29. Mashup

TWENTY-NINE

Mashup

Rus knew one thing.

Misted Pines Town Council would be in serious trouble if they didn’t have the lady who was a taller, more attractive version of Liz Cheney sitting in the main seat.

He wasn’t sure three of the four other members were even awake.

Though one was on his phone constantly, and Rus didn’t have to follow him on Twitter to know everything that was happening was now in the Twittersphere. How that was more important than listening to his constituents and their concerns, Rus had no clue. But that seemed a general issue with elected officials across the board.

When he’d gotten himself loose of the cult, Rus had caught up on some TV, and one of the things the kids at school talked about most, which was one of the first things he made sure to watch, was Northern Exposure.

And Sabrina was devoted to The Gilmore Girls. So devoted, he couldn’t escape it even though he wanted to.

So, standing next to Moran, holding up a wall in the standing-room-only space, Rus felt caught in a mashup of a town meeting of Cicely, Alaska and Stars Hallow, with most of the residents freaked way the fuck out, and half of them being characters so bizarre, only a writer for a fictional TV show could make them up.

Needless to say, Brad was there, but they’d had no thumbs up.

And Rus had looked at every face in that room more than once, and no one matching Brad’s description, or no one obviously in disguise, or even not obviously, was in that room.

As suspected, CK didn’t show.

Nevertheless, the room was filled with colorful characters.

Case in point, the man currently at the lectern who looked like Mad Jack from Grizzly Adams, including wearing a fringed, Native hide smock.

And he clearly didn’t read newsfeeds because he was on a tear, not about a woman’s murder.

“So I wanna know what you’re gonna do about it. ’Cause last time I stood here, you told me to post more signs, and I did. Before that, you told me to build up my fence, and I did that too, and I’m gonna say, that didn’t cost me nothin’, it cost me a whole lotta somethin’. And they still keep coming. And I know this, next option open to me that I’m takin’ is fillin’ them full of buckshot.”

Explanation: he wasn’t a fan of tourists hiking across his land.

“Siddown!” someone yelled. “We wanna know what’s happening with Brittanie!”

“Ain’t no Brittanie walkin’ cross my land, that’s all I know. It’s a bunch of weekend-wannabe GI Joes!” Mad Jack shot back in the direction where the yell came from.

“Owen,” the Liz Cheney look-alike said with admirable patience (there was a nameplate sitting in front of her that shared she was Megan Nichols, President). “You can’t shoot at tourists.”

“Can and will,” he fired back. “It’s my land. You see a fence, you don’t climb over it, for heaven’s sake!”

Megan looked like she agreed.

Rus definitely agreed.

“How’s this?” Megan asked. “I will personally call every hotel, motel, B&B, inn and rental property company in this town and suggest to them, strongly, that they be sure to advise all their patrons, when in pursuit of their relaxing time in Misted Pines, to stay off private property. In the meantime, we’ll discuss a referendum to reassess trespassing fines and jail sentences. It might not stop it. But I know if I would get fined, say, five thousand dollars, and I’d also sit in a cell at our sheriff’s office for the weekend I was hoping to relax and enjoy the out of doors, and then the next week, and I’d leave Misted Pines with a criminal record, I would probably keep to the public hiking trails.”

Owen worked the chew in his mouth considering this option, then he said, “I’d be votin’ for that referendum.”

“Your time is up!” someone shouted from the line.

“Hold your horses!” Owen shouted back. “Darn!” He leaned into the microphone so close, when he said, “I’m done,” people cringed at the feedback, including Rus.

He circled off and the next lady came up.

She gave the rigmarole the three before Owen gave, about how uncomfortable she and everyone in the town was about the lack of information the sheriff’s office was releasing about the murder of Brittanie Iverson and the hunt for Ezra Corbin.

Rus didn’t listen to her.

After he shook his head in understanding and looked away from Porter Sexton, who was sitting next to his mother and giving him an I told you expression, Rus’s attention focused on Ellen Macklemore.

She was again wearing a lot of denim, silver and turquoise, and she was in line next up to speak.

He looked back to the front when Megan spoke sharply.

“Okay, Mandy,” Megan interrupted the speaker, then she scanned the whole congregation, before she demanded, “Anyone in line waiting to complain about the Brittanie Iverson case, step to the back. We’ll hear you at the end, but I’ll warn you, we won’t be listening. As I said the last three times someone complained about this, and I won’t say it again, active investigations are confidential.”

She zeroed in on Mandy.

“Now you tell me, Mandy, if someone you loved was hurt, do you want Harry Moran out front of the sheriff’s office, gabbing to media, or with his boots up on his desk, talking to citizens, or do you want him out doing policework?”

“Policework, of cour—”

“And do you want the media to know every little thing about what’s happening so the bad guys know what the good guys know so they can make sure to cover all their tracks?” Megan demanded.

Mandy was getting red in the face. “That’s not what I mean, Megan, and you know it.”

“What do you mean?” Megan asked sharply. “That you should know because you’re interested and you’re not a bad guy? Or you should know because you’re scared and knowing they’re working hard at finding who hurt Brittanie will make you feel better? Well, rest assured, Mandy, they’re working hard. But even though you knew that already, you don’t feel better, because something awful happened. And no one ever feels good when something awful happens.”

Megan looked through the congregation again and kept lecturing.

“Not one person in this room is entitled to know the intricacies of how Harry is handling this case. That’s for starters. But it would actually hurt Brittanie even more if he parceled out all the information. He is not Leland Dern. He’s Harry Moran. He does his job well. And if you don’t like it, don’t vote for him in four years. For now, you have to trust him, because you voted him in. As for me, I want them to find who murdered Brittanie, so I’m going to let him and his men do their gosh darned jobs.”

