Chapter 1: Dry Seed
Chapter Text
harrowing:
acutely distressing (adj)
readying the soil for planting (verb)
Wayne Munson walked out of his trailer into the crisp February morning. He'd only taken the time to change out of his grease-covered work clothes before heading back out into the cold. He needed to be outside after getting home from a shift at the steel mill. Needed to wash the heat and stink of the place off his body with fresh air, as much as he could.
Morning had always been his favorite time of day, especially in the winter. There was nothing he loved more than watching the sun rise on a frigid morning. He walked out into the woods surrounding the trailer park, taking a familiar path to a hill that would give him a good view of the rising sun. He could still smell the sulfuric reek of the mill. He wasn't sure if it was just stuck in his nose for good, or if the smell permeated this far. Either way, he was used to it. He'd long ago resigned himself to never being able to escape the fire and brimstone of Hawkins, Indiana.
His feet crunched over dead leaves rimed with a layer of frost. The noise joined the sound of birds waking up for the day, chittering away in the trees. He sank into the meditative frame of mind he came out to the woods every day seeking. One foot after the other, focus on the repetition. Use it to chase away his worries about Benny's hand injury, Eddie's continued drug-dealing, his own aching joints that slowed him down and kept him from meeting his quotas at the factory more days than he'd like.
Halfway to his destination, he tripped over a large object. It was firm and heavy; it barely moved when he'd accidentally kicked it. He stared down, trying to make it out in the dim pre-dawn light. It looked like a large rolled up rug. He bent to examine it, prodding it with his finger. Plastic, but with something squishy underneath.
Wayne's heart sped up as a horrible suspicion worked its way into his mind. Was there a person in the plastic? He dug around in his pocket, fishing out his key chain with its attached pen light. Shining it on the object, he peeled back the top of the plastic.
A young woman. Her strawberry blonde hair was streaked with dirt. Her lips were blue, her eyes open and unseeing. Wayne stood abruptly, dropping the plastic and backing away.
He ran back to the trailer, crashing through the underbrush, heedless of the noise he made that disturbed the morning peace. As soon as he got back inside, he dialed the number to the sheriff's office.
"Hawkins Sheriff's Department," a bored voice said on the other line. One of the young kids Hop had hired to man the phones at night.
"Put me through to Hopper," Wayne demanded.
"Sir, it's seven in the morning. He's not in yet."
"Then put me through to his home line!" he yelled. "Tell him it's Wayne Munson, I need to talk to him!"
The girl sighed, but he heard a click as she switched to another line. After about thirty seconds, Hopper's tired and annoyed voice came over the phone. "Wayne. Whaddaya want?"
"She's dead," Wayne blurted. "Wrapped in plastic."
"Whoa, slow down, Wayne," Hopper said, sounding fully awake now. "Who? Where?"
"Young girl. I don't know who she is," Wayne admitted, voice cracking. "In the woods outside the trailer park."
"You sure she's dead?" Hopper asked.
"She's blue, Hop. She ain't movin'."
"Fuck," Hopper muttered on the other line. "I'll be right over. Don't touch anything."
Hopper hadn't signed up for this sort of shit. When he'd run for sheriff in rural Indiana, he'd expected his fair share of squabbles over trespassing and domestic disputes, but not murder. And definitely not the murder of the town darling.
He stared down at the face of Chrissy Cunningham, freshly unwrapped from a roll of plastic.
"Shit."
"Is that the Cunningham girl?" Callahan asked, one hand over his mouth. He looked a little green around the gills. Probably never even seen a dead body before.
"Yeah," Hopper replied. "We aren't equipped for this. Gotta call State, get a real forensics team down here before we fuck anything up."
Callahan just stood there gaping. "She's dead?" he asked.
"What the fuck does it look like, Callahan? Go call State, dumbass."
Hopper wasn't looking forward to telling the Cunninghams. He was surprised they hadn't reported her missing overnight. From what he knew of them, they were overbearing parents, and should have noticed that their girl hadn't come home the previous night.
"Stay here," Hopper said to Daniels. He was dealing with this better than Callahan, but he'd always been the more competent deputy. "Make sure nobody comes into this area. It's an active crime scene." He sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I gotta go talk to the parents."
Hopper had knocked on doors to give bad news before, but never this bad. Usually it was a traffic accident, or something gone wrong at the mill. Someone older, with a lot of their life already behind them. He'd never had to tell someone that their kid, the pride of the town, had been found dead in the woods.
Phillip Cunningham opened the door on the first knock. His face was drawn and exhausted, stubble visible on his jaw. He looked like he hadn't slept at all the night before. If that was the case, Phillip must've known Chrissy was missing. Hopper didn't understand why he hadn't called.
"Chrissy?" Phillip asked immediately, not sparing a greeting for Hopper.
Hopper nodded. Before he could even open his mouth to speak, Phillip crumpled to the ground in front of him, sobbing uncontrollably.
"CHRISSY!" he yelled over and over again. He pulled at his hair, so hard that clumps came out in his hands.
Hopper shifted awkwardly on the porch, looking over his shoulder. Several neighbors poked their heads out of windows and doors to watch the scene. Hopper squatted down in front of Phillip and put a hand on his shoulder.
"Phillip, maybe we should take this inside. Where's Clarissa?" Hopper looked over Phillip's shoulder, expecting his wife to have responded to the commotion, but she was nowhere to be seen.
It took him several minutes to peel Phillip off the doorstep, but eventually Hopper had him inside. He shut the door on the prying neighbors and walked Phillip into the living room. Clarissa lay on the couch in her bathrobe, a cigarette dangling from her fingers, trailing ash on the ground. Hopper plucked it from her fingers and laid it in the ashtray. Clarissa blinked her eyes blearily open at him.
"Phillip. Clarissa. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but Chrissy's body was found this morning in the woods. She's dead."
Phillip let out another shrieking sob. Clarissa stared.
"When's the last time either of you saw her? She come home last night?"
Phillip's sobs continued. Clarissa blinked.
"Clarissa?" Hopper prompted, raising his voice above Phillip's sobs.
Clarissa shook her head sluggishly. Hopper's eyes were drawn to a bottle of pills sitting next to her pack of cigarettes. "I don't know. Don't know what that girl's been doing lately. She's lost."
That was unexpected. Hopper liked to think he kept a pretty close eye on the town, but this was the first he'd heard that Chrissy Cunningham was anything other than perfect.
"So she didn't come home last night?" he clarified.
Clarissa shrugged. Hopper held back a sigh. He turned to Phillip, whose sobs had quieted. "Phillip, you know if your daughter came home last night?"
Phillip began to sob anew. This was shaping up to be a long fucking day.
"Robin, 11:38am, February 24th. Just entered Hawkins, Indiana, small town about an hour and a half from Indianapolis. Sleet is coming down hard. Road conditions horrible. On my way to the sheriff's department."
Steve clicked off his tape recorder with a sigh. He wished Robin could have come with him. She'd been the only good thing about the Academy - an assistant around his age who hadn't sneered at Steve because of who his father was. When she'd been assigned as his assistant after he finished at the Academy, they'd both been overjoyed. Until Creel sent him out to the field and away from her as soon as he could.
He knew this assignment was Agent Creel's way of getting back at him for what he perceived to be blatant nepotism. Why else would Steve get sent to the middle of nowhere in the Midwest by himself for his first field assignment? Creel was setting him up for failure. But Steve wasn't going to give him the pleasure. He wasn't going to fail.
The corn and soy fields lining the county road fell away, revealing the neat streets of a small town. The road spat him out on the town square. He easily picked the sheriff's department out from among the small businesses. He pulled into the parking lot, readying himself for his first brush with the local law enforcement. The locals usually weren't crazy about FBI involvement.
An incredibly bored-looking young redhead manned the reception desk, blowing bubbles with her gum and popping them over and over while she filed her nails. She didn't even look up as Steve walked in. After a few moments of silence, broken only by the popping of gum, Steve cleared his throat.
The girl looked up with an exaggerated sigh. "Can I help you?" she asked, in a tone that suggested she would prefer not to.
"Hello," he said with what he hoped was one of his winning smiles, "I'm Special Agent Steve Harrington, from the FBI. I'm here to meet with Sheriff Hopper." He was being as friendly as he was able. It wasn't helping.
"Fine," she sighed. She picked up a phone like it was the worst thing she'd ever been forced to do and punched in a few numbers. "Some suit's here to see you," she muttered into the phone, then hung it up without waiting for a response. She went directly back to filing her nails. Steve waited awkwardly as each pop of her gum wore away at his patience.
A harried-looking middle-aged man came out of a doorway nearby a few minutes later. He looked from Steve to the woman and groaned. "Carol, you didn't even offer him a coffee? We've gone over this."
The woman, Carol, shrugged and continued to file her nails. The man looked over at Steve with a wince. "Sorry about that. I'm Sheriff Hopper. How can I help you?"
Steve put on the most non-confrontational smile he could muster and held out a hand. "Special Agent Steve Harrington. From the FBI. I called last night."
Hopper raised his eyebrows, but took Steve's hand to shake. "You're the FBI guy? What are you, 20? Can you even drink, kid?"
Steve schooled his face into a neutral expression. "I'm 23, sir. Fully credentialed and ready for field work." He regretted it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He hoped Hopper wouldn't get the implication. Unfortunately, he did.
"This is your first assignment?" He pulled off his hat and dragged a hand down his exhausted face. "Our prom queen's dead and they sent me a rookie?"
Steve bristled. It was bad enough he had to deal with the whispers around the academy about his young age and his father's influence, but nobody out here knew his dad was Deputy Director. He'd hoped maybe he'd get a break from that. He had too much of a baby face. Maybe he should let his facial hair grow out. "I can assure you, I'm a fully trained Special Agent of the FBI." He attempted to keep a smile plastered on his face.
"Alright," the sheriff said with a sigh. "Well, follow me. We need all the help we can get, no matter how green."
At least he wasn't balking at Steve's presence there as an FBI agent. It sounded like he actually wanted the help.
"Want a coffee?" he asked, motioning over to a cheap pot in the corner.
"Sure, thanks." Steve was used to a higher caliber of caffeinated beverage, but he'd take what he could get. He'd been on a very early morning flight from DC to Indianapolis.
"So, what'd they tell you so far?" Hopper asked once they were seated in his office.
"Presumed murder of a high school girl, well-known to the town, no current suspects or motives," Steve recited. Just like Heather, an insidious voice whispered in his mind.
Hopper nodded. "I'm in way over my fuckin' head here. Haven't had a murder in Hawkins since poor old Dorothy Franklin finally snapped and blew out her scumbag husband's brains. Never a murder of a kid."
Steve nodded. "I understand. There have been a couple of disappearances of girls of a similar age and description from other towns recently. Including over in Ohio." This was how the FBI had become involved. They'd been following a cluster of disappearances along the state border for months. Steve had been sent out to see if this case was connected at all.
Hopper's eyes narrowed. "You don't think that's got anything to do with this, do you?"
Steve shrugged. "That's what I'm here to find out. What'd the parents have to say?"
Hopper's face sagged. "A whole lot of nothing. Mom's practically comatose from pills, the dad's a hysterical mess. All they know about the night she died is that she went to study with some friends, but then never came back."
"Was that usual for her? To be out all night without telling her parents?"
"If you'da asked me that a few days ago, I would've said hell no. Chrissy was the perfect teenager - a cheerleader, National Honor's Society, prom queen, churchgoer. Never in trouble at school, never had trouble with the law. But something her mom said when I was talking to 'em yesterday morning made me wonder if that's still the case."
Steve leaned forward. "What'd she day?"
"That Chrissy's 'been lost' lately. The she doesn't know what Chrissy's been doing. When I pressed her for more info, she just started rambling, didn't make a lick of sense."
"And her dad? He say anything like that?"
"Nah, he stuck to his party line of her bein' a perfect angel. Which is real odd, because he knew she was missing when I got there, but hadn't called it in to the station."
"Hmm." Steve tapped a finger against his lips. He needed to talk to the parents. There was definitely something they weren't saying. "Have you found out who she was with that night?"
"Just that she started out with a couple of friends, but no idea if she stayed with them. Was gonna go to the high school today, see what I can get out of them."
Steve nodded and stood. "I'll come with you." He ran through interrogation techniques for recalcitrant teenagers in his head, trying to recall everything he'd learned at the Academy. "She have a boyfriend?" he asked. If she did, he was probably involved somehow.
Hopper nodded. "Jason Carver. He and Chrissy have been together for ages. They're that quintessential perfect high school couple - jock and cheerleader, both prettier than they got any right to be, with rich parents." Steve cringed internally as Hopper described Steve himself in high school. "But I already talked to him. He had a late basketball practice, and his parents swear he was home all night. They run a pretty tight ship. His father is the pastor at the local Baptist Church."
Steve hummed to himself. That didn't necessarily mean anything. Kids snuck out all the time, even pastors' kids.
"Alright," Hopper said with a sigh, fixing his hat more firmly on his head. "Let's go."
Steve followed Hopper out to his car, his resolve solidifying. He was going to be helpful. He could crack this case, and shove the success in Creel's face. Get Hopper to stop looking at him like he was a knock-off Dougie Howser.
Steve watched the town pass by through the window of Hopper's cruiser. They drove down a quaint Main Street lined by small shops, a post office, and a bed and breakfast. The houses nearby were large and well-maintained, with perfectly manicured lawns. They passed a beautiful park with an ornate central fountain. A well-dressed young woman pushed a bundled up baby down the sidewalk in a stroller, umbrella held over them both to block out the sleet.
As they drove further, Steve witnessed a gradual decay. The houses shrank in size and yards grew cluttered with weeds, rusty bikes, even old furniture. The car slowly became saturated with an unpleasant smell, sulfuric, like rotten eggs. Steve wrinkled his nose as they drove past the likely culprit - a large factory with smokestacks belching steam into the air.
"Steel mill?" Steve asked, pointing at the building.
Hopper nodded. "Yeah. Employs a hell of a lot of the townfolk. Owned by Phillip Cunningham. The dead girl's dad."
Steve raised his eyebrows. "You think that had anything to do with her death?"
"Nah," Hopper said, shaking his head. "People 'round here, they like the mill. Need to make money somehow."
The high school was a small, run-down building about a mile from the steel mill that looked like it hadn't been updated since the '50's. Hopper took him straight to the principal's office, where they met a tall, thin man with a terrified look on his gaunt face.
"Have you figured out who did it?" he asked as soon as Hopper walked into his office.
Hopper frowned. "No, Jack, I haven't." He jerked a thumb at Steve. "This is Special Agent Harrington from the FBI, he's gonna be helping with the investigation. We need to talk to the Wheeler girl and the Byers boy."
The principal nodded so fast it looked like his ill-fitting toupee was in danger of falling off. "Yes, yes, of course. They were close."
He led them down a hallway festooned with green and white streamers and balloons. Steve's eyes were drawn to a strange symbol scratched on a locker - a series of connecting straight and diagonal lines. He saw it again scratched on another locker further down the hallway.
The principal stepped into one of the classrooms, and returned a few moments later trailed by a petite brunette with huge, red-rimmed eyes and a boy with lanky mouse brown hair who was obviously high.
"Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers," the principal announced to Steve. "Chrissy's friends." He turned to the kids. "This man here is from the FBI. Tell him everything you know, y'hear?"
Steve could practically hear Nancy rolling her eyes. Jonathan nodded absently. The principal led them all to an empty classroom. He loomed behind Hopper after they sat down, until the sheriff dismissed him.
"Give us a little space, Higgins," Hopper grumbled. Higgins bobbed his head and scurried out of the room. Steve sat back, letting Hopper take the lead on this one. He presumably knew these kids.
"Nancy. Jonathan." Hopper nodded at each of them. "Sorry you lost your friend." Nancy stared furiously at the desk in front of her. "We just need to ask you a few questions, okay? We're trying to figure out what Chrissy was doing the night she died. Her parents said she was supposed to be studying with the two of you."
Nancy and Jonathan glanced at each other. Nancy frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. She shrugged. "Yeah, we studied."
She would be a tough nut to crack, Steve could already tell.
"Til when?"
"About ten. Then she went home."
"But she didn't go home. Her parents said she never came home."
Nancy shrugged again. "I don't know anything about that."
Hopper sighed. "Jonathan?" Hopper asked, turning to the boy.
He glanced nervously at Nancy and worried his bottom lip between his teeth. "Y-yeah. No clue."
"Really?" Hopper pressed. Jonathan was obviously the weak link here. "You have no idea where Chrissy might have gone, if not home?"
"Nope," Nancy broke in, popping the 'p' obnoxiously.
"I'm asking Jonathan," Hopper warned.
Nancy smirked and made a 'be my guest' type of gesture.
Hopper shifted tactics slightly. He was good at this. Steve wouldn't have necessarily expected that from a rural sheriff. "Had Chrissy been acting oddly at all, in the weeks leading up to this?"
Jonathan swallowed audibly.
"No, she was fine," Nancy insisted.
"Jonathan," Hopper said, shooting Nancy a glare, "was Chrissy acting oddly in the weeks leading up to this?"
Jonathan's eyes darted around the room wildly, eventually landing on a glaring Nancy. "A little bit," he whispered. Nancy elbowed him hard in the side.
"What the fuck, Nancy!" he yelped, batting her elbow away. "We need to tell them! She's dead!"
"Tell us what?" Hopper pressed.
Jonathan rubbed at his side and turned back to face Hopper. "She'd been acting really weird. For months."
"How so?"
"I thought she was depressed, at first," Jonathan began. "It was like she'd gotten some really bad news and couldn't handle it. But then she started to have these ups and downs - depressed one day, overly happy and energetic the next. And she would be gone at weird times, like we wouldn't be able to find her anywhere. But then we found out - "
"Don't tell them, Jonathan," Nancy broke in.
"Why the fuck not, Nancy? She was murdered!"
"Everyone's gonna find out if you tell! They'll drag her name through the mud. Is that how you want her to be remembered?" Nancy's voice caught on a sob.
Hopper leaned forward. "Nancy. We'll do our best to keep any details you give us under wraps. But we really need to know what was going on with her if we're gonna figure out what happened."
Nancy looked away as tears built up in her eyes. She took a deep shuddering breath, then looked back at them. "Fine," she muttered. Two tears rolled down her cheeks. "Tell them."
"We found out she was buying drugs," Jonathan admitted.
Hopper was silent, waiting for Jonathan to continue. Nancy glared at Hopper and Steve, as if daring them to disparage her friend.
"I saw her meeting with Eddie Munson one day at the picnic table in the woods behind the school," Jonathan continued. "I thought maybe she was just getting some weed, you know? No harm there. But he passed her a little baggy with white powder in it."
"She ever do drugs before?" Hopper asked.
Jonathan shook his head. "No, she wouldn't touch the stuff. Refused to even smoke with me -" He looked up at Hopper in terror when he realized what he'd said. "Smoke cigarettes with me. You know. Just cigarettes."
Hopper snorted. "Sure, kid. You think she bought drugs more than that one time?"
Jonathan shrugged. "Would explain how weird she's been acting."
"So she wasn't doing these drugs with you." Nancy shook her head vigorously. "Any idea who she was doing them with?"
Nancy bit her lip and looked down. She was still hiding something.
"I don't know," Jonathan said. "There's nobody else she really hung out with, besides Jason. And he's way too straight-edge for drugs."
Hopper sat in silence for a few moments. Nancy and Jonathan both shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.
"I think there was a man," Nancy whispered.
Hopper raised his eyebrows. "Other than Jason?"
Nancy nodded. "Sometimes, when she got back from somewhere she wouldn't tell us about, I'd smell this cologne on her. Totally different from what Jason wears."
"But she never actually told you about another man?" Hopper clarified.
Nancy shook her head morosely. "She hasn't told me much at all the past few months. We used to be so close." Her eyes welled with tears again, which seemed to make her angry. She furiously dashed them away.
"D'you think she might've been going to meet this man after she left you guys the night she died?"
"Maybe," Nancy admitted. "I don't know."
Hopper turned to Steve. "Anything you wanna ask, Special Agent?"
"Do you think her boyfriend knew about this other man?" Steve asked. The boyfriend was still the most likely suspect, especially if Chrissy was cheating on him. Alibis could be faked.
Nancy snorted derisively. "No. Jason would never believe that someone could cheat on him. He's got way too high of an opinion of himself."
He might believe it if he witnessed it himself. Steve needed to make sure Hopper hadn't completely ruled out the boyfriend yet.
Steve turned to Hopper. "Nothing else from me."
Hopper nodded. "Alright. Thanks Nancy, thanks Jonathan. Appreciate you telling us the truth. If you think of anything else, anything at all, that might help, please let me know."
Nancy nodded reluctantly. "Okay."
"Sure," Jonathan said weakly.
Hopper and Steve left them in the classroom, Jonathan turning toward Nancy to pull her in for a hug.
"Where to now?" Steve asked.
"The morgue," Hopper replied. "Couldn't get a pathologist here til today. They're doing the autopsy this afternoon." Hopper looked over at Steve as they got into his car. "You gonna be alright with the autopsy?"
Steve bristled. He might be a rookie but he'd been through the Academy. He'd observed multiple autopsies. "Yes. I'll be fine." His voice came out snappish.
Hopper snorted. "Alright, kid. Just makin' sure."
The hospital was on the other side of town. They discussed what they'd learned from Nancy and Jonathan while they drove.
"Who's Eddie Munson? They mentioned Chrissy buying drugs from him?" Steve asked.
"Local drug dealer," Hopper said with a sigh. "Usually pretty discreet, never been able to get him on more than just hearsay. Used to just be pot when he was in high school, but seems like he's upgraded since then."
"You know who his supplier is?"
"I think he grows his own weed, but haven't been able to figure out where. Got some suspicions on the harder stuff, but nothing concrete. There's a long-haul trucker, Billy Hargrove. Think he might be bringing the shit in for Munson."
Steve hummed to himself. If there was drug trafficking involved, and Chrissy had gotten wrapped up in that world somehow, this might not be a small-town crime of passion. He remembered the disappearances along the state line. Could it all be linked to drug trafficking?
They pulled up to a stoplight. A large older woman stood at a run-down bus stop on the corner with something in her arms. At first he thought it was a bundle of clothes, but then it moved. A tiny rodent's head popped out of the bundle, followed by two more - rats.
"What the fuck?" Steve muttered under his breath.
The woman stroked each rat's head. He could see her lips moving, like she was talking to them.
"Ah," Hopper said, looking in the direction of Steve's incredulous stare. "That's Doris. She takes 'em everywhere with her. Named Medusa and Urine and something, after the Gorgars."
Steve snorted back a laugh. "The Gorgons? Medusa, Euryale, and Stheno?" After his injury in college, he'd spent a brief stint as a classics major before finally caving to his dad's suggestion and switching to criminal justice.
Hopper waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, maybe. Whatever."
Doris looked up, like she knew they were talking about her even though their windows were firmly closed. She locked eyes with Steve. She mouthed a few words at him, but he couldn't make out what they were. She shook her head from side to side frantically.
"Is she okay?" Steve asked.
Hopper sighed. "She's a little touched in the head. Don't mind her."
The light changed. As they pulled away, she shouted something after the car. It sounded like "the heroes are here", but with too many syllables in 'heroes'.
They left the main square of the town again, going in the opposite direction from the school. The gradual decay happened this way as well. Within a mile or so radius of downtown, the neighborhood looked like the one he'd grown up in - affluent, with imposing colonial houses and sterile landscaping. After a certain point, the houses shrank, and eventually they passed a large trailer park. Forest Hills. A couple of men smoking outside a trailer glared at them as they passed while a rottweiler barked and strained against its chain to chase them.
A couple of miles past the trailer park, they pulled up to an imposing brick building with "Hawkins General" emblazoned across the front. Pine trees surrounded the area, casting a deep shadow and leaving the building in a gloomy darkness. It looked like the kind of hospital you'd see in a photo from the early days of medicine.
"Hey, Sheriff. You here for the autopsy?" a young blonde girl chirped at them from the reception desk.
Hopper nodded.
"Pathologist got here about an hour ago. I left him down in the morgue."
Hopper led Steve down a maze of dark, deserted hallways. Steve had never been in a hospital that was so quiet. The fluorescent lights flickered in a valiant effort to stay lit. Steve joined Hopper in a rickety old elevator, startling at the screeching noise it made when it began to move.
Hopper gave him an apologetic smile. "We don't have a whole lot of funding for the hospital. Most of the more well-off folk of Hawkins just go to the city if they need a doc. Elevator's been on the fritz for years."
The morgue was, predictably, in the hospital basement. It was even darker down here. Only a quarter of the lights seemed to work. The walls were a deep shade of gray, which didn't help lighten the area.
Steve was relieved to finally hear the sounds of another human being. A crash of dropped metal was followed by a sharp curse. They entered a room at the end of the hall to find a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit covered by a canvas apron. He leaned over a body lying on a gurney. Several pairs of forceps were scattered across the floor.
"Dr. Owens," Hopper said in greeting.
The man looked up with a smile. "Sheriff Hopper. Always a pleasure." He looked back down at Chrissy's body. "Could be better circumstances, though."
"This is Special Agent Steve Harrington from the FBI," Hopper said, motioning to Steve. Owens held out a bloody gloved hand to shake, then pulled it back.
"Sorry," he said with a sheepish grin. "Habit. You got the FBI in on this one, Hop? Pretty serious."
Hopper shrugged. "Might be. Gonna need all the help I can get. You got anything for me?"
Owens turned back to the body. Steve had seen pictures of Chrissy. The woman on the table looked nothing like that vivacious young girl. Her face was pale and slack, with open, cloudy eyes. A triangular flap of skin rested on her chin, peeled back from her chest cavity. Her sternum had already been removed, and all the organs taken from within. They sat on a workstation to the side, cut into pieces.
"Cause of death seems pretty obvious," Owens said. He picked up her arm and showed them three large slashes through the skin of her wrist. "Hemorrhage." He flipped her hand over. "A couple of nails broken, sign of a struggle. Some dirt beneath the nails. Think your FBI guys could try to get some DNA for us? State hasn't got the funding for that sort of thing yet."
Steve nodded. "Sure. You got scrapings?" It would only help if the perpetrator was someone they had enough on to get a warrant for a comparator sample, but it was worth a try. If Creel would approve it.
Owens pointed at a labeled bag sitting on the workstation. "Put 'em right there." He pulled the right flap of the skin of Chrissy's belly back up to cover her gaping abdominal cavity. "Take a look at this." He pointed to an angry-looking red welt. "She's got a couple of these." He pointed to another on her hip and one on her upper thigh.
"What are they?" Steve asked, leaning closer. The body smelled like blood and something deeper. Something cold and rich. Earthy, but with a cloyingly sweet undertone.
"Look kinda like crosses to me. But upside down."
The image resolved for Steve. That is what they looked like. He drew in a sharp breath.
Hopper sighed. "Now we got some Satanist bullshit on our hands?"
"You remember the girls I told you about? The ones who've gone missing around here and in Ohio?" Steve asked.
Hopper nodded.
"A few of them have been found. Dead. With similar marks on them."
"Well, shit. Satanist serial killer bullshit." Hopper drew a hand over his face. "Hawkins does not need this."
"Does anyone?" Steve asked. "You got pictures of these, yeah? You'll put them in the report?"
Owens nodded. "Of course."
"Any other injuries?" Steve asked.
Owens pulled the flap of skin down from her chin to reveal bruising around her neck. "Looks like she was strangled. Still need to dissect the neck to see if the hyoid was broken." He pointed back to her wrists. "Signs of restraints on the wrists." Steve could just make out red welts beneath the blood streaking her wrists.
"Rape?" He had to ask.
Owens shrugged. "No signs of forced penetration, but there was semen in her vagina. Collected that for DNA analysis as well." He nodded to a container on the counter.
"You got what you need for toxicology?" Hopper asked.
"Yeah, I got it. Gonna take us about three weeks to a month, though."
Hopper growled. Owens shrugged. "Nothing I can do about it. We don't have the staff to get it done any faster."
"I'll see if I can pull any strings at the FBI. Run it through their lab instead," Steve volunteered. He hated cashing in on his dad's position in the hierarchy, but if it meant they got answers faster, he'd do it.
Hopper nodded. "Thanks, kid."
They left Owens to finish the autopsy, with promises from him that he'd send along the preliminary report and pictures as soon as it was complete.
They exited the hospital to the gray, lingering dusk of a February evening. "Is there a hotel in town?" Steve asked. He'd left in a hurry, and hadn't had time to set anything up.
"Couple of seedy motels, but you gotta go to the city to get a proper hotel. We got a nice bed and breakfast across the street from the station, though. Already asked Claudia if you could stay there while you're working the case."
"Thanks." It would be nice to not have to commute every day while he was working this.
"So," Hopper said as he started the car. "Got any preliminary thoughts?"
Steve paused for a moment to sort things out in his mind. He wasn't actually slow, not in the way that the people who'd thrown the word at him over the years had implied. He just liked to have all of his thoughts in order before he spoke. Often, that meant the conversation had already moved on long before his response was ready. Hopper, thankfully, didn't seem the rushing type. He gave Steve a moment to think.
"It does seem like this case might be connected to the other disappearances. I think there was a lot more going on with Chrissy than anyone realized, and we'll need to figure out exactly what that was to get anywhere. I'd like to talk to the parents, and the boyfriend. See if we can figure out if there really was another man, like Nancy thought."
Hopper nodded along. "Sure." He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "You might be able to get more out of them than I could. Hard to tell somebody you've known your whole life about your dark secrets." He sighed. "This is all sending me into a real tailspin. The idea of that sweet girl wrapped up in all of this. Don't even know how that could happen." His face crumpled. He was taking this hard.
Steve hummed sympathetically. "Seems like something went pretty wrong for her real recently."
"Shit like this isn't supposed to happen in Hawkins," Hopper grumbled, pounding on the steering wheel. He took a deep breath and shook his head. "Enough of that," he said as they pulled into the Sheriff's Department. He pointed across the street at a stunning Victorian house. The sign out front had a large orange cat painted on it, and the words Mews Manor Bed and Breakfast. "That's Claudia's place. She'll be expecting you."
Steve collected his suitcase from his car and walked across the street. He let himself in the front door of the bed and breakfast, and was greeted by the scent of fresh-baked cookies. A middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and a kind face came hurrying in from another room at the sound of the bell over the door.
"Oh, hello!" she cooed. "You must be the FBI man. Come in, come in. It's cold out there!" She ushered him into a parlor and took his bag, setting it on the floor. "I'm Claudia, I run this bed and breakfast. We're so happy to have you stay with us!" She took his coat, then pushed him to sit on a sofa in front of a roaring fireplace. A ginger cat sat beside him, letting out a plaintive meow at his intrusion.
"What's your name, darling?" Claudia asked, as Steve sat dumbfounded in the face of her kindness.
"Steve Harrington, ma'am."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Harrington. Or do I call you Agent Harrington?" She put a hand over her mouth as her brow crinkled in confusion. "Oh dear."
"Please, just call me Steve," he insisted.
She smiled. It lit up her whole face and crinkled the skin beside her eyes. "Have you had dinner yet?" she asked. "I can have Dusty Buns show you to your room, then get you some dinner." She threw her head back and yelled, "DUSTY!" at an exceptional volume.
A loud crash sounded from the upper floor, and all the lights flickered off for a moment. Hurried footsteps approached as the lights turned back on. A curly-haired boy teetering on the precipice of pubescence burst into the room. "Mom, I told you not to yell at me while I'm working. You made me drop my Tesla coil."
Claudia put her hands on her hips. "How else am I supposed to get you to help around here? You never listen for the bell, no matter how many times I ask."
The boy heaved a long-suffering sigh. "What do you need this time?"
"Dustin, this is Steve," Claudia said, nodding over to the couch. The boy turned to face him, his eyes flicking over Steve with a bored gaze. "Please show him to the Blue Room, and help him with his bag."
"Looks like he can handle his bag fine on his own," Dustin muttered. Claudia glared at him. "Alright! Fine!" He threw up his hands and grabbed Steve's bag from the floor. "Follow me."
Steve followed Dustin back to the foyer. The decor was best described as eclectic. Some of the paintings and furniture matched the house, decidedly Victorian in nature. But mixed in among these was the occasional oddity - a poster exhibiting the properties of the cryptids of Indiana, framed photographs of Dustin and Claudia in a series of matching outfits, a kitschy vase with a large photo of Donald Duck, a neon pink beanbag chair tucked away in a corner. Everything was covered in a thin layer of orange cat hair. Steve felt a tickle building in his nose.
Dustin led Steve up an ornate oak staircase. He banged Steve's suitcase against the wall multiple times, with no care for either the wall or the case. Steve winced as a particularly hard bang left a small dent in the wall.
"I can carry that, you know," Steve offered.
Dustin shot him a withering glare. "And leave me to draw the considerable ire of my dear mother? No thanks."
