The Clockwork Killer

By Justina Luther

Detective Brenna Allard has seen enough death to last a lifetime in the big city, and her thirteen-year-old daughter Daisy has begun to notice when Mommy comes home with work on her mind. When Brenna learns of an open detective position in the sleepy town of Fish Horn, Arkansas, the single mother jumps at the chance to put the darkness of her big city life behind her. Little does she know, even sleepy towns have their nightmares, and this one is always on time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crazy Ink
• Release date: Oct 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215813133

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I dedicate this book to God who gave me the words, and to every person who has come alongside me in the past year to make it possible for my writing to continue.

Chapter One

12:15 p.m. June 5, Detroit, Michigan

Fluorescent lights flicker overhead as Detective Brenna Allard tucks a lock of her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. Brenna taps her finger on the smiling photo of a seven-year-old boy which stares at her from the metal top of her desk. When Brenna shifts her weight, her computer chair groans in the silence. Billy, who has you? Where are you? Her heart aches, and she clears her throat, picturing a brick wall building into place around it. Brenna scans the file, rereading the transcript of every witness she’d interviewed. Talk to me . Where are you?

Brenna leans and pulls out the interview of Billy’s closest neighbor. He knows more than he’s telling me. He had to have seen something. She rubs her aching forehead. I have to get this kid home to his family. It’s past forty-eight hours. The longer we wait... She puffs out her cheeks and pushes back from her desk. The longer I think, the less time I’m moving.

As Brenna heads for her office door, her phone vibrates from the clip on her belt. Pulling it off, she lifts it to her ear. Detective Allard speaking, how may I help you?

Hey Brenna, it’s Scott. You need to get down to the corner of Maple and Second.

A pit opens in her belly at his monotone. You got something for me?

Get down here.

With that, the call drops and Brenna pockets the phone, grabbing her badge and clipping it onto her belt along with her gun. Grabbing her keys, Brenna slips out the door and into the narrow hallway. She strides down the worn path, past the bullpen, and out through the lobby into the parking lot.

Brenna blinks in the bright light of the day while a sneeze tickles the back of her nose. She pinches the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before making her way to her unmarked sedan. Brenna slides behind the wheel, and the engine roars to life when she twists the key in the ignition. Her gut churns, and she makes her way out onto the main road. What wasn’t he telling me? She passes through one light and then another; the business district the police station is in, slowly shifting to the outer edge of the manufacturing district. When Brenna catches sight of the police lights ahead, her throat tightens, and she takes a slow, deep breath, parking by the curb. You’ve got this...whatever it is. She tightens her grip on the steering wheel for a moment while the A/C blows in her face. Her pulse stutters beneath her skin.

Straightening her back, she shuts off the engine and steps out into the blazing heat. Slamming the door, she pockets the keys and heads for the patrol officer. She inclines her head and ducks beneath the yellow tape, making her way to where Scott stands with his charcoal-hued blazer slung over one shoulder. What do we have?

He rubs the back of his neck. his face pale.

Please don’t say it.

I think you need to have a look for yourself. He tilts his head to motion her onward, and she makes her way over to a small mound covered with a white tarp.

Her mouth goes dry, and she clears her throat. Bending, she pulls it away to reveal the bruised and bloated face of Billy Mathers. For a moment, the world stills, some part of her soul willing itself into his body, but he doesn’t move. Clearing her throat, she straightens and the honking of car horns and the beep of a reversing truck, the scent of diesel heavy in the air, crash into her consciousness once more as she pulls the sheet back over the boy’s head. She shifts her attention to the coroner who kneels beside the boy. Lily, do you have anything for me?

The woman gives a wag of her head, blinking away tears. You know I can’t say anything at this point. I’ll have my report for you as soon as I can.

Are you taking him to the morgue now? We need to get him out of this heat The woman inclines her head, and Brenna clears her throat. Alright, I will contact the parents and get them to you to make the identification.

Lily’s voice quiets to a whisper. He’s been here for a while. I don’t know if we can legally identify him based on what they say.

You know the drill. Back up their word with dental x-rays, you already have his records. We can’t wait and have them clinging to the hope their baby is still alive. Without another word, she spins on her heels and returns to her car. Slipping inside, she slams her fists against the wheel, narrowly missing the horn. Jamming the key into the ignition, she jerks the wheel and pulls onto the street before pressing the gas pedal to the floor.

The shipping district slowly shifts to open fields of the farmland which surrounds Billy‘s home. The sun is at its zenith when she pulls to a stop outside of the farmhouse where he spent all seven years of his life. Before she even gets a chance to turn off the ignition, the screen door swings open to slam against the slat-covered wall. A woman in faded blue jeans runs down the front steps to greet her.

Detective Allard! Her face is pale, cheeks hollow, while dark bags are stark beneath her eyes. Please, tell me you have some news about my boy.

She slips out of the car and stands to her full height. Let’s talk inside, it’s too hot out here. Get her to sit down. If she collapses, she’s less likely to injure herself. She offers the woman a gentle smile. Please don’t see through me. She touches the woman’s shoulder and gently steers her toward the house. The floorboards of the porch groan beneath her weight.

