Apex (Three Red Women Book 1) Read online

At the time of her father’s death, Jane had been just old enough yet just impressionable enough to have a strong opinion about leaving her home town, and she did little to hide it from her foster parents. At every opportunity, the young woman would sneak away from her, at best, negligent foster families to find a route back home. Unfortunately, her youth and inexperience thwarted her at every turn. It wasn’t until she was a hardened, jaded foster child, void of any remaining identity as a loved daughter, that she changed her tactics.

  Jane couldn’t truthfully say that her foster experience had been without any kind of comfort- the occasional foster mother or father would possess good intentions and do everything possible to right the wrongs of Jane’s past. Jane wearily but readily accepted their love and assistance until the inevitable time arrived that it would be snatched from her and drowned in the sea of paperwork and new faces that spoke the same words. It would start out sickly sweet, eerily familiar… and then everything would fall apart.

  It was best to stay prepared, she’d learned, as even the worst of monsters could hide behind a smile and a shallow background check. Had her father’s death not scarred her permanently, the foster system would have effectively finished the job.

  Perhaps I don’t need an intricate character after all, she thought, pacing through the house, stalling before she prepared for the day.

  She may have been a child here, but the citizens of Fort Zemsta couldn’t possibly expect anything in particular from a victim of loss and abuse. This was one instance in which she could attempt to be herself, or rather, a socially acceptable variant of that. She mulled over the thought, dressing with such a theme in mind.

  Who exactly was Jane Fairweather?

  Typically, when preparing for a scene in a new location, the first impression required every detail to be thoroughly thought-out. Her costumes were chosen and worn with precision, but today would be different. This would not be the town’s first impression of Jane, but rather, the grand premier of her adult self. What does one wear to a grand premier?

  Jane decided that an imitation of childlike whimsy with a nod to her adult figure would be her best chance at developing an immediate sense of connection between the townspeople and whom they believed her to be.

  Or rather, whom she would have them believe her to be.

  On her tip-toes, Jane rifled through the high shelf where a few of her mother’s belongings had been left by the previous owner. Thankfully, not many of the superstitious townspeople had attempted to move anything when the house became deserted, and even new owners left things like this where they belonged.

  A cloud of peach-colored thread caught Jane’s eye, and she extracted it carefully, unraveling the item with reverent fingers.

  Her mother’s favorite, knit cardigan was in perfect shape, preserved by the small, worn trunk where many of her belongings resided. It had been a birthday gift from tiny Jane, aided by her father as they searched stores on the strip for something that befit Claire Fairweather’s sentimental nature with a lightness belonging in a desert. She knew the sweater to be a time capsule of her mother’s scent, and as she gathered the material in her hands, she hesitantly brought it to her face and did something quite uncharacteristic. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, taking in the faint wisps of jasmine and something else, something that smelt like a mixture of hot clay and cooking, maybe something baking, maybe freshly tilled soil. Things that were intrinsic to the vision Jane held in her mind of her mother, things that would never disappear.

  A very small part of her felt a twinge of remorse at using something so sacred as a part of her charade, but as she recalled the purpose for it, the remorse toppled over and fell into a deep pit of unending indignation at the injustice that her other parent faced in this town.

  Her eyes opened and refocused, and she tossed the cardigan on the bed with the other items of clothing she’d chosen. Opening the Crosley record player she’d unpacked in her bedroom, she placed a carefully-chosen vinyl disc over the center spindle and dropped the needle. Dion’s voice followed the endearing crackle, and Jane lifted up on the balls of her feet to bounce to the beat as she prepared.

  “Here’s my story, it’s sad but true…”

  She swept her hair off her face and pulled it back with a ribbon from around one of the packages she’d purchased on her way into town. The satin sheen wove from the ribbon into her hair, and her locks became a halo around her blank face. Staring into her vanity mirror, she practiced her smiles, giving each of her best ones in order of how she invented them.

