Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. The fictional band Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).

CHAPTER 67
TOO MANY STOPS

June 1, 1995

San Francisco, California

Joel Riley Investigations
…

Joel Riley's office resembled none of the sets Jackie had seen on TV or in the movies. Rather than a dark and intimidating place, large windows let in plenty of light. Prismatic window film cast a rainbow over part of the room, and a vase of fresh flowers sat atop bookcase. The chairs weren't brown leather but upholstered in azure fabric with a tufted back. They were comfortable, and she suspected a woman's touch. Perhaps, too, a grandfather's.

Framed pictures of Detective Riley's family hung on the wall, including a silly one of himself and his granddaughter posing with giant sticks of cotton candy. His private investigator's license had a prominent position behind the desk. But off to the side, almost hidden, was his silver medal of valor from the San Francisco police department.

"My wife insisted I put that up," he said when Jackie asked about it. "I don't like remembering what earned it, but she said my clients should know I have it."

"She's right," Jackie said. Detective Riley was a retired police officer, one who'd protected a woman and her child from a crazed gunman. The whacko had already shot two men dead and left Detective Riley's partner paralyzed from the waist down, but Detective Riley risked his life and made sure the gunman never hurt anyone again. He reminded Jackie of a heavier-set Red Forman, a tough man forged in battle and tempered by compassion. "You're a hero—"

He waved his thick hand at her. "Part of the job, but my job now is helping you, young lady. I've got these..." His hand landed on her folder of xeroxed articles about Dale and a letter Ann-Marie sent a few days ago, promising to call the police if Jackie didn't write back. Beneath the folder was the stack of tabloids that had published stories about her. "Is there anything else you've been sent or given relating to Dale Fischer?"

"Yes, this." She pulled an opened envelope from her Chanel, half-moon purse. It was post-marked Oceanside, California like all the others, and she passed it to Detective Riley. He pulled out the threatening letter, written by pasting magazine cut-outs together. "I received it today," she said.

"'You killed me, Jackie Burkhart,'" he read aloud, and her fingers laced tightly over her purse, "'and I'm going to make you wish you were dead.'" He looked over the letter for a moment then removed the most recent issue of Celebritude from the stack of tabloids. It had a cover story about her and Steven. He flipped to the article and nodded.

"What is it?" she said.

"Just a hunch right now, but look here." He turned the tabloid toward her as well as the letter. He pointed to her name in the article's title and her name in the threatening letter.

"They're the same. It's cut from that magazine," she said, and her mouth dried out. "How is that possible? That issue went on sale two days ago."

"And you received this two days later from a city in the same state. It's possible."

She swallowed, but her mouth remained dry.

"Anything else?" he said after writing notes on his notepad.

Her fingers played with the zipper of her purse. She did have something else, but she wasn't sure it was related to her case.

"What is it?" He gestured for her to give him what she hadn't mentioned. He must've read her body language, and his attention to detail was as unnerving as it was reassuring. "Even if you don't think it's relevant, it might be. Let's have it."

She took the Ziploc bag with Anders's ripped-up envelope and check. "My stepfather—I mean, soon-to-be-ex-stepfather gave me this. He said it 'contained information' I needed to see. I kind of tore it up."

"Not 'kind of'. It's shredded, but my assistant is very good at piecing together puzzles." A smile brightened his well-worn face. "We'll get this back together." He pushed the pile of evidence on his desk aside, as if he knew that was all she'd brought, and leaned back in his chair. "What else happened this morning besides getting that letter?"

She flinched. "How do you know—?"

"It's my job to know. So, what happened?"

She stuck her hand into the pocket of her capri pants. Her fingers wrapped around the purple goldstone Steven had given her. He'd returned to Minneapolis on Monday, after spending the day doing his own investigation and finding her Detective Riley. He'd done so much for her, but she was afraid of betraying him. Telling Detective Riley who'd called her at six a.m. could do damage she didn't intend.

"My friend," she said. "Ex-friend?—I don't really know—came to my house last evening. Brie Copeland."

He began writing on his notepad. "That's not what I asked you about, but continue."

"My security team turned her away. That article in Celebritude must have brought her to me. She's the fashion director of Cosette Magazine—a recent promotion—and I bet you she's trying to get an interview with me or access to Steven." Her words echoed between her ears, drawing blood into her neck. "Oh, God, that sounds so presumptuous, but you have no idea how these women have used me over the years—"

"Which women?" he said.

"Brie Copeland, Ann-Marie Wintry—she's the one who sent me the letter I showed you earlier—"

"I know."