Inside, there’s no relief from the muggy heat of the day and Brenna sinks into the couch beside the woman when she’s offered a seat.

Can I get you anything to drink? the woman says.

Brenna wags her head. No, thank you. She shifts in her seat and the woman’s face falls, her attention dropping to the faded rug at their feet.

If you had good news, there’s nothing that you could do to keep from saying it. Her lips tremble. You haven’t found my boy, have you?

I wish I could give you one more day of hope. She lays a gentle palm on the woman’s shoulder. Stella, when does your husband get home from work?

He’ll be home in a couple of hours. Her brows sink together. Why?

When he gets home, I need both of you to come down to the station. A boy was found today, and we need to know for certain if it’s Billy.

The color drains from her face, her eyes going wide, while Brenna’s pulse picks up its pace. She readies herself to catch the woman if she sways forward.

Is he alive? The whispered words echo in the air like thunder.

Brenna gives a small wag of her head.

But you don’t know if it was Billy? the woman says.

Brenna’s pulse thuds beneath her skin, and she swallows the acid on the back of her tongue.

Was it him? The woman’s hands whip out to dig into Brenna’s arms, and she resists the urge to flinch away. "Was it my boy?"

With a gentle grasp, she looses herself from the woman’s hands. We’re going to find who did this, Katie. Her vision clouds, and she blinks away tears. You have my word.

3:00 p.m. June 5, Fish Horn, Arkansas

EMMET BROWN’S PHONE dings on the rolling tray beside him. Straightening from his hunched position beneath the hood of a 1970’s Ford pickup, he sets down his wrench and wipes the oil from his fingers onto the rag tied to his belt. He grabs his phone and checks the notification. A small smile curls the corner of his mouth. Tomorrow. I can’t believe I’ve made it one year, tomorrow.

Isn’t it about time you go home?

Emmet’s attention shifts to the woman leaning in the doorway to the garage, deep lines crinkle the corners of her eyes when she grins. He chuckles. Seeing as these cars pay your wages, I think you’d want me to stay later.

She gives a slow wag of her head while the green eyes he inherited from her sparkle. What I want, is to see my grandson home safe and sound for the night.

Clearing his throat, he bobs his head. You’re not going to let go of this, are you?

Nope. She points to the sink in the corner. Wash up and get out of here. Twenty-seven is too young to spend all your time at work. I’ll close for the night. I’d say you’ve earned a night off.

Emmet inclines his head. Yes ma’am. Going to the deep porcelain wash basin, he grabs the soap bar and rubs it between his palms, feeling the small beads of sand within it. After a few moments, the oil in the grooves of his fingers washes down the sink, and he stretches his spine, looking in the mirror. His jaw tightens for a moment, the way it always does when he sees his reflection for the first time in a while. Too bad I couldn’t get sober one day sooner. He takes in the scar running from his left temple, through his eye, across his nose and lips, and down to the opposite side of his jaw. Who knows? Maybe I could’ve been a model, Emmet says with a chuckle.

Grandma clicks her tongue, pushing off the doorway. Get home.

Emmet unties the oil-stained rag and tosses it into the basket by the sink. He makes his way out into the stifling humidity and slips behind the wheel of his truck. It rumbles to life, and he pulls out onto Spindler Drive, rolling past Shasta’s Hardware Store, Fillmore’s Bait and Tackle Shop, Grenadine’s Mom and Pop grocery store, the barber, and through the blinking yellow streetlight.

The center of town slowly passes by until it’s just farmland and then countryside. The asphalt slips by beneath his tires as he makes his way out to his three acres of property and turns onto the dirt road which cuts through the tree line, making his way to the house he’d inherited from his parents.

His phone vibrates in the seat beside him, and he punches the answer button. There’s only one person who’d call me tonight. Heat simmers beneath his skin.

I wanted to make sure you weren’t doing anything stupid, Everett says.

He rolls his eyes. Grandma just sent me home, happy?

Depends, are you planning on getting high again?

It’s been a year, why would I get high tonight? If I’d been sober a year ago I’d still look like a normal person.

Everett chuckles. Are you blaming me for that, little brother?

Oh, I don’t know. You are the one who introduced me to meth. I think you bear some of the blame. In the dying light of the day, he looks at the needle mark scars along his forearm.

Why don’t you get out of the house, rather than stay in all night? Maybe if you were out around people, you never would’ve gotten into the trouble to begin with. You would’ve had friends, other than me.

He rolls his eyes with a growl. Why are you calling me?

Everett snorts. I already told you, I wanted to check on you.

Are you looking for money?

No.

That’s a first.

Get out on the town, Emmet, I’m telling you, you need to be around people.

He puffs his cheeks. Oh, yeah? The only people you’re ever around are your dealers. If you don’t have anything else to say, I think I’ll hang up now. He punches the end call button.