  “Now listen people what I’m tellin’ you…”

  The mirror framed a frozen picture as she stopped on the one she’d chosen. Her dimples bracketed her upturned lips, opened just wide enough to show off the rounded teeth in front, concealing the sharper, more ominous ones on the sides. Sweet as sugar, but with an aftertaste of almonds…

  “A-keep away from Runaround Sue.”

  . . .

  “Aaah, she likes to travel around, yeah! She’ll love you and she’ll put you down-”

  The Ford rumbled to a stop as Facundo turned the key, and Dion and the Belmonts cut off. The dust swirling up from his tires settled, clearing just enough for the facade of the old building to become clear through the streaked windshield.

  The list of “pros” for owning a bar starts with “#1- late opening hours”. At one in the afternoon, coming back from mass, Facundo knew that he would be walking into a clean building, chairs turned over neatly on the surface of the tables, and the air would be stiff with the welcoming smell of still liquor until he turned on the AC. Of all the mistakes, misunderstandings, and misadventures in his life, this bar was one of the outlying positives- a beacon at the end of a very long tunnel.

  The Red Light welcomed visitors with the homey facade of the old public library- small, worn, and safe. The library had been cramped and rarely visited, but it was one of the rare places in the poor town that people could visit without the expectation of spending their sparse change. Higher education wasn’t widely regarded as necessary in Fort Zemsta, but that didn’t mean the townspeople didn’t have an appreciation for literature of any kind. Many of the texts (particularly the legal ones) were affectionately dog-eared and bookmarked, and they had the appearance of once being treasured enough that Facundo couldn’t bear to ship them away or dispose of them. It was for that reason that they continued to reside within the walls of the building.

  The name of the bar came from the well-known fact that late in the evening, the original librarian of the building would leave her lamp on in her office, which would shine through the sheer, burgundy curtains onto the street below. It was a smoke signal, a watchtower, a lighthouse, to passing folks that the library was welcome even in the unfriendly hours of the night when the streets felt unfamiliar. The light gave off a red hue, which made you want to stop in your tracks and turn in. The librarian that replaced her just before it stopped receiving sufficient funding made it slightly less welcome, but preserved its charm.

  Many had advised the man to name it after his most common moniker to indicate that it was his- “Cundo’s”, but the current occupants were nevertheless fond of the instant hang out spot that their old buddy provided. Though his life was much slower now that he was a medically retired vet, the scars on his body, visible and often frightening to others, were a constant physical reminder of who he used to be.

  He shook the thought of his scars off and with a flick of his thumb, Facundo brought the jukebox to life across the bar, using the bluetooth connection on his phone to continue the song he’d been enjoying in the truck.

  His mother had been fond of older music, doo wop and swing, softer, gentler rock like Dion, and she often led her young son on pilgrimages to museums and memorials to The Greats across the states
.

  “If something has been loved this long, it’s earned its place in the present,” she would say, and surrender to the warbling voices of the past with a serene smile on her face.

  Cundo looked back on those moments fondly, but always wondered if his mother’s innocence had been a factor in her demise. He knew enough to know, however, that blaming a victim’s fate on his or her character traits was always a mistake. Life is infinitely simpler as a civilian, when you feel less compelled to unearth the motives of everyone around you. That didn’t always stop him, but there were certain things that nailed the coffin of his life as a member of the Marine Corps shut and opened windows to other parts of his being.

  One of those moments had just walked through the door.

  The unsuspecting bar owner was lowering the last chair to the floor and wiping his palms on his dark-wash jeans when she breezed through the threshold. Somehow, without him seeing, she’d waved a magic wand and frozen everything around her in time, including the stunned and sole occupant of the room, who now watched her move in stupefaction.