Dustin walked down the hallway to the right, past a life size Scooby-Doo plushie standing next to a beautiful antique writing desk. A woman poked her head out of one of the rooms as they passed. She looked to be in her thirties. Her large glasses obscured most of her face, and gave her eyes a bug-like quality. She stared at Steve with a fierce scowl for a few moments, then huffed and slammed the door shut.
"That's Marissa," Dustin whispered. "She's the librarian. Her house burnt down a few months ago when one of her candles fell on a stack of books during a seance, so she's been staying here."
"Did I… offend her?" Steve asked.
Dustin shrugged. "She doesn't like men much."
Dustin walked into a room that lived up to its name. Everything in the room was blue, assaulting Steve's photoreceptors with hundreds of clashing hues. The walls and ceiling were blue, the furniture was blue, the linens were blue. Even the paintings and photos on the wall were blue.
"Wow," Steve breathed.
Dustin dropped his suitcase on the floor with a crash. "Yeah. My mom commits." He left Steve alone with a burgeoning hue-related headache.
It was dark as pitch. Steve heard a shrill whining noise. It sounded industrial, with a frequency that hurt his ears and made his head feel stuffed full of bees. Why was it so dark?
The darkness faded to a soft light, but he still couldn't see.
He opened his eyes. Ah. Why had they been closed?
He stared at his feet, clad in black dress shoes. They stood out against the floor, which was composed of alternating black and white zigzag lines that made his head hurt. The lines seemed to move as he stared, like an optical illusion.
His eyes were drawn up to the wall, or what he assumed was a wall, covered in thick drapes of red velvet. A red so bright and vibrant it was a shock to his eyes.
Something moved at the edge of his vision. He turned. The whining noise stopped abruptly as he locked eyes with a young woman. She had strawberry blonde hair and was wearing a cheerleader's uniform. Chrissy. An overwhelming sense of unease crept over his body and through his mind. The oppressive silence hurt almost as much as the noise it had replaced.
Chrissy opened her mouth. The high-pitched whine resumed. Steve clapped his hands over his ears with a scream. She shut her mouth, and the sound was replaced once more with absolute silence. A silence so complete Steve couldn't even hear his own breath.
"Chrissy?" Steve tried to say. But if any sound came out, he couldn't hear it.
Chrissy smiled, her lips curling up slowly, with a wicked glint in her eyes. His vision stuttered, and Chrissy was briefly replaced with an achingly familiar brunette girl of around the same age. A girl he hadn't seen in 6 years. Heather. In and out they shifted - Chrissy-Heather-Chrissy-Heather, before finally settling back into Chrissy. This time when she opened her mouth a roiling black cloud emerged with the whining noise, knocking Steve backward.
He sat up with a start, opening his eyes to blue, blue, blue. He was back in his bed in the Blue Room. He could hear his panting breaths and the frantic beating of his heart. He was covered in a cold sweat.
A dream. It had all been a dream. He slumped back onto his pillow with a sigh of relief. It took him nearly an hour to calm himself down enough to get back to sleep.
Chapter 2: Imbibition
Summary:
Steve meets his fellow guests at the bed and breakfast. He and Hopper interview the Cunninghams and Jason Carver. Following information from Jason, they find their way to Eddie Munson.
Notes:
I've hit a decent groove with writing for this, so I'm hoping to post a new chapter every other week if that keeps up!
Just in case anyone had expectations, this will NOT be a realistic fic. While I do have a very firm understanding of forensic pathology, there's unfortunately only going to be that one autopsy scene, and I truly have no idea how the police or the FBI work after an autopsy. The only shows I've even watched that get remotely close to a police procedural are Twin Peaks and Hannibal. I'm not going to do much, if any, research into it. I'm just going on vibes and storytelling here. Putting the SUR in surrealism. If you have more than a passing knowledge of the FBI and get annoyed with inaccuracies, probably pass on this one.
Chapter Specific Content Warnings:
- Homophobia, including reference to past physical violence perpetrated against a gay man for being gay
- Use of the f-slur for a gay man
- Reference to past emotional abuse by a parent with slut-shaming
Chapter Text
Steve woke up exhausted. He hadn't slept well after the dream, passing in and out of consciousness with unrestful rapidity. The dream lingered like the bitter taste of a pill swallowed dry, the unease following him into waking.
As soon as he was dressed for the day, he reached for his tape recorder. He'd been too exhausted to dictate his notes for Robin the previous evening. "Robin. 7:30am on February 25th. Got a feel for the town of Hawkins yesterday. On the small side, but with enough people that there are definitely secrets." He recounted what he'd learned the day before. "I'll send a copy of the autopsy report with this tape."
"I had a dream last night," he continued. "Chrissy, the girl who was murdered, was in a red room with me. I felt… bad. Like something terrible was about to happen. She was trying to tell me something. She turned into Heather." He paused. "I thought I'd gotten past that," he said with a sigh. "But there's so many similarities."
His monologue was interrupted by a knock, which managed to convey good cheer through the wood of the door. Steve opened it to a smiling Claudia.
"Steve!" she cooed. "I hope you slept well. Was the bed alright?"
"The bed was great, Claudia." The bed hadn't been his problem last night.
"Oh, good! Why don't you come down for breakfast? I just finished cooking."
Steve grabbed his briefcase and followed Claudia downstairs. She led him to a dining room, where several other people sat around a large table. The table was laden with a staggering amount of food - plates heaped high with scrambled eggs, pancakes, waffles, sausage, bacon, toast. A basket of delicious-looking blueberry muffins. A huge carafe of coffee.
Steve reached for the coffee and filled his mug before he sat down. He raised it to his face. It smelled perfect, worlds better than the burnt coffee of the morning before. He took a sip, rolling it around in his mouth as the taste bloomed on his tongue. Rich, complex, perfectly brewed.
"You know," he said, turning to Claudia where she was hovering in the doorway, "this is a damn fine cup of coffee."
Her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Thank you, dear. What a sweetheart you are. Oh, it looks like we need more orange juice!" She hurried out of the room.
With the coffee on board stimulating his brain into full wakefulness, Steve took note of his fellow breakfasters. The woman from the night before, the librarian with the large glasses and possibly permanent scowl, sat across from him. Scowling. Past a few empty seats to the right sat a young couple, both good-looking and with shockingly blond hair, conversing in another language. Scandinavian, Steve thought.
To his left sat a middle-aged man with dark, curly hair, a balding pate, a full beard, and glasses. He smiled at Steve. It made Steve uncomfortable. It wasn't a nice smile.
"Hi. I'm Steve." He directed his comment at the man and woman nearest him. The couple at the far end of the table were deep in their own conversation.
"Murray Bauman," the man to his left said. "You a pig? You look like a pig." His smile remained plastered on his face, growing meaner by the second.
"No, I'm not a cop," Steve replied.
"He's FBI," the woman across from him drawled. "Dustin told me."
Murray's smile widened, nearly cracking his face. "What you looking for in Hawkins, G-man?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss the case," Steve said, the words coming to him as easily as his childhood home phone number.
Murray threw back his head and guffawed. "That's alright, I already know."
"Do you?" Steve asked.
Murray leaned toward him and whispered conspiratorially, "Aliens." His breath stank of alcohol and reflux. "That's why I'm here, too."
Steve suppressed a sigh.
"Marissa knows all about them, too, don'tcha babe?" Murray nodded at the woman across the table.
"Call me babe one more time, and I'll hex your dick," Marissa spat.
Murray laughed again. Steve was pretty sure he was drunk. At 7:30 in the morning. "The aliens are here doing work for the Russians. Never should've let them get so far ahead of us in the spacerace. They made first contact, and now they're reaping the benefits."
"I'm not here investigating aliens," Steve insisted. He loaded up his plate with food. His conversational companions made him want to skip breakfast altogether, but his stomach wasn't on board with that plan.
"You're here for Chrissy," Marissa said. She didn't wait for a response from Steve. "I've been speaking with her, you know. Through the veil."
"That was the aliens, too," Murray interjected. "Killing off our best and brightest."
"Aliens are just your pathetic scapegoat for the crimes of dirty old men," Marissa insisted. "Take some responsibility for the actions of your peers."
The conversation at the far end of the table increased in volume. The couple was fighting now. They began to yell at each other in their lilting, sing-song language. The woman screamed something at the man, then fled the room in tears.
"Must be that time of the month, huh?" Murray said to the man. He stared back at Murray in confusion, then followed the woman out of the room.
Marissa let out a disgusted sigh. "You're a pig, Murray," she said.
"No, he's a pig," Murray said, nodding toward Steve with a mean laugh.
Steve had shoveled enough food into his stomach by this point that he could leave. He gulped down the rest of his absolutely divine coffee, sad he wouldn't be able to enjoy a second cup, but unwilling to remain with Marissa and Murray for another second.
"Leaving us so soon?" Murray crooned with a fake pout.
"Gotta get to work," Steve replied with a tight smile. He grabbed his briefcase and coat and hurried out of the house.
Steve crossed the street, cutting through the little park in the town square. The weather hadn't improved. The world was cast in a depressing gray, and sleet continued to assault him from above. He flipped the collar of his jacket up against the cold, wet wind.
He didn't notice the old woman huddled at the bus stop until he was almost upon her. She looked up. She was a fat woman with short, white hair and large glasses. She smiled at him as a rat popped its head out of her jacket. Steve couldn't remember the name Hopper had told him yesterday.
"Hi, ma'am," Steve said. "You have long to wait for the bus? It's cold out here." Maybe he should offer to give her a ride, but he didn't really want a trio of rats in his rental car.
She shook her head. "No. Not long."
"That's good." A hard gust of wind blew sleet into his eyes. When he blinked them back open, the woman's face had changed. Her pleasant expression was replaced by wide-eyed horror. A rat was twitching its whiskers near her ear, and she seemed to be listening.
"Are you alright?" Steve asked.
She whispered something, but Steve couldn't make out the words.
"What was that? Can I help you with something, ma'am?"
"The harrowers!" she yelled, spittle flying from her mouth to join the sleet pelting his face. "They'll come for you, too."
Steve glanced over his shoulder at the sheriff's department, wondering if he should go get Hopper. This woman was clearly unwell. Before he could make a decision, a bus pulled up to the stop.
The woman's face was dim and pleasant again when Steve looked back at her. She stood, walking toward the bus. She patted him on the arm absentmindedly before she boarded. The door shut with a sense of finality, and the bus pulled away to leave Steve standing alone on the side of the road. He jammed his hands in his coat pockets and shook his head, shaking some of the sleet from his hair.
Carol was at the front desk again. She didn't even grace him with a glance as she idly flipped through a magazine. He looked at the sad coffee pot in the corner and thought longingly of Claudia's coffee.
Steve walked over to Hopper's office and knocked on the door frame. The man was hunched over his desk staring at a pile of photographs.
"Harrington!" he greeted when he looked up to see Steve. "Have an okay night at Claudia's?"
Steve nodded. "I did. Though the other residents are a bit… odd."
Hopper snorted. "Marissa and Murray Bauman there right now, yeah?"
Steve nodded.
"Both nuts in their own way. Marissa used to be alright. We even went on a few dates a while back. But she went off the deep end after her cat died a few years ago, got super into seances and palm reading and the like."
Steve nodded. "Dustin told me about her house."
"Yeah. Never leave open flames next to your ancient, dry occult books." He chuckled to himself. "Murray doesn't even live in Hawkins, lives down in Indy. But he's convinced we got aliens here so he comes for a few weeks every time he notices 'unusual activity' on whatever the fuck frequencies he monitors."
"You think he could have anything to do with Chrissy?" He'd been a thoroughly unpleasant man who'd come to town just before Chrissy was murdered.
Hopper shook his head. "Nah. Murray's harmless. All bark, no bite."
Steve filed Murray away for further investigation. Nobody was harmless.
"You still want to talk to the parents today?" Hopper asked.
"Yeah. Probably best to go to them rather than bring them into the station. Don't want to get their hackles up."
Hopper nodded. "They'll be at the church. They volunteer there every Saturday morning, making care packages for the homeless shelter in the city."
"Alright if we go there?" Steve asked. He wasn't sure what Hopper's relationship was with the church.
"Sure. The pastor's son was Chrissy's boyfriend, so I'm guessing they all wanna do whatever they can to figure this out."
The church was about five miles outside of town. The drive took them past huge swathes of barren farmland, devoid of color and life this far from spring. The emptiness stoked a melancholy ache in Steve's chest. There was something simultaneously sad and beautiful about farmland in winter. All that space, as far as the eye could see, going unused.
"This the only church in town?" Steve asked as they pulled up to the large white building. Steve had been raised Catholic, which meant Protestant churches were aesthetically underwhelming to him. The newer ones just looked like big, regular buildings most of the time, like this one. The only indication that it even was a church was a large cross on the front of the white building, and the sign - South Country Baptist Church.
Hopper nodded. "Yeah. There's a Catholic church next town over that a lot of folks go to, but this is the only one in town limits."
The parking lot was more full of cars than Steve would have expected on a Saturday. "They have services on Saturdays?"
"Nah, these folks are all just here for the volunteer work. Pastor Carver really emphasizes acts of service. He's done a lot for our community."
As they walked in, Steve spotted something scratched into the wood of the doorframe. He stopped and peered at it, squinting to make out the small lines. It looked familiar, but he wasn't sure where he'd seen it. Hopper looked back at him with an expectant expression, and Steve hurried to follow.
They came into a large foyer when they entered the church. Folding tables were set up throughout the room, covered in all manner of items - toiletries, clothes, books, snacks, canned goods. About 30 people worked around the tables, putting items into large boxes while consulting clipboards.
A blond man in a stylish gray suit looked up as they walked in. He was tall and muscular, in fantastic shape for a middle-aged man. His blond hair could rival even Steve's for shape and volume, and one of Steve's nicknames in high school had been "The Hair". The man smiled at them with a full complement of brilliant white teeth.
"Sheriff Hopper!" the man called, walking over to them. "And who's this?" he asked, his gaze shifting over to Steve.
"Special Agent Steve Harrington," Hopper replied. "From the FBI. Harrington, this is Pastor Carver."
The pastor held out a hand for Steve to shake. It was the perfect handshake, firm enough to convey power, but not so firm as to be taken for aggression.
"Well I sure am grateful we've got the FBI on our side for this one," he said. "Not that I don't have every faith in you, Hopper."
Hopper smiled. "I'm just as grateful as you are, Pastor." He scanned the room, frowning. "We're looking for the Cunninghams. Wanted to give the Special Agent here a chance to talk with them, get him fully up to speed on the case. Thought they'd be here."
"Of course," the pastor said with a nod. "They are. But Phillip was having some… difficulties, so I let them have a moment in my office."
He led them further into the church, down a hallway with walls covered in pictures of smiling churchgoers engaged in volunteer work. They heard the sobbing before Steve even saw the office door.
The pastor led them into the office, where a man was slumped in an ornate chair behind a large desk, sobbing into his hands. It took Steve a moment to notice the small woman sitting silently in a chair in the corner, her face blank.
"Phillip, Clarissa. The sheriff wants to talk with you a bit more about Chrissy," the pastor said, pitching his voice to be heard above Phillip's wails. "Phillip. You think you can calm down enough to talk?" The question could be interpreted as a kindly check-in, but the pastor's tone suggested more of a thinly veiled rebuke.
Phillip's head snapped up from his hands and he fell silent. His eyes were red-rimmed and his face blotchy. "Yes, of course, Pastor."
The pastor nodded to Steve and Hopper as he left the room and shut the door. They took the two remaining chairs in the room, sitting beside Clarissa and across the large desk from Phillip. Clarissa stared at the wall in front of her, not even turning to glance at them, but Phillip tracked their movements closely.
Hopper nodded to Steve. "This is Special Agent Steve Harrington, with the FBI. He'll be helping out with the case, and I wanted to give him a chance to talk to the two of you. Is it alright if he asks you a few questions? They might be the same as what I asked you, but not because I don't believe you. Just to give him a chance to get the lay of the land."
Phillip nodded weakly.
"Clarissa?" Hopper prompted. She startled at the sound of her name and looked over at them. She looked surprised, like she hadn't noticed any of what happened in the past two minutes. "Can we ask you some questions?"
"Sure," she whispered, then went back to staring at the wall.
"Alright. Go ahead, Special Agent Harrington." Hopper gave him a nod.
Steve leaned forward in his chair. He was in an awkward position, only able to look at one of the people he was questioning at a time. He started with Phillip, the more talkative of the two.
"We spoke with Nancy and Jonathan, the friends Chrissy was studying with the night she died. They said she left them around 10pm, and they don't know where she went. Did she come home after she left them at 10?"
Phillip shook his head. "No."
"Do you have any idea where she did go?"
"No, no idea," Phillip insisted.
"Was that unusual for her? To be out so late on a school night without you knowing where she was?"
Phillip bristled. "I thought I did know where she was!"
"You were both home together all night?" Steve asked. Phillip gave a curt nod. "So you must have noticed that she didn't come home," Steve pressed. "Where did you think she was?"
"I thought she was spending the night at Nancy's," Phillip said with a glare.
"Did she do that often? Change her plans without telling you to spend the night with her friends?"
"Are you implying my daughter was a liar?" Phillip asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Steve winced internally. He'd gotten excited and pressed too hard too soon. He should have established more of a rapport first. A rookie mistake.
"No, sir, not at all," Steve hastened to say. "I'm just trying to understand if anything about that night seemed unusual to you."
Phillip's glare softened minutely, but not as much as Steve would have liked.
Steve needed to shift tactics. "How about you tell me a little bit about her, before we get to that night?" he asked. "I'd like to get an idea of her personality, her likes and dislikes, what she did with her free time."
Phillip relaxed, the aggression bleeding out of his posture. He nodded. "My Chrissy was an angel," he said with a sigh. "Been an angel since she was a baby. Always the sweetest little thing, just wanted everyone around her to be happy. And so smart. You know she got accepted to Harvard? She wasn't gonna go, of course, she was planning to start a family with Jason while he was at Bible college, but that just shows you how smart she was."
Steve wondered why she had applied to Harvard if she knew she wasn't going to go to college. Maybe her interests didn't align with her parents' as much as they thought.
"She was a cheerleader?" Steve prompted.
"Yes, and so good at it. The captain of the squad in her senior year. She'd take the new girls under her wings, show them the ropes. She used to have the real shy ones over for one-on-one sleepovers to get them to open up a little." His eyes glazed over with wistfulness.
"She sounds like a really nice girl," Steve said. "How long had she been dating Jason?"
"Since freshman year. The two of them were perfect for each other. Both good, Christian kids. And so beautiful." His face crumpled and he descended into sobs again. His wife huffed from the corner. Steve glanced at her. She had a mean little smile on her face for a few seconds before it dropped back into a slack stare.
Steve gave Phillip a moment to collect himself. When Phillip looked back up, Steve had to remind himself of what he'd learned at the Academy - to acknowledge the loss before plunging right back into questioning. "This must be so hard, Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham. I'm very sorry for your loss. We're going to do everything we can to figure out what happened."
Phillip nodded and sniffled. Clarissa was silent.
"Had anything changed in the weeks and months leading up to Chrissy's passing?" Steve continued. "Was she doing anything differently, acting any differently?"
Phillip shook his head. "No! She was still Chrissy, my perfect girl."
Clarissa snorted. Steve turned in his chair to make eye contact with her. He waited. Sometimes silence was better than a question.
"She was different," Clarissa whispered.
"Clarissa, stop that!" Phillip admonished. "We've talked about this, she was fine!"
Clarissa ignored him. "She changed. Dressed differently, stayed out later. Stopped having her little sleepovers with the freshman girls. Started to talk back to me. The last few weeks before she died, she wouldn't even come to Church with us on Sunday."
Steve glanced back over at Phillip to see what he had to say about this.
"She was just going through a little rut, feeling a bit under the weather," Phillip insisted. "There's nothing sinister about that. She was a great kid, but still a teenager." This contradicted the picture he'd painted of perfection for Chrissy, but Steve didn't want to push too hard again.
"I caught her leaving the house last week in a skirt that hit her mid-thigh," Clarissa said. "Told her she was a slut. A hussy. She just stared at me with blank devil eyes, and left."
Steve looked back over at Clarissa. "Where was she going?" he asked.
"I don't know," Clarissa mumbled. "She wouldn't tell me."
Phillip tutted. "She was just going to meet Jason. She was a teenager. They always experiment a little."
Clarissa shook her head. "Jason wouldn't go in for anything like that. He's a good boy, always proper. He would've made her turn right back around and come home if she showed up dressed like that."
Steve definitely needed to talk to Jason. That didn't sound like any 18 year old boy he'd experienced in his life.
Phillip rolled his eyes. "Clarissa would get these ideas sometimes," he explained to Steve, like Clarissa wasn't right there next to them. "Thought there was something wrong with Chrissy, that she was tainted somehow. Had to send her for a stay at Oakbrook a few times when Chrissy was first becoming a woman, to make sure she didn't get violent with the poor girl."
Clarissa stared at the wall ahead of her like she hadn't heard what her husband said about her.
Had Chrissy been abused by her mother? Had she become involved in something dangerous as part of an attempt to get away from overbearing and abusive parents? Hopefully Hopper had some ideas. Steve was surprised he hadn't already mentioned this.
"Did you notice any changes in Chrissy's behavior?" Steve asked Phillip.
"No, none." Phillip stuck to his guns on that one. Steve wouldn't have known who to believe if they hadn't spoken to Nancy and Jonathan yesterday. Something clearly had been going on with Chrissy. Phillip was either lying, in denial, or extremely unobservant. Any of the three would dovetail with what Steve had learned of Phillip thus far.
"Alright," Steve said. He wasn't going to get anything further with Phillip by pushing him. "To sum up - all you know of the night she died is that Chrissy went to Nancy Wheeler's house to study, and you didn't hear anything else from her. You thought she spent the night there, and have no idea where else she would have gone."
"Correct," Phillip said. Hopper shifted slightly beside Steve. It caught his attention, as Hopper wasn't much of a fidgeter. He'd been perfectly still throughout the rest of the questioning.
"Do you have anything else you'd like to say, Mrs. Cunningham?" Steve ached to get her alone for questioning, where her husband wouldn't be able to bully her out of the conversation.
"No," she whispered without looking at Steve.
Steve turned back to Phillip. "Would you be willing to let us search her room?" he asked. "To see if we can find anything that might help us?"
"Already did," Hopper said beside him. Steve had momentarily forgotten the investigation had been going for nearly 24 hours before he arrived. "Nothing there. But you could go over it again if you want."
"We're an open book," Phillip said, spreading his hands wide. "Please, search her room again if you think it would help."
"Thank you," Steve said. "I appreciate your willingness to talk with me." He shook Phillip's hand. It was limp and sweaty, the polar opposite of the pastor's handshake from before. He would have shaken Clarissa's hand as well, but she resolutely continued to stare at the wall, ignoring him.
He and Hopper left the parents in the office. They stopped far enough down the hallway that they wouldn't be overheard.
"He's lying," Hopper whispered.
Steve raised his eyebrows.
"He knew something was wrong when I got there that morning to tell them," Hopper continued. "I didn't even have to tell him Chrissy was dead, he just crumpled to the ground sobbing when he opened the door to see me. It was clear he'd been up all night. None of that would've happened if he thought she was spending the night at the Wheelers'."
"You think he's lying to protect her somehow? Or do you think he's involved?"
"I'd say to protect himself. He's real obsessed with his image in the town. If she was up to something she shouldn't have been, he wouldn't have wanted anyone to know. Still wouldn't want anyone to know."
"Even if it helped us catch her murderer?"
Hopper shrugged. "I don't get it, either. These rich folks, though. They got a real different outlook on life."
Steve didn't volunteer the information that he'd grown up one of "these rich folks". But Hopper had a point. He'd known people like the Cunninghams, who thought saving face in the community was more important than anything else.
"What about the mother?" Steve asked. "What was all that about her needing to be sent away to protect Chrissy?"
"Clarissa's always been a bit nervy. But I didn't know she'd been to Oakbrook." Hopper worried at his lower lip, lost in thought.
"Oakbrook?" Steve prompted.
"It's a fancy psych hospital they call a 'retreat' to make it seem like it's not an asylum. I remember Clarissa went away occasionally for months at a time when Chrissy was a young teenager, but Phillip told everyone she was staying with her ailing parents in New York. Now I'm wondering how many of those months were actually spent at Oakbrook."
"You think she could've done it?" Steve asked. "Seems like she wasn't very happy with Chrissy lately."
"I don't think so," Hopper said, shaking his head. "But she might've known something, about whatever was going on with Chrissy."
"We may wanna see if we can get a warrant to talk to her psychiatrist at Oakbrook. Get an idea of just how violent her tendencies were."
Hopper nodded. "I can work on that."
They walked back out into the foyer of the church. The pastor stood to the side of one table in a heated conversation with a teenage boy. Steve could instantly tell the boy was his son. He had the same flawless blond hair and muscular build. The same angular cheekbones and strong nose, the same pointed chin. He was wearing a green and white letterman jacket.
"The boyfriend?" Steve asked Hopper, nodding toward the two.
"Yep. You wanna talk to him, too?"
"Might as well, since he's here."
They approached the men. Steve overheard a few whispered words from the pastor - "you need to stop this nonsense" - before he noticed Steve and Hopper and hastily cut himself off.
His angry grimace shifted to a welcoming smile with unsettling rapidity. "Did you get what you needed from the Cunninghams?" he asked.
Steve nodded.
"Good, good. Let me know if there's anything else I can do to help. Anything at all."
"Actually," Steve began with a smile, "I wondered if we could speak with your son." He nodded at Jason. "I understand you were Chrissy's boyfriend?"
The boy gave him a sullen nod. He didn't share his father's ability to school his features, or, if he did, he didn't care to use it. His mouth was turned down in a pronounced frown, with his forehead wrinkled in consternation.
"Yeah. What, you think I did it because I'm the boyfriend?"
His father laughed as he clapped Jason on the shoulder. A little too hard. Jason stumbled. "Jason. That sort of sarcasm is unbecoming, and an affront to our Lord. We need to help in any way we can with the investigation."
Jason rolled his eyes. The pastor's mouth narrowed to a thin line for a moment before it filled back out into a smile.
"Go with them," his father commanded with a voice like iron. "Take them into the Bible study room and tell them whatever they need to know."
Jason responded to the firm tone. He walked down a hallway, not turning back to check that Steve and Hopper followed.
The pastor shrugged. "He's taking her death hard. He's usually much more pleasant than this. But he'll cooperate."
Steve and Hopper followed Jason down the hallway into a large room. The walls were covered with motivational religious posters showing all manner of soothing nature scenes. Steve stared at a poster with the words, "The will of God will never take you to where the grace of God will not protect you", and wondered if Chrissy would agree.
Jason slumped into a plastic chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "I didn't kill her," he said as Hopper and Steve took chairs in front of him.
"We don't think you did, kid," Hopper said. Steve thought he might have, but he wasn't going to say that now. "Just wanna get a better idea of what's been going on in her life."
"Eddie Munson killed her," Jason announced.
Hopper raised his eyebrows. "I assume if you had any actual proof of that, you'd've come forward sooner."
Jason scoffed. "I don't need proof. It's obvious."
"Why do you think Munson killed her?" Hopper asked.
"He's been turning her against me, against God, for months."
"We're gonna need you to start at the beginning, Jason. Does Chrissy even know Munson? They don't exactly travel in the same social circles."
"Yes," Jason said. "She knows him."
"How does she know him?" Hopper prompted when Jason stopped there.
"I don't know how it started." Jason frowned and looked away from them. "But I saw her with him for the first time a few months ago. I was doing a trail run with the team, and she was sitting with him in the woods near the trailer park." He looked back up with a stormy expression. "Do you have any idea how that looked for me? My girlfriend, sitting there with Munson the Freak, smiling and laughing like she was enjoying herself." He balled up his fists. "His hand was on her thigh."
"Did you talk to her about it?" Steve asked.
"Yeah, of course I talked to her about it. Told her she shouldn't be hanging out with him, especially not alone in the woods like that. But she said he was nice. That she felt safe with him."
"So it wasn't just a one-time thing?"
Jason shook his head. "No. Sometimes I wouldn't be able to find her anywhere, then I'd go back into those woods and find her there with him."
"And that upset you?" Steve asked.
"Yes, it upset me!" Jason yelled. "People started to talk, started to say Chrissy was cheating on me with that freak."
"And was she? Cheating on you?"
Jason glared daggers at Steve. "No. She would never do that. She wore a promise ring, and she was serious about it."
"So what was she doing with him? Drugs?"
Jason reared back like Steve had slapped him. "No. She was a good girl. I think it was like a charity thing. She was trying to save his soul. But she couldn't do it. No one could save Eddie Munson's soul. He's a satanist, you know. Runs a cult, tries to recruit teenagers into it."
Steve raised his eyebrows and glanced over at Hopper.
"You talkin' about the Dungeons and Dragons club?" Hopper asked.
Jason nodded. "They tell you it's a game, but it's all about summoning demons. And he needs the innocent young kids to lure the demons out from Hell."
The Satanic Panic was alive and well in Hawkins, Indiana.
"Okay. Is that why you think he killed her? For the demons?" Steve asked, trying to figure out if Jason actually knew something or if he just had a grudge.
"I don't know exactly why he did it, but I'm sure she was with him that night."
"Did you see her with him?" Hopper asked. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"I didn't exactly see her with him that night," Jason admitted. "But a few nights before, when I was coming home from a late practice, he drove past on his motorcycle and she was with him. On a motorcycle." He spat the word out like it was something filthy.
"So you've got nothing concrete on Munson?" Hopper clarified.
Jason sighed. "I knew you wouldn't take this seriously. You've always been soft for Munson, 'cause you're friends with Wayne. That's what my dad says."
"Does he?" Hopper asked.
Jason nodded. "Yeah. Says Eddie Munson's a blight on our community, and you're just letting him continue."
It was Hopper's turn to sigh now. "I can't do anything about your suspicions without any evidence, Jason."
Jason shifted in his chair and muttered something that sounded like "useless".
"Was there anything else you noticed about Chrissy in the months leading up to her death?" Steve asked, trying to get them back on track. "Any other new people in her life, new places she liked to go?"
"Just Munson," Jason spat. Steve didn't think they'd get anything else out of him.
"Did you fight with her often about Munson?"
Jason's gaze sharpened. "You're trying to get me to admit we had a big fight that night or something, but I didn't kill her. I was at practice until 10:30. I went straight home, my mom made me dinner, and then I went to sleep and didn't leave the house again until the next morning. My parents will tell you."
Steve fully believed Jason's parents would lie for him, but there was no use further antagonizing the kid. They hadn't been given any reason to doubt his alibi.
"Alright. Thanks for talking with us, Jason," Steve said. "If anything else comes to mind that you think might help, let us know."
"So you're not gonna arrest me?"
Steve raised his eyebrows. "No. Should we?"
Jason stood. "No," he snapped. "But I'm telling you, it was Munson. And it's only a matter of time until he kills again."
Jason left the room, slamming the door behind him. Steve turned to Hopper. "You talked to Munson yet?"
Hopper shook his head. "I had no idea he'd been hanging out with Chrissy."
"Probably a good next stop, yeah?"
Hopper's stomach growled. "After lunch. Let's go to Joyce's, then I'll take you to Munson's trailer."
Joyce's was a small diner on the outskirts of town. Steve loved how local diners like this were all similar enough that you felt comfortable and at home, but each still had its own personality. This diner was decorated entirely with amateur drawings of fantastical scenes, many of them clearly done by a child.
"All the art's done by Joyce's youngest, Will," Hopper explained as Steve looked around. "Gotten pretty good over the years." Steve spotted a few of what must be the newer paintings, impressed by the quality.
They sat at a booth near the window, watched over by a detailed painting of a fire-breathing dragon. Most of the tables were occupied, and Steve was surrounded by the clink of cutlery on plates and the gentle whir of conversation.
A short woman in a teal uniform approached their table. "Hey, Hopper, how you doin' today?" she asked with a bright smile. Her name tag identified her as Joyce.
"Been better," Hopper replied with a grunt.
She poured coffee into both of their cups. "You the FBI man?" Joyce asked Steve.
Steve nodded. News traveled fast, apparently.
"We're glad to get some help here. Real shame about the Cunningham girl." She shook her head and frowned. "I really feel for her parents. My son went missing for a week a few years ago. Worst week of my life."
"That the son who did these?" Steve asked, gesturing at the art.
Her face brightened again. "Sure is. Will's my youngest. Think you met my oldest yesterday. Jonathan. Hope he behaved."
Steve could see the resemblance, now that he knew. "He was a perfect gentleman," Steve assured her. He wasn't sure what it was about this woman, but he wanted her to be happy. She gave Steve a grateful smile, and hurried away to take care of another customer.
A man approached their table as they were finishing up. He had the stooped posture of someone who worked too many shifts doing manual labor.
"How's it goin', Hop?" he asked, twisting his cap in his hands.