Slipping his phone into his back pocket, he shuts off the truck and hops out, making his way into the woods. Birds chirp from unseen places, their last songs of the evening, and he tilts his head to the canopy. The scent of warm, wet earth and greenery fills his senses until the fire beneath his skin cools. He shoves his fists into his pockets and makes his way deeper into the forest. What would have happened if I hadn’t ever listened to him and tried it? Or, if I hadn’t gone out that night? If I let him go to his dealer on his own? If I hadn’t chosen that moment for us to both get sober...or to try? He gives a slow wag of his head. There’s no sense in what ifs now.

Hopping onto the fallen log something snaps in the distance, and he turns his head. Stepping down, his ankle twists, his foot slipping on something on the ground as he falls forward. He catches himself on all fours. Acid lapse on the back of his tongue when the scent of rot curls around his nose. His heart pounds in his temples, and he shifts his attention to find a flayed deer carcass tucked behind the log. He scrambles away, limping when fire shoots through his ankle.

What the heck did you do?

His head snaps toward Peter, eyes wide as his jaw goes slack. I didn’t do anything!

Oh yeah? You think some bear did something like that? The man points to the carcass at his feet.

He staggers to a stand. I didn’t do it!

Sick, freak. I can’t even go on a peaceful walk anymore, Peter mutters beneath his breath.

Without another word, Emmet bolts through the trees toward his house.

9:00 p.m. June 5, Detroit, Michigan

A KEY RATTLES IN THE front lock, and Daisy Allard’s eyes spring open. She tosses herself off the couch and shuts off the cartoons on the television. Her feet pound against the floor as she runs through the living room to the kitchen. Throwing open the fridge, she grabs Mom’s plate and takes the foil off, shoving it into the microwave. She hits the reheat button and goes to the small island at the center of the kitchen, pulling open the drawer and grabbing a fork, knife, and spoon.

What’s all this? Mom says, cocking her head as she leans in the kitchen door. Grandma said she let you come home early, but you’re supposed to be asleep in bed.

Daisy rubs the sleep from her eyes with a grin. Grandma made enchiladas for dinner. I saved you a plate.

Mom shuffles forward to comb her fingers through Daisy‘s hair. She leans into the warmth of her palm when she cups her cheek and leans to kiss the top of her head.

Daisy frowns. That’s not good. Are you okay?

Mom hums. What, baby?

You’re kissing my forehead like you’re checking me for a temperature. You only do that when you’re worried.

Mom clears her throat. When she smiles, it doesn’t reach her eyes. She pulls Daisy tight against her, squeezing until Daisy almost can’t breathe. I can’t resist a doe-eyed, dark-haired little girl. You get me every time.

She wraps her arms around Mom’s waist and squeezes back until the microwave beeps. Something is up. When Mom lets go to shuffle across the linoleum floor to the microwave, Daisy scoots in front of her and wags her head. She motions her to the table. Sit down, sit. She skips to the microwave and pops it open, using the hem of her pajama top to grab the plate. She brings it over and sets it in front of Mom.

What’s all this service for?

Daisy leans and wraps her arms around Mom’s neck, giving her another hug. For being a real-life superhero.

Are you okay? Mom tickles her side.

With a giggle, she flinches away.

Do you have any idea what time it is?

Her attention flits to the microwave, catching the 9:05 on the clock.

You are supposed to be in bed, miss. And don’t avoid the subject this time.

Daisy forces a smile. At least she’s not telling me to do homework. A pit opens in her belly. Crud! If I don’t get that paper done, I’m dead.

Mom tilts her head. What’s going on?

She twirls a lock of hair around her finger. Nothing. I’m tired.

Mom pats her butt, turning her around while Daisy yelps and swats her hand away.

Personal space!

Fine, then. Get. Off to bed with you.

Daisy rolls her eyes and shuffles through the kitchen and down the hall to the second door on the left. Shutting it behind her, she grabs her notebook out of her backpack hanging on the doorknob and makes her way to her bed. Flopping onto it, she opens it and groans. Why do I have to pick a stupid author to write about? She eyeballs the water on the nightstand beside her. I wonder... Grabbing her pen, she writes one page, two pages, and then three, all the same word.

And.

Setting her book on the nightstand, she glances at the door before overturning the glass. Water rushes across the pages, taking the ink with it. They’ll never know...right?

Laying down, she gets beneath the covers and shuts her eyes, tossing and turning while the moments flicker past. Why can’t I sleep? Heat seeps into her skin, and she tosses off the covers. She wipes sweat from her brow and rolls onto her side. Gross! Why is it so warm? With a groan, she forces herself out of bed and pads to the door. Opening it a crack, she takes in the silent apartment and squeezes her eyes shut. She strains her ears until she catches the soft, rhythmic snore from the bedroom beside her. There’s no way I’m sleeping. I may as well at least do something with my time other than staring at the paint on the ceiling.

She tiptoes down the hall and into the living room, sinking onto the couch and grabbing the TV remote. Hitting the power button, she quickly taps the mute and finds her favorite cartoon station. From the corner of her vision, she catches sight of Mom‘s phone on the coffee table. Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, she casts a quick glance at the hallway. There is one way to figure out what’s been going