting across from him, wearing a short skirt. If he had legs like those to flash he could get the kind of stories she got too, no doubt.

Sequestered in a room on the third floor the jury had been out for three hours so far and Debbie was busy pounding her own lap top. Excellent typing skills. Nice fingers. Rings glittered.

Clarence said, That's what they said last time, three years ago. She's as strong as a horse.

Clarence, Val's voice, impatient.

They were engaged to be married next summer. She had wanted to do it sooner, say next week, but Clarence had hit the brakes. I'm only twenty-eight, he had said, I'd rather wait till I'm twenty-nine, to mature and ripen. She'd called him flippant.

What?

Your mother's dying.

Melancholy daylight from the glass doors at the end of the hall bathed the gathered reporters. The glass doors framed in tarnished brass, dull and cancerous, topped with silver metallic door shocks that hissed when you pushed through. Sitting here, tapping the odd word into his computer, Clarence watched the comings and goings, people through the doors invariably looked up as they passed through, the hissing giving them pause. A snake? In December?

Clarence, you there?

Yeah.

We must have a bad connection.

There's no doubt.

So -- coming home?

I've got to get a story.

Stupid trial, get the story and come home. I'm lonely.

I can't.

Debbie Baxter looked up at him. He looked right back. Her hands, beautiful hands, hovered over the laptop.

Why?

Because, he said, switching the phone to his other ear.

What is it? You sound funny.

I started smoking again.

Debbie could hear, the corner of her mouth turned in a smile; she returned to the keyboard.

Clarence, are you insane? You and your mother, both, her with tubes coming out and she's still smoking. You both have a death wish, I swear.

But we're getting married.

Debbie had beautiful hair, the color ... what would you call that ? Gold ?

What?

Not gold, too strong, more like ....

What? What did you say? Make sense, Clarence.

Brass, that was the color.

Started smoking again and I'm feeling bad --

You should be. I don't want you coming home stinking of tobacco.

A murder trial and I can't get an angle, can't get a story, Jesus, my editor's pissing fire.

Don't be vulgar, you know I don't like it.

Debbie looked up at him, Girl friend?

He nodded his head.

Pain, Debbie said, and returned to typing.

I gotta go, Val.

So soon?

Debbie's hair framed her face, and her cheeks, just a touch of rouge. How long did she take to put her make-up on in the morning -- after rolling round in the sack all night? That's what he wanted to know.

I got to.

You come home soon.

Will.

And stop smoking.

Yeah.

I love you.

He sighed, I love you too, Val.

Debbie snickered, her shoulders shook.

He sat there a minute, watching her type, suspicious she wasn't typing much, putting on an act, waiting for him to say something.

Debbie Baxter, he said. How are you doing?

Was that a good call?

A challenge, the way she jutted her chin at him. Beautiful neck.

What, this? and pointed to his cell phone. Ever get the feeling even when you're connected you're not?

Observation for the day?

Kind of.

You'll have to do better than that to please that fire pissin' editor of yours.

Clarence said, You don't say.

I do say.

Got any words in that machine of yours?

Got some.

Share?

More or less in point form.

That's okay.

Debbie began to read from the lap top screen.

It was August, hot and sultry, the dog days of summer, when Felicity Reckowski went for a late afternoon jog, and she has never been seen since. Charged with her murder is Hilton Money, 30, of French Lane, Pembroke. Hilton is self-employed with a business in card table rentals. His van was seen in the Wilno area during the time of Reckowski's disappearance and after an investigation by Ontario Provincial Police, Money was charged with her murder --

No, Clarence held up his hand. Everybody knows that already. What about today, the verdict, willing to speculate?

I'm not in the speculating business, strictly the facts, Mister.

How come they rushed the trial? How come they charged Money in the first place? The whole thing has been botched.

His van, people identified it.

Of course they did, he has his named plastered on the side. You'd think a killer would consider such things.

He forgot, the heat of the hunt and all, anyway, her tank top and shorts were found in his van.