"Howdy, Wayne. 'Bout as good as you could expect." He nodded at Steve. "This is Harrington, FBI agent helping out with the Chrissy case."
The man held out a hand. "Wayne Munson," he said. Eddie's father? Steve wasn't sure how common the name was. "Real glad we're getting help on this one."
"Wayne's the one who found Chrissy, in the woods out by the trailer park," Hopper explained.
Steve nodded. The trailer park where Eddie also lived? Eddie, the drug dealer who'd been hanging out with a high school girl. Steve hated to admit it, but Jason might be onto something.
"We're heading out to the trailer park after this, gonna take a look at the site," Hopper said to Wayne. "You know if Eddie's at home today?"
Wayne narrowed his eyes. "He ain't mixed up in all of this, is he? I've told that boy so many times to stay outta trouble."
Hopper shrugged. "We just got a few questions for him."
Wayne shifted uneasily. "Not sure if he's home. Didn't see him smokin' outside his trailer at all yet today, but he never wakes up til afternoon anyway."
Wayne didn't sound like he approved of Eddie's lifestyle choices.
"Alright. We'll see if we can catch him at home, then."
Wayne left with a frown and a furrowed brow.
"Father?" Steve asked.
Hopper shook his head. "Uncle. Eddie's dad, Al, went to prison when he was real young, then scarpered off as soon as he was out, leavin' Eddie with Wayne."
On their way out of the diner, Steve's eyes were drawn to a splash of bright red in a painting hanging near the bathrooms. The canvas was black, with nothing but a set of bright red curtains in the foreground. Something tickled at the back of his mind, a sense of recognition. It took him a moment to recall his dream. The curtains in the painting looked so similar to the ones from his dream. What an odd coincidence.
The sleet had stopped by the time they left the diner, but the suffocating gray sky remained. They went to Eddie's trailer first, hoping to catch him before he left for the day. A young man maybe just a little older than Steve answered the door when Hopper knocked. He was dressed only in a pair of boxers. His body was wiry and his skin was covered in tattoos. His hair was a massive halo of brown frizz around his face. A cigarette dangled from the edge of his mouth.
"To what do I owe this pleasure, good Sheriff?" he asked with a smirk, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth.
"Eddie. Got some questions for you about Chrissy Cunningham."
Eddie blinked. His expression remained neutral. "Do you?" He turned to Steve and his mouth curled into a grin. "And who's this luscious young chap? Pig in training?"
Hopper sighed. Steve pulled out his badge and flashed it at Eddie, following protocol. "Special Agent Steve Harrington, FBI."
Eddie raised his eyebrows. He ran his eyes up and down Steve's body, in a gaze that was openly lascivious. Steve blushed. "FBI, huh? Are you even old enough to drink?"
"His age has got nothing to do with this, Munson," Hopper snapped. "Now, you gonna answer our questions here, all civil-like, or are we going down to the station?"
Eddie sighed. "Fine. But not in here. No fucking way I'm letting a coupla oinkers into my trailer. Go be good boys and sit at that table while I put some clothes on." He glanced at Steve. "Unless you want me to stay like this, big boy?" he said with a wink.
Steve turned and walked to the picnic table to hide his flustered expression. Eddie was flirting with him. He was used to this sort of behavior from bored housewives he'd interviewed, but never a man his age. An attractive man his age, a little voice added in his mind.
Hopper joined him at the table. "Don't let him get to you," he said to Steve. "He's always like this. It's his life's work to get a rise out of every single person he talks to on a daily basis."
"It's fine. I can handle it," Steve insisted.
Eddie took his sweet time getting changed. Almost ten minutes had passed by the time he ambled out of his trailer, although it looked like all he'd done was throw on a pair of torn jeans and a t-shirt. A leather jacket was tossed over one shoulder.
He sat across the picnic table from Hopper and Steve and lit up another cigarette. "What can I help you with, boys?" he asked after he blew a huge cloud of smoke directly in Hopper's face.
"You knew Chrissy Cunningham?" Hopper asked.
Eddie shrugged, taking another drag off his cigarette. "A little."
"How'd you meet her?"
"You asking if I sold her something?" Eddie asked with a smirk. "Oh, Hop, I'm not gonna cave that easily."
"Just answer the question, kid," Hopper said with a tired sigh.
"She was sitting at my table in the woods one day a few months ago. Seemed sad. So I chatted with her."
"Did that become a regular thing?" Hopper asked.
"Is it illegal to talk to sad rich kids now?" Eddie shot back.
Hopper glared. "Did you see her again, after that time in the woods?"
Eddie shrugged. He tapped his fingers rapidly on the table, creating an edgy rhythm. "Sure. She'd come by every once in a while to talk."
"What about?"
"Anything. Everything. The constricting mores of her social class. Her shitass boyfriend. Her crazy mom. Girl just needed someone to talk to who wouldn't tattle to her parents." Steve felt Eddie's leg jiggling under the table in time with his fingers.
"She tell you things she didn't want her parents to know?"
Eddie threw back his head and laughed. It was a loud, barking laugh, startling birds from the trees around them. "Not in the way you're implying, but yeah. You know she got into Harvard, and she actually wanted to go? But her parents wouldn't let her. Harvard, my good man."
"She wanted to go?" Steve asked. That wasn't what her father had said.
"Yeah, 'course she wanted to go. She wanted to get out of this shitty town, out from under her parents' and boyfriend's thumbs. Which I understand. I wouldn't even look back once if I ever got a chance to leave."
"How often did you see her, these past few months?" Hopper asked.
"Dunno. Maybe a couple times a week? I've got a place I like to sit, in the woods. She'd come by sometimes."
"You sell her drugs?"
Eddie held a hand to his chest in a gesture of mock affront. "Little ol' me? Sell drugs? Sir, I've never touched the stuff." He dropped his hand back to the table, resuming his tapping.
Hopper grunted. "Then what were you doin' with her? Were you sleeping together? She's 18, it's not a crime. You can tell us."
Eddie laughed meanly. "Oh, Hopper, did you forget? I'm a fag. Remember? You were a deputy when Tommy put me in the hospital and spraypainted "FAGGOTS NOT WELCOME" on Wayne's trailer. You told me there was nothing you could do about it, because you just didn't have any evidence."
Steve glanced at Hopper, who shifted uncomfortably on the bench. "There wasn't any evidence. Just your word against his and all his friends'."
"Oh, yes, of course," Eddie said sarcastically. "And why would you ever believe Eddie the Freak Munson over the rich kids?"
Steve interjected in an attempt to steer the conversation away from old grudges. "Did Chrissy ever mention feeling like she wasn't safe at home?"
Eddie turned to look at Steve. His fingers finally stopped tapping as he narrowed his eyes. Steve felt the full force of Eddie Munson's attention. He hadn't realized the man had been holding so much of it in check. The attention was heavy, a palpable weight on Steve's shoulders.
"Physically unsafe? No," Eddie said. "Existentially? Absolutely."
"What the fuck does that mean?" Hopper growled.
Eddie sighed and turned away from Steve. The weight lifted. Steve felt like he'd lost something. "I wouldn't expect you to understand, big man. You're all brawn, with nothing much going on under that ostentatious hat."
Steve didn't think he would be able to get anything out of Eddie with Hopper here for him to spar with.
"Munson, have you got anything to tell us about her, or not?" Hopper snapped, rising easily to Eddie's bait.
Eddie spread his hands and shrugged. "All I can tell you is she was unhappy with her life. But I don't know shit about who killed her."
"You were seen with her at night a few days before her murder, on your bike. Were you with her again the night she was murdered?" Hopper asked, leaning forward.
"Sorry to disappoint you, but my band was playing at the Hideout, and then I hung around at the bar. At least 50 witnesses that can place me there between 10pm when our set started and closing at 3am. Got back to my trailer just as Wayne was coming home from his shift."
"Wayne gets home at 5," Hopper said, like he'd caught Eddie in a lie. "What were you doing between 3 and 5?" The forensics report had mentioned the beginning stages of rigor already being present when the body was found around 5:30. It was very unlikely Eddie could have killed her after 3am and have that amount of rigor set in by 5:30, especially in the cold. But Steve supposed it was best to be thorough. Eddie had an apparently secret relationship of some kind with the girl, and she'd been found dead near his trailer park.
"Driving," Eddie said. "Blowing off some steam."
"Anyone who can corroborate that?"
"Billy Hargrove."
Hopper snorted. "Really? Hargrove is all you got as an alibi for those two hours?"
"Oh, sorry, I forgot. I should've lined up a more heterosexual alibi. Then maybe you would've believed me."
Steve's eyes jumped back and forth between the two men. Both of them exuded contentious rage.
"Alright, thanks Eddie," Steve said, jumping in before they came to blows. They weren't going to get any more out of this, not until they'd looked into Eddie's alibis. "If you think of anything else Chrissy might have told you that could be useful, please let us know."
Eddie nodded deferentially to Steve. "I'll tell you. I'm not telling him shit." He jerked a thumb at Hopper.
"Careful, Munson," Hopper warned. "Wouldn't want to look like you're willfully obstructing an investigation."
Steve stood, patting Hopper on the shoulder. "Let's go take a look at the site, Sheriff."
Eddie smirked at Hopper. "Yeah, Hop. Why don't you go let boy wonder here do your job for you?"
Steve squeezed Hopper's shoulder as he felt the other man tense beneath his hand. Hopper snapped his mouth shut and stood with a scowl.
"Toodle-oo, boys!" Eddie called after them with a little finger wave.
"I swear that boy was placed on this earth to test me," Hopper grumbled as they walked into the woods. "No matter how many years I've been doing this, he still manages to get under my skin. You'd think he would want to play nice, clear his name. But no, not Eddie."
Steve made what he hoped was a sympathetic noise, following Hopper as he led them deeper into the woods and took out his frustration on the dormant plant life of the understory.
"You think he knows more than what he told us?" Steve asked.
"I would bet on it. Not entirely convinced he didn't do it himself." Hopper smacked a weedy sumac sapling out of his way with startling ferocity.
"He's got a pretty good alibi." Steve pushed brush out of the way in Hopper's wake with a bit more care. "She was probably dead well before 3am, given the amount of rigor you noted when you found her."
Hopper threw his hands up as they entered a small clearing. "Okay, so maybe he didn't kill her. But I still think he knows something."
"I could talk to him myself, if you want," Steve volunteered. Just because he thought it might help. Not because he wanted to see that wicked grin again. "You two seem to have a… history. Maybe I could get more out of him without you there."
Hopper grunted. "Yeah. Maybe. But don't let him walk all over you, kid. He's a menace."
Steve didn't think he could possibly perform as poorly as Hopper just had in an interrogation, but he kept that to himself. He glanced around the clearing Hopper had led them to. Crime scene tape stretched between several of the trees, blocking off a small area.
There was something on the ground in the middle of the area. Steve moved closer. It was a mound of dirt. A sapling had begun to sprout from the mound, with a thin woody stem and bright green leaves. They stood out starkly against the dormant backdrop of the February forest.
"Was that there when you found her?" Steve asked, pointing at the mound.
"What the hell?" Hopper muttered as he caught sight of the sapling. He squatted down, staring at it. "I think the dirt was there, maybe; would have to check the photos. But that plant sure as shit wasn't."
Steve ducked under the tape and squatted near the mound. He pulled a compact camera out of his coat pocket and took several photos. The light was awful, the sun losing its battle against the dismal late winter gray, but hopefully the flash would give him something to work with.
He put on a pair of gloves and poked the sapling gently. It wobbled. Where had it come from? There's no way it had just sprouted here on its own in the middle of winter. Maybe somebody had brought it from a greenhouse and shoved it in here as some sort of… what? Offering?
He tugged at it, gently at first. It didn't budge, even though the dirt wasn't packed particularly hard around it. He gave it a firmer tug, and pulled it from the earth. A fine mesh network of roots came into view, trailing clods of dirt. It had been growing in this dirt, not just shoved here.
Maybe there was some sort of micro-climate here that allowed for early growth. He looked up, glancing at the forest around him. Everything was gray and brown. The only green he saw was the deep green of a pine tree. He held the sapling up and took a few photos to show the roots.
Steve set the sapling to the side. "Is this something that happens often around here? New growth in the forest in February?"
Hopper shook his head. "I'm not exactly a forester, but I've never seen anything like it."
"Hmm. Did you look through this pile when you found her?"
"No," Hopper said. "If it was even there when I found her, I must've just thought it was from a ground hog or something."
Steve set the sapling aside and pressed one of his hands into the mound of dirt. He sifted through it carefully, pushing aside layer after layer of dirt. His finger hit something firm about halfway down.
He pulled it from the pile, dusting the dirt off gently with his gloved hands. It was a vaguely tubular structure about an inch long, off-white and larger at the ends than in the middle. It took Steve a moment to recognize it as a bone. Hopper drew in a sharp breath as he came to the same conclusion.
Steve turned it over a few times in his hands. It could be a human finger bone, but could also be from a chicken wing, for all Steve knew. He wasn't a forensic anthropologist. The fabric of his glove caught over a rough area as he brushed the dirt off.
He squinted at the bone's surface in the dim light. Something was scratched into it. He brushed more dirt off. A series of interconnecting lines, that he'd seen twice now. Once at the school, on the lockers, and once on the frame of the door to the church.
The forest around him grew darker. The rustling of squirrels and chirping of birds faded into silence. The light dimmed until he was surrounded by a black so deep Steve thought he might be able to touch it. His heart beat in his chest. It was the only sound he could hear.
A deep red curtain appeared several feet in front of him. The tips of four fingers wrapped around the side of the curtain, followed by the rest of a hand. A delicate hand, with long, dainty fingers. The nails were painted blood red. The skin was caked with dirt.
A cold sense of dread spread through his body. Fear gripped his chest. He didn't know who that hand belonged to, but he knew he didn't want to find out. The hand began to pull, drawing the curtain to the side. Steve's heart sped up. He couldn't let her see him.
A scream pierced the air, knifing its way straight into his eardrums. He clapped his hands over his ears and collapsed in on himself.
He felt a hand on his back and he screamed. He opened his eyes to the forest. No curtain. He heard the chirping birds and the rustling animals. He was on his knees in the wet dirt, back in the forest.
"Whoa, kid!" Hopper yelped. Steve turned to look at him. "Are you alright?"
Steve looked down at the bone still in his hand. "What is this symbol?" he asked Hopper, standing up and thrusting the bone in front of his face.
Hopper squinted. "I don't know," he said. He gave Steve a worried look. "Are you sure you're alright? You went all white in the face, like you were about to pass out, then you screamed bloody murder when I touched you."
"This symbol," Steve said, pointing to the bone again. He didn't want to address what had just happened. He needed to focus. "I saw it at the school. And the church. Figured it must mean something around here."
"Not that I know of," Hopper said with a shrug.
Steve worried his lower lip between his teeth. He'd take some better pictures when he got back to his room. Send them to Robin, see if she might be able to help figure out what it was. Send the bone itself to the forensic anthropologists at the FBI.
"Maybe we should call it for the night," Hopper said. "You look like you could use a good meal and some rest. Claudia's cooking is to die for."
Steve hated the pitying note in Hopper's voice. He remembered it in his parents' voices from back when he'd had episodes like this before, after Heather.
"I'm fine," Steve said. "I just feel a migraine coming on." His go-to excuse. His parents had never understood why the best neurologists and the best medications hadn't been able to get rid of his migraines.
"Alright," Hopper said, sounding unconvinced. "All the more reason to call it a night."
When Steve turned back to collect the sapling before they left, it was gone.
Max's right foot pounded the wet pavement over and over again as she propelled herself down the street. It was a disgusting day to be out skateboarding, cold and raining, but there wasn't much ice on the ground, and she needed to get away from the house for a bit. Neil had drunk himself into a stupor earlier in the day, and she didn't want to be there when he woke up with a headache.
As she skated past Forest Hills, she saw a glint of metal on the side of the road. She skidded to a stop and bent to check it out. It was a necklace. A locket dangled from a delicate golden chain. She wondered if it was real gold. A beautiful floral pattern was etched on the front of the locket. She could take this to the pawn shop, maybe get enough to buy herself a new board. She slid it into her pocket gleefully. Maybe this day wasn't a total loss.
A revving motor drew her attention back to the road. Billy was about to turn into the trailer park in his stupid Camaro. He'd moved out of the house as soon as he turned 18 and he'd been living in a shitty trailer ever since. She couldn't wait until she could do the same.
He honked when he caught sight of her, and pulled over to the shoulder.
"Why you out in this shit weather?" he asked. "Bad day at the house?" He'd become a more tolerable human once he'd moved out. Getting out from under Neil's thumb made him less of a raging asshole (a little bit).
She shrugged, shoving her board under one arm. He was the only person she really could talk to about her home life, but she still didn't want to.
He rolled his eyes at her non-response. "Get in, twerp. You can hang out at my place for the night."
She'd been doing this more often lately, whenever Billy was home from a haul. She'd never ask, but he seemed to have some sort of sixth sense for finding her wandering around Hawkins.
She jumped into the car, grateful to be out of the cold. She didn't even notice as the necklace slid out of her pocket and into Billy's car.
Chapter 3: Radicle
Summary:
Steve runs into frustrating roadblocks with his supervisor at the FBI, but continues to progress with his investigation of Eddie's alibi, including the interrogation of an infuriating and attractive truck driver.
Notes:
Specific content warnings for this chapter:
- Accidental voyeurism
Chapter Text
Steve paced the striped blue rug of his room with the phone plastered to his ear as he waited for Creel to pick up. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to Creel, especially to ask for a favor. But it would be helpful to have a better idea of what exactly Chrissy had been up to the night she died, and he didn't want to have to wait a month to find out if drugs had been involved.
"What?" Creel snapped. It wasn't a good sign that he was already so unpleasant without even knowing it was Steve on the other line.
"Hello, sir," Steve began. "This is Steve." No response. "Harrington," he added. "Special Agent?" He winced as the last bit came out sounding like a question.
"I know who you are," Creel spat. "What do you want? Already having trouble out there? Can't even solve a simple murder?"
Creel was an infuriating supervisor. According to what Steve had been taught in the Academy, he should frequently debrief with Creel, as his Assistant Special Agent in Charge. But Creel seemed to think Steve should be able to go it alone.
Steve ignored the last two questions. "The pathologist collected fingernail scrapings to test for possible foreign DNA, as well as semen. I'd like to send that to the Bureau."
"Not gonna do you any good without a suspect. You got a suspect yet?"
"No," Steve admitted. "But I figured we could send this along and at least get the analysis started on these samples, so it'll be ready when I do have a suspect."
Creel guffawed. "So sure you'll find a suspect?" he taunted. "I wouldn't want to waste valuable resources when I'm not so sure myself. You'll wait until you have a comparator sample from a suspect."
Steve held in a sigh. "Yes, sir," he said. Maybe if he was agreeable on this point, Creel would help him out with his other request. "There's also the issue of toxicology. The Indiana State Lab is backed up, will take up to a month to run the testing. Could I send the samples to the Bureau for expedited analysis?"
Creel let out a dramatic sigh. "Oh, Harrington. I know you've spent your life being fed with a silver spoon, but things aren't like that in the FBI. You're the bottom rung of the ladder now. You don't get special treatment. You're part of a joint investigation, and you're going to have to work through the local channels you have available to you, just like all the other rookies."
Steve's whole body tensed. "But, sir. We were told in training that the Bureau lab can assist in joint cases when the collaborating organization's laboratory is overwhelmed."
"A one month wait isn't a sign of overwhelm. That's just normal functioning. You're going to need to check your impatience if you want to get anywhere in this line of work."
Steve resisted the urge to throw the phone receiver against the wall. He knew if any of Creel's other direct reports had called him with a similar request, it would have been granted. He considered going behind Creel's back and talking to his father about it, but just the thought of that made him nauseous. He wanted to prove that he could do this, that he could work a case on his own without any help from his father. Or his supervisor, apparently.
"Alright," Steve said, his voice coming out with a wheeze, as though he was choking on his own words. "Thank you for your time."
He hung up the phone, banging it back into the cradle. He dropped onto the bed with a groan. He didn't relish telling Hopper that he could do fuck-all to help with the lab testing.
The whole situation reminded him so much of Heather, each similarity hitting him like a punch to the gut. High school girl, well-known and well-liked, destined for great things. Killed in her prime and left in the woods.
He felt his mind drift back to that dank cell. He could almost feel the cold metal of his cot pressed into the backs of his legs as he listened to the man two cells over reciting the Lord's prayer, over and over again on an endless loop.
Steve shook himself out of his reverie. He hadn't thought about Heather this much in years. This case was already taking a toll on him, and he'd barely even started.
He needed to talk to Robin. Actually talk to her. He picked the phone back up, glad to see he hadn't damaged it with his slam. The idea of having to tell Claudia he'd ruined something in his room made his blood run cold. She would probably act like it was no big deal, tell him everything was fine, but he'd feel like a monster.
Steve dialed the familiar number. Robin picked up on the first ring. "Robin Buckley here," she said in her no-nonsense work voice.
"Robin," Steve breathed out with a sigh of relief.
"Steve!" Creel was probably going to murder him for two long distance call charges in one day, but Steve could already tell it was worth it. The tension in his body uncoiled with the knowledge that Robin was on the other line. "Is everything alright?" she asked.
"It's…" He paused. As much as he wanted to unload all the thoughts about Heather's case, all the memories Chrissy's case was dredging up, he knew he couldn't do that on a work call. He needed to keep this professional. "It's fine," he continued. "Listen, I've got some things to send you. My first few tapes of my notes, and a bone. It needs to go to forensic anthropology to see if they can tell whether or not it came from a human."
"Alright," Robin replied.
"And I'm sending some DNA samples." Robin was resourceful, and sneaky. Maybe she could help. "Creel says he won't run them in advance of comparator samples, but I'm wondering if you could talk to Vickie. See if she could get them in the queue so the results will be ready once I do have the comparator samples."
"Of course." Steve knew Robin would be pleased to have a reason to talk to the cute redhead from the DNA lab. "I'll get it done."
"Only do it if you're sure you won't get caught," Steve warned. "I don't want you getting caught in the crosshairs of Creel's grudge against me."
Robin snorted. "Please, Steve. I think I can manage to avoid that simpleton's efforts at oversight."
Steve smiled. He missed her. "Alright. Thanks, Robin."
"No problem. Are you sure you're okay, Steve? You sound exhausted."
"I'm fine. Just an uncomfortable bed is all." He winced at the lie, because he knew it would break Claudia's heart if she heard.
"Alright." She didn't sound convinced. She knew about his history with Heather, knew about the similarities between the cases. Thankfully, she didn't press. "Take care of yourself."
"You, too." He hung up, placing the phone receiver gently back in the cradle.
He felt worlds better just from hearing her voice. Knowing she'd do everything in her power to get the DNA samples run in a timely fashion was the icing on the cake. He left his room feeling lighter than he had since he'd arrived.
Steve heard Murray's loud and obnoxious voice from the dining room before he even got to the top of the staircase. Dinner last night had been punctuated by a seemingly endless series of jibes and inappropriate comments from Murray. Sitting through another breakfast with that man would instantly spoil his improved mood. Steve took a detour into the kitchen. Claudia was there, pouring a stream of immaculate coffee out of a French press into a carafe.
"Steve!" she chirped with a smile when she saw him. "Why don't you go have a seat, I'll bring this coffee right out."
Steve gave her a rueful smile. "I'm supposed to meet Hopper in just a few minutes." A lie, but a necessary one. "Any chance I could grab some coffee and a muffin and go? Your coffee is to die for."
Claudia waved a hand at him with a sheepish grin. "Oh, you charmer. Of course you can." She pulled a travel mug from a cabinet above her head and filled it with the glorious ambrosia, then handed him a muffin in a napkin. "Now, don't work too hard! Promise me you'll take a break for lunch?"
"Of course, Claudia," he agreed. And he would. He'd do anything to keep this coffee coming.
"I'm telling you, I woke up with an ache in my asshole that could only be from a good alien probing," Murray yelled from the next room.
Okay, he'd do anything to keep the coffee coming except sit through another conversation with Murray.
Steve stopped by the post office on his way to the Sheriff's, dropping off the package for Robin. As he was leaving, he ran into a teenage boy with an unfortunate bowl cut. He clutched Steve's arm to steady himself. Steve watched as his expression turned from annoyance to terror when he looked into Steve's face.
"You okay?" Steve asked, concerned at how pale the boy had gone, how wide his eyes had gotten.
"You should leave," the boy whispered.
Steve laughed nervously. "I am leaving." He motioned to his car in the parking lot.
"No," the boy said forcefully. "Leave Hawkins. Don't come back."
"Why would I do that?"
"It's not safe for you here," the boy insisted.
Was this kid threatening him? Or was he just unwell?
"Why isn't it safe for me?" Steve asked.
"The Harrowers." The word was barely audible, and the boy glanced over his shoulder like he was afraid he would be overheard. That word again. Such a strange word, one Steve wasn't sure he'd ever heard before.
"Who are the Harrowers?" Steve asked, his voice at a normal volume.
The boy flinched away from him and his gaze darted around the sidewalk, into the store. "Just. Go." He turned away from Steve and rushed into the post office. Steve was left on the sidewalk, staring after him with his mouth hanging open.
He crossed the street to the Sheriff's Department and tried to shake the encounter from his head. There were a lot of strange people in this town.
Hopper looked up as Steve walked in, surprised. "You're here early."
Steve grimaced. "Couldn't handle another meal with Murray."
Hopper laughed. "He is a lot."
Steve sat in the chair across the desk from Hopper. "Do you know a teenage kid, tall and skinny, pale, with brown hair in a bowl cut?"
"Sounds like Will Byers," Hopper said. "Why? Something wrong?"
Steve shook his head. "No. He just… said something odd to me at the post office."
"He's an odd kid. Joyce's youngest. The woman who runs the diner. He's the kid that did all the drawings."
Steve nodded, remembering the red curtain. It made his skin crawl.
"What'd he say?" Hopper prompted.
"Said I should leave. That it wasn't safe for me here. Then he mentioned the Harrowers. You have any idea what that means?"
Hopper shrugged. "Kid spends all his time in a fantasy land, reading books or playing that Dungeon game Jason Carver's so het up about. I wouldn't take anything he says seriously. Probably just hasn't fully come back to reality from his latest story."
He was right, Steve knew he was. But he couldn't shake the feeling of unease the boy had left him with.
"So, what's the plan today?" Steve asked, ready to stop thinking about Will.
"I'll head into the city," Hopper said. "Need to file for a warrant to talk to Clarissa's psychiatric team. Figured you could go to the Hideout while I do that, check on the first half of Munson's alibi." Steve nodded. "If you got time after that, see if you can find Hargrove and ask about the second half. He's even pricklier than Munson, but maybe you'll be able to get something out of him."
The Hideout was a bar about 5 miles out of town on the county road, a ramshackle building popping up out of endless barren farm fields. Steve turned his face to the sky as he hopped out of his car, grateful that the monotonous gray that had been plaguing the town since he'd arrived had given way to a little bit of sun. He was reluctant to step out of it and into the darkened interior of the bar, but he had a job to do.
The Hideout was an almost-24 hour bar to accommodate all the different shift workers at the steel mill, only closing from 3-6am to clean. This early in the morning it was full of men just off the night shift, exhausted and dirty and in dire need of a drink. Steve found a free stool at the bar and waited for the bartender to see him.
The bartender was an imposing middle-aged man, broad and tall, with a shaved head and an impressive number of tattoos. They covered the skin of his bald head, his neck, and his arms, disappearing to no doubt continue beneath his clothes.
"What can I get you?" he asked Steve.
Steve pulled out his badge and flashed it at the man. "I'm Special Agent Steve Harrington, FBI. I'd like to ask a few questions."
The man narrowed his eyes into a glare. "I'm working," he snapped.
"I can wait. You got a break sometime soon? Or is the manager around for me to talk to?"
The man snorted. "Ain't no manager but me. I own the place."
Steve attempted a reassuring smile, but it just got him a renewed glare. "Well, then. I'll wait until you have a moment."
"You gonna order something then? Don't just let people sit here without orderin' anything."
"Right," Steve said. "Of course. I'll have a… Diet Coke."
He heard a throaty guffaw from a patron a few stools down.
"This look like the kinda place that carries Diet Coke?" the bartender asked with a mean smile.
Steve blushed. That had been a stupid mistake. He glanced at the bottles of cheap booze lined up along the wall behind the bar, panicking. But then he saw a reassuring machine nearby. "Coffee?" he asked.
"Alright. Little whiskey in that?"
"No, thanks," Steve said. "On the job, you know."
The man snorted again. "Never stopped no one."
Steve waited at the bar, sipping coffee that tasted like dirty dishwater, as the bartender chatted with his patrons. He was absolutely not busy, just making a point by forcing Steve to wait.
After he endured thirty minutes of pointed stares and whispered conversations from the other patrons, the bartender walked back over to Steve.
"Alright. You got ten minutes. What you wanna know?"
Steve perked up. Ten minutes. He could do this. "Can I have your name?"
"Rick," the man said.
"Rick…?"
"Just Rick."
Steve let it go. Hopper could tell him what the man's last name was. "Were you working the night of February 22nd?"
"I'm working every night. Every day, too."
"You have live music here some nights?" Steve asked.
Rick nodded.
"Anyone playing the night of the 22nd?"
Rick sighed in annoyance, then bent to grab something from beneath the bar. It was a battered notebook. He flipped it open to reveal notes scrawled in a barely legibile hand. He scanned a page toward the end of the notebook, then flipped it shut.
"Wayne's kid's band," he said. "Corroded Coffin."
"Eddie Munson?" Steve clarified.
"That's the one," Rick replied.
"What time did they play?"
Rick shrugged. "Probably around 10. That's when the shows usually start."
"How long did they play for?"
"I don't know," Rick grumbled. "You think I hang 'round here for the music? It's all just noise, 'specially that band. I went out to my office to get away from the screeching."
"You have any idea how long Eddie stayed after the show?"
Rick snorted. "What, you think I'm that boy's keeper? I got no idea. I went to sleep."
Steve wasn't going to get what he needed out of Rick. "Who was tending the bar that night, then?"
"Would've been Keith."
"You know where I can find him?"
"He works at the Family Video during the day, only tends bar when we've got a show."
"Thanks." He glanced around the bar. "Would any of the people here now have been at the bar that night?"
Rick gave Steve that look he often got from people when they thought he was being particularly slow. "It's 9am, kid. This is the night shift crowd. They don't go to 10pm heavy metal shows."
"Right, of course," Steve admitted. It had been a pretty stupid question. "Thanks for your time."
He left his half-full cup of disgusting coffee on the counter with a few dollars and exchanged the dark bar interior for the weak winter sun.
It didn't take him long to find the Family Video. All the businesses in Hawkins were either clustered in the town square or positioned along the county road leading out of town.
A disgruntled man probably somewhere around his own age looked up from the TV he'd been watching as Steve walked in. His eyes flicked over Steve, then returned to the TV, like he expected Steve to go about his business without bothering him.
Steve approached the counter and the man hit the pause button on the VCR with a melodramatic sigh. His name tag read "Keith". Steve pulled out his badge and introduced himself.
All the color drained from Keith's face. "Is this about the Double Jeopardy copies? Because I don't know shit about that. No idea where they came from."
Steve raised his eyebrows. "I'm not here about piracy," he said. Keith visibly deflated in relief. "You bartend at the Hideout sometimes?"
Keith nodded, eager to please. This could work in Steve's favor. Now that Keith knew he wasn't getting busted for piracy, he'd hopefully be much more agreeable.
"Did you work the night of the 22nd?"
Keith stared upwards for a few moments. "Uhhh. Was that Thursday?"
Steve nodded.
"Yeah, yeah, I did!"
"Was there a band playing that night?"
"Sure. Corroded Coffin. Drum player is a friend of mine."
"Eddie Munson is in the band?"
Keith nodded. "Yeah, he does vocals and guitar."
"And he was there that night?"
"Would be pretty hard to do a show if he wasn't," Keith said with a laugh. "He's the front man!"
"Do you remember how long they played?"
Keith frowned in thought. "Probably a couple of hours? They were really on roll, doing a bunch of Metallica covers."
"Any of them stick around in the bar after the show?" Steve asked.
"Yeah, they all did. They usually do. And they'd been on fire that night, so people were buying them all sorts of drinks. Had to kick them all out at 3 so I could clean."
"Everyone in the band stayed til 3?" Steve clarified.
Keith scrunched up his eyebrows in thought. "Uhhh, not Jeff. He's got an actual day job and shit, real responsible, so he left right after the show. But Eddie, Gareth, and Doug stayed."
"Did they have anyone there with them that night? Any girls?"
Keith shrugged. "There's always some girls hanging around a band, you know? Gareth and the rest of them are just lucky Eddie's a fag. Everybody always wants the front man, but they'll settle for the drummer if he's uninterested."
Steve was comforted by this confirmation that Eddie was gay, or at least known to be gay. Less likely to have been in an illicit relationship with Chrissy. "You recognize any of the girls that night?"