"Deborah Rutherford Harding, and June Halliday. They've always been terrible friends, but since they learned I was friends with Steven, they've done everything to exploit that."

Detective Riley tapped his notepad with his pen once he finished writing. "They're all friends with each other?"

"Yes—and with my mother. Sort of. More like they're part of the same social circle."

"Tell me whatever you can about these 'friends,'" he said. "Their jobs, phone numbers, addresses, significant others. The favors they've asked of you. What they've done to manipulate you, specifically in regard to Steven Hyde."

She swallowed again. "Could I have some water? This is going to take a while."

He pressed a button on his phone, and his receptionist answered. "Darlene," he said, "please bring Miss Burkhart a glass of water."

"Right away, Detective Riley," Darlene's voice said through the phone speaker.

The woman herself entered the office moments later with Jackie's water. Jackie and Detective Riley both thanked her, and after a few, mouth-restoring sips Jackie told Detective Riley what she could. She'd been prepared, had brought her address book just in case. He filled several pages of his notepad with the information she gave him, but his energy never waned.

"It's a lot, I know," she said, somewhat breathless. She inhaled deeply, to restore much-needed oxygen to her brain.

"It's not enough." He put down the pen and clasped his hands on top of the notepad. "Miss Burkhart," he said, and his softer tone startled her, "I need you to be completely honest with me: are you having an affair with Steven Hyde?"

Her spine straightened, and her chair scooted back an inch. "No!"

"Do you wish you were?"

"I..." Her fist clenched around the goldstone in her pocket, digging it into her palm. Celebritude's photographers had captured her and Steven's trip to Sweeny Ridge on Sunday. They'd gone hiking and animal-watching, grounding themselves in the present through nature. His, thankfully, unbroken hands were wrapped in elastic bandages to keep down the swelling. He'd deeply bruised his knuckles, but that didn't stop him from holding her hand—which the photographers had snapped. The pictures were blurry because of Sheila and her security team's efforts, but they were also damning.

The cover story labeled Jackie Steven Hyde's secret mistress, repurposing some of Come On Magazine's exposé about Steven's life. The timing was, sadly, perfect. Celebritude's article came out the same day as Come On's retraction of the exposé, and it confirmed her view of the universe: the good had to be balanced by the bad. The joy Jackie experienced at her full-bodied, full-minded, and full-hearted attraction to Steven was being neutralized by an equal amount of shame.

"No, I don't want to 'have an affair' with him," she said quietly. "He's engaged to Ro Skirving," and being his mistress would never be enough. "What I have with Steven is friendship," one purer and more clear-eyed than their romantic relationship had ever been. "I do love him, but—"

"If this Ro Skirving were out of the picture," Detective Riley said, "would you pursue something more with Mr. Hyde?"

She stood up from the chair and slammed his desk with the flat of her hand. "I'm paying you to help me, not interrogate me!"

"It goes to motive, Miss Burkhart. If I can see these feelings in you after forty-five minutes, then someone who's known you longer might be able to see them, too." He picked up his notepad and looked at her expectantly. "What happened this morning?"

Her cheeks flushed. "Ro. Ro called me," she said and sat back down. "She has my new phone number because of Steven. She needs to be able to contact him when he visits me." She hugged her purse to her stomach, silently praying for her dad's support. "I don't think she's behind any of this. It's more likely to be one of Dale Fischer's accomplices—"

"What did Ro say?"

"I let the machine get it—the answering machine. I screen all my calls." She closed her eyes and hugged the purse harder. First, do no harm. That was her philosophy, but if Ro Skirving was behind the threats, Jackie had a right to protect herself. Regardless whether Steven would believe her or the evidence. "She invited me to Minneapolis," she said. "Told me Steven was upset about the Celebritude story and that she wanted paparazzi to take pictures of the three of us together."

The office seemed to grow dimmer with every word she spoke. It had to be an illusion, caused by her speeding heart and shallow breaths. But she wouldn't let herself be terrorized anymore, even if it meant losing Steven's friendship. She had to choose herself, including over him. "She said not to tell him because he wouldn't like the idea. That she'd pick me up at the airport, and..."

"And?"

She pushed the purse into her rips and pinched the skin of her forearms. "She ended the message by saying, 'Hyde loves you more than he realizes, and I love him more than most people can take. You can trust me, Jackie. I won't let anything happen to you.' But I have no plans of going, and I haven't called her back yet."

Detective Riley wrote in his notepad and didn't look up at her. "But you don't trust her."

"I don't trust most people." She loosened her grip on her purse. "Please don't share any of what I told you with him—with Steven."