  The creature before him seemed to defy the air around her, which was usually clouded slightly with desert dust, but was now crystal clear aside from the warm halo around her. Cocooned in a soft sweater, long skirt, and little, pink shoes, the whole of her was tied off with a satin ribbon atop her head, pulling back masses of red-gold curls. Cundo was hardly able to pull his eyes away from the flames of her hair, but lowered his gaze to take in the girl’s out-of-place expression. While she appeared untouched, glazed in an immaculate kind of grace from head-to-toe, the look on her face was one of slight, disdainful boredom. Her rosebud lips curled at the sight of the shelves against the walls, and despite the spell she’d cast on Cundo, he felt a prickle of warning on the back of his neck. His confusion grew when her gaze landed on him and transformed so completely, that he was taken aback.

  Venomous but relaxed at first, she’d looked like a serpent lazily making her way into a new den of prey. All of the sudden, though, her expression melted into one of wide-eyed, innocent bewilderment, and her pursed lips fell open, softening, as if she were a black-and-white movie star that had just discovered a secret worthy of a swoon. Typically, Cundo would have assumed that the expression was due to her taking in his face for the first time, but it looked too calculated, and she didn’t seem to be in a hurry to look away.

  Her new prey, for that’s how Cundo felt, involuntarily took a step back when she proceeded forward, her small feet gliding on the contrasting floor, scuffed and mottled with the boots of regular customers. She smiled nervously, deep dimples appearing on either side of her pink-lemonade-lips, as if she had something to say, but wasn’t sure if she should.

  “Hey, there,” she spoke, and Cundo was instantly back under the spell. If fairies spoke, their voices sounded like this. “I s’pose you just opened, I’m so sorry to bother you.”

  He simply stood, still frozen, feeling as though he may never move again.

  “I’m new...well, sorta, and I just wanted to swing by my old favorite place, but it...it seems as if…”

  She trailed off, glancing about the first floor of the building. When her bell-like voice faded into silence, and she began biting her bottom lip, Cundo finally unfroze.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t hear, but the library is a bar now,” he surprised himself with an even voice. “How are you sort of new?”

  “What’s that?” she responded distractedly, though for some reason, he got the impression that she knew exactly what he’d just said.

  “How are you sort of new, did you just move back?”

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed wistfully, adopting a sad smile, again looking like an actress from a black-and-white movie. Lucille Ball came to mind. “I moved home to buy my daddy’s old cabin back. It went back up for sale, and I couldn’t resist.” The dimples returned.

  He reached out with a hand that felt steadier than the rest of him, and shook her much smaller, much softer one. He noticed that she stared at his hand for a moment before taking it.

  “Cundo,” he stated abruptly, his name sounding ridiculous in his ears as he introduced himself, unsolicited. She nodded with a closed-lipped smile, not returning with her name. He added that to his mental list.

  “Who was your father?” Cundo asked without preamble. There wasn’t a single stranger in Fort Zemsta, and he was sure he could solve the mystery of this ethereal creature if he discovered her origins.

  “Oh, you probably wouldn’t remember him,” she said, her bell voice belying the slightest of strains. She covered it up by ducking her head and blushing prettily. A cynical part of him wondered how she was capable of doing that on command.

  “I’ll find out eventually.”

  He didn’t know why he said it, particularly in that gruff sort of way. Cundo was known to have a weak spot for women, damsels in distress especially, and had never ended a statement with anything but “ma’am” when addressing one. For some reason, though, he felt the need to be merciless with her, as if she were a perp he needed to shake in order to get answers.

  Something in her eyes flickered, something like respect, or maybe exasperation. It was impossible to tell.

  “Allen Fairweather.”

  Ice shot through his veins and recognition up his throat.

  “Detective...Allen Fairweather?” he asked tentatively.

  She nodded curtly, dropping her pretty-in-pink veil for just a moment. He could understand why. Detective Fairweather had been the town’s one and only detective for quite a while, and every ear in town had been told the tale of his gruesome end. His was one of those tragic deaths that was talked about, and one of the few times that the townspeople didn’t protect one of their many criminals. Everyone had loved Fairweather, he’d been a pillar of the community in more than a few ways. His death had simply been labeled as “unjust” and would always be so...even Cundo, a non-native to the town, knew his story.