"Sure. It's a small town, and most of 'em were from around here."
"Was Chrissy Cunningham one of the girls?"
Keith looked confused. "What? No. What would Chrissy Cunningham be doing at the Hideout?"
"So you'd never seen her there before?"
Keith shook his head. "Rick won't let high school kids into the bar. And everybody knew Chrissy. No way she was getting in."
"And did any of the guys in the band leave at all during the night? Besides Jeff."
"I mean, I was tending bar, not watching the band. One or the other of them might've left at some point. But not for long. Seemed like I was getting drinks for the three of them constantly. And hardly ever a tip."
It sounded convincing, as far as alibis went. It would've taken someone 15 minutes to get to the trailer park from the Hideout, and even longer to get into town. If Eddie had killed Chrissy, he would've needed probably an hour away from the bar to get it all done, and it sounded like Keith would have noticed Eddie being gone that long.
"Last question - was there anyone with Eddie when he left at 3?"
"Yeah. Hargrove. He'd been plaguing me all fucking night, I kept having to leave the bar to play security, breaking up his fights. He left with Munson when the bar closed."
Steve needed to find Hargrove and see what he had to say. Talk to the bandmates as well, see if their stories all matched up. Keith gave him the names of a few other people who'd been at the bar that night who weren't close with Eddie. He could use them to corroborate further. But so far, it seemed unlikely Eddie could've killed Chrissy.
"Alright, thanks for your time," Steve said. "And maybe next time an FBI agent comes to talk to you, don't lead with information about potentially pirated tapes," he added over his shoulder on the way out the door.
It was nearly noon by the time he was done with Keith. A rumble from his stomach reminded him of his promise to Claudia.
Joyce welcomed him into the diner with a warm smile. This town had its fair share of grumpy and unhelpful individuals, but it also had Claudia and Joyce. Both of them reminded him of his own mother - comforting and competent. They made him feel safe. He enjoyed the feeling while he could.
Will's painting of the red curtains caught his eye on his way out of the bathroom. It was such a simple picture, but it made his chest tight and the hairs on the back of his neck prickle with unease. The words Will had said to him at the post office rang in his head. It's not safe for you here. The Harrowers.
"D'you know what the story is behind that painting by the bathrooms?" Steve asked when Joyce came back to refill his coffee. It wasn't as good as Claudia's, but it was a decent cup of coffee.
She glanced over at the painting. "Oh, that one. It's kind of boring isn't it? Most of the rest of his stuff is so complex and that one's just… curtains."
"Hmmm. Yeah. You know why he painted them?"
She shrugged. "I can never really be sure with him. Head's always in the clouds. Says he just needs to get things out sometimes."
Steve wasn't sure why he was even asking. It wasn't like red curtains were rare. The kid had probably just gone to a theater or something. Steve's weird visions didn't have a monopoly on red curtains.
"Would you know where I might be able to find Billy Hargrove?" Steve asked as he was paying Joyce. Hopper wouldn't be back until late afternoon, and Steve didn't want to wait.
Joyce frowned disapprovingly. "Is he mixed up in all this? Can't say I'm surprised. That boy's a loose cannon. Not totally his fault, with a father like that, but not pleasant to deal with."
"Just need to chat with him to tie up some loose ends, no indication he was involved at all," Steve said, not wanting to start any rumors.
"If he's not on a haul, he'll be at his trailer," Joyce said. "In Forest Hills. You won't miss his rig, it's about as big as his trailer."
The trailer park again. Steve was going to be a regular. He headed back down the road, easily finding his way to Forest Hills. He drove down the dirt roads between the trailers, looking for a rig truck. An elderly man watched him closely from where he sat smoking on the steps in front of his trailer, suspicion showing clearly on his face.
Steve spotted the rig parked in front of a well-maintained trailer toward the back of the park. It bordered the woods near where Chrissy had been found.
No one answered his knock on the door. He peered inside the window, but it was dark inside, no signs of life. He sighed in defeat. He'd need to come back later. He hoped he'd be able to catch him before he left again for work.
As he walked back to his car, he heard the distinct thwacking noise of a basketball hitting pavement. It was cold, and the ground was still wet from days of sleet and rain. Who would be playing basketball outside?
Steve followed the sound to a basketball court sandwiched between two playgrounds. A man dribbled down the court and executed a perfect layup. He turned to head back up the court. Steve's breath caught in his throat.
The man was beautiful. The kind of beautiful you'd see in a magazine, or on the big screen. Long, wavy blond hair framed a perfectly symmetrical face with stunning blue eyes. His shirt was unbuttoned to mid-chest even in the cold, giving Steve a glimpse of well-defined pecs covered in a fine sheen of sweat.
The man's face contorted into a snarl when he caught sight of Steve. "Who the fuck are you?" he barked.
"Steve Harrington, FBI," Steve managed to choke out. He pulled out his badge and flashed it. "Are you Billy Hargrove?"
Billy's eyes narrowed. "What would you do if I was?"
"Just want to ask you a few questions."
"About what?"
Steve looked around. A few people's heads had poked out of windows to watch the exchange. "Do you mind if we go back to your trailer, or my car?" He didn't want the entire trailer park to hear their conversation.
Billy tossed Steve the ball. Steve grabbed it reflexively and began to dribble, years of honed instinct kicking in.
"One-on-one," Billy said. "If you can score even a single basket, I'll answer your questions."
Steve looked down at his suit and tie, at his dress shoes. He could just tell Billy that he had to come back to the station with him. But he'd be more likely to get something out of him if he played along. And he loved to play.
"Alright," Steve agreed. He passed the ball back to Billy, moving to center court.
"Your ball first," Billy said, and passed it back. Steve dribbled forward slowly, getting a feel for Billy. The other man tracked his movements in a loose defensive stance, watching Steve closely. Steve attempted to feint to the right then break left, but Billy saw through it immediately. He stole the ball and retreated to center court, then charged forward to breeze past Steve easily and score.
Steve huffed. He was out of practice, and Billy was actually good. Steve had been good, once. A full-ride scholarship to Duke as their star point guard, and great prospects for an eventual NBA draft. That had all ended when he'd torn his ACL. He'd tried so hard to come back after the surgery and recovery, but his movement had never gone back to normal. He couldn't compete at the level needed to keep his spot on the team, and his NBA prospects were ruined.
He'd sworn off basketball for a few years after that, but eventually got back to playing on intramural teams. The Academy had been too much of a time sink to keep that up, though, and it showed.
He redoubled his efforts with his next charge. Billy stuck to him like a sexy, sweaty barnacle, not giving an inch. His warm body pressed against Steve's as he attempted to keep Steve from the free throw lane. Steve didn't even get a toe in before Billy somehow managed to knock the ball from his hands. He blazed past Steve to score again, shooting Steve a cocky grin.
"Spending a little too much time sitting behind desks, huh FBI man?" Billy goaded.
Steve was warmed up at this point, annoyed, and ready to prove Billy wrong. He feinted to the left, then changed direction so fast he felt a muscle pull in his inner thigh, and jumped to the right of Billy to get a shot off just over his reaching hand. It swished through the net, not even hitting the rim.
Steve whooped, riding high on the feeling of a well-executed shot. "Your place or mine, Hargrove?" Steve asked with a grin.
Billy narrowed his eyes. "I thought you looked familiar. You're the Steve Harrington. Played for Duke in 1990. Thought you were going to be the next big thing in the NBA 'til you got injured."
Steve's euphoria dropped away instantly. He was grateful that people rarely recognized him - there weren't that many people who were so into college basketball that they'd recall a has-been three years on - but it was always a punch to the gut when someone did. Reminded him of what he could have had, if things had gone differently.
Billy barked out a laugh. "Can't believe The Hair is in the FBI now! What a world." He flicked a finger against Steve's voluminous hair. "It is still real nice hair."
Steve swatted his hand away with a frown. Billy held up his hands. "Alright, cranky! I'll keep my hands off the hair. Unless you change your mind and ask real nice. I can give it a good pull." He leered at Steve, eyes flitting up and down his body. Steve crossed his arms over his chest.
"You owe me some answers," Steve said.
"I do. Follow me, your highness." He led Steve back to his trailer. As soon as they were inside, he took off his sweat-soaked shirt and threw it on the couch. Steve tried not to stare, but Billy had an impressive body. The peek he'd gotten on the court had been just the tip of the iceberg - well-defined pecs, broad, muscular shoulders, a bonafide six pack.
Billy grabbed a beer from his refrigerator and opened it on the edge of his counter. It gave Steve a chance to study his back. Just as perfectly sculpted as his front. "You want one?" Billy asked over his shoulder. He smirked as he caught Steve staring.
"N-no," Steve stammered. He wasn't usually this easily flustered. He was a socially capable man, he'd had his fair share of dalliances, with women and men. But the out of context flirtation was throwing him. He was here to interview Billy, not flirt with him.
Billy shrugged and sat at the small table in the kitchenette, sprawling in a chair with his legs splayed. He exuded an animal grace, reminding Steve of a large feline. The resemblance was only strengthened when he smiled as Steve sat opposite him, a sharp canine poking out from between his lips.
"So," Billy prompted when Steve remained silent in his chair. "Ask away."
Steve took a deep breath, centering himself. He needed to ease into this. Didn't want to make any more rookie mistakes. "That your truck out front?"
Billy nodded. "It is."
"What do you usually haul?" Steve asked. He remembered Hopper's supposition that Billy was bringing drugs into town on his truck.
"Whatever someone'll pay me to carry." He grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the center of the table and lit one.
"How long are you typically on the road for?"
"Depends on the job." Billy took a swig of his beer, plush lips sealing suggestively around the mouth of the bottle. "I tend to take longer jobs, gone for 2-3 weeks at a time. Make a ton of cash, take a week or two off after."
"How long have you been back in town this time?"
Billy looked to the side, nose scrunched in thought. "Got back from my last trip on Tuesday. Was gone for nearly a month that time. I'm taking a couple weeks off now."
"So you were in town on Thursday?"
Billy raised his eyebrows. "Ah. That's what this is about."
"Something significant happen on Thursday?"
Billy tutted at him. "Don't play dumb with me. It's not gonna get you anywhere. That's the night that girl died. I'd have to be deaf and dumb to not have heard about it in this town, it's all anyone'll talk about right now."
"Did you know her? The girl?"
Billy shook his head. "I don't run with the rich folks. Or high school girls."
"Where were you Thursday night?"
Billy's eyes narrowed. "Am I a suspect? Why, 'cause they found her back there?" He motioned vaguely behind himself. "There's over a hundred people living in this trailer park."
Steve shook his head. "You're not a suspect. But it'd help a lot if you could just tell me where you were."
Billy smirked. "Well, since you asked real nice and pretty." His eyes lingered on Steve's lips. "Went to the Hideout to watch a friend play."
"Eddie Munson?" Steve asked.
"Yeah," Billy said with another feline grin. "The one and only."
"How late were you there?"
"Til closing, around 3."
"Did you leave alone?"
"Oh, Harrington," Billy said with an annoyingly condescending tone. "Boys like me? We never leave alone."
Steve resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Who'd you leave with this time?"
"Eddie," Billy said, like it was a challenge. He watched Steve closely.
"And where'd you go? After you left the Hideout?"
"Out to the quarry. Sometimes we like to fuck under the stars."
Steve knew Billy was goading him. He tried not to show a reaction, to keep his face carefully neutral, to not even move an inch. Billy had him pinned with an intense gaze, and Steve felt like a rabbit caught in the sights of a large predator. A sticking sensation caught in his throat. He swallowed with a click, the noise audible in the silent room.
"What, Harrington?" Billy snapped. "You got a problem with queers?"
Steve shook his head. "No, I do not." He pushed on. "So you and Munson went to the quarry around 3am. Any witnesses?"
Billy snorted. "Didn't think you'd be so kinky. A little exhibitionist, huh?" He chuckled to himself as Steve turned bright red. "I'm down for that every once in a while, but no. That night it was just the two of us, no audience."
"You were together the whole time you were at the quarry? He didn't leave for any period of time?"
"Oh we were very together."
Steve ignored the innuendo, pressing on. "And what time did you leave the quarry?"
"Not sure. Sun wasn't up yet, but it didn't come up too long after we got back."
It all dovetailed nicely with Eddie's and Keith's information.
"Alright," Steve said, standing up. "Thanks for taking the time to speak with me."
Billy stood in one fluid motion. "Let me know if you're ever looking to do more than talk while you're around here, pretty boy," he said as he held the door of his trailer open for Steve.
Steve hurried out the door, anxious to hide his blush.
Steve stopped by the sheriff's department to fill Hopper in on his progress. The other man had just gotten back from the city. He seemed annoyed that Eddie had such an airtight alibi.
"Would've wrapped up nicely if it'd been him," he muttered to himself. Steve had run into the attitude before, and been warned about it in training. How easy it was to slip into wanting the most likely suspect to be the perpetrator, often to the detriment of finding the actual criminal. Thankfully, Hopper followed up with, "But looks like it wasn't."
Steve nodded. "I'll swing by Eddie's again tonight to make sure he tells the same story as Billy, but it seems unlikely either of them could've been involved. At least not with the murder. Might be able to get a little more from him about what was going on with Chrissy, though."
"Thanks for all the legwork today, kid." Hopper clapped him on the shoulder. "I didn't do as well. Judge wasn't willing to give a warrant for Clarissa's records yet. Said he needs more. And I'm not sure it's really necessary, anyway."
"Why not? If she was being violent with Chrissy, we need to know."
Hopper shrugged. "I just can't imagine she was. Sure, she might've gotten upset with the kid, said some mean things to her. But violent? I never got that impression."
Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. Hopper had been nothing but helpful so far in the investigation, but he should've seen this coming. The sheriff was so enmeshed in this little town. He wouldn't want to believe people he'd known all his life were capable of such awful things. Steve switched tactics, pressing on the less terrible way Clarissa could have been involved. "Well, what if she knew something about what was going on with Chrissy, and that was what made her get angry with the girl? Something she doesn't want to tell us?"
Hopper sighed, relenting. "Maybe. I can press a little harder on her inner circle, see if I can get anything more concrete that might get us a warrant." He scratched his head and slapped himself on the belly. "But I can't do it tonight. You should get to Claudia's before too late. She'd be put out if you missed dinner."
Steve knew he couldn't pull the same trick he'd used for breakfast and run off with a handful of food. He was going to have to knuckle down and deal with Murray if he wanted to eat.
Steve drove back out to the trailer park as soon as he could extricate himself from Murray's conversational clutches. It was a clear night, but the moon hadn't yet risen. The trailer park was darker than Steve expected. He'd spent most of his life in well-lit neighborhoods with bright street lamps and motion-sensor floodlights on houses. Forest Hills felt worlds away from those places. Once he left the soft, yellow nimbus of light from the single streetlamp placed at the entrance to the park, the only source of light was the windows of the trailers themselves, and many looked unoccupied.
He squinted ahead as he tried to navigate to Eddie's trailer. The further back he went in the park, the fewer trailers had any lights on. His whole body jarred as he slammed into a pothole. He slowed to a crawl, worried for the integrity of his rental. When he finally found it, Eddie's trailer looked dishearteningly dark.
Steve knocked a few times on the door. He felt the cold keenly as he waited on the doorstep. With the clear skies, the temperature had dropped further. His suit jacket wasn't enough to keep off the chill. He knocked again, a little louder, but heard no signs of life from within. He'd have to find Eddie tomorrow.
As he walked back to his car, a light flicked on in a trailer nearby, illuminating a woman in a window. She was backlit. Steve couldn't make out her face; it was a black blur. As he watched, she moved her arms. They jerked, moving in staccato bursts, in a way he'd never seen human limbs move before. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as his limbic system was bathed in that sense of wrongness, telling him to get away. The feeling built, bile rising in the back of his throat. Her arms continued to move in that hideous patternless pattern. Were they going to break? He was going to puke. He was going to scream.
Before he could open his mouth to do either, a bright flash of light blinded him, followed by a loud pop and an electric buzz. He looked over his shoulder to see the fading incandescent glow of the lightbulb above Eddie's porch. It had flared to life only to blow out. When he looked back to the woman, the light had been shut off. The woman was gone.
Steve could breathe again. He doubled over, hands on his knees, gulping down mouthful after mouthful of frigid air. As the sensations ebbed, he couldn't recall why he had even been so upset. It was just a woman doing a weird dance. Everything was fine.
As he was getting back in his car, he startled at the sound of a familiar sharp laugh. Billy Hargrove. His trailer was only a few rows over. Maybe he would know where Eddie was. Then this trip wouldn't be a complete waste.
Steve left his car and walked toward Billy's trailer, stepping carefully in the dark. He stepped in a hole filled with muddy water, flinching at the loud squelch as cold soaked into his shoe. He pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket and clicked it on, nearly screaming as the light fell on a crumpled figure against a nearby trailer. Anxiety spiked in his chest for a moment, thinking it was a child, before he realized it was just a doll - porcelain and caked in mud, with a crack down the center of its eerily smiling face.
He took a few deep breaths to steady himself. What had gotten into him? He wasn't usually this jumpy, but the imposing darkness blanketing the area made him feel unmoored. He moved forward, picking his way through the treacherous mud-filled potholes and various bits of trash. He heard another laugh from Billy's direction, this one more manic, almost pained, and followed by a loud smack. His heart beat faster in his chest. Was something going on at Billy's?
Rounding the corner, Steve reached for his gun. Light spilled from Billy's windows, giving Steve a clear view of what was going on inside. Eddie Munson was on top of Billy, hands around his neck as Billy's face turned red. Steve gasped. Munson was gonna kill him.
Steve ran the last few steps to the trailer door and burst in with his gun raised. "Hands up!" he yelled. "FBI!"
Eddie threw his hands in the air and turned around, his eyes wide with surprise. Billy started up a wheezing, deranged laugh.
Steve's face turned bright red as he realized what was going on. Both men were naked, and Eddie was buried balls-deep inside of Billy's ass.
"Oh my god," Steve breathed. He was a few seconds away from hyperventilating.
"You wanna join, pretty boy?" Billy crowed. "I've got a perfectly serviceable mouth, or Eddie here probably wouldn't mind if you fucked him. Told me he thought you were cute."
"Kinda rude to burst in uninvited, though," Eddie said. He'd recovered from his initial shock, his face falling back into the mocking smirk from the day before. He stepped away from Billy, and Steve had to use every ounce of his self control to not look down. "And waving a gun around, to boot. We're into some freaky shit, but that's a little far, man."
"I - I'm so sorry," Steve stammered. "I thought Billy was in danger."
Billy cackled. He was enjoying this. "No more danger than I wanted to be in. Fully consensual danger. The gun's helping with the whole ambience. Thanks."
Steve holstered his gun and backed up. "Please just forget this happened," Steve begged.
"Absolutely not," Eddie said. "I will treasure this moment my whole life."
Steve turned and fled. Sounds of laughter trailed him all the way to his car.
Chapter 4: Coleoptile
Summary:
Steve finds out more about the Harrowers from a local history buff. Eddie tells Steve about his conversations with Chrissy. Steve meets a pack of unruly kids who intercepted a message.
Notes:
FYI, I have written the first few smut scenes that will be appearing in chapters 5 and 6. There's going to be a lot of top/bottom versatility for all three of them, and switching from Steve, possibly Eddie. I know that's a turn-off for some, so I've updated the main tags to reflect all the iterations I know will happen so far, if you wanna check those out before you continue. Don't get too excited, though, that's all coming in chapters 5 and 6.
Specific content warnings for this chapter:
- Masturbation
- References to age gap and possible abuse in a relationship
- References to drug use
Chapter Text
Steve passed a restless night trying his damnedest not to think about Eddie and Billy. His mind drifted back to the scene he'd stumbled upon over and over again, despite his best efforts. His cock swelled as he remembered the sight of Eddie pressed into Billy. The miles and miles of ink-covered pale skin. The blissed-out expression on Billy's face, so at odds with Eddie's firm hands around his throat.
He put in a heroic effort attempting to avoid jerking off to two suspects in the case he was currently working. He really did. But eventually, around 3 am, when he found himself still tossing and turning in his bed instead of sleeping, he succumbed to the desire. He indulged in a hasty jerk-off session, and the shame and guilt flooding his system made him come even faster than usual. Sleep descended quickly after the release, but the guilt remained in the morning.
The ringing of the room phone woke him. A glance at the clock told him it was already 8 o'clock; he'd slept well past his usual wake-up time. He grabbed for the phone and answered with a sleepy, "Hello?"
"Oh, Steve!" Claudia's apologetic voice. "I'm so sorry if I woke you, but you've got a phone call. Some man named Gordon. Do you want me to put him through?"
Steve sighed as he sat up in bed. His father. Steve told him he would call when he got to Hawkins, but had forgotten. "Sure, put him through."
"Hey, dad," Steve said when the line clicked over.
"Steve!" his dad yelled. Steve winced. "How are you, son?" He held the phone away from his ear.
"Dad, did you forget to turn your hearing aids on again?" Steve yelled into the phone.
"Oh, shoot." Sounds of movement, followed by a hideous whining noise.
"Ah, Jesus!" Steve yelped, nearly throwing the phone away from him.
"Sorry, sorry," his dad's voice came over the phone at a normal volume. "They're on now."
"Mom should really just start doing that for you before you leave the house," Steve said.
"Still home," his dad reported. "Took the day off for your mother's birthday."
"Shit," Steve muttered. "I forgot."
"That's alright, son," his dad assured him. "She understands. First field assignment is a pretty heady time."
"I'll send her a card today," Steve promised. He knew she understood. She always understood Steve. She'd probably understand if Steve murdered someone in front of her, but he still liked her to know that he loved and appreciated her.
"I'm sure she'll like that," his dad confirmed. "How's it going out there?"
"Alright," Steve said. "Haven't made too much progress yet, but I'm at least checking some suspects off the list." An image flashed through his mind of those suspects in flagrante. He shook his head to dislodge it.
"That's great!" Steve basked for a moment in his father's approval, knowing he wouldn't get it from his direct supervisor. "Any trouble with Creel?"
Steve's father was aware of how much Creel hated his son. He'd wanted to have Steve reassigned given the conflict of interest. He'd assured Steve that would be completely above-board, but Steve had refused. He knew his father had his best interests at heart, but it wouldn't do Steve any favors to be reassigned. It would just stoke the resentment.
Said resentment was fueled by Steve's general demeanor, he knew. Everyone saw him as a stupid ex-jock, slow to respond, never the first with an answer in class. But he couldn't do anything about the strange disconnect between his head and his mouth. It had always been there. He could think just as quickly as everyone else, maybe even quicker, but unless he was talking with someone he was close to, forming the words took him extra time. None of his peers had seen his examination scores, which were phenomenal. They all assumed he made it through the Academy sheerly by the force of his father's will.
"Nope, no trouble with Creel," Steve lied.
"You sure?" his dad pressed. "Because I heard something about a toxicology testing denial from one of his administrative assistants."
"Dad," Steve scolded. "Stop nosing around. I told you, I need to do this myself."
His dad sighed. "I know, I know. But he's making it even harder for you. Because of me. People think I'm making it easier for you but it's the opposite. And I hate that."
"It's okay, dad. I'm doing fine here. The Sheriff's really helpful, he's been great."
"Well, that's a relief," his dad said. "Sometimes they're none too pleased about our presence." Steve heard him talking to someone in the background. "I'm gonna give the phone to your mom, she wants to talk to you. Love you, son. Try to remember to call so we don't worry."
"I will, dad. Love you, too."
"Stevie, sweetheart, have you been sleeping?" his mom said as soon as she took the phone.
"Hello to you, too," he said with a chuckle. "Happy birthday, mom. Sorry I forgot."
"Oh, don't be silly. You're busy! You're on your first field assignment! I'm so proud of you."
Steve smiled, heart warmed by his parents' love. "Thanks, mom."
"How's it been going so far? Have you been sleeping?"
She knew his sleep was the first thing to suffer when he got stressed. After everything that had happened with Heather, he'd barely slept for weeks. He'd become an exhausted shell of his former self.
"Yeah, I'm sleeping." Not technically a lie. He had slept some. And he didn't relish explaining to his mother that he hadn't slept well because he'd been overcome with lusty thoughts.
"Good. I worry about you with this case, you know? Your first case, and so similar to Heather's."
"I'm doing okay with it, mom." She didn't need to know about the nightmares. Steve was sure she had her own nightmares about that time. Of her son, stuck in a jail cell for weeks after he'd been charged as an adult with Heather's murder, then denied bond. He had been unable to remember anything from the hour leading up to Heather's death. All he remembered was leaving the house to go for a run, then the next moment blinking to awareness in front of Heather's body in the woods, his hands covered in blood. No matter how hard he racked his brains, that lost hour wouldn't return to him. He'd spent the whole time he was in that jail cell wondering if he really had killed her.
"You know you can call us anytime if you need to talk," she insisted.
"I know, mom." He wouldn't, though. They'd been through enough.
"Alright." She knew he wouldn't. "I love you, darling. You take care of yourself."
"I will. Love you, too, mom. Happy birthday."
He hung up feeling lighter. Even though he wasn't going to use their help, it was always nice to be reminded that the option was there if things got truly dire.
When Steve opened his door to head down to breakfast a few minutes later, he startled at the sight of Marissa standing in the doorway staring at him. How long had she been positioned outside his door like that?
"Uh. Good morning," Steve said. "Can I help you with something?"
"You need a reading." Her eyes were wide behind her thick glasses. Her hair frizzed out around her face in a chaotic halo.
"I do?" He had no idea what she was talking about.
She grabbed his hand, pulled him out of his room, and marched him across the hallway to hers. Her room was purple, just as overwhelming as the blue in his own. A small circular table was set up in the middle of the room with four chairs. A deck of cards sat on the table on top of a cloth, larger than a normal deck of cards.
"Sit," she commanded, pushing him down into a chair. Steve sat, unable to deny her force of will.
"Are we going to play cards?" he asked.
She looked at him like he was stupid. "This is a Tarot deck. You don't play with it. You use it to see."
The word sounded vaguely familiar. He associated it with patchouli and flowing skirts and incense.
"Uh, like fortune telling?" Steve shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He'd experienced things, after Heather. Things that made him question the world around him. They made him leery of the occult, even when he thought it was probably all a scam.
Marissa wrinkled her nose in distaste. "It's not fortune-telling. It's just a way to open your mind to the answers that are already there. Read the signs well enough, and it will seem like fortune-telling."
Steve shrugged. "Alright," he agreed. Why not? People usually had to pay for this sort of thing, and he was getting it for free.
Marissa placed the deck in front of Steve. "Cut the deck," she instructed. "Think about the most important question plaguing you right now."
That was easy. Steve grasped the deck while he thought about who killed Chrissy. He split it in two, then placed the bottom half on top.
Marissa drew a card and placed it to the left in front of him. "This represents your past." The image on the card wasn't comforting. A tower stood in the background, the top hit by lightning, fires burning in multiple windows. Two figures fell from the tower, fear apparent in their faces. "You experienced a crisis, an unforeseen catastrophe, that's followed you since. It drives you forward, guiding you to your answer."
Steve supposed that was true for many people, yet he couldn't help but think of Heather. He'd lost so much that day. His best friend, his innocence, his reputation. An unforeseen catastrophe. Did the answer to Chrissy's murder truly have something to do with Heather's?
Marissa drew another card, placing it to the right of the first. "This represents the present." A man in a tunic and hose leaned on a staff beside a green bush. The bush was decorated with seven circles, and inside each circle was drawn a five-pointed star. "The seven of pentacles. A farmer, staring at the fruits of his long labor." She touched the card and shuddered.
"Are you alright?" Steve asked.
When she looked up, her eyes were wide with fear. "The Harrowers. They've put in the work. Will they soon reap the rewards?"
That word. The same one the rat lady and Will had used. "The Harrowers?" he clarified.
She frowned. "The what?"
"What you just said. The Harrowers."
She shook her head. "I didn't say that. I just explained the card, the farmer staring at the fruits of his labor."
"No, no. After that. You said, 'The Harrowers', and then something about them reaping rewards."
She glared at him. "I don't know what you're talking about." She flipped the next card, placing it to the right of the Seven of Pentacles. "This is your future." A man hung by one foot from a T-shaped wooden beam. His arms were tied behind his back, and there was a halo of light around his head. "The Hanged Man." Steve didn't much like the sound of that for his future.
"You'll need to make a sacrifice to move forward with this question. You'll need to see the world differently, and wait for the answer to come."
That didn't seem so bad. He could make sacrifices and see things differently. But he was more interested in what Marissa had said earlier.
"Are you sure you don't remember saying anything about the Harrowers?" Steve pressed.
Marissa huffed. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Steve sighed. "So that's it, then?" Not very impressive, as far as fortune-telling went.
She glanced pointedly at a small jar he hadn't noticed on the table. "I accept tips."
Steve rolled his eyes. Of course she did. He shoved a crumpled one dollar bill into the jar and she sniffed judgmentally. He shoved in a few more, until she nodded in approval.
Steve spent most of the day tying up loose ends. He found Eddie's bandmates. Each had a similar retelling of the night's events, but not so similar that he worried they were rehearsed. Billy and Eddie had both been in the bar all night, never leaving for more than the time it would take to go to the bathroom. They left together when the bar closed. He tracked down a few random townspeople they mentioned had been at the bar that night, and everything panned out. Eddie and Billy had airtight alibis.
The information comforted him, relieving some of his guilt at his indiscretion from the night before. They weren't really suspects anymore, were they? He didn't need to feel quite as weird about being attracted to them. At least that's what he told himself.
He debriefed with Hopper before heading back to Claudia's for dinner.
"Went around the Cunninghams' neighborhood today, asking folks about that night," Hopper said. Steve thought they needed to do more to rule out Chrissy's parents as suspects. Hopper disagreed, but had been willing to look into it to get Steve to stop bringing it up. "None of them recall seeing Chrissy come back home, not even Kathy Dubois. That woman's goal in life is to catch the neighborhood teens sneaking in and out of their houses, I don't think she even sleeps anymore. And nobody saw Clarissa or Phillip leaving at an odd hour."
Steve nodded slowly. "So if they were involved, it probably didn't happen at the house," he mused.
Hopper's eyes narrowed. "You still think it could be one of them?"
Steve shrugged. "You pointed out yourself that Phillip seemed to have known she was missing and not reported it."
"Yeah, but I think that's just him saving face."
"And the mother had violent tendencies."
Hopper shook his head, like the very idea was too much to countenance. "No way."
"They only have each other as alibis. I don't think we can rule either of them out as suspects."
Hopper sighed. "I guess. But we've also got nothing that suggests they did leave the house."
Hopper was so willing to believe Munson or Hargrove had faked their alibis, even when all the evidence supported them, but he refused to consider the Cunninghams with their flimsy alibis and questionable attitudes. The implications were unpleasant. Steve wondered if he'd become like Hopper one day, so stuck in the mire of his preconceived notions and prejudices that his investigative work suffered.
"Someone mentioned the Harrowers to me again," Steve said, changing the subject before he started an argument.
"Really?" Hopper frowned. "Who this time?"
"Marissa. But then she didn't remember saying it when I pressed her for more information."
Hopper snorted. "Marissa's got a coupla screws loose. I wouldn't pay any mind to what she says."
"But that's three people now. Her, Will Byers, and the rat lady. What was her name?"
"Doris," Hopper supplied. "All three of those people are well-known for being a bit odd. I wouldn't dwell on it. I've never heard of these Harrowers before, and I know about most of what's going on in this town."
Steve hummed to himself. He wasn't as confident in Hopper's expansive knowledge of the town. "I just wish I could figure out where they'd heard of these Harrowers before."
One of the deputies was walking past as Steve spoke and stopped in the doorway. The black deputy, who seemed by far the more competent of the two. Daniels.
"The Harrowers?" Daniels asked from the doorway.
Steve brightened. "You know who they are?"
"Sure," Daniels said with a nod. Hopper motioned him in, and he took a seat beside Steve.
"Daniels here's a local history buff," Hopper said. "Runs a volunteer historical society."
"The Harrowers were a fraternal organization back in the late 1800's, into the early to mid 1900's," Daniels said. "German immigrants from the Swabian region. Big farming community."
"They still around?" Steve asked.
Daniels shook his head. "No, they dissolved in the '40s. A lot of anti-German sentiment going on around that time, so they wanted to distance themselves from their heritage instead of celebrating it."
"What'd they do? Was it like a Freemasons type setup?"
"Most of it was just farming traditions, far as I can tell. That's where the name came from - harrowing the ground before planting. We still have some old artifacts in our museum, couple of wood carvings. You can check them out if you want. Why you interested in them?"
"Couple of people have mentioned them to me recently. Any idea why people would be talking about them now?"
Daniels frowned. "Who's talking about them?"
Hopper gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Just the usual loonies. Doris and Marissa. Got Will talking about it somehow. That kid's too impressionable."