His pen landed on the desk with a clack. "I'll keep everything between us as confidential as possible, but I'll need that answering machine tape—and you'll have to trust me to use my best judgment. I've been doing this a long time, Miss Burkhart. We'll find out who's been harassing you and go from there."

His warmth and confidence mirrored her dad's, whose spirit spirit had to be guiding her from the other side, trying to protect her through people like Detective Riley. But her decisions were still hers to make. With her track record, she had little faith they'd lead her to safety.

Ro tugged Hyde along Minnehaha Creek, with her fingers clamped around his wrist. She was being mindful of his bruised knuckles, but he preferred not being pulled. She always had excess energy after a recording session, causing her to be a little rough. Still, his vantage point behind her gave him a nice view. Her jeans were ripped and safety-pinned just below her ass, and the setting sun outlined her curves, enough to wake up his body. Enough to keep him from complaining.

"Good spot to celebrate, wouldn't you say?" She'd led him to dense copse of trees by the creek. Birds warbled in the branches, and a turtle splashed in the water, probably in a dive for dinner.

"I dig it." He shrugged off his duct-taped backpack. It contained a thick, king-sized blanket that he spread on the ground. They'd be invisible to all but the animals here.

A few Degenerate Matter fans, though, had recognized him and Ro on their way into the park. They told Hyde they'd never believed Come On Magazine's exposé about his life, but after that show of support, they'd left him and Ro alone.

"Can't get over how fast the public changes its freakin' opinions," he said, sitting on the blanket.

She waved for the backpack, and he gave it to her. "I have to admit, I'm relieved the truth is finally coming out."

"Man..." He laughed, hardly believing she'd said what she'd said. "I leave for one weekend, and you're surprisin' me left and right. Kind of scared of what's next."

But her attitude was a welcome respite after his intense weekend in California. Their home barely stank of cigarettes anymore. She'd spent Sunday washing the walls, and he'd half-joked that making a double album might actually get her to quit. She answered with a promise to stop smoking permanently, but he'd believe it when he smelled it.

"How's your stomach?" she said now and stuck a rolled-up magazine under her arm. She'd pulled it from the backpack. "Because I need you with me. No one's watching our backs tonight except us."

"You got me. Won't be running off anywhere to puke." They'd left their security team guarding the house, but the nausea had stopped days ago. His nightmares about Jackie, however, were back in full force, this time with new antagonists: Dale Fischer and his abettors. "So," he said and nodded at Ro's magazine, "you want to do a little dirty reading as foreplay?"

"Not quite." A breeze chilled the air, shaking the leaves above them, and the birds chirped louder in response. "Are you ready for me, love?" She dropped the backpack onto the blanket and zipped up her black hoodie. She hadn't sat down yet. "Are you ready for all of me?"

He was. Come On Magazine's accusations had built a fence around him. Reliving Edna's abuse had electrified it, but Jackie's honesty this weekend powered it down. She'd confessed to punishing herself through sex, and he'd been doing the same. Rather than freeing himself from his past, fucking Ro like a crazed animal had chained him to it.

But he was no longer crazed. Come On's retraction had demolished the fence penning him in. The network, cable, and radio news outlets had all reported on the story, repeating the tabloid's apology: "We deeply regret that our source's false and unfounded allegations have hurt Steven Hyde's reputation, his family, and Degenerate Matter. Journalists have a responsibility to report the truth, and we failed in this particular instance. In the future, we will endeavor to take more extensive action to verify a source's story."

That apology had created a euphoria he didn't repress. He stood up and approached Ro, reaching for the zipper of her hoodie. Sex between them didn't have to be about power and control but love. They could find a compromise that got them both off. "Thanks for waiting, Spark. For trustin' I'd get back here."

She slapped his hand off her, leaving the hoodie half-zipped. "What makes you think I'm ready for you?"

A throb set into his knuckles, and he backed off. Coming to the park had been her idea. "Got no problem with taking this to a more private venue."

She snatched the magazine from beneath her arm, unrolled it, and held it up to him. It was a copy of Celebritude's latest, the one with the cover story about Jackie being his secret mistress.

"We have to take care of this," she said and opened the tabloid to the pictures taken at Sweeny Ridge. She tapped the close-up of him holding Jackie's hand. "I want to do a small, fan-club-only show at The Entry and try out some of our new songs. Dawn will invite the press to it, and you'll invite Jackie. That way, we'll get photos of the three of us to counteract this bullshit."

She closed the tabloid and pointed to the headline on the cover. "I'll even give her peck on the lips so the next story'll read, 'Ro Skirving Steals Steven Hyde's Secret Mistress from Him'."

