Tabloid Trix Chapter 2

15 Years Ago

Her mother's voice came wafting up the stairs. "Jody, where's your brother?"

She rolled her eyes at her friend Lizbeth, and whispered to her. "Where does she think that little creep is? Kidnapped by aliens?" Pitching her voice louder, she responded with another eye-roll. "Probably up in the attic, Mom." Where he always was, with his current laptop and all the detritus of living. "I don't know what the little monster does all day up there," she whispered again to Liz.

Giggling and covering her pretty mouth with her hand, Liz replied with an arched brow. "He's what, 12 or 13 now? You know what 12 and 13 year-old-boys do all the time in locked rooms."

"Ewwww. Liz. Thank you for imprinting that charming picture on my brain forever. But I don't think so. He's probably up there cooking up some grand plot to take over the world." Jody sighed. She knew he was her brother, knew she was supposed to love him, but…she didn't. There was just something off about him; nothing she could actually put a finger on, but, it was there. He watched her and her friends with those strange eyes, assessing everything. Like he found them all peculiar specimens under a microscope. If she watched carefully, she could sometimes see him change from…from whatever he was and put on what she privately termed his human face. If you didn't know about the coldness underneath, all you saw was a polite, engaging young boy on the cusp of adolescence.

Her mother either didn't see it or didn't want to see it. He was her golden boy genius; so special, so…singular. Her dad, on the other hand, took her aside when she was 13. Mom and the genius were out somewhere, probably getting his IQ tested again so she could brag to all her friends. Dad, his serious face on, sat her down on the flowered sofa in the living room, and he sat on the coffee table, holding her hands.

She was older now, her dad said, and smart. When she demurred, he qualified it. Maybe she didn't have all the intellectual smarts of her brother, but she had common sense. And most of the time, a good, healthy dose of common sense trumped all the book-learning in the world.

And then they began talking. They talked until their voices gave out, long before her mother and brother returned. They talked about…him.

At first, Jody thought it was going to be another parental monologue about her brother's accomplishments, his personality, his everything. But it wasn't. Sliding his eyes to each side of his face, as if he expected his wife and son to suddenly materialize and cut short this talk, he confessed to her.

He thought…no, he knew, his son was a monster. He couldn't prove it, couldn't decipher a way to get the evidence he needed to get his son locked up. Locked up and the key thrown away. He wasn't smart enough.

He knew Jody felt it too.

They talked and cried together that afternoon and forged an unbreakable bond to try to combat an unspeakable evil that was flourishing in their house. He warned her: Don't ever be alone with him.

She never was.

Her brother was exactly where she thought he was: cocooned in the attic, surrounded by relics of the past. He heard the outside door slam shut; waited a bit and then switched back the curtain a smidgeon. Jody and her best friend Lizbeth were walking up the street, probably to Lizbeth's house. Even at this distance, he could see them laughing in the way teenage girls do. Jody said something to Lizbeth and they both glanced towards the attic window – as if they could see him watching them through the slit in the curtain. They giggled a bit more and continued away from him.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" The well-loved voice came from the wall directly opposite what his mother fondly termed his office. "We already discussed this. They are not suitable."

Scrubbing his hand over his face, he turned to her, already knowing she was staring at him with those big blue unblinking eyes, and her mouth was pursed, either to kiss or pout.

Becky.

Still trapped in that coffin/box after all these years; joined by her sisters as determined by the now defunct American Beauty Collection. For the first two years, they were the hottest thing. Like all fads, it drew to an abrupt close, ceding the top toy title to a more manageable group of blonde bimbos called California Dream Girls. Studies showed that most of the children that were supposed to be delighted by the large size of the ABC dolls were in fact, afraid of them. ABC tried to fight back by reducing the size of the subsequent dolls, releasing a few more per year, but nothing was deader than a five-minute-ago fad. Four years after the multi-million dollar success, ABC was in bankruptcy and dolls were being sold for pennies at flea markets across the U.S.