"Don't know why they would be talking about them," Daniels said, forehead creasing in thought. "None of them have shown any interest in local history before."
"Well, it hasn't got anything to do with the case," Hopper said pointedly.
Steve wasn't so sure, but didn't want to take valuable time away from the investigation to look into his whim. He set up a time over the weekend to meet with Daniels at his local history museum (located in a shed behind Daniels' house) to go through whatever he had on the Harrowers.
Steve sat in his car outside of Eddie's trailer. Eddie's van was parked beside it, so he was probably inside, but Steve was having a difficult time working up the courage to knock on the door. He'd puttered around town for a few days further investigating alibis and looking for any indication that either of the Cunninghams had left their home the night Chrissy died. He found nothing to implicate the Cunninghams, but did gather enough ammo to have Eddie Munson officially removed from the persons of interest list.
He still needed to talk to Eddie, though. Chrissy had told him things she hadn't wanted her parents to know in the months leading up to her death. He needed to know what had been going on in Chrissy's life. He needed Eddie to tell him more.
He tried with little success to push the image of Eddie's naked asscheeks from his mind as he exited his car and approached the door to the trailer. All those tattoos. The wiry athleticism of his body when he thrust into Billy. Steve shook his head and worked up the courage to knock. Eddie opened the door with a smirk just as he was raising his hand.
"Wondered how long you were gonna sit out there like a little creep," Eddie said.
Steve blushed. "I was—I was organizing my notes."
"Sure," Eddie said with a patronizing nod. "Care to come in?" Eddie opened the door to his trailer wide. Steve glanced inside. It was a chaotic mess, piles and piles of stuff taking up almost every available surface.
"Alright," Steve agreed. He walked into the trailer. It smelled of cigarette smoke and incense. "Aren't you gonna ask why I'm here?" He was confused by Eddie's agreeable attitude after the way he'd reacted to being questioned by Hopper.
"As much as I hope that you're here to ask for a live re-enactment of what you walked in on the other night, I assume you're here to ask me more questions about Chrissy."
Steve nodded, focusing on the second part of Eddie's sentence. "Yeah. You're no longer a person of interest, by the way."
"Want me to thank you?" Eddie asked with a sneer. He sprawled onto a ratty orange couch and shoved a pile of books beside him to the floor with a clatter.
Steve flustered. He had, in fact, been expecting some thanks—he'd worked hard to get Hopper off Eddie's ass—but he wasn't about to admit that now. "No," Steve snapped, going on the defensive. "I'm just keeping you updated."
"Alright, no need to get all snippy about it," Eddie said, holding up his hands. "Sit," he instructed, motioning to the now-empty couch cushion beside him. Steve sat. Not because he'd been told to. Just because it would be weird to keep talking to Eddie while looming over him. "If you're not here to keep trying to pin the murder on me, what are you here for?" Eddie asked.
"I need a better idea of what was going on with Chrissy leading up to her murder. And you seem to be the only person she wasn't lying to."
Eddie turned to face Steve on the couch, drawing one of his legs up to his chest.He fixed Steve with his dedicated attention, the way he'd done only once before. It made Steve uncomfortable. He felt like a bug pinned to a collector's table. He wanted to look away, to break the eye contact, but he didn't want to show weakness.
"She might have been lying to me, too," Eddie said. "I really didn't know her that well."
"Sure," Steve said. "But she was at least telling you something different from what I'm hearing from everyone else. And I don't particularly believe what they're all saying. I'm starting to get the impression she'd gotten tired of being the perfect teenager on the fast-track to the perfect wife."
Eddie nodded in approval, and finally looked away. Steve relaxed, the tension of holding Eddie's gaze leaving his body.
"Okay." Eddie sounded like he'd come to a decision he'd been mulling over for a while. "I'll tell you what we talked about.
"You're right," Eddie continued. "Chrissy was tired of the role she'd been cast in by her parents and her friends. First time I talked to her, she was sitting at my table in the woods. She'd been crying. She was a mess. I considered turning around and leaving her there; I had no interest in getting involved in rich kid drama. But she just looked so sad.
"I asked her if she was okay, if she needed any help. She was embarrassed, tried to pretend nothing was wrong. I saw a balled up piece of paper in her hand and asked her about it. That's when she told me about Harvard. It was her acceptance letter. I asked her why the hell she was upset about that, and then it was like a dam broke, and she couldn't stop talking.
"She told me she'd applied in secret, and had planned to make sure her parents didn't know about it. But her mom had checked the mail earlier than usual that day, and had opened the letter before Chrissy had even gotten home. She'd been livid that Chrissy had applied. Told her there was no chance in hell she was going, that co-ed colleges weren't an acceptable place for good Christian girls, blah blah blah."
Eddie was an animated storyteller, his hands constantly flapping, his body shifting back and forth on the couch. He looked everywhere but directly at Steve, the unsettling focus from before completely gone. He was focused elsewhere now, on conversations in the past.
"She'd come by and talk to me a lot after that. Told me how tired she was of her life in Hawkins. How she was starting to question the plans her family had laid out for her, starting to question her faith. The application to Harvard had been part of all of that. She wanted out, but they were trying hard to keep her in the mold they'd made for her.
"When I asked her what had made her start to question things so much, she'd never give me a straight answer, but I got the impression it had something to do with a man. She told me she'd gotten involved with someone other than that little twerp she was dating. I got the sense this guy was older, but I don't know by how much. She'd never tell me specifics. She'd be real happy about him sometimes, almost euphoric, but other times she'd get depressed when she talked about him." He trailed off, lost in thought.
"Did you get the sense that he was ever violent with her, this older man?" Steve asked.
Eddie startled, looking at Steve like he'd momentarily forgotten he was there. "She never told me he was. But I'd see bruises sometimes. On her wrists. She'd try to keep them covered with her sweater, but they'd peek out every once in a while."
Steve wondered why Eddie hadn't told them any of this before, but then remembered Eddie's history with Hopper. He really should've come to Eddie alone before now. He'd let what he'd seen in Billy's trailer scare him off. Highly unprofessional.
"Was she doing drugs? Not asking who she got them from," Steve clarified quickly, "just if she was using."
"Yeah, she was," Eddie admitted. "This asshole man she was seeing convinced her to snort cocaine one night, and then she couldn't get enough of the stuff. Said it was the only thing that got her out of bed in the morning." He locked eyes with Steve. "Never get a depressed teenager started on cocaine. They won't be able to stop, if they've got the money to keep buying."
"I wasn't planning on it," Steve said with a weak laugh.
Eddie looked away again, jiggling his leg at an almost inhuman speed. "She seemed even worse, the weeks before she died. I wish I'd tried harder to get some concrete info out of her about this guy. I told her to leave him, that he was no good for her. At first, she didn't believe me. She was smitten. Eventually, though, as she got more and more worn down by him, she agreed with me.
"I asked her if she needed help getting out of the situation, because she still hadn't called things off. But she said she couldn't end things with him yet because she was trying to figure something out. Seemed like she wanted to take this fucker down or something. I warned her to just get herself out, not try to be a hero, but she wouldn't listen."
Eddie sighed. He looked serious in a way Steve wasn't expecting. He'd really cared about Chrissy.
"I should've done more," he said, shaking his head forlornly.
"When was the last time you saw her?" Steve asked.
Eddie looked up at him. "Early last week. Would've been three or four days before she died. She seemed happier that day. Said she met a woman who was going to help her. I was relieved, because I assumed that meant she told some social worker about her issues or something. But it seems like that wasn't the case."
"Any idea who this woman actually was?"
Eddie shook his head. "No, no clue. I'm kicking myself now for not asking for more details, about all of this, but at the time I didn't want to push her. I thought the kid just needed to be able to talk to someone without having a bunch of questions and expectations thrown at her."
Steve was surprised to see the tell-tale shine of tears building in Eddie's eyes. He remembered how he had felt, after Heather. She'd been similarly secretive in the months leading up to her murder, and Steve had hated himself for not pressing her more for information. He reached out to put a comforting hand on Eddie's arm. "It's not your fault, Eddie," he said.
Eddie yanked his arm away and rubbed furiously at his eyes. "I know it's not," he snapped, but the insistence was belied by the wobble in his voice. He pinned Steve with that dedicated gaze again, eyes red-rimmed and wild. "Just. Just fucking catch whoever did this, okay? Chrissy was a good kid. She deserved to get out of this hell-hole and live her life the way she wanted."
"I'm going to," Steve promised. And he would. This wasn't just about proving himself anymore. This was about Chrissy. This was about Heather. This was about all the girls who deserved better than a hole in the ground. "Thanks for telling me all of this."
Eddie nodded and pushed his tangled curls out of his face. He regained his composure quickly, his bleak stare replaced by the mischievous smile Steve was by now familiar with. It brought out his unfairly adorable dimples. "Sure, big boy."
Steve cringed. "That's ridiculous. Don't call me that."
Eddie's grin widened. "You prefer big man? Special Agent? Sir? I'm flexible. I don't always need to be the one on top."
Steve's face turned bright red as he remembered the sight of Billy pinned beneath Eddie. Eddie threw back his head and cackled at the reaction.
"I've got a show on Saturday, at the Hideout," Eddie said once he'd finished cackling. "Rick told me you're familiar with the location now. You should come. Have a little fun instead of just working all the time."
Steve thought that was probably a very bad idea. Right? Right.
Eddie pressed a finger to his lips, stopping him from responding. "I can see the 'no' forming in your brain, but just think about it. All I ask."
Steve sighed, batting Eddie's hand away from his lips. "Thanks again, Eddie," Steve said, getting up from the couch. "I really appreciate the information."
"That wasn't a no!" Eddie yelled after him as he left the trailer.
Saturday morning dawned with a return of the suffocating grayness and a cold, relentless rain. His mind felt foggy and sluggish. He must have slept poorly, though he didn't remember waking in the night.
After a subdued breakfast (the weather seemed to dampen even Murray's spirits, or maybe he'd just run out of vodka), Steve drove out to Deputy Daniels' house. Unlike Hopper, Daniels hadn't managed to secure a house in the nicer part of town. He'd done what he could with his own house, which was well-maintained, but was surrounded on all sides by houses in various stages of disrepair.
Daniels introduced Steve to his wife and two kids, then took him around to the back of the house. He led them into a large wooden shed, filled to the brim with clutter. Several dehumidifiers ran in the background, filling the room with white noise.
"This is it," Daniels announced with an expansive gesture. "The Hawkins Historical Museum. Though I don't actually have any funding to hire someone to help me organize any of it, so my wife claims it would be more appropriately designated a 'hoard' rather than a museum."
Steve took it all in, impressed. There was a lot here. Framed photographs and art hung on every spare portion of wall. All the bookshelves were crammed full of books and binders, and every flat surface was covered in papers, photos, and artifacts. Drawers were jammed so full that things spilled over the sides.
"Do you know where the stuff on the Harrowers is?" Steve asked, daunted by the prospect of going through all of this.
"Not exactly," Daniels said with an apologetic shrug. "But things are arranged in a sort of chronological order. Late 1800s is around there," he gestured at a desk and bookshelf, "early 1900s over there," he gestured across the room. "You can go through whatever you'd like. A couple things, though, are easy finds."
He walked over to the wall and pulled down one of the framed photos, handing it to Steve. It was a grainy black and white photograph of a group of men clustered around a large object, about ten feet in height. The men were all tall with bushy beards, ranging from pale blond to dark brown. There was a woman standing in front of the object with some sort of crown in her hair.
"This is from a harvest festival. The Harrowers were mostly a farming community. They had a lot of rituals that revolved around crop planting. Well known in the area for their elaborate harvest festivals. There was a harvest queen each year, and she'd get this big crown made of braided grain." He pointed to her crown. "Then they made these huge dolls out of grain, they called them Erntepuppe, harvest puppets." He tapped on the large object behind the woman. It did look vaguely like a person. "They'd burn them as part of the ritual."
The huge grain puppet was creepy. So was the way the woman stared into the camera. She didn't look happy. She looked exhausted, and resigned. Her hands were tied together in front of her with rope.
"What did they do with the queen?" Steve asked.
"Do?" Daniels frowned in confusion. "I don't think they did anything. She was just the guest of honor. Like a prom queen or whatever." The reminder of Chrissy juxtaposed with the miserable woman in the photo made Steve shiver.
Daniels turned to a desk and opened a drawer, rifling through a bunch of small objects to pull out a stone. "Found this in the dirt near their old meeting house out in the woods. It burnt down in the '40s." Steve took the stone from him. A symbol was carved on its surface. A symbol Steve recognized - from the school, the church, the bone.
"What is this symbol?" Steve asked, rubbing over the stone with his thumb.
Daniels shrugged. "Don't know. I'm not even sure it belonged to the Harrowers. Some kid could've just dropped it out there."
"I've seen this before."
Daniels's gaze sharpened. "Really? Where? Would be great to know more about it to properly catalog the stone."
"It was scratched on a few lockers at the high school. And into the doorframe at the entrance to the Baptist Church."
"Huh," Daniels said. "Well, I guess it probably doesn't have anything to do with the Harrowers then, if kids are putting it on lockers. And that Church is only 20 years old."
"You're sure they're not still around?" Steve pressed. He felt like all of this meant something, like it was connected to Chrissy somehow, but he wasn't sure if he was grasping at straws.
"If they are, they've managed to stay very well hidden. And there's no reason for that, anti-German sentiment isn't particularly strong around here anymore. Don't know why they'd feel the need to keep a traditional farming group a huge secret."
"Maybe they just think it's neat," Steve suggested.
Daniels laughed. "Maybe, sure. You can take as much time as you want going through this stuff, I'll be around at the house all day. Lemme know if you need help with anything."
He left Steve alone in the shed. The steady patter of the rain on the tin roof filled the room, audible even above the white noise of the dehumidifiers. It was soothing. Steve shifted a tottering pile of books off of an old chair and pulled it over to the late 1800's bookshelf. Might as well get started somewhere.
He spent almost five hours in the shed, hunched over books and papers and photos. He didn't find much. Daniels's summary of the organization seemed to be about all there was to know about the Harrowers. They were farmers, and all their rituals revolved around farming.
The group consisted of only a few families, all having stayed together as a community after immigrating. The Königheim family was in charge of the group, with a few other names coming up over and over again. Müller, Schmidt, Fischer, Tranchiermesser. He scribbled the names down in his notebook. He'd have to see if any people were still around in Hawkins with those family names. Maybe they would know if anything was still going on with the Harrowers.
He made it through the whole late 1800's bookshelf, and well into the mid 1900's, after which the Harrowers were supposedly done. He'd looked at one too many photos of giant creepy wheat dolls. His stomach gave a loud rumble, and he decided to admit defeat. He wasn't going to get anywhere with what Daniels had.
Joyce's Diner was relatively quiet this late in the afternoon, with only a few booths taken. He'd stopped in on his way back to the bed and breakfast for a late lunch. He was sure Claudia would feed him if he asked, but lunch wasn't technically included in his rate, and he didn't want to take advantage of her. He slid into a booth, gratefully accepting a cup of coffee from a red-haired young waitress named Barb.
He'd just started in on a slice of positively delicious cherry pie when the peace and quiet was interrupted by a flurry of frantic whispers from a few booths away. He turned, trying to see what was going on. A familiar curly head of hair topped by a baseball cap poked around the edge of a booth. Dustin.
He gasped when he saw Steve looking and fell out of the booth onto the ground. A chorus of cackles and whoops followed him. Steve stood to help the kid back up. He held out a hand, which Dustin took and used to hoist himself up. Steve looked into the booth where multiple teenagers were still taunting Dustin.
There were five other kids somehow crammed into the small booth. The only one he recognized was the creepy kid with the bowl cut who'd accosted him outside the post office—Will, Joyce's youngest. He was squashed into a corner next to a pale boy with a nose too big for his face and a mop of wavy black hair. Beside that boy was a girl with short brown hair and a serious expression. The other bench was occupied by a gangly black boy with the beginnings of an afro and a red-headed girl with a familiar sneer that Steve couldn't quite place. A piece of AV equipment sat on the table in front of them, some sort of oversized tape recorder with headphones attached. Books and papers were stacked all around it.
"Well? Are you gonna tell him?" the redhead barked at Dustin.
"Max! We decided not to tell him!" the boy next to Will hissed.
"No, you decided not to tell him, numbnuts," Max said as she crossed her arms over her chest.
"I thought you of all people would understand," the boy said. "You hate cops."
"He's not a cop!" Dustin interjected. "He's FBI!"
"I want him to find whoever killed Chrissy!" Max yelled.
"Awww, miss your babysitter?" the boy made a face of mock sympathy. Max launched herself at him over the table, knocking a few books to the ground. The black boy grabbed her and held her back while the mouthy kid leaned back in horror. The other girl watched in fascinated silence, the corner of her mouth just barely twitching up.
Joyce poked her head out from the kitchen and yelled, "If you kids don't shut up, I'm throwing you all out and you can spend the day in the cold. Final warning!"
They all froze. Max sank back into her seat. Dustin got back into his spot on the bench. Six heads turned to stare expectantly at Steve.
"Tell me what?" he asked, hands on his hips.
"We heard something," Max said. "On Dustin's ham radio."
"Something about Chrissy?" Steve asked.
"Kind of," the black boy said.
Steve grabbed a chair from a nearby table and pulled it up to the booth. He flipped open his notebook and pulled out a pen. "Alright. First things first. I'm Special Agent Steve Harrington. Your names?"
Dustin announced, "Dustin."
Steve rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know your name." Dustin looked inordinately pleased to show his friends that the FBI agent already knew him. "What about the rest of you?"
Dustin pointed to the black boy. "Lucas Sinclair." The redhead. "Max Mayfield." The brown-haired girl. "Jane Hopper." The big-nosed boy. "Mike Wheeler." Then over to Will. "Will Byers."
Steve nodded. "Alright. What'd you hear?"
They all shot each other nervous glances across the table.
"I was playing around with a new antenna, trying to see if I could receive transmissions from Utah," Dustin said. "My girlfriend lives there, you know." A chorus of groans started up around the table.
"We know, Dustin," Lucas grumbled.
"Alright, alright!" Dustin held his hands up. "No need to let all that jealousy show. It's unbecoming. Anyway, I was fiddling with the frequencies after I repositioned the antenna, and I got some absolutely awful feedback. Like this high-pitched shrieking I thought was going to blow my eardrums out. My head started to hurt like hell. I worried I was on the receiving end of some Cuban sonar warfare or something. Murray told me about that."
Steve resisted the urge to hurry the kid up.
"The noise finally settled into static, and I could hear muffled voices speaking. I started recording at that point, figured I might need to send it to the CIA or something if it was Cuba."
"Dustin, get to the point!" Max yelled. Steve liked her.
"I'm getting there, Jesus! The static died down a little, and I could make out words." He looked unsure for the first time since he started the story. "It was… creepy." He shoved the headphones at Steve. "You should just listen for yourself."
Steve picked the headphones up, wary of a possible prank. If he put these on his head and they started blaring fart noises or something, he'd never hear the end of it from these twerps. He glanced around the table. They all looked actually spooked by whatever was on the tape. He put the headphones on, praying they weren't all this good at acting.
Dustin pressed play. Steve heard the static, loud at first, covering up the sound of two voices mumbling to each other. Gradually the static died down to a hum. A man's voice laughed—a mean, mirthless laugh.
"Don't you want to play, kitten? My sweet little Chrissy." His voice was deep and gravelly. It sounded almost artificial, like two voices had merged together to come from one throat.
A whimper came over the tape, pitiful and distinct. "No." A whispered woman's voice. "I don't want to play anymore."
"But we were having so much fun, my pet!" the man crooned.
Steve winced as the woman screamed. He heard a growl, then the sounds of scuffling. Labored breaths built and built into a panting sort of chant. The static built again, until Steve couldn't hear the sounds of the people anymore. He yelped and yanked the headphones from his ears as a high-pitched whine played over the tape at a painful decibel level.
"Sorry," Dustin said with a sheepish grin. "Missed the stop point."
"When did you record this?" Steve asked.
"The night of February 22nd," Dustin said.
"What frequency? What time?"
Dustin pulled out a notebook, flipping through the pages. He handed it to Steve when he found the appropriate page, a series of times and frequencies, with one circled. He tapped it. "That one."
Steve fixed him with a glare, then flashed it around the table. "You better not be trying to mess with me. That would be a federal crime."
Lucas and Mike paled visibly. "W-we're not! It's real!" Dustin stammered.
Steve nodded. "I'm gonna need to take the tape. And I'll need to look at your radio set-up."
Dustin popped the tape out and handed it over so easily Steve knew he'd made copies. "Right! It's all set up on a hill outside of town. I'll let you know next time I go, I can take you."
Steve nodded. "Alright." He shoved the tape in his pocket and flipped his notebook shut. "Thanks, kids." Max wrinkled her nose at being called a kid.
He went back to his table to finish his pie while he thought over the contents of the tape. It was amazing pie.
Joyce came by a few minutes later. "Sorry about the kids," she said. "They get a bit overexcited about pretty much everything. Can I get you anything else?"
"Two more pieces of this incredible pie, please," he told her with a smile.
Steve sat in his room and stared at his notebook. He'd spent most of the rainy afternoon after getting back from the diner going through all of his notes and photos from the case so far, sorting everything into various piles and scribbling more notes to himself.
He stared dejectedly at his summary of the case. Only a few lines. So little for all the work he'd put in. They'd exhaustively ruled out Eddie as a murder suspect. While Steve still suspected the Cunninghams were hiding something, their alibis stood up to scrutiny. So did Jason's. The last people to see Chrissy had no idea where she'd gone after she left them. Chrissy had been sleeping with an older man and doing drugs, but they had no idea who the man was.
Steve groaned. He ran his hands up his face then tugged on his hair. Where did he go from here? He knew the case would likely hinge on whoever this mysterious man was. But who would Chrissy have told about the man?
Steve needed to search her room. Hopper said he'd done it himself, but Steve was beginning to realize Hopper wasn't a particularly meticulous investigator. Steve had to hope that Chrissy had left some evidence of what she'd been up to, and that it had been too well-hidden for Hopper to find.
He collapsed back onto the floor with a grunt. His legs twitched. He needed to do something. He couldn't show up at the Cunninghams' late on a Saturday night and demand to search their dead daughter's room, but the thought of staying cooped up in his own room made him want to scream.
He stood abruptly, wobbling a little. It was Saturday night. He could go to the Hideout. Not to see Eddie. Just because it was the only bar in town. Where else was he going to go? And it wasn't like Eddie was even still a suspect.
He tried not to think too hard about pulling on his best jeans and choosing a tight polo shirt that showed off his arms. These were just the only non-suit clothes he brought with him. What else was he going to wear?
Steve knew he'd made a grave error as soon as he opened the door to the Hideout. His ears were instantly assaulted by screaming accompanied by discordant guitar and drums. He now understood why Rick left the bartending to Keith on show nights.
He turned to leave only to barrel straight into Billy Hargrove.
"Well, if it isn't the FBI boy-wonder," Billy drawled, steadying Steve with a hand on his shoulder. He pushed Steve back into the building, turning him around and steering him toward the bar. Steve's body obeyed before his brain could catch up. "No need to leave so soon! Lemme buy you a drink."
Billy ran his eyes blatantly up and down Steve's body once they reached their destination. "You look good out of that suit," he said approvingly. He had to lean in and practically yell into Steve's ear to be heard over the music. "Look good in it, too. But I like the little polo shirt. It's cute." He flipped up the collar of Steve's polo with a smirk.
Before Steve could register his annoyance, Billy turned to flag Keith down. He flashed a couple of fingers at Keith, who slid two glasses full of brown liquor onto the bar in front of them.
Billy slammed his back in two gulps, then handed the second glass to Steve.
Steve shook his head. "I really shouldn't," he yelled.
Billy threw back his head and cackled. "Loosen up, Stevie-boy. It's Saturday night, you're young and hot. Live a little."
Steve blushed at the compliment. He took the glass and turned it in his hands. It wasn't like he was on the job right now. He had no idea how long he was going to be stuck here in Hawkins. Was he just gonna refuse to have fun the whole time?
Steve sipped at the drink. He wrinkled his nose at the taste. Maybe he should have chugged, like Billy. It was disgusting, but it lit a little fire in his belly and loosened up his limbs.
He leaned against the bar and looked toward the stage. Eddie was ferociously head-banging while someone else played a lengthy solo on guitar. Eddie was shirtless, wearing only a pair of exceptionally tight leather pants. He didn't even have shoes on.
"Like what you see?" Billy yelled over the music. He was watching Steve watching Eddie.
Steve frowned and pretended he couldn't hear. Billy rolled his eyes but didn't try to talk to Steve again while the band played. Steve watched as Eddie strutted across the stage, sing-yelling and playing the guitar. This Eddie was so different from the Eddie he'd seen earlier in the week, dwelling deep in his regret over Chrissy. This Eddie had a seemingly endless well of energy to draw from. He ended the set drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as he thanked the crowd. The band left the stage, and Steve's ears rang as the assault on them ended.
"So?" Billy prompted, once the applause died down. "What'd you think?"
"Heavy metal's not really my thing," Steve admitted. "But they seem… alright?"
"Let me guess - you're more of a Nirvana guy? Maybe some Sonic Youth? Edgy, but not quite so jagged?"
Steve was irrationally annoyed at the accuracy of this supposition. He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."
"Well, you're out of luck. Not a lot of live music to pick from in bum-fuck Indiana," Billy said. "Probably won't be able to find anything to meet your discerning taste. Nothing like California." A wistful expression crossed his face.
"Did you live in California?" Steve asked. He wouldn't expect someone like Billy to voluntarily move from California to Indiana.
Billy nodded, and flagged Keith down for more drinks. Three this time. "Yeah. Dad moved here to work at the steel mill when I was still in high school, so I had to come." He handed Steve a drink. Steve was surprised to see he'd already finished his first. His head buzzed with the effects of the liquor.
"Why'd you stick around?" Steve asked. "Couldn't you drive your rig from California?"
Billy frowned. "Waiting for my sister to finish high school and get out from under the old man's thumb."
Eddie walked up before Steve could ask more about the sister. He'd put a shirt back on, and thankfully was wearing shoes. "Steve!" he cried when he caught sight of him. "I didn't think you'd come!" He took the glass of whiskey Billy offered him and slammed it back in one gulp, banging the glass back down on the bar. "Did you like the show?"
"Oh, yeah!" Steve lied. "It was great!"
Billy snorted and said, "He hated it."
Eddie threw back his head and laughed, not offended in the least. He draped an arm around Steve's shoulders and pulled him in against his body. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes and whiskey. Steve took a big sip of his drink, trying to quell his nervous reaction to Eddie's proximity.
"It's not for everyone," Eddie admitted. He kept his arm around Steve's shoulder.
"You seem to have quite a few fans around here, though." Steve glanced at the crowd of girls surrounding Eddie's bandmates further down the bar.
"Sure, we do alright. Not a lot of groupies that conform to my particular tastes, though." He looked at Steve, eyes raking over his body. A wicked grin blossomed on his face. "Never thought I'd say this, but I wish I appealed to the preppy jock crowd a little more. This get-up is really doing it for me."
Steve shifted awkwardly. "I do feel a little out of place here," he admitted.
"Hmm," Eddie mused. "We could go back to my place. Listen to some different music, something more to your tastes?"
"Or maybe we go out to the quarry," Billy offered. "You seemed to like that idea, Steve." They both looked at him. Waiting. Expectant.
Were they propositioning him? Flirting was one thing, but were they seriously asking him to join them? "Aren't you two, like, together?" Steve blurted.
Eddie and Billy looked at each other over his head, then shrugged in tandem. "Sure," Eddie said. "But not exclusively. Especially not when we're both interested in the same person."
Billy pressed himself against Steve's other side, looping an arm around Steve's waist. Sandwiched between the two men, Steve's heart rate quickened. Would Eddie fuck him like he'd fucked Billy, rough, with his hands around Steve's throat? Would Billy let Steve fuck his mouth? Maybe they'd do both at the same time. His pants were getting uncomfortably tight. It had been too long since he'd slept with someone. The Academy had taken a toll on his social life.
"What d'you say, pretty boy? Come with us for the night?"
Steve shook himself, coming out of his fantasy. No. No way. Steve was a firmly vanilla guy, a paragon of monogamy, a mascot for the missionary position and holding hands while fucking.
He extricated himself from between the two men and gave them an apologetic smile. "It's late. I need to get back." They both looked disappointed, but didn't push him. "Thanks for the drinks."
He fled the bar and finished off his night with a thoroughly underwhelming jerk-off.
Doris was up late. Her knees had been bothering her again, and after an hour or so of tossing and turning she'd given up on the hope of sleep. She sat outside on her porch, wrapped in her fuzziest robe with mittens on her hands, huddled against the early March chill. She watched the woods behind her house. Wind rattled through the leafless trees, the branches clack-clacking against each other. An owl hooted. A lone car swished past on the distant road.
She felt the boy's presence before she heard him - a pressure in her head, like the barometrics were changing. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. A cold sweat formed on her brow. A few seconds later, she heard the tell-tale cracks of twigs breaking beneath his feet, and then he was there in her yard. Skinny as a beanpole, pale as a glass of skim milk. Same age he'd been when he'd gone missing all those years ago.
He stood at the edge of the woods for a few minutes, just staring. She stared back. Nausea roiled in her gut, her whole body reacting to the wrongness of him. The rats poked their heads out of the breast pocket of her robe, noses sniffing wildly at the air. Medusa let out a squeak when the boy finally approached.
His movements were jerky, almost like she was watching him on a lagging security video. He closed the distance between them. A scream caught in Doris's throat, and she felt in danger of choking on it. He climbed the three steps to the porch and stopped in front of her chair. He smelled like rot and honeysuckle.
His eyes were black as tar. He opened his mouth and Doris heard the screech of a train braking from maximum speed. The pressure in her head increased until she worried it might explode. She covered her ears and placed her head between her knees. "Go away," she whispered. She could barely hear herself in her own head. She wasn't sure the words even made it out.
The pressure eventually eased, the screeching sound dropping away to a low hum. She raised her head. He stood there still, staring.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"He comes," came the whispered answer in her mind.
She blinked, and he was gone.
Chapter 5: First True Leaf
Summary:
Steve finds Chrissy's diary and attends a town hall meeting.
Notes:
Chapter 5 got reeeeeeally long so I'm splitting it into two chapters. I'll be able to post Chapter 6 later this week. This chapter dives much more into what Chrissy experienced before she died, with some of the bigger content warnings coming into effect.
Specific content warnings for this chapter:
In Chrissy's past:
- Implied grooming
- Large age gap with power imbalance
- Drug use
- Child abuse
- Slut-shaming
- Suicidal ideationThis is the skin I used for the letters.
Chapter Text
Monday brought a much-needed phone call with Robin. Steve had been sending her tapes of his detailed notes for transcription, so only had a few things to update her on, but just hearing her voice was a relief. And she'd called from her home phone, allowing for a less stunted conversation without the possibility of Creel breathing down her neck and overhearing everything.
"I've got news for you, Dingus," she said, using the nickname that would've been offensive coming from anyone who wasn't her.
"Yeah? About the case, or did you finally ask Vickie out?" he teased.
Robin scoffed. "Oh, definitely about the case. I'm still an abominable coward."
Steve pulled out his notebook and pen.
"The forensic anthropologists have determined that the finger that came from that pile of soil next to Chrissy is human," she continued. "It came from an adult. They said it's probably been detached from the rest of that human for over a year, but less than a decade. That's about all they can tell from it."
"Alright. Well, Chrissy wasn't missing a finger, and she just died, so it definitely isn't hers." He paused and hummed to himself. "Not even sure it has anything to do with the case, could just be a coincidence."
Robin snorted. "Finding a finger bone in a theatrical pile of dirt next to a murder scene isn't a coincidence."
She was probably right. But he didn't want to be one of those investigators who constantly saw meaning where there was none. "But there's no way for us to tell whose finger it was?"
"Not unless you find someone missing a finger and can get DNA from them to compare," Robin confirmed. "I also showed the symbol analysis team the picture of that rock. They'll do a deeper dive into their databases to see if they find any matches, but Caldwell wasn't hopeful. He said it looked like somebody just squished a bunch of runes together."
Steve sighed. "Yeah, that's fair. Might not even have anything to do with the case. I don't know why I'm getting so hung up on these Harrowers."
"Steve, why are you doubting yourself so much?" Robin demanded. "You've got a feeling about the Harrowers. You shouldn't ignore that."
"It's just… I've really only been put on this track because of three people the Sheriff describes as 'having a couple of screws loose'. I should be spending all my time focusing on the conventional leads, not this stuff."
"Sounds like you're still doing plenty with the conventional leads. Don't ignore your hunches. They could mean something."
Her pep talk heartened him. "Yeah. You're right. Thanks, Robs."
"How are you doing out there, by the way?" Robin asked. "Bored out of your mind?"
