Dead Girl. Craig Nybo

      “Something like that.”

      “Well there’s nothing to it. My friends and I are just having a little get together down there, that’s all, and I’d appreciate you’re getting out of my business.”

      I eyed the beer in the back seat. “I’m not going to keep you from your little soirée … but … it sure would be a shame if Officer Biels found out that you were taking a case of beer to an underage party.” I smiled.

      Torre simpered and balled up his hands. I half expected steam to come from under his collar. I dug in a little harder. “Unless, of course, you take me along.”

      Torre pounded the wheel with one fist and looked away from me. “Okay, fine.”

      I got in the car. Going to a teenage party wasn’t my idea of a good time. I would be the old guy, the room-killing chaperone.

      DeeDee’s expression told me that my riding along with her grandson wasn’t what she had in mind. No doubt, she wanted him home, safe, away from the Milvian Bridge. But she needed to realize that if I was to get to the bottom of her story, I needed to tour the scene of the crime. And I couldn’t think of a better tour guide than her grandson.

      Torre dropped his Civic into gear and goosed the accelerator. We rocketed away, patching gravel up behind us.

      The Ridgewater scenery smeared by at two dimes over the speed limit. I hoped Biels wasn’t patrolling; I hadn’t exactly made good first or second impressions with him and being caught with alcohol and a minor in the same car, racing at reckless speed toward a teenage bash wouldn’t bode well for me.

      We drove for a good ten minutes before either of us said anything. It was Torre who broke the silence. “So what does nanna want with an asshole like you?”

      I smiled. “I’m a reporter. She’s having me look into the Sarah Chase story.”

      “They went insane together, you know,” Torre said, “Stan and DeeDee. Hard to say who started it, Stan or his weirdo old friends.”

      “Did you know any of Stan’s friends?”

      “I called them my uncles: Ben and DeLoy. They were a pack of crackers, the bunch of them, always working on that car, never driving it. How can you work on the same car for so many decades? She’s cherry, you’ve seen her. But they were in that shop almost every day, year after year.”

      “Did Stan ever let you work on the car?”

      “Not on a hot bet. I’ve only seen it because I snuck in a couple of years ago to get a perspective on all the hoopla. They got that thing chained up like Hannibal Lecter. Stan caught me in there snooping and beat the tar out of me.”

      “Was Stan a violent man?”

      “That was the only time I ever saw him get his hackles up. Mostly he was tired and depressed.”

      “What about Sarah Chase; you know anything about her?”

      Torre glanced across at me, a wicked smile curling his lips. “You want to know about Sarah Chase? I mean what really happened back in ‘62?”

      I nodded.

      “Well, tonight you’re going to find out.” Torre punched the gas. I clamped down hard on the ceiling handle as he pushed it to a steady 90 miles per hour. I felt off kilter as we jetted down the winding road. I hung on and prayed to the Utah Division of Transportation that we would make it to the Milvian Bridge alive.

      Chapter 9

      May 12th, 1962

      Ben, Joss, DeLoy, and I went down to the bridge last night in the Impala. There’s a new chick in town, pretty as summer. Her name’s Sarah Chase. I’m thinking I’m going to go for it. She has an innocent look and comes from a good Catholic home, but I can see that she’s a tiger underneath it all. Last night she wanted in on spin the monkey. The monkey, usually a chick, stands right on the zipper-line in the middle of the bridge. It takes two cars to play the game, one shooting from either side. The idea is to drive as close as possible to the monkey, passing her on both sides at the same time. If you get it right, the tailwind of the two opposing cars forces the monkey to turn like a top. When Sarah played last night, she had nerves of steel. As I jetted past her with less than a foot between us, I caught a glimpse of her eyes; they were as solid as stones. And I still can’t shake the picture of her wicked grin. I wonder what other games Sarah Chase is willing to play?

      -Stan Corelis

      Chapter 10

      We pulled up to teenaged looks of suspicion on the west side of the Milvian Bridge. I more than doubled the age of even Torre’s oldest buddy. I could tell by the looks on their faces that Torre’s gang thought they were at most busted for boozing and drugging, or at least strapped into spending the night with one of Torre’s old, wet blanket uncles. Either way, if I hoped to get any information from these kids, I would have to do some tap dancing.

      Torre parked, adding his Civic to the wagon-circle of candy-colored rice-burners--their collective headlights trained on the central party zone. The kids had set up a pair of 50-gallon drums loaded with firewood. Tongues of flame danced from the steel barrels. An occasional knot popped like a .22 round. Teens stood like posts, all eyes on us as they wondered what I, the old man, was going to do.

      Torre got out of the Civic, slammed the door, and walked away, defiantly leaving me behind. He went to the campfire and put his arm around a girl, a brunette with lovely skin and a perfectly kissable mouth.

      This wasn’t getting off to a good start. I got out of the car and walked to the campfire. All eyes were on me as I warmed my hands over the flames. “I grew up in Kaysville,” I said. “Any of you know where that is?”

      After a long pause, one of the youths finally spoke up. “Down south isn’t it?”

      “That’s right. We had a party spot in town. It was called Kay’s Cross. Story was, Bishop Kay, who founded Kaysville had three wives. They all died in rapid succession, bam, bam, bam. As a memorial, Kay built a ten-foot-tall cross from concrete and stone. Before he sealed this magnificent sculpture, he put the bodies of his three wives, layered back-to-belly, crucifixion style, inside the cross. Kids in Kaysville used to say that if you went to the cross on the night of a full moon and got too close, one of old man Kay’s wives would reach through the stone and tear out your throat with her skeletal hand. Some said if you managed to climb and stand on top of the cross. You could look down and see the ground move as if it was covered by maggots.”

      I looked up from the campfire into the eyes of the teenagers. The former looks of suspicion had largely left their faces. As a reporter, I have learned that there is nothing like a good story to break the ice.

      I went on. “I and three of my friends went down there one night and climbed that cross at precisely midnight.” I let the story hang and continued to warm my hands over the fire. A knot popped like a mortar shell sending a rooster-tail of sparks and char flying.

      “What happened?” One of the kids asked.

      “Nothing. I didn’t see any maggots down there, just earth and scrub oak.”

      Some of the kids snickered.

      “Every town has one, you know,” I said, “A haunted hot spot where all the parties go down.”

      “Who is this guy, Torre?” One of the kids asked.

      “He’s some writer or something. He’s doing a story on Ridgewater, I guess. My nanna called him.”

      “Does he know your nanna is crackers?” Someone else asked, a burley kid wearing a Ridgewater High Wrestling jacket.

      “I think he’s getting the idea.”

      “Why’d you have to bring him here?” someone else said.

      “He got the drop on me, man. Said he’d call Biels about the beer if I didn’t bring him.” Torre’s eyebrows arched. “Oh yea,