He was dying for a cigarette, but he wasn't going to get up and leave with Debbie in his sights.

Clarence said, An illegally searched van, the jury heard none of that, don't forget, it doesn't count. At any rate, that girlfriend of his gave him an alibi. Hell, the whole mess should have been tossed out after she got on the stand.

Bullshit, Debbie said. June Frost is a liar, and you know it. How come she didn't speak up in the beginning? How come this revelation at the last possible minute? Strep throat my ass.

Her doctor confirmed she had it.

But nobody confirmed Hilton Money was sick, now did they? She was cajoled by that slime ball, Scheidt.

Don't write that or he'll sue. Unless, of course, you can prove he did, and that she lied on the stand.

Do you think she lied?

Not what I think that counts, Clarence said. It's what the jury was allowed to hear, and the conclusion they'll draw on that evidence. They're going to let him off.

I think so too.

And a guilty man will walk.

The words hung for a few seconds.

Outside the snow continued to fall and traffic had slowed.

Kind of depressing, Debbie said, thinking a guilty man will walk.

Happens all the time.

Still --

Debbie pointed to his lap top.

I read you mine, your turn.

Ah, not ready.

Neither was mine.

Clarence peered at the screen. This is the ending --

You always start at the end?

Right, and he started to read. "Felicity died not too long after that. So they say, so they think, so it may be. None too certain. No body found. But her mother, Ellie Reckowski, knew, it was as if the space Felicity had once occupied in life had grown cold and empty and no body was required to know she was gone.

Hilton Money was charged with her murder. Today the jury found him not guilty. There's going to be a lot of questions after this. Why was Money charged in the first place ? With no body, there is, in a sense, no crime. The court proceedings were strange, to say the least, with a last-minute witness appearing to claim Money was ill during the time of Felicity Reckowski's disappearance, which conflicts with witness statements that puts Money's van in the Wilno area the same day on which she failed to return home from a jog.

Now with the trial over we still don't know much, except that when she vanished, Felicity Reckowski was twenty-four years old."

He closed the file and turned the machine off.

That was good, she said. I see you have a reference to mothers.

People relate to a mother's grief.

And your mother -- she's dying?

Big ears on the girl.

You were speaking loudly; people tend to do that when they're on cell phones, shout away assuming the world around them has gone deaf.

I was shouting?

I was eavesdropping, she said, her eyes meeting his.

The reporter in you.

That's right, Debbie said, turning towards the door at the end of the hall. Somebody had drawn a happy face in the fogged glass of the doors.

3.

The jury announced its return and the reporters hustled into the back of the court. Clarence stood behind Debbie, just able to look down on the top of her head as she scribbled notes in a pad.

The Judge said some words and the foreman handed the paper to the bailiff, who transported the decision to the Judge. She read the paper, folded it, handed it back to the bailiff, who returned the decision to the Foreman.

The Foreman read the decision.

Not guilty.

Debbie turned to Clarence.

Surprise, surprise.

As night follows day, he said.

The defendant, Hilton Money, clapped his council on the shoulder. Sam Scheidt flinched and pulled away. A wave of groans flooded the court room. People couldn't believe the verdict. What the hell they'd been watching for the last week -- how could anybody be surprised at the outcome?

Money's girlfriend, the girl who claimed Money had been with her, sick with Strep throat during the time of Felicity Reckowski's disappearance, jumped up and flung her arms around Sam Scheidt's neck. Scheidt shrunk at the show of affection and pried her off his neck, and then she pounced on Money, but the hug she gave him seemed to be a second thought.

People stood. Money and his lawyer pushed through the crowd and Debbie turned to Clarence.

That guy can maui my buttocks.

Excuse me ?

He can kiss my ass, Debbie said, turning and shouting to Money, asking how it felt to be a free man.

4.

Mrs. Elannor Reckowski, Ellie to her friends, didn't drive much anymore-- her eyesight. Frank manned the wheel of the Ford and his vision was getting bad too, but not so bad he couldn't hunker up and keep the car between the fence posts. It was his hearing that had suffered most from old age.