Steve shrugged, even though she couldn't see it through the phone. "It's not too bad, actually. I even went to a show at the bar here on Saturday."
"Oh yeah? Was it any good?"
"Not really," Steve said with a laugh. "Heavy metal, not my thing. The lead singer is actually the initial suspect we had in the case, the one we've cleared since. Eddie Munson."
"Ooooh. He was around your age if I recall. And cute, when I read between the not-so-subtle lines of your interview summary."
Steve blushed. Was he really that obvious? "What? No, I did not say that."
"You didn't have to come out and say it."
"Well, it doesn't matter, he's got a thing with the trucker." He had absolutely not included the anecdote about how he'd burst into Billy's trailer and waved his gun at the two of them while they were fucking in his notes to Robin.
"Who was also very attractive."
"Robin, where are you even getting this? I didn't say anything in my notes about either of them being attractive."
"I can get the subtext. I'm a very attentive reader."
Steve huffed. "Well, it doesn't matter. I'm not gonna have a fling with either of them, they're already an item." He didn't feel the need to disclose that they had propositioned him together.
Robin sighed dejectedly. "That's too bad. You deserve to have a little fun while you're out there all alone."
"Robin!" he protested. "That seems very inappropriate! Eddie was a suspect!"
"Was, Steve. Past tense. Now he's just a hot guy."
Steve bit his lip. Maybe Robin was right. Maybe he didn't have to be so weird about this. But he'd only recently started exploring his sexual interest in men. Taking on two at once seemed… daunting. And a little thrilling.
"Not gonna happen, Robin," Steve insisted.
"Alright, fine. But don't work too hard, alright? I know it's your first field assignment and you really wanna stick it to Creel, but take care of yourself, too."
"I'll try," Steve replied, with no idea how he would.
"I think we should search Chrissy's room again," Steve announced upon entering Hopper's office.
"Alright, sure," Hopper agreed. "Not like we got any other leads so far. You might find something I missed."
Steve was relieved Hopper lacked the territorial posturing tendencies he'd heard so much about from other special agents working joint task forces.
"I can give Clarissa a call, see if it's alright for us to come by," Hopper continued.
Steve waited while Hopper let the phone ring and ring, finally giving up after a full minute. He sighed as he hung up the phone. "Must've unplugged the answering machine. But I know she's there. She hasn't been doing well, apparently hasn't left the house in almost a week. We'll just need to stop by unannounced, I guess."
While they drove the mile or so to the Cunningham house, Steve asked Hopper for details on everything he'd found the first time he searched her room. Sounded like a whole lot of nothing. There definitely hadn't been anything to suggest drug use or a secret relationship with an older man.
The Cunninghams lived in the nice part of town, close to the town square. Steve cataloged the exterior of the house while they waited to see if Clarissa would answer her door. It looked so much like his own family home back in Alexandria, right down to the garage roof just beneath a bedroom window, perfect for sneaking out at night.
Clarissa finally answered the door, after a solid minute of knocking and doorbell-ringing. She looked awful, completely different from her aggressively put-together appearance when Steve had met her at the church. She was dressed in a rumpled bathrobe, with multiple stains that indicated it hadn't been washed recently. Her hair was a tangled, greasy mess. Her face devoid of make-up was pale and drawn, with barely a wisp of eyebrows.
"What do you want?" she spat as soon as she caught sight of them.
Hopper shifted awkwardly. "Clarissa. I apologize for just dropping in. We tried to call ahead but there was no answer. We were wondering if we could search Chrissy's room again, like we talked about at the church."
She sighed, then opened the door wider. "Go ahead. Not like it's gonna help, though."
They stepped inside. "Why do you say that?" Steve asked.
"I used to go through her room every Monday night while she was at practice. But she was sneaky. I never found anything in there."
No wonder Chrissy had wanted to get out of here.
Hopper stayed in the kitchen with Clarissa, letting Steve take his time in Chrissy's room. The room was exactly what Steve expected from everyone's descriptions of her. The walls were a shade of off-white veering delicately into pink. They were decorated with a few posters of adorable cats, one of a wholesome-looking boy band, and a cluster of photos. Steve recognized the people in the photos—many of Jason and Chrissy, some of Chrissy and Nancy, a few with Jonathan. Their ages in the photos ranged from kids to teenagers. Chrissy looked happy in all of them up until the most recent. In those, her smile seemed forced, her good cheer brittle.
Her bed was pink, and covered in an assortment of stuffed animals. They made it look like a child's bed. He couldn't help but wonder if her mother had arranged all of this for her, trying to trap Chrissy in the amber of prepubescence.
Steve started his search with her small writing desk. He went through all of the drawers, sorting through homework assignments and notes between friends, more photos. None of them contained anything remotely interesting. He found a diary, which Hopper had mentioned going through before, but it was clearly a decoy diary. A run-down of the minutiae of Chrissy's life, containing nothing of substance. She must have known her mom was tossing her room every week. He'd dated a girl from a very religious family in high school, and she'd shown him something similar she kept beside her bed for her mother to rifle through when she got suspicious. Where had that girl kept her real diary? He couldn't remember.
He shifted his search to her dresser and vanity. Nothing but respectable clothes and understated makeup there. He felt weird going through a high school girl's underwear drawer, but all he turned up were endless pairs of full coverage white cotton briefs.
He was similarly disappointed by her closet and bedside table. He left no stone unturned, even crawled beneath the bed, pushing his way past an assortment of shoes and dust bunnies. Nothing. There was no evidence here of the girl he'd heard about from Eddie, beginning to question her faith, experimenting with drugs and older men. All he saw here were the trappings of a good Christian girl, happy to stay within the confines of her restrictive life.
He stood in the middle of her room for a few minutes once he'd exhausted all the nooks and crannies. He stared at the smug face of a young blond boy on the poster of the band. Then it hit him—where his girlfriend hid her real diary.
He pulled the poster from the wall, disappointed to see only blank pink-tinged wall beneath. He grabbed the two cat posters and yanked. There, behind a picture of an adorable orange kitten hanging on a rope beneath the words "when life leaves you hanging, don't quit", was a hole, just big enough to fit a hand.
Steve hastily drew on a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and plunged his hand into the hole. He moved his hand around blindly, eventually making contact with a small ledge beneath the opening. Something hard sat on the ledge, vaguely book-shaped. He grabbed it and pulled it out. A diary.
He opened the small book, excitement bubbling in his chest. Before he let himself sink fully into it, he glanced back at the hole. He should make sure there wasn't more in there, before he got carried away with the diary and forgot.
His fingers connected with a small bag, a rectangular box, and a bit of soft fabric. He pulled it all out. A bag filled with white powder, a pack of cigarettes, and a lacy red lingerie one-piece. He grabbed an evidence bag out of his coat pocket and slid all of the finds into it, then sat at Chrissy's desk to dive into the journal.
Flipping through the pages quickly, he was disappointed to find only twenty or so of them filled with writing. Chrissy's handwriting was that cute handwriting he remembered so many girls in high school having—all sloping curves and soft angles, nothing sharp. Many of the i's were dotted with a tiny heart.
He flipped back to the beginning. The first entry was dated December 1st—three months before she died.
December 1
I've never needed a journal like this before. Never had anything worth hiding, nothing that would make my mom upset. She's always been suspicious of me, but this is the first time she's ever been right.
I did something bad last night. Real bad. Let a man kiss me. Not Jason. Jason's not a man, he's a boy. I let this man touch me places nobody but a husband's supposed to touch.
I know he's wanted to for years. I've seen the way he looks at me, ever since I hit puberty. Almost every week since then he's made up some excuse to get me away from my parents and alone with him. He'd talk to me, tell me how clever and pretty and good I was. There were lingering looks and touches that lasted a bit too long, but he never tried anything more than that.
My mom noticed how he looked at me, she picked up on it right away. Said it was my fault, for being too tempting. Even though I always dressed modest. Even on game days, I wore my cheerleading skirt down to my knees. Not like the other girls, who rolled the waistbands up to show more thigh. I never showed more skin than I had to. But she doesn't listen. She thinks it's my fault, even though she was the one who always let him get me alone.
I turned 18 on Friday. When I saw him Sunday, when he got me alone, it was like something had snapped in him. All that want that's been building up for years spilled out. I told him we shouldn’t, that it wasn’t right. But he said love between a man and a woman was beautiful. That he would marry me someday, but it wasn’t right to make him wait til he could. I let him touch me, because who would know what’s right better than him? He made me feel so good. Better than I ever thought I could feel. He told me I was special, that I was precious. And I believed him.
He told me not to tell anybody. Not even to write about it in my diary. He knows my mom, knows her snooping ways. But I need to tell someone. So I started you, diary. I'll hide you somewhere mom will never find you. You'll be the only one who knows.
Steve flipped through the pages, reading as fast as he could. Hopefully Chrissy would name the man soon. There were already hints—he knew her mom, he was a man, not a boy, he'd known Chrissy for a while, she trusted him. Steve flipped to the next entry.
December 13
It's happened a bunch more times. Every time I see him, he finds some reason to get me alone. He tells me I'm special, and that he loves me, that he's always loved me. No one's ever told me I was special before. They tell me that I'm pretty, that I'm good, but never that I'm special.
I've been so happy. He tells me once I'm done with high school we could leave here. He'd take me away, we'd start a new life together. I want that.
Sometimes, though, when I get home, I feel dirty. I scrub and scrub in the shower, and I come out feeling like I'm still not clean. Like I'm covered in a greasy residue that everyone will be able to see on me.
I think mom can smell it. Her eyes have that fire in them that they only get before she's going to have another outburst.
December 27
He was busy around the holidays. I tried a couple of times to see him alone, but it didn't happen.
When I see him in public, he barely even acknowledges me. It's all starting to feel so bad. I shouldn't be doing this. It's wrong, I know it's wrong. But why am I the one that has to do what's right, when nobody else is?
Mom intercepted my early acceptance letter for Harvard. Slapped me so hard I worried it would leave a bruise. Told me I was a lying slut for applying without asking her. Said she knew what I was doing, that I just wanted to let myself get ruined by all the atheist boys there.
I went for a walk in the woods after. Eddie Munson was there. I hear the kids at school talk about him sometimes—the scary drug dealer. But he was so nice to me. He listened. I don't know if anyone's ever really listened to me before.
So her mother had been violent with her. If she'd found out about Chrissy's affair with this older man, what would she have done? Would it have been enough to push her over the edge, to really hurt her kid?
January 3
Sometimes, he doesn't seem like himself. Yesterday, when he had me in his office, it started out so tender. He gave me this beautiful red lingerie set, had me put it on. He made love to me on his desk, told me I was so special, so smart. Made me feel so good.
When he was finished, he got angry. Asked me who else I was putting out for. Told me I was a bad girl, that I was going to Hell. That I was unclean. That I’d tempted him, that I was going to ruin his life. Barely even gave me time to put my clothes back on before he shoved me out into the cold.
January 15
I didn't want to go back after that. It made me feel so angry, and so disgusted with myself. I spent all night awake in bed. Why am I like this? Why am I such a whore? But why is this my fault? He doesn't have to give into his temptations. I didn't ask for this.
In all the Bible stories, it's the woman who gets blamed in the end. But what kind of God would let a man like him off the hook for this, and yet send me to Hell? I got so angry, I wouldn't even go to church yesterday. That didn't do anything to thaw mom's feelings toward me. There's a pretty ring of new bruises on my wrist from where she tried to drag me out of bed.
He begged me to come back tonight. I did. Because I'm weak for the way he makes me feel when he's being good to me. He told me he was sorry, that he'd never talk to me like that again.
He wanted me to try something with him. Pulled out a bag of white powder, portioned it out into lines on the desk in front of him. I'm sheltered, but I'm not stupid. I knew what it was. He said it would make me feel better than I ever felt before. And I wasn't feeling great, so I did it.
He was right. I felt so good. He made love to me for what felt like hours, and I was so happy, happier than I've ever been. It chased away all the dark things I'd been thinking.
But I've never felt worse than I felt when I woke up today. I feel like there's a dark weight sitting on my chest, pressing me down. I just want to cry and cry and never stop. I want to die.
January 27
I didn't feel good again until he gave me more. Days of feeling sadder and number than I've ever felt before. During those days, I believed everything mom's ever said about me. That I'm a slut, that I lead good men astray, that I'm stupid, that Harvard only wants me because I offered to suck the Dean's dick in my personal statement (I didn't, I know I didn't, but I started to believe her the last time she said it, I was so low).
But he gave me more last night, and it all dropped away. I begged him and begged him before I left to give me some to take with me. I promised him I had a hiding place my mom would never find. Finally, he agreed.
While he was getting it for me from another room, I found something on his desk. A matchbook from a special place. I've heard of it before. The boys at school talk about it sometimes, like they'd ever actually have the guts to try to go. Mom has talked about it before, telling me that's where I'll end up if I don't get my act together, selling myself to nasty old men.
Why would he have that matchbook?
February 3
I can't stop thinking about the matchbook. Does he go there? Am I not enough? What could those girls give him that I can't?
My mind won't stop catching on it. I need to go. I need to see for myself.
Steve flipped to the next entry, dated February 7th, and cursed loudly. It was just a string of numbers. A whole page filled with them. A fucking code. He flipped frantically through the rest of the pages. One entry for every day up until the day she died, and all of them in code. On the final page, the symbol he'd seen in the high school, at the Church, and on the stone in Daniels's museum was scrawled in the margins over and over again.
He flipped through all the blank pages in the book, looking for a key of some kind. He scanned the entries he'd gone through already, seeing if there was a clue. But there was nothing.
He thunked his head down onto the desk with a groan. He'd been so close. He could practically feel the revelation coming, Chrissy was about to get it all off her chest, then she'd switched to code? He could only hope it would be an easy code for the cryptanalysts at the Bureau to crack. There was no way Creel could deny him help with this one. This was the victim's diary, in code. Clearly, it deserved priority.
Steve gathered everything up and returned to the kitchen. Hopper looked up gratefully as Steve walked in. It looked like he and Clarissa had just been staring at each other awkwardly the whole time.
"You sure been in there a while," Hopper said, standing. "Find anything?"
Steve ignored Hopper and looked to Clarissa. "Were you ever suspicious of any of the men in Chrissy's life?"
Clarissa snorted. "I was never suspicious of them. It was her I didn't trust."
Steve fought back the urge to grab this woman by the shoulders and shake her. "Any men in particular, then, who you didn't trust her with?"
Clarissa lifted her head and scoffed. "I'm not here to feed the rumor mill, Special Agent."
"You're not," Steve agreed. "You're here to help with the investigation of your daughter's murder. Could you please answer the question?"
She glared at him and crossed her arms over her chest. "There's nobody I know of who would take advantage of Chrissy." She glanced down at the evidence bag in his hands for the first time. "What's that?"
"Evidence," Steve said, and held the bag close in his arms to block her view of what was inside.
"You can't just take things from my own home without telling me what they are!" She stepped toward Steve, reaching out.
"Clarissa, no one's trying to steal anything from you," Hopper said, stepping between the two of them. "You know we've got a warrant to search the house, I showed it to you both that first day I came by. Steve, why don't you just show her what's in the bag?"
Steve had really been hoping he could get out of here without showing her. The diary had made Steve even more suspicious of Clarissa Cunningham. The less she knew about the investigation, the better. But he knew he legally had to tell her.
Steve placed the bag on the table. Clarissa stared through the clear plastic, taking in the lingerie, cigarettes, and white powder. They were covering up the diary, which he hoped she wouldn't notice. She raised a hand to her mouth. "Where was that little slut keeping this?" she spat.
"A hole in the wall. Behind one of the posters."
Clarissa's hands clenched into fists by her sides. "Disgusting. There was always something wrong with that girl." All the anger seemed to leave her in a moment, and she slumped back into her chair. She put her head in her hands and started to cry.
Hopper put a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her head snapped up, face contorted in a snarl. "Get out," she growled.
Steve grabbed the bag off the table and hastily retreated, Hopper following closely behind.
Steve went through the journal with Hopper when they got back to the station. Hopper's eyebrows rose steadily while they read through the uncoded entries.
"How'd she get involved in all of this?" he muttered to himself once they got to the end. "A good girl like her. Where was she going that she'd meet older men who'd prey on her like that?"
"It sounds like she'd known him for a long time," Steve pointed out. "And like her parents, at least her mom, probably knew him as well."
Hopper shook his head. "Not sure I agree with you on that conclusion."
Steve frowned in confusion. "What do you mean? She said her mom was suspicious of the way he looked at her!"
Hopper scoffed. "Teenagers are always paranoid about that sort of thing. Probably just the sign of a guilty conscience."
Hopper had a blind spot where the Cunninghams were concerned. He'd given up his initial suspicion over Phillip's odd reaction to Chrissy's death, brushing it off as a desire to save face. Now, he seemed sure the Cunninghams weren't involved.
"Well, you can't deny Chrissy at least had known this man for a while," Steve said. "That seems clear."
"Sure," Hopper admitted. "But there's all sorts of places she could've met this older man. She did loads of extracurricular stuff. We should start looking at coaches, teachers, that sort of thing."
That idea did have merit, and Steve agreed they'd need to investigate those avenues, but Steve wasn't willing to let the Cunninghams off the hook completely.
"I agree, and we'll absolutely do that," Steve began, "but I also think what's in this diary would give you enough to get a warrant for Clarissa's psych records."
Hopper grunted. "Yeah, I guess. Make me some copies, I'll take 'em back to the judge."
Steve made several sets of copies of the diary, including the encoded pages. He'd need to send those to Robin so they could go to the cryptanalysts at the FBI. After making the copies, Steve took out his notebook to scribble down some notes while everything was fresh in his mind. He flipped past the page with the names of the Harrower families.
"Hey, Hopper?" Steve asked. Hopper looked up from his desk. "Are any of these names of families who still live around Hawkins—Müller, Schmidt, Fischer?"
Hopper nodded. "There's a couple of different families of Schmidts in town, not even sure if they're all related to each other. Mayor's a Schmidt. I think there's some Fischers. Don't know that I ever heard of a Müller, but we got our fair share of Millers."
Steve scribbled this down. "What about Tranchiermesser?" That was a weird name, much less common. If there were still Tranchiermessers around, they'd probably be the actual descendants of the Harrowers.
Hopper shook his head. "Can't say I ever heard o' that one."
Steve glanced at the last name on his list. "Königheim?" When he said it out loud, the similarity to Cunningham became obvious. "Oh, do you think they changed their name to Cunningham to sound less German, maybe?" He perked up. Maybe he was finally onto something with the Harrowers.
"Where you getting these names? What's this about?"
"The Harrowers. I looked at Daniels's stuff, and those five names kept coming up from the organization. Was trying to figure out if any of the families were still around."
Hopper dragged a hand across his face with a sigh. "Look, kid. I'm gonna give you a little advice. Shit like this? Murders, kids going wild? It's not mysterious. If you try looking for secret organizations and conspiracies to explain it all, you're gonna lose it real fast."
Steve bristled and felt his face grow red. "But the symbol I've been seeing around town! It was in Chrissy's journal, and on a rock near the Harrowers' old meeting house. And you have to admit Königheim sounds a whole lot like Cunningham."
"You're grasping at straws. This is gonna get you nowhere." Steve felt his stomach drop, full of shame. Hopper was scolding him. "Focus on the actual evidence, or we're never gonna find out who did this."
That was rich coming from Hopper, who refused to look at the evidence when he didn't like what he saw. Steve snapped his notebook shut and stood from his chair.
Before he could say anything he would regret, Hopper's phone rang.
"Sheriff Hopper," he said snappishly.
His face changed once he heard who was on the other line, and he sat up straighter in his chair.
"Mayor Schmidt. How can I help you?"
Steve could hear someone yelling on the other line. Hopper winced.
"I hear you, but we're doing everything we can." Hopper listened for a few more moments. "Tomorrow night? But I don't have anything to tell them." More angry yelling from the mayor. "Alright. Alright. I'll see what I can do." Pause. "Yeah, I'll have the FBI guy there with me." He hung up with a groan, dragging a hand down his face.
"Mayor says we need to have a town hall meeting tomorrow," Hopper told Steve. "Says people are getting antsy, they need an update."
"But we don't have an update," Steve pointed out.
Hopper snorted. "Yeah, I told him. But he's getting a lot of pressure from the Chamber of Commerce. Supposed to be a big development company coming to look at some land in town to potentially build a new subdivision. They're worried it won't look like a good opportunity if we're still in the middle of a murder investigation."
Steve felt supremely out of his depth. There hadn't been a class on hostile town hall meetings in rural America during his time at the Academy. This was probably going to be something of a trial by fire.
The next evening, Steve sat behind a long table in front of a large crowd in the town hall. More people than he'd even seen in the town so far were crammed into the meeting room, sitting on folding chairs and talking among themselves. Steve shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he felt sweat bead under his arms and on his palms. There were so many more people here than he'd expected, and none of them seemed happy.
Steve watched them all as he waited for the mayor to arrive and start the meeting. The Cunninghams sat in the front row. Phillip's eyes were rimmed red from crying, while Clarissa's eyes were vacant and dull. A steady stream of concerned townspeople approached them, muttering hushed words and providing comforting pats on the arm. Clarissa ignored them all. Phillip looked like he wanted to start crying again. Pastor Carver and his son were seated directly behind them. The Pastor leaned forward every few minutes to whisper something in Phillip's ear and give him a firm squeeze on the shoulder.
Steve recognized Dustin and his cohort of kids clustered near the center of the room, arguing animatedly. One of them was missing—the redhead, Max. He spotted her sitting with an angry-looking older man near the center of the room, a tired woman on her other side. Max didn't look happy, arms crossed over her chest and a stormy frown on her face.
Joyce was seated nearby talking to a few other women who looked around her age, including Claudia. There was no sign of either Eddie Munson or Billy Hargrove. Not that Steve was looking for them. He spotted Wayne Munson sitting by himself toward the back of the room, but Eddie wasn't with him.
Mayor Schmidt walked in a few minutes after the meeting had been scheduled to start. Everyone turned when he strode into the hall trailed by an attractive young woman with a clipboard and pen. He paused beside the Cunninghams. Phillip stood and reached out to shake his hand. The mayor drew him in for a back-clapping hug, whispering something into his ear. Phillip laughed weakly and sat back down. The Mayor paused to pat Clarissa on the head. Like a dog.
Hopper greeted the mayor with a gruff handshake.
"This the FBI man?" Schmidt asked, directing a contemptuous glance at Steve.
"Yeah, Special Agent Steve Harrington," Hopper said.
Schmidt barked out a condescending laugh. "Hawkins only warrants a test mission for a rookie, huh?"
Steve bristled. "I'm a Special Agent, sir. They don’t just give that title to anyone."
"Alright, kid, don't get your panties in a twist." Steve blushed crimson. He hated Mayor Schmidt. "Hope you guys have got something for me. Town's out for blood."
"Would've been better to wait a few days," Hopper said again.
Schmidt sighed. "Just dress it up real nice. Make it look pretty. I'm sure even you can manage that." He clapped Hopper a little too firmly on the shoulder, then turned to the microphone at the podium in front of him and flipped it on. He tapped the microphone twice, filling the room with reverberating feedback. The noise of the crowd quieted, and people took their seats.
"Good evening, everyone," Mayor Schmidt began. "Thank you so much for coming out tonight." He shuffled through a few papers in front of him, pretending to look at them. Most of the pages were blank; one was a flyer for a missing dog. "As you all know, we recently lost a treasured member of our community in a truly heinous act of violence. Chrissy was loved by all who knew her. A shining light in Hawkins—a brilliant student, a talented cheerleader, a devout Christian. Always willing to lend a hand and spread joy. She was murdered in this town we all call home. I know you all want answers. You want to know how something like this could happen in this cherished community we've built. Sheriff Hopper is here today, joined by Special Agent Herring of the FBI, to give you an update on the investigation, and answer your questions." Steve did his best not to react to the mangling of his last name.
Hopper stood and cleared his throat. He clenched his fists rhythmically at his sides. Steve could see the sweat beading on his brow. "Good evening, folks. I can’t give away any sensitive details in this ongoing investigation, but I can tell you that it is proceeding smoothly. We've collected forensic evidence, including DNA, which is being analyzed at the FBI. We're in the process of exhaustively interviewing close contacts of Chrissy, and anyone who may have seen her the night she died. We have some promising leads that we're following, and hope to have more to tell you in the near future."
He was doing a great job saying absolutely nothing in a lot of words.
"Special Agent, anything to add?" Hopper turned to Steve expectantly.
Steve froze. Hopper hadn't told him he was going to do this. He'd told Steve he would take the lead, since he understood the community. Steve hadn't prepared anything to say. He wasn't even remotely ready to speak about the case in front of a group. He opened and closed his mouth several times. It was so dry he wasn't even sure he could speak. Finally, he managed to stammer out, "Uh, n-nothing to add, Sheriff."
Hopper frowned in disappointment. If he'd been hoping for Steve to say something better than that, why hadn't he given him a heads up?
Hopper turned back to the crowd. "Any questions?"
An attractive blonde woman about his mom’s age stood. She’d been sitting next to the girl Steve had interviewed his first day in town, Nancy Wheeler. “Should we be thinking about a curfew for our kids? Until you catch the killer?”
“There’s no reason to think a curfew’s needed, Mrs. Wheeler,” Hopper said. “Long as your kids exercise caution around strangers, as I’m sure you’ve taught them, there should be nothing to worry about.”
Steve shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He'd told Hopper what he'd read in the diary; all the facts pointed to Chrissy having known her killer well. But Hopper continued to resist that obvious conclusion.
Mrs. Wheeler nodded and sat down, looking relieved.
A tall, gruff-looking man stood. “Frank Nelson’s been overspraying his fields the past three years. Killed some o’ my cows last year. What’s the plan to keep that from happening this year?”
Hopper sighed at the non sequitur and opened his mouth to speak.
“You liar!” another man yelled, interrupting Hopper before he could begin. He stood and pointed a finger at the first man. “You just ain’t feedin’ your cows enough!”
The first man sputtered angrily. “You don’ know what yer talkin’ about!”
“Fellas,” Hopper yelled into the microphone, cutting off the argument. “That’s enough. This isn’t a regular town hall meeting, we’re just here to talk about the investigation.”
The men glared at each other, but sat back down. “Any questions about the investigation?”
The pastor stood from his seat. He turned so that he could see both the crowd of people and the podium where Steve, Hopper, and the mayor sat. "Not a question, so much as an announcement." He flashed an apologetic smile at Hopper. "We'll be hosting a vigil at the church tomorrow night, to remember Chrissy. She was a bright light in our community, and we're all feeling her loss. All are welcome to come share in a celebration of her life."
A muscle twitched against Hopper's cheekbone. "Thank you, Pastor," he said, his voice conveying a little of the annoyance he was surely feeling. "But we're going to limit the rest of this session to questions." He glanced over at the warring farmers. "About the case."
Jason Carver stood. His father tugged on his arm, trying to get him to sit back down, but Jason threw him off. "I have a question. Why haven't you arrested Eddie Munson?"
Murmurs spread through the crowd.
"Edward Munson's no longer a person of interest," Hopper replied. "Anyone else?"
"Do you think the killer will strike again?" a woman's voice called from the back at the same time as Jason Carver yelled, "That's bullshit!"
The murmurs intensified. People shifted in their seats to stare at Jason. "He was meeting her in the woods for months before her murder. He's a criminal. A predator."
"Now, look here, son," came the gravelly voice of Wayne Munson. He stood from his seat near the back. "That's slander right there. My Eddie ain't no predator. He's been cleared by the authorities, fair and square."
Jason turned toward Wayne with a snarl. "Your Eddie is a drug dealer, a low life. He ruined her." His voice caught on a sob.
"Jason, calm down," Pastor Carver said, grabbing Jason's arm.
"I won't calm down!" Jason yelled. "Not until I get justice for Chrissy. We all know there's something off about Munson. He's running a Satanic club for kids, pumping drugs into the high school. This community needs to be protected from him."
There were murmurs of assent from many in the room, while others just shifted uncomfortably.
"You can't just spread lies like that!" Wayne yelled. He started to move toward the front of the room, toward Jason.
This was getting out of hand fast. Steve stood and leaned into the microphone, channeling his father with every ounce of courage he could muster. "Excuse me, everyone," he said in his loudest voice. Feedback rippled through the hall to a chorus of groans. "We've used the extensive resources of the FBI to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Eddie Munson could not have possibly killed Chrissy Cunningham. We'd ask that you please refrain from speculating on this ongoing investigation. If you have any information that you feel we should have, please call the open tip line through the Sheriff's office. Thank you. That's all."
He stood and shoved Hopper toward the edge of the raised platform they'd been seated on. Hopper looked surprised, but followed Steve's lead to close the conference. The mayor sputtered in outrage at the impromptu conclusion, but Steve walked right past him, projecting an air of confidence he didn't feel.
He pushed his way hastily through the doors to the town hall. He ran directly into Doris on the steps. She stood just in front of the door, practically blocking the exit. Steve steadied her after he bumped her so she wouldn't fall. "Excuse me," he said. "Are you alright?"
She stared at him with huge eyes from behind her glasses. A rat poked its head out of her coat. "My rats saw something. The night Chrissy died."
Steve stared down at the rat. A second rat popped its head out, then a third. "Did they?"
She nodded. "Ask them. Ask them what they saw."
Steve glanced over at Hopper, who shrugged. Steve let out a nervous laugh, refusing to seriously ask the rats a question.
"Thought so," Doris said with a contemptuous sniff. She turned and walked away, whispering to her rats.
Steve and Hopper stared after her for a few moments, then walked to the parking lot. "Well," Hopper said with a big sigh once they got to their cars. "That didn't go great."
"No, it didn't," Steve agreed. "You think Jason's gonna be a problem? Try to take matters into his own hands?"
Hopper grunted. "That kid’s all bark and no bite. He doesn't have the backbone to go after Munson."
Steve remembered Eddie's account of Hopper's lackluster response when he was targeted previously. Steve wasn't sure he trusted Hopper's read of the situation. "I hope you're right," he said. The last thing they needed was a teenage vigilante.
Chapter 6: Seminal Roots
Summary:
Steve goes to the Hideout to drown his frustrations, and finds more than one way to unwind.
Notes:
This is a bit of a shorter chapter, but the smut is finally starting! To give you a breather after the emotional intensity of the prior chapter.
Chapter-Specific Content Warnings
- Alcohol use
- Explicit sexual content (blow jobs, hand jobs, anal fingering)
- Under-negotiated kink
- Spanking and other light BDSM sort of things
Chapter Text
Steve sat on his bed after he got home from the town hall meeting, attempting to organize his thoughts by dictating his notes for the day to Robin. It wasn't going well. He kept getting distracted by the lingering discontent he felt over the way Hopper treated his theories, and his unwillingness to believe that Chrissy had been murdered by someone close with her parents. Steve hated the way Hopper treated him like some idiot kid who didn't know what he was doing. Sure, Steve was a rookie, but he was good. And Hopper was ignoring things that he really shouldn't.
Steve felt trapped, hemmed in on all sides by people who wouldn't or couldn't help him. The room felt claustrophobic. He needed to get out, get some fresh air, maybe have a drink.
He was pulling on jeans and a T-shirt before he even had time to think about it. He'd go to the Hideout. They didn't have shows on Tuesdays. Eddie and Billy probably wouldn't even be there. He'd be safe, could have a drink in relative peace, hopefully calm down a little.
The bar wasn't crowded at 8pm on a Tuesday. He slid into a secluded spot at the bar, in the corner away from the door, and nursed his way slowly through a couple of glasses of whiskey. The change of scenery did him some good, and the whiskey didn't hurt. He felt his mood mellow, until the anger was just a low buzz in the back of his mind.
His attention was focused on the prancing horse on the coaster in front of him when two people slid onto the stools on either side of him.
"You look lonely, pretty boy," Billy Hargrove said from his left.
"Can we help?" Eddie asked from his right.
"Do you two always travel as a deranged, flirtatious pack?" Steve asked. The alcohol had loosened his tongue, doing away with his usual awkwardness.
Eddie laughed loud enough that the few other patrons turned to them, and Billy smirked.
"So there is a little bite hidden in there?" Eddie crowed, poking Steve in the chest. "I knew it!" Eddie's hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, unruly curls framing his face. He had eyeliner on, which made his eyes look even bigger.
Steve brushed his hand away. "I have plenty of bite," he insisted. "But I'm also a professional."
"You're off duty now, though," Billy said. Steve turned on his stool. It was off-putting being between the two men. He could only look at one of them at a time. Billy was wearing sinfully tight jeans and a beautiful burgundy button-down shirt, with far too many buttons undone. Steve looked up into Billy's face. Goddamnit, he was so fucking pretty. Those eyes.
"I am," Steve agreed.
Eddie flagged Rick down, and ordered three more glasses of whiskey. Steve knew he should probably decline. It was getting late, and he had a lot on his plate for the next day. But they were crowding in close against him, warm bodies pressed on either side, and he wanted this. He was only 23, for fuck's sake. He wanted to have a little fun.