His mother persisted in purchasing all the dolls for Jody, even though Jody hated Becky with a passion and banished her to the attic when the first opportunity presented itself. They never put together the fact that after Becky was installed in her new resting place, he became enamored of the attic and its 'solitude.' His dad built shelves up there to showcase the truncated collection and Becky was number one. As she should be.

He built his own little world up there, far away from the things downstairs and their constant yammering at him. The attic was a get-away, his world with Becky and his experiments. Heated in the winter, air-conditioned in the summer; it was perfect for them. For her.

"They're too tall," she said. "It has to be perfect, darling."

"I was just looking." He walked over to her and slid his hand down her soft arm, placatingly before she worked herself up into a snit. If his knuckles brushed lightly against her breast, she didn't call him out on it.

"You have to be better prepared, more careful. Remember what happened last time."

"That was one time. A fluke." He turned away from her, angry. She always brought that up. The one time he was almost caught, and the first time he took a human life. He peeked back out of the curtain. Jody and Liz were out of sight now. He made a sound of pure frustration.

"She was too young, too small," Becky complained. He hated that strident tone. Hated being reminded of his failure. Hated when she started whining. He turned back to her, his beautiful Becky, and began to placate her in the only way he knew how.

Mary Beth Roberts was only 4 years old when the nice boy who lived on the next block invited her to come of her yard and play. Her pretty brown ringlets, rosebud mouth and trusting big blue eyes revealed her excitement as she slipped her tiny hand into his.

She was found in a wooded lot a week later, her brown ringlets shaved off and a grotesque wig in their place. Her small body was too decomposed to identify the method of murder.

And the medical examiner sorrowfully reported to the detective in charge that her pretty blue eyes, the ones that captivated and that looked out from all the Missing Child posters around town, were neatly excised.

Present Day

Paul Trent sat on the window ledge in the run-down apartment in New York City, smoking a cigarette and idly watching the half-lit red neon sign that said CHE P AP S FOR REN . Every damn night, that buzzing and crackling of the sign, not to mention the flashing redness of it, invaded his CHEAP APT FOR RENT.

It was driving him crazy.

He finished his smoke and flicked the butt down the alleyway. With luck, maybe it would start a fire in all the garbage down there, the firemen would come to douse it, and the alleyway would be clean for a few days. Then it would again be littered with syringes, garbage and low-class hookers and their johns using the alley for quick servicing needs.

Across town, those damn kids from Sleepyside were living it up in fancy apartments, while he lived down here with the dregs of society. Really, it just was not fair.

His whole life he dreamed of being Woodward and Bernstein, uncovering corruption at the highest levels, working for The New York Times or The Washington Post. Winning the Pulitzer Prize. He's be somebody.

The Sleepyside Sun was supposed to be a stepping stone. Small town paper, a few minor scandals to unearth before moving on.

Except that Trixie Belden – oh, excuse me – Trixie Belden Frayne - and that gang of hers lived there, and Sleepyside seemed to be a hotbed of criminal activity.

None of which he unearthed in his time there. Instead, a bunch of teenagers ran circles around him, the local cops, and hell, even the Secret Service. It was damn frustrating to be scooped by kids, for god's sake.

He began to look into their little group more closely. Began to think it was an extremely amazing coincidence that two of the richest men in the country made their homes in a sleepy little village on the Hudson. Men like that, they made enemies. Had skeletons in their walk-in closets. Skeletons a crack investigative journalist could discover and publish. For the good of the people.

And hey, if it earned him a Pulitzer, he wouldn't say no.

He stood up, stretched, and leaned his wiry frame against the window casings. Outside, the rusted and crumbling fire escape tilted precariously. Across the way was a decrepit hotel, used by hookers whose johns wanted more than a quick alleyway encounter, and transients or desperate people really down on their luck. Or hiding from the law.

No view of the park for him.

The problem was, the more he dug down for tidbits about Wheeler/Hart International, or Matthew and Madeleine Wheeler; the more he investigated Edward and Sharon Lynch and E&S Inc., the more he realized there simply was no dirt. Nothing an investigative journalist could hang his hat on to write that one, important story that would make his career.