Grief. How can you grieve when you can't bury your dead?

He’ll pay, Frank said.

Watch the road, Frank.

See all those goddamn reporters ? Leeches all of 'em. All they wanted to know was how Money felt. Was it good to be a free man. Why the hell didn't they ask us how we felt? What about us?

Don't go on.

I'm going to do something.

Old fool, what would he do? Their daughter was dead and the killer free, what could Frank do about that?

The Ford's heater blasted hot air at their feet. The thing was broken. Frank turned it off until the car grew cold and then he'd turn it back on, this was the only way to regulate the temperature.

December seventh today, days growing thin, winter gathering force for the big sleep, the big freeze, death.

Where was Felicity?

The traffic rushed towards them, whooshed past, vehicles caked with road salt, windshield wipers slapping. They passed a snowmobile running along in the ditch, the engine screamed.

Had Felicity screamed?

Ellie dismissed the thought, and had a new one, that God had turned His back on them. What terrible sin had it been that had caused them this grief? And she thought of Felicity and what she had said about Frank. No, Ellie couldn't believe it.

By the time they passed the general store outside Wilno it was dark. Frank turned north off highway 60, past the heritage park, driving slow down the gravel side road, the forest on both sides of the road leaning in. Ellie ignored the crosses erected at the crossroads, just as she had turned away from twin steeples of St. Mary's Church coming into town. A childish display, she knew, but she felt deserted, angry, cheated, and if God had turned His back on her, well ....

Frank drove up to the house. They had barely stepped inside the door, turned on the lights, and the telephone rang.

It was the wife of the mechanic who lived two places down. She said she was sorry to hear how the trial had gone, and that it was a travesty of justice. Ellie listened to her neighbor and said thanks and yes, see you tomorrow.

Frank stood at the door, in his Sunday best, clothes you wore to weddings and funerals and murder trials, the snow on his shoes melting on the floor.

Who was that?

Ellie told him.

Frank nodded. Snoop.

Are you hungry?

It's not right, Ellie.

Frank, don't --

Felicity is gone, and Money, what you think he's doing tonight? And that goddamn lawyer, celebrating their victory.

Leave it alone.

That goddamn lawyer.

Topper limped over from his rug by the refrigerator and greeted Ellie. She scratched him behind the ear.

How's it, Top?

She gave the dog the remains of a hamburger she had tried to eat earlier in the day. The dog looked at his bowl and returned to his mat.

The wall clock meowed ten, a cat with a tail that swung back and forth, a gift from Felicity all the way from Seattle. Such a big city, and so far away. Ellie had constantly warned her daughter to be careful, but Felicity had told her there was nothing to worry about.

She missed her little girl, and didn't believe the lies they told, the lies that filthy lawyer told about her little girl.

I'm going to lay down, Frank.

Fine, he said, still by the door.

Going to come in?

Yeah, but he didn't move, stood in the puddles.

She climbed the stairs to the bedroom and laid down. She crossed her hands over her chest, the way they arranged the dead in the coffin, thought about it and then put her arms down by her sides and closed her eyes.

A bed spring ticked with her breathing. She concentrated on the ticking, and the blackness around her. The wind whistled in the cracks around the window and she rubbed her feet together -- always seemed that by the time the bed warmed it was time to get up, make breakfast.

She thought of the trial, Hilton Money's grin when he heard the verdict. She recalled his lawyer saying that Hilton Money had been charged with murder when there was essentially no evidence, and absolutely no body, and that, for all the world knew, Felicity Reckowski had simply returned to her life as a high-priced prostitute in Seattle.

Prostitute.

High priced.

Lies.

All lies.

Felicity was no prostitute.

Felicity had left home early, only eighteen, and she had an edge to her Ellie couldn't identify, but that didn't make her a prostitute. What it did do, it made her a modern woman, what they told you to be in the fancy glossy magazines featuring anorexics. A modern woman, whatever that was.