She glared at the line.

“Anyone got anything else to say?” she asked, each word sounding like a threat.

The vast majority of the line, heads hanging, melted away from the aisle.

“She’s a ball buster,” Rus said under his breath. “I like it.”

“Our last president was one hundred and seventy years old, so the whole council was dicked up with corruption and complacency. In real life, she’s a very nice woman. Up there, she has to bust balls, because she has her work cut out for her.”

Even though Rus knew he liked her, he felt sorry for her.

“And,” Moran continued, “you see what she has to work with.”

That was the truth.

“Right, Ellen, what’s on your mind?” she asked as Mandy slunk away and Ellen took the microphone.

Ellen looked back and forth across the five-person council seated across the continuous arc of a desk at the front of the room.

Then she announced loudly and elaborately, “Tyler Cook!”

Startling Rus with her urgency, suddenly, a woman in the crowd stood up and shouted, “Ellen!”

“Michael Mitchell!” Ellen said.

Another woman stood up.

Both of them were pale and clearly rattled.

Just from the look of them, Rus came away from the wall.

“Don’t, Ellen!” one of them yelled.

Ellen ignored her.

“Dylan Rogers!”

Rus looked questioningly to Moran.

His face was set in granite.

What the fuck?

“Ellen, stop it!”

Another woman had stood up, actually, three more of them.

“Austin Brooks!”

“Why’s my boy’s name in your mouth?” a man yelled.

Ellen turned his way but kept leaned into the microphone, “Because eight years ago, he and his friends gang raped a high school girl repeatedly.”

A groundswell of shock rippled physically and audibly through the crowd.

“Holy fuck,” Rus bit off, already on the move.

Moran was too, shouting to Megan, “Shut it down!”

“The fuck he did!” the man yelled.

“Ellen, if you—” Megan started.

Ellen turned back to the microphone, “Her name is Shann—”

She got no more out.

Rus had her by the arm and he was pulling her toward a door he hoped led to the council’s private chambers, but wherever it led was out of that room.

The noise of a microphone being unplugged cut through the space.

“What the fuck’s she saying about my son!” the man yelled, and his voice seemed close to Rus’s back.

“Take your hand off me,” Ellen snarled, struggling in his hold.

He did not take his hand off her.

He manhandled her to the door and through it.

He’d looked at every face out there.

And Shannon’s wasn’t one of them.

“How dare you put your hands—”

He whirled her in front of him, let her go, but got nose to nose, and growled, “Shannon ask you to come here and do that?”

“They don’t deserve—”

“Answer me.”

“They’re walking free—”

“Answer me!” he thundered.

The door behind him opened, he heard pandemonium, looked over his shoulder, and watched Megan slide in, closing the door firmly behind her.

“What on earth is going on?” she demanded.

Rus returned to Ellen but took a step away.

“Talk,” he ordered.

She crossed her arms on her chest and set her jaw. “I don’t have to say a word.”

“Yes you fucking do and you fucking know it,” Rus gritted.

“Special Agent!” Megan snapped.

“Did she ask you to come here and do that?” Rus challenged.

Ellen remained silent.

“Did she ask you to come here?” Rus yelled.

The door opened.

Rus twisted, Megan whirled, but she didn’t try to stop the women from filing into the wide hall they were now populating.

All who had stood out there came in, a few more…and Lana.

He didn’t have to ask.

The coven.

“What were you thinking?” one of them shrieked at Ellen.

“Wendy,” Lana said coolly.

“She came to us,” Ellen stated.

“Shannon did?” Rus asked.

“No, she did not,” Wendy declared, answering Rus’s question, but her eyes were on Ellen. “Her friend did. She wanted us to do something.” She slashed an arm toward the door, nearly hitting two other women. “But not that. Not that.”

“They should be named and shamed,” Ellen decreed.

“You don’t get to make that decision,” Wendy retorted.

“Too many women are silent!” Ellen shot back.

“Well, congratulations, because now, you’ve managed to silence their concerned friends too,” Lana drawled.

Finally, what she did seemed to begin to sink in, and Ellen started to appear chagrinned.

“That was reprehensible,” Lana stated. “And you better hope those boys, or their friends, or their parents do not take retribution against that young woman, Ellen. Because I vow to you right now, if they do, it’s you who’ll regret it.”

And with that, Lana turned and strutted out the door.

“You’ve got a week. I don’t see a for sale sign in your front yard, there’s gonna be a problem,” Wendy, the now obvious ringleader, announced. “In the meantime, I think it’s safe to say, you’re out.”

“So out,” another woman agreed.

“That was disgusting,” a third one said.

“I’m so ashamed of you, I could spit,” a fourth put in.

“Ellen,” a fifth one said with great sadness. “How could you?”

All but that fifth one shot lethal glares at Ellen, but she was with them when they filed out.

Leaving Rus, Ellen and Megan.

“Let me get this straight,” Megan said with bone-chilling calm. “The friend of a survivor of an assault came to your group, and you decided to make public an assault she did not wish to be made public?”

“Megan—” Ellen started.

“First,” Megan cut her off. “You women are skating on thin ice. If any of them will talk to you again, you tell them that. This stunt didn’t help. And second, shame on you, Ellen Macklemore. Shame on you.”

And with that, Megan walked out.

Rus turned to Ellen.

She was visibly shaken, and he knew that because she was visibly shaking.

“She told me her story herself,” he said low. “Because it’s hers and hers alone to tell. I think you know you fucked up, but I don’t give a shit. You victimized a victim. With that shit out there, you raped her too, Ms. Macklemore.”

Her face drained of color.

“Shame is too good for you,” he concluded.

He left her looking wrecked, as she should, and went to help Moran deal with her fallout.