He scooted his stool back so he could look at both of them at the same time, and took a gulp of his third glass of whiskey.
"So, how you enjoying Hawkins, Harrington?" Billy asked.
Steve shrugged. "It's fine."
Eddie laughed. "It's not fine. It's a fucking cesspool. You're not gonna offend anyone here with honesty, Stevie."
When had they gotten on a nickname basis?
"It's really okay!" Steve insisted. "Just a small town, like any other small town."
"I don't know about that," Billy muttered.
"What? You think it's worse?"
"It is," Eddie interjected. "I lived all over Indiana when I was a kid. Plenty of different small towns. They all suck, but Hawkins is by far the worst. There's something… wrong about this place." He shuddered.
Steve raised his eyebrows. He hadn't expected Eddie to be the superstitious type. But he did have to admit something felt weird about Hawkins.
"You've seen it," Billy said. "The little circle of nice, pretty houses, the same families always somehow managing to thrive, while the rest of us break down bit by bit, choking on the smoke from the steel mill. How are they still doing so well, while the rest of us fall apart?"
"Isn't that just… capitalism?" Steve suggested weakly.
Eddie shook his head with a tired smile. "If only."
Steve shifted uncomfortably. All the talk about thriving families at the expense of the rest of the town made him think of Hopper and the Cunninghams. His jaw tightened as his anger punched back through the haze of whiskey.
"Yeah," Steve muttered. "Guess it is a bit fucked up."
Billy's face lit up at Steve's admission. "Oh, is Princess finally starting to see the cracks in the beautiful facade of Hawkins?"
Steve swatted at his arm. "Don't call me Princess. And I always saw the cracks."
Billy grabbed Steve's hand with his own and laced their fingers together, giving Steve's hand a firm squeeze before dropping it. "Sure you did."
Steve rolled his eyes.
"It's not all horrible, though," Eddie said. "There's some pretty shit. Out by the quarry, you can get some really nice stargazing. 'Specially on a cold night like this." He grinned mischievously and put a hand on Steve's thigh. "You wanna come see?"
Steve worried his lip between his teeth. This was a bad idea, right? Billy and Eddie were obviously angling for some kind of threesome with Steve, weird as that seemed. And Steve was here on an investigation. He shouldn't really fuck any of the people in this small town, but especially not people who were peripherally involved in the investigation.
He was still keyed up from the anger he'd been feeling earlier in the evening, though, and all that pent-up energy needed someplace to go. He needed an outlet. Neither Billy nor Eddie seemed like the type to read more into this than what it was. He could have a little fun while he was here, and there'd be no hard feelings when he left.
He glanced down at his now-empty glass. How much of that was the whiskey talking? Fuck it.
"Alright," Steve finally said. "Show me this beautiful quarry."
Billy and Eddie both grinned, showing way too many teeth. Steve felt a little bit like prey.
The three of them sat on a blanket that Eddie pulled out of his van. They perched at the edge of the quarry, staring up at the sky. Steve hadn't thought they'd actually look at the stars at all, but apparently it hadn't just been a front for Eddie. He'd really wanted to show Steve the stars.
"We play a game, where we make up our own constellations," Eddie explained from where he lay next to Steve. Steve was, as usual, wedged between the two of them. Eddie pointed straight above them and traced a line between a cluster of stars in a shape Steve couldn't follow. "That's Copious Butticus. The butt constellation."
"You do a butt every time!" Billy complained. "Where's this legendary storytelling originality my pipsqueak sister is always talking about from your dork game?"
Steve felt Eddie shrug beside him. "Butts are funny."
Billy sighed theatrically. He raised his own arm up and traced a long path between a bunch of stars. "That one's Hang Ten. Surfboard of the sky."
Eddie snorted. "Oh, yeah, real original, California."
Billy reached across Steve to swat at Eddie. The motion wafted whatever spicy cologne Billy was wearing at Steve. He shifted beneath the press of Billy's body, willing his dick to behave itself.
"Let's let the boy wonder have a try," Eddie said. "Stevie, what do you see up there?"
"Uhhh." Steve's mind went blank. He wasn't good at just coming up with shit. He traced Orion. "Hunter Dude Constellation?"
"That's cheating!" Eddie yelled. "You can't pick real constellations."
"Okay, okay, I'll try again," Steve conceded. He panicked while he tried to make his brain work more quickly. The buzz of the liquor had worn off, and now he was feeling anxious. But Eddie and Billy didn't rush him. They just laid there beside him, breathing evenly and watching the sky while he thought.
"There," he said, drawing a line between a little group of stars. "A rabbit."
"Oooh, yeah, I see it," Eddie said, though Steve thought he might just be playing along. "What's its name?"
"Um. Roger. Roger Rabbit."
Billy laughed. "Good one. I like it."
The praise made Steve feel warm. He turned his face slightly to look over at Billy. He just wanted to catch a glimpse of the other man's face from the side, maybe get a sense of what he was thinking, but Billy was staring right back at him. Brilliant blue eyes locked with Steve's.
Billy's tongue darted out to wet his lips. Steve felt an ache in his chest from the strength of his desire. He surprised himself by being the one to close the distance between their mouths.
A little huff of surprise escaped Billy before he met Steve's lips with his own. His tongue darted out to wet Steve's lips. Steve felt Eddie shift behind him, and then the press of another set of lips against the side of his neck. Billy's hand cupped Steve's cheek, tilting his head to improve the angle of the kiss. Eddie's arm wrapped around Steve's waist, pulling him flush against his body.
Steve opened his mouth and Billy pressed his tongue in. Steve could taste the whiskey on it, could feel the gentle prick of stubble from Billy's mustache. Eddie scraped his teeth along Steve's neck and pressed his hips into Steve's ass. Steve could feel Eddie's hard cock pressing against him. Steve was hard, too, almost painfully so, trapped in his tight jeans.
Billy slid a leg between Steve's thighs and Steve immediately ground his cock down onto it. He moaned into Billy's mouth.
"Fuck, you even sound pretty," Eddie whispered right next to Steve's ear. His hot breath tickled Steve's skin. Eddie moved his hand lower and slid it beneath Steve's shirt. Steve yelped at the intense cold from Eddie's hand against his warm skin.
"Fucking cold," Steve grumbled.
Billy kissed away the pout forming on his lips and pressed his thigh more firmly against Steve's cock.
Eddie pulled his cold hand from under Steve's shirt, pressing it against the upper part of his cock where Billy's thigh couldn't reach.
"Come to the van with us?" Eddie nibbled on his earlobe. Steve squirmed between them. He wanted that. So badly.
He nodded, pulling his mouth from Billy's.
They stumbled over to the van, their progress slowed by the overwhelming need to touch and kiss each other. Eddie got his mouth on Steve's, his plush lips just as soft as Steve had imagined. Eddie pushed Steve into the back of the van after Billy opened it, then rushed around the side to start the engine.
Steve landed on a thin mattress in the back of the van. Billy climbed in on top of him. Steve scooted back until he was fully inside the van, Billy dragging himself along with him. They collapsed back onto the mattress, Billy nipping at Steve's lips a few times before plunging his tongue back into his mouth.
Steve could already feel the van's heat filling the space around them, thawing out his freezing nose and hands. Eddie crawled over the front seats, joining them in the back. He moved to the end of the van and shut the doors, then shoved Billy off of Steve.
"What the fuck?" Billy said, smacking at Eddie's arm.
"You're hogging him. Share," Eddie demanded. Billy rolled his eyes, but let Eddie move into Steve's space.
Eddie's hands slid beneath Steve's shirt again, less of a shock this time in the warmth of the van. He leaned down to kiss Steve, moving his fingers up to his nipples. He pinched them between thumb and forefinger, rolled them around. Steve keened, pushing his chest wantonly up into Eddie's hands.
He heard the sound of a belt being unbuckled, and glanced over to see Billy beside them, one hand in his pants. Eddie moved his mouth to Steve's neck and bit down. The sharp pain was brief, followed by a gentle suction.
Eddie abruptly pushed himself up to his knees between Steve's legs. He threw his leather jacket off, then drew his shirt over his head.
"Fuck, you too Stevie," Eddie groaned, tugging at the hem of Steve's shirt. "I feel all that chest hair, need to see it."
Steve sat up to divest himself of his coat and shirt. Eddie ran his eyes over Steve's chest hungrily. "Even better than I imagined," Eddie mumbled to himself, then dove in, licking one of Steve's nipples before clamping down on it to suck. Steve yelped in surprise, placing his hands in Eddie's hair.
Billy shifted beside him, pressing himself against Steve's side. He'd lost his shirt, too. He grabbed Steve's chin and turned his head, pulling him into a kiss. Steve took one of his hands from Eddie's head to grab a handful of Billy's hair and tug. Billy let out a full-throated moan. Steve tugged a little harder, and Billy keened.
Eddie's mouth moved lower, trailing kisses and nips down Steve's belly. He buried his face in Steve's crotch, nuzzling Steve's dick through his jeans. Steve extricated his mouth from Billy's and looked down. Eddie mouthed over him, leaving wet patches of saliva on his pants.
Billy moved around behind Steve, kissing his upper back, his shoulders, the nape of his neck. He shifted around, the clanking of his belt filling the room again, and then Steve felt Billy's bare cock press against his lower back. He could feel Billy's hand moving up and down the shaft, could feel the sticky pre-cum dotting onto his skin.
Eddie fumbled Steve's jeans open and pulled Steve's cock out. Billy hooked his chin over Steve's shoulder. "I love watching him give head," Billy said in a deep voice.
Eddie licked the tip of Steve's dick, humming in pleasure at the taste of his pre-cum. Steve's hips jolted in an involuntary attempt to shove himself inside of Eddie's mouth. Eddie tutted and moved his hands to Steve's hips, holding him firmly.
"Let me set the pace here, big boy," Eddie said. "You won't regret it."
"You really won't," Billy confirmed.
Eddie took the first few inches of Steve into his mouth, hollowed out his cheeks, and sucked. Steve stuttered out a sigh, leaning back into Billy, who rewarded him by sucking a bruise into the skin of his collarbone. He could still feel Billy's hand moving on his cock behind him, his fist bumping the small of Steve's back with each stroke.
Steve moaned as Eddie took him a littler deeper. He pressed his tongue up firmly on the underside of Steve's cock, moving it in little peristaltic waves. One of his hands moved from Steve's hip to his balls, gently squeezing them. Eventually, he pushed himself down further, swallowing around Steve's cock as it pressed into his throat.
"Fuck," Steve muttered.
"He's perfect, isn't he?" Billy whispered against Steve's ear. Steve nodded as he felt Eddie's nose press against his pelvis, felt his throat contracting around him. Steve was briefly confused at hearing Billy spit behind him, but then Billy slid a hand into his pants and dipped a finger into Steve's crack. He gently stroked over his hole. Eddie pulled back slightly for a moment, wiggling his tongue.
Steve keened as Eddie swallowed him back down at the same time that Billy pressed his finger into his hole. It wasn't going to go in very far without lube, but the slight stretch and the feeling of being filled was enough to drive Steve wild. He thrust up into Eddie's mouth, overcoming the now one-handed hold Eddie had on his hip. Eddie took it like a champ, not even gagging, just pulling back slightly.
Billy pressed in a little bit further and Eddie took Steve all the way in again. That was all it took to have Steve shooting off into Eddie's mouth with a shockingly loud groan. Billy wrapped his free arm tight around Steve's waist as Steve shook through his orgasm. Eddie swallowed it all down.
Steve hardly even noticed Billy pulling his finger from his ass and Eddie letting his cock drop from his mouth. He panted big heaving breaths as he came down from his orgasm. He felt Billy's hand still moving against his back, fisting his own cock. Eddie sat up, thumbing an errant drop of cum from the corner of his mouth.
"Can I—return the favor?" Steve asked once he'd recovered the ability to speak.
Billy moved around his body before Eddie could respond. "Nuh uh. My turn."
"He really likes to have something in his mouth," Eddie explained as Billy dove his head down to Eddie's cock. Eddie threaded his fingers into Billy's hair. "Kind of a Freudian oral fixation given the lackluster parenting he's experienced." Billy reached up a hand to flip him off, and Eddie cackled.
The cackle quickly turned to a moan as Billy swallowed his cock. Billy was propped up on his knees with his head down, his ass sticking obscenely up in the air. "Ah, yeah, just like that," Eddie encouraged as his hand tightened in Billy's hair, pulling hard. Billy groaned around his cock. Eddie turned to lock eyes with Steve. "You wanna help him have a good time?" he asked.
Steve nodded, scrambling up to his knees. He positioned himself behind Billy, staring at his perfectly shaped ass. How was this man attractive everywhere? Steve ran his hands tentatively over the soft skin of his asscheeks, then trailed one hand around his side to grasp his cock. Billy jerked forward into Steve's hand.
"Play with his balls," Eddie commanded. "He likes that." Steve complied, gently stroking over Billy's scrotum, moving his balls lightly with his fingers.
Billy whined and pushed his ass back toward Steve. "No, you gotta be rough," Eddie explained. He held Billy's head down on his cock as he fucked up into his mouth. Steve could see drool leaking out around the sides of Billy's mouth, dripping onto Eddie's body. "Tug on 'em hard."
Steve gave Billy's sack a tug, as hard as he was willing to go, which probably wasn't particularly hard compared to Eddie. Billy wiggled his hips in frustration. Eddie fucked up harder into his mouth. "Stay still," Eddie growled, and Billy settled.
Steve stroked Billy's cock with one hand, tugging on his balls with the other. Billy leaked ample pre-cum into Steve's hand, but he stopped thrusting his hips after Eddie told him to stay still. Eddie leaned back on one hand as he moved Billy's head roughly with his other hand wrapped in Billy's hair. He fucked into Billy's mouth at a brutal pace. Billy gagged every once in a while, but that just seemed to spur Eddie on.
"Spank him," Eddie instructed.
Steve stilled. "Does he—does he want to be spanked?" he stuttered.
Billy pulled himself off of Eddie's cock and rasped, "Fucking do it, Harrington. Like you mean it." His voice sounded wrecked. He went right back to sucking Eddie's cock.
Steve had spanked people before in the heat of the moment, but he was pretty sure those light taps weren't what Billy was asking for here. He drew back his hand and brought it down hard on Billy's left asscheek, the sharp slap ringing loudly in the enclosed van.
Billy jerked forward with a moan. Eddie threw back his head with a manic laugh. "Harder," Eddie demanded, and Billy nodded frantically around his cock.
Steve took a deep breath, wound up, and smacked Billy hard on his ass. His hand left a bright red imprint on the pale skin.
"Fuuuuuck," Eddie moaned. "That makes his throat clench up real tight around me, keep going."
Steve moved to the other cheek, smacking just as hard. Billy let out a garbled groan around Eddie's cock. Steve delivered slaps in quick succession, going back and forth between his cheeks as Eddie continued to fuck Billy's mouth.
"Yes, shit, yes, gonna come," Eddie babbled. He held Billy's head down as he came with a loud shout. Steve reached around to go back to fisting Billy's cock, stripping it hard and fast until he felt Billy's cum spurting out onto his hand and the mattress beneath them.
Billy collapsed onto his stomach, his head still buried in Eddie's crotch. Eddie gently tugged him off of his cock. He held Billy's face in his hands and wiped away the saliva and cum that had gotten onto his cheeks. He was so careful with Billy now, like Billy was fragile, like he was precious. It was completely different from how he'd been with him just seconds before.
"You did great, baby," Eddie whispered. Billy smiled up at him dopily. Steve felt like he was witnessing something private. Eddie looked up at Steve, intuiting the discomfort he was feeling. "You did great, too," he said with a lopsided smile. He grabbed Steve by the hand and tugged him forward into a kiss.
Steve went, narrowly avoiding kneeing Billy in the back. Eddie licked into his mouth. Steve could taste his own cum on the other man's tongue. He looked down at Billy when they broke the kiss. Billy's head was cushioned on Eddie's thigh. His eyes were closed. It was the first time Steve had seen him looking like he wasn't about to start a fight. Eddie carded his fingers gently through his blond hair while he looped his other arm around Steve's shoulders, holding him against his side.
"That was okay?" Steve asked in a whisper. He was a little worried he'd gotten carried away and spanked Billy too hard.
Billy cracked one eyelid open. "Was great. But next time hit me harder."
"Always so demanding," Eddie said with a fond laugh.
They sat in companionable silence. Steve wasn't sure how much time passed as he sat there, basking in the warmth of the two other men. He started to drift off against Eddie's shoulder, but managed to jerk himself back awake.
He glanced down at his watch and groaned. He needed to be up and getting ready for the day in two hours.
"I need to get back," he announced.
Eddie shifted Billy off his leg and placed a pillow under his head, leaving him to continue sleeping in the back as he and Steve moved to the front of the van.
"You know where to find us if you want an encore," Eddie told him with a smirk as Steve left the van.
Steve knew he shouldn't, that it was an awful idea. But he also knew he almost certainly would.
Murray took a long pull from his flask, wincing at the bite of the vodka. No matter how much he drank, how much he expected the bite, he could never quite avoid his wince. But it was cold, and he was bored, so he took another drink.
This was his last night in Hawkins until he could come up with more cash, so he planned to spend the whole thing out in the woods, desperate for any type of sighting. If nothing happened tonight, this whole trip would have been just another fucking waste of time and money. But he knew something was going on in Hawkins. The signs of alien activity were all there. He just hadn't been lucky enough to observe anything.
His eyelids drooped. The night drifted into the early hours of the next morning. He jerked awake when his chin hit his chest. He took another sip of vodka and chased it with a swig from his coffee thermos.
It was so quiet. Had it been this quiet the whole time? Murray couldn't hear anything—no noises from nocturnal animals, no rustling of leaves, not even the sound of wind. He shifted uncomfortably. No sound came from the movement of his feet on the forest floor. Shit. Had he gone deaf?
Pressure built in his head, starting behind his eyes and radiating outward through his temples and along his skull. A light flashed in the forest ahead of him. He sat up straight, squinting through the pounding pain in his head. Multiple lights flashed in quick succession. He heard a crack from the trees beside him, and turned his flashlight toward the sound.
A man stood in the trees. Tall, with long, lanky gray hair hanging over his face. He smiled at Murray with every single one of his teeth. His eyes were wide, staring at Murray with a manic intensity. Murray felt an overwhelming sense of wrongness. He wanted to run, to get as far away from this man as fast as he could, but his legs wouldn't move. He was going to puke. He was going to scream. A whining hum built in the air around him, the only thing he was able to hear. It joined the pain already pounding in his head, building and building until Murray passed out.
When he came to, he opened his eyes to the soft light of dawn. He could hear again, ears full of the early morning chirping of birds. He stood up fast enough to make himself dizzy and shambled ahead to where he'd seen the flashing lights.
"Holy fucking shit." Hopper was never gonna believe this.
Chapter 7: Tillering
Summary:
Murray shows Steve and Hopper what he saw in the woods. Steve's relationship with Eddie deepens.
Notes:
Chapter-Specific Content Warnings
- Creepy cultish stuff in the woods
- More explicit sexual content with some light BDSM
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Steve felt like his head had barely hit the pillow after slinking into the inn around 4am when he was rudely awakened by incessant pounding on his door.
His first, sleep-addled thought as he sat upright in his bed with a racing heart was that Creel had somehow found out he'd fucked two ex-persons of interest in his investigation and had come to Hawkins to personally dress him down.
"Get the fuck up, G-man!" Murray's voice cut through the early morning silence of the inn.
Steve's brain slowly came back online as he shuffled over to his door while Murray continued to pound on it. He opened the door to an even more disheveled than usual Murray. His hair stuck up in all directions around his bald pate, several leaves sticking to the tresses, and his eyes were red and wild behind his glasses. He wore a large parka and his mittens were still on his hands.
"I found proof," Murray declared.
Marissa stuck her sleepy head out from the door across the hall. "Murray, shut the fuck up!" she yelled, then slammed the door.
Steve pulled Murray into his room to avoid further disturbance. "What are you talking about?" Steve asked after he shut the door. Murray actually looked less drunk than usual, which made his behavior all the more strange.
"Proof of aliens."
Steve sighed. He should've known this was about aliens.
"Oh, you're not gonna be letting out that skeptical sigh for much longer, boy-o!" Murray crowed. "I saw them last night, and I can take you to the site where they're doing their experiments."
Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. He really didn't need this. Not today, waking up cranky and guilt-ridden after bad decisions and too little sleep. "Murray, I'm not here to investigate aliens."
"Well what about weird altars in the woods with symbols painted on them in blood?" Murray asked, crossing his arms over his chest with a satisfied smirk.
He had reason to be smug. Steve's attention was very much piqued by this revelation. They still hadn't found where Chrissy was killed, just where her body was dumped. "Why would you think aliens did that?" Steve asked.
"I saw lights and heard noises, leading me there," Murray insisted. "An alien ship. And a completely inhuman man."
"What man?" If Murray had seen someone out in the woods by a bloody altar, they needed to know who he was.
"I don't think he was a man," Murray said. "I misspoke. An alien."
Steve let out a frustrated huff. "Well what did he look like?"
"He was about eight feet tall. With gray skin and long, lanky hair. Eyes bugging out of his head. Too many teeth."
Steve didn't know why he was attempting to get any actual information out of Murray. He'd probably been hallucinating from all the vodka. Maybe there wasn't even an altar out there, but he couldn't ignore a potential lead. He opened his door and shoved Murray out. "I need to get dressed. Meet me downstairs in a few minutes."
Steve called Hopper's home line and roused him from sleep to get him to the station sooner, then took less time than he probably should have dressing and trying to make himself presentable. He met Murray waiting impatiently by the door at the bottom of the stairs, still in his coat and mittens.
Murray held up a camera and tape recorder. "Can't wait to see how you guys try to make this one disappear. I've already got plenty of footage I stored up in my room. I won't let you keep the people in the dark anymore."
"Did you get the alien on camera?"
Murray frowned. "No. Auditory interference made me drop my equipment."
Steve rolled his eyes, too tired to stop the automatic response to Murray's melodrama. The damp, mid-March cold helped wake him up on the walk across the street to the Sheriff's department. A fine mist filled the air, covering his jacket in droplets of water. His breath puffed into a cloud in front of him. He couldn't believe Murray had spent all night outside in this. He couldn't fault the man for his level of dedication.
Hopper was just pulling up as they walked into the station. "What the fuck is all this about?" he groused as they slid into his car.
"Murray found something in the woods. Could be the murder site," Steve said. "Or he's hallucinating."
"So you admit aliens were involved in Chrissy's murder?" Murray said, ignoring the latter half of Steve's statement. He looked pleased with himself, like he'd caught Steve out.
"No, I don't think aliens have anything to do with what you found," Steve snapped.
"You look like shit, kid," Hopper said, ignoring the back and forth and glancing at Steve. "You sleep at all last night?"
Steve tried not to blush, and failed. "Yes, I slept. I'm fine."
Hopper raised his eyebrows, then looked to Murray in the rear view mirror. "Where am I going?"
Murray directed Hopper to a service road leading into the woods. They stopped at a bright orange flag Murray stuck in the ground that morning as he left. Murray led them off the service road on foot, following a trail of orange flags into the trees. Steve's mood soured further as his shoes and legs became saturated with the cold moisture from the undergrowth. Every time he took a step his shoes squelched loudly. He eyed Hopper's work boots with envy.
"How much further are you taking us?" Steve asked after what felt like nearly an hour, but in reality had only been twenty minutes.
"Not much further," Murray replied, batting a pine branch out of his way. It flung back into Steve after Murray had passed, smacking him in the chest.
Whatever Steve had opened his mouth to yell at Murray didn't make it out as he stared around the clearing they'd walked into. Murray hadn't been lying, as Steve had begun to suspect on the uncomfortable hike. Right there in the middle of the clearing was a stone structure that could only be described as an altar. An oblong, smooth stone surface sat atop a pockmarked stone rectangle at about waist height. It looked like it had been here in the forest for a long time. Moss grew in the imperfections, and dirt marred the surfaces.
Steve scanned the ground around the altar. There were multiple sets of footprints in the mud. He stuck a hand out to keep Murray from going any closer.
"Did you walk up to it when you found it?" Steve asked him.
"Yeah, of course I did."
Steve sighed. "Alright. We'll need to take photos and get casts of your boots."
"Hold on," Hopper said, looking around the clearing. "How do we even know anything happened here? Could just have been some sorta party or something."
"Better safe than sorry," Steve said, pulling his camera from his pocket to start snapping photos of the boot prints. He approached the altar once he had those documented.
There were large dark stains on the surface. It was difficult to get a good idea of the color, given how wet the stone was from the rain, but they looked suspiciously like blood to Steve. Some of the stains looked old, like they'd been soaking into the stone for a long time, while others were more vivid. Steve bent forward to sniff one of those. A sharp, coppery tang filled his nostrils.
"Blood," he announced.
Hopper frowned. "Could just be hunters."
Steve raised his eyebrows. "Really?"
Hopper shrugged. "No use jumping to conclusions."
"Look at these," Murray said, gesturing at a group of tree trunks nearby. There were dark marks on the trees. Steve walked over to get a better look. Painted on the tree trunks in that same suspicious dark substance was the symbol that was becoming far too familiar. Steve shivered. It was everywhere, on tree trunks going back as far as he could see.
Something bright caught his eye as he gazed into the distance. He pushed his way through the underbrush until he was about 30 feet from the clearing. There, stuck up in a tree, was a vaguely human-shaped figure, about the size of his forearm, made out of what looked like corn husks, or maybe dried wheat. It reminded him of something, but he couldn't quite place what. It was sort of like those straw angels his mom used to force him to make for his grandmother for Christmas. But there was something more recent they reminded him of, just tickling at the edges of his memory.
He glanced around, and saw several more small figures sitting in other trees nearby. He hadn't noticed them at first, but they were everywhere—sitting on branches, hanging from threads, on the ground. The largest hung from a tree branch a few paces from Steve. It was about two feet tall and in the vague shape of a human, with a round head topped by some semblance of a crown. This could be the "alien" Murray has seen.
Wind rustled through the trees, moving the little dolls around. Steve shivered. He couldn't hear Hopper and Murray anymore, just the incessant rustling of the leaves. A high-pitched whine started up in his ears. Pressure built, like he'd dived too deep too fast into water. He fell to his knees with a squelch, sinking into the mud, holding his head between his hands.
Suddenly, he was 17 again, alone in the forest. It was cold, and dark, and wet. He opened his eyes, unsure how he'd ended up here. He'd been on a run on the main trail, and now he was here, on his knees in the mud deep in the woods. He shuffled forward, trying to get his bearings, and stumbled over something hard on the ground.
He looked down into Heather's staring dead eyes. He screamed, scrambling back. There was blood everywhere, so much blood, on the ground, on his hands. How did he get here? What happened? Had he done this?
He shut his eyes and scrabbled backwards as fast as he could go. His back thunked into something solid, and two large hands came down on his shoulders.
"Steve! Are you okay?"
Hopper's voice. Steve opened his eyes. He looked at the ground in front of him. It was empty. No body. He was in a suit, not his running clothes. He was 23 years old.
"What the hell is going on, kid?"
Steve turned to look up at Hopper. "Sorry," he muttered. He stood carefully, wobbling a little. "I thought I saw something." He was covered in mud. There was no way he'd be able to save this suit.
Hopper glanced around the trees. "The fuck are these creepy dolls?" He poked one with a finger. It swayed on its branch. "No wonder you got freaked out."
"We should get a forensics team out here," Steve said. "I think that may be blood on the altar. Figure out if any of it's Chrissy's."
Hopper nodded. "Yeah. Seems real fucked up to hope it's all hers, but I don't know what I'm gonna do if it isn't."
Hopper radioed to the State Police Lab for a forensics team, and drove Murray back into town amid voluble protests. Steve continued to search the woods around the clearing, looking for anything else of interest, but found nothing but more of the straw dolls.
He got out of the way of the forensics team when they arrived with Hopper. They didn't find anything beyond what Steve and Hopper had uncovered, but were able to get material from the possible blood stains for testing. Steve would send it to Robin to compare to Chrissy's samples from her autopsy.
Dusk was falling by the time they finished. Steve was exhausted, cold, wet, and starving. Claudia took one look at him after he walked in and shooed him up to his room to take a hot bath, insisting she'd bring dinner to him. He didn't even have the energy left to politely protest.
He practically collapsed into bed after he'd eaten, sure he would fall asleep automatically. Unfortunately, as soon as he closed his eyes, he was greeted by Heather's staring dead eyes. He tried to push the image from his mind, tried to get anything else to take its place. But it didn't work.
He tossed and turned, so exhausted he felt nauseous, but Heather wouldn't leave his mind. The memory had been so vivid. It had felt like he was there again, waking up on the ground in his running clothes hours from when he had left his house with no idea how he'd even gotten to that part of the woods.
The loss of memory hadn't done anything to help with his case; the police interpreted it as an admission of guilt. He'd only been exonerated following Harry Frampton's unsolicited confession, and the incontrovertible evidence of wrongdoing the police had found in Frampton's basement. No one had ever found out how Steve had ended up out there in the woods with Heather's body. Frampton claimed he'd never seen Steve before, and that Steve definitely hadn't been at the site where he'd dumped Heather's body when he left.
Steve punched his pillow with a groan. Finally, he allowed himself to think back to his night spent in the van with Eddie and Billy, which felt like it had happened weeks ago, not just one night before. He traced delicately over the events in his mind, savoring the memories of the tastes, the sounds, the feel of warm skin against his own.
The reprieve was enough. He drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
Steve called Robin first thing in the morning. It was early, and she was still at home.
"There have been some developments," he said as soon as she answered with a sleepy "hello".
"Whoa, okay," she mumbled. "Give a girl a second to wake up." He heard the rustling of Robin sitting up in bed and grabbing the notepad she always kept on her bedside table. "What's going on?"
Steve filled her in on the events of the day before. "I feel like this has to all be connected to the Harrowers somehow," Steve said. It was a thought he hadn't voiced to Hopper the day before, not wanting a repeat of the condescending conversations of the previous days.
Robin hummed to herself. "It seems like it, definitely. But are we sure this is connected to Chrissy? You said they got samples of the possible blood, right?"
"Yeah, I'll send some to you. Some of it’s O-positive, like Chrissy, but also like about 40% of other white people. We'll need to compare to Chrissy's DNA, see if this could be the murder site."
"Right," Robin agreed. “What about the other girls who went missing along the state line?”
Steve rifled through his binders for a file he hadn’t looked at much since his first week on the investigation, the file for the missing girls along the Ohio-Indiana state line. There were seven girls in the file. All were around the same age as Chrissy, ranging from 17 to 21 years old. Three had been found dead. Two of the dead girls had the same upside down crosses burnt into their skin as had been on Chrissy, and similar wounds in their wrists. One of the remaining four had come home unharmed a few months after disappearing, when she ran out of money in Chicago. The other three had not yet been found, dead or alive.
Steve nodded. “Yeah. The bureau has samples from the three who were found dead, right?”
“They do. Already analyzed and in the database.”
"Great. We can have them compared to the blood from the altar. Can also see if the parents of the girls still missing have anything we could use to extract DNA on them.” It would take way longer than he wanted, but it was something. “Any news from the cryptanalysts?" Steve asked hopefully.
Robin sighed. "They say it looks like a book cipher, but it will take them a bit to crack it without the key."
"A book cipher?" Steve asked. He remembered learning about them but couldn't recall exactly what they were.
"Yeah, the key would be a specific book, or some other piece of writing that has page and line numbers. The numbers in the code refer to pages and words or letters on those pages. But we don't know what book she was using."
"They think they might be able to crack it without knowing?"
"Probably, but it will take a while."
Steve groaned. That seemed to be the theme of this investigation—it will take a while.
"Any ideas what the key might be?" Robin asked. "A book that was important to her, or one she always kept on her bedside table or something?"
Steve shook his head. "No idea," he said miserably. "I didn't find anything like that."
"Keep an eye out. You might still find something." She sounded a lot more optimistic than Steve felt.
Steve and Hopper spent the day in the woods again, this time with Callahan and Daniels, combing the area near the altar for anything they'd missed the day before. Steve made a highly necessary stop at the Walmart a few towns over to buy some boots, which made the whole experience more tolerable.
"These look like mini harvest puppets," Daniels mused as he inspected the straw dolls hanging from the trees.
"Harvest puppets?" Steve asked.
"Yeah, from the picture I showed you. Of the Harrowers."
Steve's heart rate picked up. He'd known there was something here. "That huge puppet next to the festival queen?" Steve clarified.
"Right." Daniels turned a doll over in his hands, his brow furrowed. "This is weird."
"Would other people be making this sort of thing? You said there were no more Harrowers."
"Not sure," Daniels said with a shrug. "Maybe just some kids playing a prank, trying to freak people out."
"How would they even know how to make them, though? And what about the symbol?" He led Daniels over to the cluster of trees with the symbols painted on them.