"I get where you're coming from, but it's not gonna happen." The throb in his knuckles was fading, but the wind had blown his hair into his face. He gathered it with both hands and stuffed it into the back of his T-shirt. "Jackie's pretty shy, you know? And she feels the same way about her picture being taken as you do about kids."

Cameras reminded Jackie of Dale's camcorder. He understood that now, understood so much better who'd she become and why. He wouldn't shove her into a situation that could feel dangerous to her.

"What's one more photo if it takes care of the problem?" Ro smacked the tabloid against her palm, and his chest tightened. Her move reminded him of Dale's buddy Paul, how he'd threatened Jackie with a hammer: Bam! Right in the skull. "If I kiss her, the tabloids won't know which way is up."

"Not negotiable. Sorry." He cupped her shoulder, and his thumb stroked her jawline. "Long as we know what the deal is, who gives a crap if a few gullible morons think I'm a cheater?"

She turned her face and tried to bite his thumb. He withdrew from her, but his boots caught on a lump in the blanket, and he crashed onto his butt. His hands had softened the fall, and tiny mallets of pain pounded on his knuckles.

"So you're fine with being labeled a cheater but not a homewrecker," she said.

"I'm not cool with either." A twig jabbed his butt cheek from under the blanket, but Ro offered him no help to stand. He still needed to be careful, despite that his bruised knuckles had gone from purple-black to blue and wearing ACE bandages was no longer necessary. "Mind giving me a hand?"

She applauded slowly. Her mood had tangibly shifted. The air was thick with her souring attitude, but the night wasn't over. He could still salvage it.

"They're in different cosmoses, man." He used an oak tree for traction, pushed, his back against it, and got to his feet. "Bein' labeled a homewrecker screws me with everyone. Bein' labeled a cheater—"

"Screws you with me." She tossed the tabloid to the blanket and advanced on him. "Or don't you care about that?"

"Don't tell me you believe that rag."

She pinned him to the oak by placing her arms on either side of him. The sunset painted her black hair orange, and his lungs took in no air. He fought to see Ro inside his mind, but Edna rose in his consciousness like a phantom. "Back off," he said.

"Tell me the truth, and I will."

"You know the damn truth, so back the hell off." His fingers curled into fists. His knuckles burned from the effort, and sweat formed on his palms. He had over a half-foot on Ro in height and fifty pounds in muscle, but her small, lithe body had all the power.

"How'd your hurt your hands?"

He'd told her already, that he'd gotten pissed and punched a coffee table. "You know how."

"Without the story behind it, I don't believe you."

"You never want the story."

"Things are changing, love. You know how."

"Actually, I don't." He needed to breathe, to free himself from the cage her body had made. Her features were melting into one another, mixing with the orange sunlight into a face he didn't recognize.

"How'd you hurt your hands?" she repeated.

"Reason is private." He ducked below one of her arms, but she hooked the other around his waist. His fingers closed around her wrist and held it against him. "We're not doin' this, Spark. Say what you've got to say, but we're not doin' this."

Her arms went limp, and he let her go. She put distance between them, but her lip curled up in a sneer. "Did you hit Jackie?"

His shoulders tensed. He searched her face, trying to make sense of what he saw there, of what he'd just heard.

"Is that why you won't let me hit you? " She unzipped her hoodie, but the air had grown significantly colder. Or, maybe, the chill had only seeped into his bones. "Because you're afraid you'll hit me back?"

"I didn't—" His jaw clenched until his temples stung. "You're gonna have speak in Gaelic 'cause whatever you're getting at isn't translating into English."

"Okay, how about this—" she tapped her chin, as if she were deep in thought—"I fucked Lee."

He peered up at the darkening sky. Her intentions had become transparent, and he slouched against a pair of birch trees. "It's not going to work," he said. "You won't provoke me into incriminating myself 'cause I didn't do shit. You're the last person I fucked, and you're the last person I'm gonna fuck, all right?"

She yanked off her hoodie. It dropped to the blanket-covered ground, and she held her left arm out to him. Her path of musical notes was permanently inked on his memory, from the eighth-note on her wrist to the whole note in her elbow pit. They each represented a time she'd made a choice to change directions rather than give up, but a tattoo he'd never seen before extended the path to her biceps: a puffy, peeling half note.

"When did you..."

But she'd been wearing long sleeves since he got back from California, never rolling them past her elbows. He should've questioned it. She preferred T-shirts and tank tops, especially once the temperature hit the sixties, but the long sleeves had hidden her new tattoo from him.

His body slid down the birch trees to the ground. Her last statement wasn't just a provocation but a confession: she'd actually cheated on him with Lee.