Who could blame him if he embellished, just a little? Everybody did it. Not everybody got caught at it. Of course, he was one of the lucky ones who did. The editor and the publisher of The Sun called him into the office that day. He waltzed in, expecting a pat on the back, a pay raise and their effusive thanks.

His fingers clutched convulsively on the window frame, knuckles whitening, as he remembered that day. When he walked into the office, Melinda Bancroft, the publisher, and Ted Schoenfeld, Editor, were not smiling. In fact, they looked quite the opposite. Ms. Bancroft was dressed in a power suit – red with a plain white blouse and a small strand of pearls at her neck and her trademark sleek chignon. Ted was, well, Ted. A bit overweight, shirt sleeves rolled up, belt tightened under his belly, salt and pepper hair madly sticking up in all directions.

Melinda Bancroft invited him to take a seat in her cold voice. She sat in the power position, behind the battered desk, while Ted stood to her right. Paul's wide smile faltered a bit as he noted the carefully schooled expressions on their swiftly decided a show of bravado would win the day.

"So, how did you like it? The exposé on Wheeler and Lynch? Great isn't it? Lot of digging to get that information, lots of legwork. But then, that's the life of an investigative reporter." He knew he was talking too much, but his nerves were getting the better of him. Why the hell didn't they say something? Anything?

As he faded to a stop, Melinda laced her fingers together on the top of the desk, and stared straight at him. Her cool grey eyes iced over. "It was a wonderfully written article, Paul," she began, her voice as chilly as her eyes. His smile began to overspread his face, but her next words stopped it as effectively as an open palm slap. "If it was true."

He opened his mouth to rebut her words, but nothing came out. How in god's name did they find out? It wasn't blatant or excessive. Just a little twist on words here and there. He was mindful of the legalities.

Ted's deep voice rumbled out of his barrel chest. He leaned a thick arm on the desk and got right in Paul's face. "Don't bother to deny it, Trent. Maybe we're just a small town paper, and maybe I'm not the editor of some fancy city newspaper, but I have enough brains to check the facts. Facts that you misrepresented in your little exposé."

"No, no, Ted, it wasn't like that," he began. But he knew. He knew it was exactly like that.

"Do you actually think we would publish something like that about two of the richest and most philanthropic members of our community without checking it out first?" Melinda spat at him. She sat back in her chair and tented her red-tipped fingers. Like the bloodied talons of some brightly crested bird of prey, she went in to complete the kill.

"You're a good reporter, Paul. Have a nice touch with words. Sleepyside isn't L.A. or New York City. You're looking for that big story, but you won't find it here." Her voice rose. "The thing I find most distasteful is that you wanted to compromise the integrity of my paper and my community to feed your obviously overactive ego. I can't have that. You're fired, Paul, effective immediately. I will not be providing a reference for you."

The bitch actually turned away from him. Dismissed him, as Ted muscled him out of the office and watched as he packed his things. The last thing he said was, "One day, you'll see my name in the New York Times. And you and that witch in there will have big regrets about this day, Ted. Wait and see. Just wait and see."

The red neon sign sputtered and buzzed, and brought him back to his new reality. A cheap flophouse in the City with a hot plate and mini-refrigerator that passed as a kitchen. A dozen roach motels set everywhere. A sagging bed he compulsively checked several times a day for any sign of bedbugs.

He sat on the bed. With no references, he had no real job. Nothing except being a stringer for that new gossip rag, OMG!. They had no problem with stretching the truth a bit. Hell, they had no problem printing total and complete lies. If a celebrity complained or threatened a lawsuit, there was a retraction printed on the next to the last page in the tiniest print imaginable. It always blamed the unnamed sources for the bad info.

He'd never win his Pulitzer now. But revenge could be sweet, he ruminated. He knew Wheeler and Lynch were behind his firing. All those rich people, they all stuck together. But he'd get back at them in their most vulnerable place.

He walked a few strides around the apartment, giggling. The cracked and faded walls were covered with photographs. His giggle mutated into a full-blown laugh.

He'd get back at them, all right. Using OMG! as his delivery, and Bob-Whites as his avenging sword.

A/N: As always, Thanks to my lovely and talented editor, Mylee!