But Felicity had changed. The things she had said about Frank that day. Frank wasn't like that. He would never have done those things.

Don't think about it. No. Ellie forced it out of her mind as she had done a thousand time. The accusation, the threats. All gone. All gone.

She concentrated on the darkness, noted that black wasn't really black, but a kaleidoscope of colors, minuscule dots before her eyes, rushing into strange shapes, exploding into others.

Mother, he used to come to my bedroom, at night, when you were sleeping.

No.

Yes, Mother, he did.

Ellie sat up in the bed, went to the window and looked out at the night. Frost framed the window, the glass radiated cold. She stood there until she heard Frank coming and climbed back into the bed. The bedroom door open and he stood there a moment, a wavering silhouette.

Ell?

She lay motionless, clamped her mouth shut and breathed through her mouth. She didn't want to face his anger, listen to him ranting about Hilton Money and his lawyer.

Ell?

She waited for him to come to bed.

But he didn't. He opened the closet and she heard the rustling of clothes, the metal clothes hangers scratching over the bar, the sound of plastic, her wedding dress in its protective sleeve, the aging fabric hinting yellow around the edges. He was deep, rummaging in the far corner. She heard the bumping sound as he retrieved the thing he was looking for and then the rustling of clothing stopped.

Ell?

She thought she could smell her wedding dress, pressed flowers and perfume. She thought she could smell the rifle, oiled metal and distant gun powder.

He was moving again, at the bureau, pulling out a drawer, working in total darkness. A rattling sound followed, and then the drawer slipping shut.

Frank's silhouette drifted to the open bedroom doorway and he stood there a moment before slipping out. After he left she relaxed, thinking she should call out, ask what he was doing, get up and stop him.

But she didn't.

And she heard the car start and crawl down the lane and then the night was still again.

Frank, she said to the darkness, her voice strange and alien. She imagined the headlights of the car illuminating the crosses at the intersections, and the church, illuminated by yellow floodlights, watching him pass by, the tires of the car droning and the frozen pavement.

#

Sleep had taken her by surprise, and she woke with a start. The room was dark and she reached into the stillness for the night lamp, switched it on.

The house was quiet; the bed beside her empty. She checked the closet for the rifle just in case, but it was gone. An open box of cartridges sat on the bureau.

Downstairs the television was off, as it should be. She checked the bird cage, vacant for many years now, for Frank's wallet. Strange place to keep a wallet, but Frank said, Last place thieves will look. He was afraid of robbers creeping into the house at night. The wallet was gone.

She looked out the kitchen window and the tracks left by the Ford had been covered with fresh snow.

Ellie made tea and toast and sat at the kitchen table. Dawn came, blue and cold, and the sky grew the color of lead, but at least the snow stopped. Topper stretched and ate the remains of the burger in his bowl. She let him out to do his duty. Cold air flushed in. In the basement the furnace rumbled.

It was an hour later, while she was pondering the crossword puzzle, 8 down, (Strong man - Hercules of course) she saw the police cruiser coming up the lane.

5.

Mind if I talk with you?

Samuel Scheidt sat at a booth in the back of the Cheddar Tavern, a Pembroke landmark renowned for its brawls between the local terminally unemployed and the soldiers out of Petawawa who dropped in Friday and Saturday nights to practice their beer bravado.

Clarence Toplice had folded his notebook away in the breast pocket of his jacket, and had slipped the cassette recorder away, determined not to spook his quarry.

Samuel Scheidt wore a three piece suit worth more than most people in this pissy little burg earned in two months, his arms outstretched across the table pockmarked by cigarette burns, both hands clasped around a glass of scotch.

Excuse me, Sir, mind if I talk with you?

Go away from me, Samuel Scheidt said, his voice heavy and dark, suited to a fifty year old man who drank too much, smoked too much, which Mr. Scheidt did, if you could believe the accounts written about him in newspapers and magazines.

My name is Clarence Toplice and I'd like --

"I don't care who you are and I don't care what you like, leave me alone or I'll get the man behind the bar to remove you from my