  Realization dawned on him.

  “You’re...little Janie Fairweather?”

  Her facade slipped even more, and he caught a glimpse of the coiled snake he saw earlier.

  “Yes,” she almost hissed, but just as quickly regained her composure while placing her small, leather bag on the table beside her. He eyed it, something about the bag registering as familiar. “I miss him of course, and I thought it was about time I came back home. To...honor his memory.”

  Something felt off about the way the Fairweather girl said everything, but he sensed the sincerity in her grief. He’d seen it many times before. Felt it. His instincts told him not to press the subject further.

  “Well, I’m sure they’re glad to have you back. What brings you by the library first thing?” he said, trying to sound nonchalant, moving behind the bar to open the cash register. She followed his movements, hands twitching along the bar’s glossy surface as if it were the first bartop she’d ever seen.

  “The library is...important to me. I used to spend a lot of time there as a kid,” she whispered with genuine fondness, her gaze lingering on the shelves to the right of the room that cradled the second floor landing. She glanced up at the loft, her eyes following the steel access ladder that led to it, and incidentally, his living space. A wave of heat rolled through him as he wondered what she was thinking.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint, but the library is still available for lending. Anyone who comes in is free to read while they dine or have a few beers… or more, ha. Customers can borrow the books as long as they return them in a few days, I don’t mind,” he croaked on the last word, hoping that he didn’t sound like a babbling idiot. Luckily, as a former local, she would understand the absurd trust that the people of Zemsta had for one another. Tourists and criminals were
both delighted by it, but locals knew that where there were unlocked doors, there were also gun-toting owners and local officers that turned a blind eye to outlaw justice.

  Shoving his hands in his jeans pockets to keep them from lifting in the air and making gestures as idiotic as his rambling, he turned to look out at the shelves. She followed his gaze and her dimples appeared, bracketing a snow-white smile.

  “That sounds lovely. I’ll have to come by and order a uh- what’s something the regulars like?”

  “That’d have to be my famous pulled pork nachos with an ice-cold prickly pear margarita,” he stated, a hint of pride coloring his gruff voice. He smoked the pork himself, and made all of the simple syrups for signature drinks in his own kitchen upstairs.

  “Mmmm, that sounds like the pick-me-up a girl needs after a long day,” she quipped, a twinkle in her eye. He imagined that despite her slight form, she had enough hidden fire to put away serious liquor. He wondered once again how she was continuing to look at him without wincing at this face.

  “I’ll have to swing on by later this evening after I get a good look at all the new changes,” she said, her voice pulled taut. “There are so many.”

  He waved weakly at her retreating form, unable to come up with a substantial goodbye. Two feelings warred inside him- the desperate desire to have her back in his place of residence this evening, and the ominous feeling that trouble might follow this woman into his bar.

  As he watched the door close behind her, his mind caught up with the rest of him and gave a nudging reminder as to where he’d seen her familiar-looking purse before. It was a purse made for carrying a concealed weapon.

  Hm. Once a local, always a local, I suppose.

  . . .

  She walked briskly back to her truck, practically spitting at the ground as she kicked up dust in the once-familiar parking lot. The second she pulled up to the building, she knew it had been transformed from the place she’d adored, but to see the interior, the shelves she’d once disappeared between for hours on end, pushed back against the walls, as decorations, to make room for unwashed, illiterate masses to swarm the place and dirty it...she felt as though she’d been personally assaulted. The library had once been not only a safe haven for her, but for her mother as well. She would stay all night restocking the shelves, organizing the card catalogues, and splaying out new magazines and pamphlets on the tables to interest people who simply needed a place to sit for a while. As the librarian, the first Jane had ever known, and the last that she wished to, Claire Fairweather had been a mother to anyone that walked in the door. Now, the door led to a bar. A type of establishment that Jane typically used as a hunting ground.