"Well, shit," Daniels said, squatting down and getting close to the symbols.
Hopper walked over to them with a glowering frown. "Daniels, don't get the kid started on this cult shit again."
"They're not a cult," Daniels protested. "They were just a farming organization."
"Then how is a defunct farming organization associated with a blood-covered altar in the woods?" Steve asked. "Did they do animal sacrifice or something?"
Daniels shook his head. "Not that I know of. But I guess they could have."
Hopper looked relieved. "You saying this might all just be goat blood or something?"
"I guess," Daniels confirmed. He frowned. "But this all looks too fresh. They haven't been around since the 40's."
"Maybe some kids found the stuff in your museum," Hopper said. "Decided to do some weird shit in the woods. You know how kids are."
"Can't imagine a kid ever setting foot in my museum."
Hopper ignored him. "I don't think we can assume this site has anything to do with Chrissy's murder until we get results back from the DNA testing."
Steve kept his temper in check, even though he thought Hopper was the one grasping at straws this time. He didn't want creepy murders happening on altars in the woods around his town, understandably, so he was willing to take any alternate explanation he could find.
"I also don't think we can assume it doesn't have anything to do with her murder," Steve insisted.
Hopper sighed. "We need to keep working the more likely angles here. Need to find this older man. Look into teachers, coaches, that sort of thing. Can't let this side track us."
As much as it pained him to admit it, Steve knew that Hopper was right. It would take weeks to run the DNA analysis, weeks they could spend trying to identify a possible suspect.
In the days that followed, Hopper went back to working on the other Hawkins cases which had fallen by the wayside in the weeks following Chrissy's death. Steve set to work investigating every area of Chrissy's life where she could have found herself alone with an older man. This was the tedious side of being an investigator—endless interviews with people only peripherally related to the case, none of whom had the information Steve needed. He felt like he was getting further and further away from Chrissy with each person he spoke to.
Steve interviewed every one of Chrissy's teachers, all the cheerleading coaches, all the basketball and football coaches, and all of her friends' parents. None of them gave him any indication that they knew what had been going on with Chrissy, or that they had been the one involved with Chrissy. He tried to determine if anyone had been suspicious of her parents, but everyone told the same story. The Cunninghams had seemed like the perfect, loving, Christian family.
His only solace was his evenings spent at the Hideout. Though he'd avoided the bar in the few days after that night in Eddie's van, feeling embarrassed by his poor decision-making skills, he didn't last long. He was bored. He needed an outlet of some kind, or he was going to go insane sitting through interminable interviews everyday.
He was disappointed when he walked into the Hideout a few days after the quarry incident and neither Eddie nor Billy were in the bar. He tried to hide it even from himself, but there was no way he could pretend that he hadn't been hoping to see one of them here. He contemplated turning around and leaving, but he needed a change of scenery. He'd been spending too many nights in that garish blue room.
He ordered a beer and sat at the end of the bar, keeping to himself. There was a group of people around his age clustered at the front of the bar around a karaoke machine. He hoped it didn't get too loud.
He was just getting ready to chug the rest of his beer and flee the piercing shrieks of the girl currently singing "What's Up?" by 4 Non Blondes when a hand smacked him on the shoulder.
"What are you doing here?" Eddie demanded by way of greeting. "Never come here on a Wednesday night. Tammy always monopolizes the karaoke machine, your ears won't survive that."
"How was I supposed to know that?" Steve asked. "And if that's true then why are you here?"
"Gareth called me over to rescue you," Eddie replied, nodding at the kid who was tending bar tonight.
"How does Gareth even know who I am?" Steve was being manhandled out the door by Eddie, only fighting him a little bit. He really did need to get out of earshot of whatever Tammy was doing up there on stage.
"Hawkins isn't a big town. You kind of stick out."
"But why did he call you?" Steve scrunched up his nose in confusion. They'd made it to the parking lot.
"I told him to keep an eye on you if you came in while he was working," he admitted.
Steve frowned. "I don't need anyone to keep an eye on me. I can take care of myself."
"Your brains were about to start bleeding out your ears in there, so I beg to differ."
"Where's your better half?" Steve asked, looking around for Billy.
Eddie cackled. "I don't think anyone's ever called him the better half before. He's on a haul for a week or so."
Steve glanced over at his car, his heart sinking at the thought of going right back to Claudia's. He sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets, digging around for his keys.
"You seem stressed," Eddie said. "Are you stressed? Is the investigation not going well?"
"I can't talk to you about the investigation." Steve grimaced. Especially not after they'd fucked.
Eddie shrugged. "Alright. Suit yourself." He walked up to a motorcycle parked close to Steve's rental. "Ever ridden a motorcycle?" he asked with a grin. His dimples. They should be illegal. They should come with a warning label.
"No," Steve admitted, wrapping his arms around his torso protectively. "They're dangerous."
"But fun. And you look like you need a little fun."
Steve did need a little fun. He felt like he was going to burst with boredom, and Tammy's singing hadn't helped any more than the beer had.
"I really shouldn't," he said, but it sounded weak even to his own ears. Eddie's grin broadened, like a shark smelling chum on the water.
"Oh, come on. It's just a motorcycle ride. And I've even got a helmet you can wear." He pulled a battered old helmet out of a compartment beneath the seat and held it out to Steve while he got himself situated on the motorcycle.
Steve thought about going back to the piles of notes in his room, spending yet another stifling evening by himself going through information he'd already been over exhaustively. He couldn't do it. Just the thought of it made him buzz with anxiety. He grabbed the helmet from Eddie and shoved it onto his head.
"Fine," he grumbled. "But if I die, you have to personally tell my parents and watch my mom cry about it."
Steve clambered onto the motorcycle behind Eddie, trying to keep some space between the two of them. Eddie reached behind him and grabbed Steve's arms, wrapping them around his waist.
"Can't have you falling off," Eddie said as he started the engine. "I hate making moms cry."
Steve appreciated having his arms around Eddie as soon as they began to drive and he slid back slightly on the seat. He tightened his arms around Eddie's waist and pulled himself flush against his back.
The ride was terrifying—being in the open air as he hurtled around roads at high speeds was a new sensation for Steve. He missed the protective metal walls around him. At the same time, it was invigorating—the cold March air blowing directly past him, the sound of the wind roaring in his ears, the smell of gasoline and spring air coming at him unfiltered.
Eddie took them along deserted back roads where the only light for miles was his headlight. Steve loosened up a few minutes in, able to sink into the sensations and enjoy them. The warmth of Eddie's back contrasted with the cold of the night. Eddie took them fast over a series of rolling hills, and Steve couldn't help but let out a loud "whoop" as his stomach fell on the tail end of a drop.
Eddie slowed down, and Steve recognized the area around the trailer park. He pulled in, parking in front of his trailer.
"I'm thirsty, are you thirsty?" Eddie asked, climbing off the bike and offering Steve a hand. "Let's get a drink before I take you back to your car."
Steve absolutely knew where this was heading, and knew he should probably insist on going straight back to his car. But his nerves were still jangling with the sensations of the ride, and he didn't feel like calming down just yet.
"Alright," he agreed, earning himself another dimple-flashing smile from Eddie. His legs wobbled as he stepped off the bike, and he was glad of Eddie's hand in his. It felt like his legs were still buzzing with the vibrations, unsure how to be now that everything was still around them.
The trailer was still full of an overwhelming amount of clutter, but the piles seemed to have some sort of rhyme and reason—books were mostly stacked in one corner, records in another.
Eddie walked to the kitchenette and pulled two beers out of the fridge. He opened the bottles on his belt buckle, earning himself an eyeroll from Steve, and handed one over. Steve's mouth was dry from the ride, and he took a grateful swig, leaning against the wall. Eddie drank from his own bottle, and Steve watched the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, following the line of his neck down to his tattered Dio shirt. He could just see the beginning of one of his tattoos. He shifted uncomfortably as he remembered just how many there were underneath Eddie's clothes.
Eddie lowered the bottle and locked eyes with Steve. He stared at him with that same unsettling overly attentive stare Steve was coming to recognize, the one that made Steve feel like an object of study. Steve wanted to look away but felt like his eyes were locked on Eddie's. He couldn't do it.
Finally, Eddie broke the stare, turning to set his bottle on a table. He walked toward Steve slowly. The way he moved reminded Steve of the panther he'd loved to watch at the zoo when he was a kid. So much energy held visibly contained in its body.
Eddie stopped directly in front of Steve and put his hands on the wall on either side of Steve's head. His body radiated warmth, and Steve ached to close the small gap between them and press himself against Eddie. He could smell the night air still clinging to Eddie, with a hint of cigarette smoke, and the stronger scent of the beer he'd just drunk.
Eddie waited, not moving, staring directly into Steve's eyes. The implication was clear—Eddie wasn't going to make the first move here. If Steve wanted something, he would need to take it himself. And Steve did want something. Eddie's proximity stirred the pool of desire deep in his belly. His skin warmed and his pulse quickened. He leaned forward. He closed the gap.
His lips met Eddie's in a feverish push, their mouths clacking together hard enough to hurt. One of Eddie's teeth nicked his lip and Steve tasted blood. It didn't deter either of them. Eddie buried his hands in Steve's hair and pressed his whole body against him, pushing Steve back into the wall. Steve keened into his mouth, gripping the fabric of his shirt around his waist.
Eddie's tongue bullied its way past Steve's lips, licking into his mouth. One of his legs slid between Steve's and pressed up into Steve's cock. Steve rubbed himself down onto it wantonly, not even caring how desperate his movements were, just needing more pressure, more of everything.
Steve shoved his hands up under Eddie's shirt, dragging his nails over the soft, warm skin of his sides. Eddie groaned as he moved his head to Steve's neck. He licked and nipped at the skin there, soft followed by sharp in rapid succession. Steve tried to press himself even harder into Eddie, grinding his hips down.
Eddie pulled Steve away from the wall, detaching his mouth from his neck, and pushed him toward the hallway on the other side of the trailer. Steve went, tripping over his feet in his haste to get to where Eddie was leading him. Eddie trailed behind Steve closely, coming in frequently to drop more kisses onto his neck, to run his hands up Steve's sides, to reach around and grab his dick.
They ended up in a bedroom lit only by a dim lamp in one corner. Steve let Eddie push him down onto the bed and climb on top of him. Eddie threw off his own shirt, baring all of the tattoos Steve had been lusting after just a few minutes prior. Steve's eyes landed on a framed photo on the bedside table as they tracked Eddie's thrown shirt—Billy and Eddie sitting outside somewhere, with Billy making an annoyed but somehow also pleased face as Eddie kissed him on the cheek.
"Wait," Steve said as Eddie's hands moved to pull off Steve's shirt. "What about Billy?"
"Oh, he's not here today," Eddie said, panting, his brow furrowing in confusion. "I told you that already. You're gonna have to be content with just lil ol' me, but I promise I'll give it my all." He grinned.
"No, I mean, isn't he going to be mad at you?"
Eddie laughed. "For fucking you? No. He's gonna be jealous, because I got you all to myself and he didn't." He frowned. "He'll probably make me leave the room next time or something, so we're even. Which will be annoying. But, whatever, that's Billy for you."
"But—what—aren't you two together?" His eyes darted over to the photo. Steve was thoroughly confused by the relationship dynamics here.
Eddie looked over at the picture, too, with a fond smile on his face. "Yeah, sure. But not in a traditional way. You really think he goes out on all those long hauls and doesn't fuck anyone else the whole time? Or that he would expect me not to fuck anyone while he was gone? I'm telling you, the only reason he'll be pissed is because I got you all to myself and he didn't."
As outlandish as that sounded, Eddie did seem sincere. And that did fit with what little Steve knew of Billy so far.
Eddie tugged at the hem of Steve's shirt. "Alright?" he asked.
Steve nodded. "Alright."
Eddie pulled Steve's shirt over his head. He stared down at Steve's chest with a big smile on his face. "All this fucking hair." He ran his fingers through Steve's chest hair, gently tugging. "I love it."
That wasn't a compliment he'd gotten before. Eddie pinched both of his nipples at the same time between thumb and forefinger and gave them a gentle twist. Steve's breath stuttered out of his mouth with a series of low grunts. His erection had flagged during their conversation about Billy, but now it was coming back full force. He liked the sting of pain from Eddie's twisting.
Steve's hands shifted restlessly on the bed as he tried to decide where to put them. In Eddie's hair? Behind his own head? Eddie solved the problem for him, letting go of one of his nipples to pin Steve's hands lightly above his head. He slid his other hand down Steve's torso and leaned forward to kiss him. Steve loved the feel of the full weight of Eddie's body pressing him into the bed while pinning his hands, the smell of Eddie's shampoo as his hair draped around their heads in a curtain. Eddie was a sloppy kisser, his mouth wet and chaotic, licking into Steve with abandon and minimal finesse. Steve had never been kissed like this before. He felt claimed, and contained, trapped in this bed beneath Eddie. He felt like he could let go.
Eddie fumbled one-handed with Steve's jeans, thumbing the button open and pulling down the zipper. He slid his hand inside Steve's boxers without even breaking the kiss. Steve moaned into his mouth as Eddie gave his dick a firm squeeze. He swiped his thumb through the precum beading at the slit.
"So wet," Eddie panted against Steve's lips. "You want it bad, don't you? Need someone to take care of you?"
Steve writhed beneath him with an affirmative whine. Eddie released Steve's hands. "Keep them there," Eddie commanded. "Think you can be good and do that?"
Steve nodded frantically. He wanted to be good. He kept his hands clenched above his head. Eddie moved down his body, pulling a nipple into his mouth and biting down. Steve yelped and twitched beneath him.
"Too much?" Eddie asked, glancing up at Steve.
"N—no," Steve stammered. "Just a surprise."
Eddie grinned wide, showing off all his teeth, sharp and white. He moved his hand lower and tugged gently at Steve's balls, then harder, until Steve whimpered. "You like it a little rough?" Eddie asked, biting the soft skin of Steve's belly just below his navel.
"Looks like I do," Steve said with a breathy laugh, glancing down at his very hard cock in Eddie's hand.
Eddie pulled Steve's jeans and boxers off and nuzzled into the vee where his thighs met his torso. He took a deep breath, followed by a satisfied noise.
"Are you sniffing me right now?" Steve asked incredulously.
"Yeah," Eddie admitted with no shame. "You smell great." He licked the precum from the tip of Steve's cock, drawing another yelp from Steve, and slid a finger back to poke at Steve's hole. "You like to be fucked?"
Steve's dick twitched in answer. Eddie laughed. "You do, huh?" Eddie licked up Steve's dick, drawing it into his mouth for one glorious second before letting it fall out. Steve whined and shifted his hips impatiently.
"Relax, princess. I think you'll like this next bit." Eddie shoved Steve's legs up so his knees were resting on Eddie's shoulders, then grabbed Steve's cock and balls and held them out of the way while he licked from Steve's asshole up to his taint. Steve hadn't been expecting that. It punched a startled moan out of his chest. Eddie didn't even give him a second to adjust before he began to lick in earnest.
The noises were positively obscene—sloppy licking noises and contented hums from Eddie paired with wanton moans from Steve. Eddie's tongue pressed firmly against Steve's taint, and against the furled rim of muscle at his asshole. It pushed in, fucking wetly into Steve as he felt Eddie's drool drip down his crack. It felt so good that Steve forgot himself, and reached down to tangle his hands in Eddie's hair.
Eddie immediately reacted, sitting up and giving Steve a sharp smack on the inner thigh. Steve yelped and closed his legs. "Arms above your head," Eddie growled. "Or do I need to get out the handcuffs?" Steve squirmed. The pain faded from his thigh, leaving only a warm ache. He pressed his legs together to feel the ache more acutely. He liked it. "Wouldn't that be a sight for sore eyes?" Eddie continued. "My very own FBI agent, handcuffed to my bed."
Steve's stomach dropped out in some sick combination of arousal and shame. He wanted that, more than he felt comfortable admitting. He threw his hands back above his head before Eddie had the chance to do anything about it.
"There you go," Eddie said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Knew you could be a good boy."
He went back to his enthusiastic rimming, Steve's asshole slowly opening beneath his ministrations. Eddie added a finger to the mix, sliding it in beside his tongue. Steve drew in a sharp breath as his body adjusted to the stretch. Eddie squeezed his hand where it held Steve's balls. Steve moaned and let his legs open even wider, nearly sliding off of Eddie's shoulders. Eddie slid a second finger in. Steve hissed at the initial burn—saliva didn't make for the best lube—but reveled in the feeling of being filled.
Eddie sat up and dropped Steve's legs, running an arm across his mouth. He looked down at Steve, taking in the leaking cock pressed against his belly, the multiple bite marks on the skin of his abdomen. "Fuck, you're pretty," Eddie said reverently.
He scrambled over to his bedside table, and Steve heard the telltale crinkle of a condom opening, then the snick of a lube bottle. Eddie situated himself back between Steve's legs and tapped one of Steve's arms. "Hold your legs up," Eddie demanded.
Steve grabbed his legs behind the knees and held himself open. Eddie stared down at his asshole, his gaze intent. He pushed two fingers slowly into Steve, then pulled his rim down, like he was opening Steve for some sort of inspection. Steve squirmed, embarrassed by the attention somewhere so private.
"Why are you wiggling around like that?" Eddie asked, his voice sharp. "You're so pretty. I think I wanna ruin you." Eddie leaned forward, pursing his lips, then Steve felt a wet glob of something hit his asshole. Eddie had just spat. In his asshole. All of Steve's nerves lit up with embarrassed arousal as he made a high-pitched keening noise he'd never heard come out of his body before.
The hunger in Eddie's eyes was plainly visible as he pushed forward, shoving his cock into Steve in one go with a low grunt. Steve yelled out his pleasure, sure the whole trailer park could hear him at this point.
Eddie paused after Steve's yell, then leaned forward to kiss him, doubling Steve over into some kind of pretzel shape. He thrust into Steve as he continued to ply him with the sloppiest of kisses, barely pulling out at all before shoving himself back in, like he couldn't bear to have any less of himself inside of Steve. He kept going like that, just barely fucking into Steve, unwilling to take his mouth from Steve's, for so long that Steve started to feel the beginnings of friction burn on his face from Eddie's stubble.
Finally, Eddie pulled his mouth back with a guttural moan, moving upright enough to start pounding into Steve. He pulled his cock all the way out on each thrust and then slammed himself back in hard. Steve’s legs slid from his hands with the force of the thrusts and fell to the bed. Eddie grasped his hips and tilted them up until Steve's moans announced that Eddie was hitting his prostate. Eddie held Steve in that position so he could hit Steve's prostate with each thrust.
Steve threw his hands back up over his head, grabbing the slats of the headboard for something to hold onto. Eddie kept up his brutal pace, sweat dripping down the sides of his face and his chest, his breathing heavy. He reached for Steve's cock where it bounced against his belly. He grasped it and stroked. Steve felt his orgasm overtake him with a sudden force he'd never before experienced. He came with a primal shout, so hard a few ropes of cum hit him in the face.
Eddie dropped his cock and resumed his grip on Steve's hips. Eddie lifted one of his own legs up to put his foot on the bed for extra leverage, and pounded into Steve so hard Steve thought he might rearrange some of his organs. The overstimulation of being fucked that hard right after an intense orgasm was almost painful, but luckily it didn't take Eddie long. He came with a shout as he buried himself deeper inside of Steve than he'd ever known someone could go.
Eddie trembled through the aftershocks, then slowly lowered Steve’s hips back to the bed. He tied off the condom and threw it across the room toward what Steve hoped was a trash can but really just looked like a pile of dirty laundry, then he collapsed on top of Steve.
He was drenched in sweat and overly warm. It should have been uncomfortable to have Eddie's full weight lying on top of him, but Steve found he rather liked it. The sex had been intense, and having Eddie lay on him was grounding. It felt like Eddie was slowly pulling him down out of the clouds, back to earth.
Their panting breaths gradually slowed until they were breathing in time, their chests rising and falling together. Eddie eventually shifted off of Steve some time later, but kept an arm wrapped firmly around his waist, and tugged Steve's head onto his own chest. He reached down to grab a blanket it and pull it on top of them.
Eddie stroked a hand up and down Steve's back lightly. Steve felt like he was beginning to drift off to sleep when Eddie's voice rumbled in his chest beneath Steve's ear.
"How'd you get into the whole FBI thing?" he asked, apropos of nothing. "Billy said you were some basketball hotshot a few years ago. Doesn't really seem like a jock career. I thought cops were the jocks."
Steve opened his mouth multiple times during this string of thoughts to reply, but Eddie just kept going. He gave it a few seconds to make sure Eddie was done this time. Eddie poked him in the side.
"Well?"
"I was just waiting for you to stop rambling," Steve said, and Eddie gave him a playful pinch in the side. "I got hurt playing basketball, couldn't do it anymore at a professional level."
"But why the FBI?" Eddie prompted.
Steve sighed, debating how much he wanted Eddie to know about his life. It's not like it would hurt, to talk to him. He'd probably never see him again when this case was over. "My dad's in the FBI," Steve admitted, holding back just how high up in the FBI he sat. "I went through a bunch of different options after I got hurt, but I always kept coming back to that."
"So you, what, actually like your dad?" Eddie asked skeptically.
"Yeah, I do," Steve said with a laugh. "As hard as that is for most people to believe."
"And you wanted to work with him?"
Steve traced patterns into the skin of Eddie's belly with his pointer finger. "I don't really work with him. It's a big organization."
"But you liked what he does?"
"You're nosy," Steve said.
Eddie shrugged. "I just lack a filter. When I find someone fascinating, I ask them whatever questions come to my mind."
"I'm not fascinating," Steve insisted, looking up into Eddie's face. Eddie reached up to tuck a strand of Steve's hair behind his ear.
"You kind of are. Pretty jock boy in the FBI, who doesn't have daddy issues? That's gotta be a first. I thought daddy issues were a requirement for a job there."
"Plenty of other special agents have great relationships with their fathers," Steve protested. He mentally flicked through the other people who'd been in his cohort at the Academy. Okay, maybe Eddie had a point. "And that's not really my only reason for joining." He wasn't sure why he was willing to tell Eddie any of this, other than that he felt safe cocooned in the dimly lit room surrounded by Eddie's warmth. "I had a friend who was murdered when I was in high school. I wanted to help catch people who do shit like that."
"Sorry to hear that. Must've sucked." Eddie squeezed Steve's waist. "Decision makes a little more sense now."
Steve grunted in agreement, grateful when Eddie didn't press for more information. They fell into silence for a few minutes. It had started to rain, and the patter of the drops on the roof of the trailer deepened the soothing feel of the room. The steady rise and fall of their breaths was the only sound in the room.
"What about you?" Steve asked. "What do you do in Hawkins?"
Eddie's hand paused where it was tracing patterns on Steve's back. "Nothing I can tell you about, lawman," Eddie said with a laugh. "I refuse to work at the mill and let it break me the way it has my uncle, and there's not really any other legal job opportunities for a young guy around here."
"Why don't you leave, then? Go to the city?"
"Now who's being nosy," Eddie muttered, mostly to himself, but he didn't refuse to answer. "Wayne, that's my uncle, has got some health issues. He'd never tell me he needs me to stick around, but I'm not willing to leave him here to fend for himself."
Steve nodded against Eddie's chest. "And Billy stays for his little sister. Everybody here talks you up as a couple of bad boys but I'm really not seeing it."
Eddie flipped Steve onto his back and hovered over him with a dramatic expression on his face. "You can't tell anyone, Harrington, you hear? It'd blow our covers if they all found out we were softies. No one would take my heavy metal seriously anymore, and Billy might have work on a facial expression other than a sneer."
Steve laughed. "Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me."
They settled back into silence, the sounds of the rain lulling Steve toward sleep. "I should go," Steve whispered.
"Hmmm," Eddie mumbled. "Why?"
"My car's still at the Hideout. I don't really fancy doing a walk of shame in front of the whole town in the morning."
Eddie snorted. "Why do you care what they think?"
"I'm here to work a case," Steve pointed out. "I need people to take me seriously."
Eddie grumbled, but started to sit up. "Fine, fine. But next time you're bringing your car and spending the night. It's ideal to have at least five hours of cuddling after sex."
"Says who?" Steve asked with a laugh.
"I've done extensive experimentation in this realm, Stevie. Just believe me."
The ride back to his car wasn't nearly as pleasant, and he was soaked by the time they got to the Hideout, but he knew he'd appreciate it in the morning. He slept well that night, though he did miss the warmth and weight of Eddie's body in the bed. Maybe Eddie was onto something with the five hours thing.
Notes:
Gareth's phone call to Eddie went something like this: "please come retrieve this sad FBI man you won't shut up about fucking"
Chapter 8: Dormancy
Summary:
Billy returns from his work trip. The investigation progresses slowly. Steve gets some helpful information from Dustin.
Notes:
Chapter-Specific Spoilery Content Warnings:
- Discussion of drug use including potential spiking of drugs with additional substances
- Weird but consensual relationship dynamics (Eddie and Billy have a bit of a healthy rivalry going over Steve)
- Explicit sexual content (face-fucking, deep-throating, light BDSM)
Chapter Text
The investigation moved at a snail's pace in the ensuing weeks, every day filled with an endless procession of interviews that provided him with no new information. He checked in with Robin daily, but each time she answered with a dejected "hey, Steve", he knew she didn't have anything new for him from the cryptanalysts or the DNA lab.
They finally got the toxicology results from the state lab in late March, confirming that Chrissy had cocaine in her system when she died. The results also showed concerning levels of pentobarbitol, a sedative.
"Could someone have given that to her with the cocaine, without her knowing?" Steve asked the forensic pathologist who called him with the results.
"Sure," the woman replied. "Would be harder to get than cocaine, but not impossible. And you can get it as a powder, easy to mix with cocaine. But it's pretty dangerous stuff. The line between sedating and lethal is thin."
"Could that have killed her, then?"
The pathologist hummed to herself. Steve could hear papers being shuffled in the background as she consulted the report. "Probably not. The cuts on her wrists would've been lethal, and there was evidence of bleeding around those wounds, so she was alive when the cuts were made. But the pentobarbitol might've killed her, if those hadn't."
"How would someone get access to pentobarbitol?" Steve asked.
"The only people who could get it legally would be veterinarians, doctors, pharmacists, those sorts of types. Anybody could get some illegally, though, same way they'd get access to cocaine. Just need to find the right dealer."
That wasn't particularly helpful, but Steve made a note to look into the medical professionals in the area.
The only thing that kept him from going insane from the boredom during those weeks was his developing relationship with Eddie and Billy. When Billy came back from his haul, he was angry in exactly the way Eddie had predicted. It didn't help that Eddie and Steve were literally in bed together when he walked into Eddie’s trailer.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Billy yelled as Steve pulled himself off of Eddie's dick. "I'm not even gone for a week and you managed to get him alone. This is not fair."
Eddie looked entirely too pleased with himself, hands crossed behind his head.
"You didn't even tell him?" Steve hissed, pulling the covers up to his chest. He had a sneaking suspicion Eddie had known when Billy was going to get home.
"When would I have told him?" Eddie asked with a shit-eating grin. "We don't like to talk on the phone, too impersonal." He turned to Billy, opening his arms wide. "Why don't you join us, babe? Let me help you work out all that aggression."
"No." Billy stomped his foot. "Get out." Steve scrambled to get out of the bed, unsure why he had trusted Eddie's insistence that they had an open relationship. "Not you," Billy said with an annoyed sigh. "Him." He gestured at Eddie. "I'm not gonna share if he didn't have to all fucking week apparently."
Eddie held up his hands and got out of the bed. "Alright, alright," he said, grabbing some clothes from the floor and heading to the door. He turned on his way out. "He really likes it if you kiss this spot just behind his left ear—" Eddie began, before Billy shut the door in his face.
"Are you—are we—is everything okay?" Steve stammered as Billy approached the bed, taking off his shirt in the process.
"Oh, yeah, peachy," Billy said. He picked up on Steve's tension eventually as he climbed into the bed. "Shit. Uh. Unless you don't want to? I can call Ed back in."
Steve's eyes traveled down Billy's perfect chest to the happy trail disappearing down into his jeans. He could see the significant bulge tucked there, the tightness of the jeans leaving nothing to the imagination. He and Eddie had just been getting started, and Steve was still feeling very unfulfilled.
"No, I want to," Steve whispered, pulling Billy down for a kiss.
Being with Billy was different from being with Eddie. Where Eddie almost always took control, Billy was willing to give control, but Steve had to work for it. Billy kissed Steve with soft, open lips, pressing Steve down into the bed. Steve let him take the lead at first, running his hands over Steve's chest and rubbing his crotch against Steve's hip. Eventually, though, Billy pushed up with a disgruntled sigh and said, "Is that all you got, Harrington? You just gonna lay there and take it?"
Steve remembered how Billy had been with Eddie in the van. How Eddie had jerked him around like some sort of doll, how Billy had seemed to like it. Steve wove his fingers into Billy's hair and tugged hard. Billy groaned and went limp, collapsing against Steve's body. Steve flipped them, not an easy feat given the block of muscle that was Billy Hargrove.
"That's not all I've got," Steve said. Billy flashed him a manic grin and tried to shove him off, hands on his shoulders. Steve grabbed both of his wrists and pinned them above his head. "Be good, Hargrove."
Billy groaned and bucked his hips up into Steve. He still had his jeans on. Steve let go of his wrists to make quick work of the pants. Billy sat up in the process, and Steve had to push him back down, pinning his wrists again. "What'd I say?" Steve whispered into Billy's ear as he twisted and writhed beneath him. "Be good."
Steve had no idea where this side of himself was coming from, but Billy seemed to be enjoying it if the hard cock poking Steve's hip was any indication. Steve kissed Billy again, taking the lead this time. He licked into Billy's mouth, exploring the backs of his teeth, the roof of the mouth, his tongue. Billy tasted like spearmint gum and cigarettes, smelled like spicy aftershave.
Steve shifted his hips to line his cock up with Billy's and rubbed them together. He lifted his mouth off of Billy's to trail it down his jaw, to his throat. He nipped at the soft skin of his earlobe and sucked the lobe into his mouth. Billy keened and thrust his hips up into Steve.
Steve pushed himself up onto his hands to look down at Billy. His blue eyes were heavy-lidded, his lips red and puffy from kissing. Steve put his thumb on Billy's lower lip, pulling his mouth open. Billy sucked it between his lips, applying a firm pressure.
"Fuck my mouth," Billy demanded, voice muffled around Steve’s thumb.
Steve's cock pulsed. He scrambled up the bed, straddling Billy's chest. Billy pressed him forward with a hand on each of his asscheeks until Steve was flush with his chin. Steve dragged his cock over Billy's beautiful lips, a trail of precum decorating the pink. Billy opened his mouth wide, a pleading look in his eyes. Steve could definitely get used to this.
He pressed forward, feeding Billy his cock. Billy's mouth opened even wider for him. Steve tried to stop without pressing all the way in, giving Billy a chance to adjust, but Billy's hands on his ass shoved him forward. Steve felt himself push into Billy's throat as Billy swallowed around him to avoid gagging.
"Fuuuuuck," Steve moaned, pressing his hands against the wall above the bed. Billy's grip on his ass let up and Steve pulled out slightly, only to be pushed right back in by Billy. This happened several more times before Steve caught on—Billy was showing Steve the pace and depth he wanted, and it was insane. Steve was going to come embarrassingly fast.
Billy gave Steve an impatient look, mouth stretched around his cock. Steve laughed incredulously. "Okay, just, like, pinch me if you need me to stop," Steve panted. Billy gave him a thumbs up.
He thrust his hips to press his cock all the way in, his pubes meeting the skin of Billy's face. He pulled back out, amazed that Billy still hadn't gagged. He slowly built up a rhythm, fucking deep into Billy's throat and pulling back out, picking up speed as he went. Drool dripped from the sides of Billy's mouth and tears spilled from the corners of his eyes, but he looked blissed out, almost like he was high. His throat felt so tight around Steve's cock. He couldn't even believe he was repeatedly pushing himself in and out of it.
His orgasm built fast as he watched the steady stream of tears fall from Billy's eyes. He'd never felt anything like this in his life—this absolute power, this tight, tight heat. He couldn't hold back anymore. He made to pull out of Billy's mouth entirely, but Billy grabbed his ass and held Steve in his mouth. Steve came with a shout, and Billy swallowed every drop, sucking on Steve's cock with a single-minded focus until Steve was finished.
"Fucking hell," Steve exclaimed as Billy finally let go of his ass and allowed his cock drop from his mouth.
"Bet Eddie didn't do that for you," Billy said with a smirk. His voice sounded rough and used. It made Steve's spent cock twitch.
Steve collapsed on the bed next to Billy, trying to catch his breath. "No, he definitely didn't," Steve admitted. He glanced down Billy's body. Billy had a hand around his still-hard cock, lazily pumping it.
Steve shoved Billy over onto his side and wrapped an arm around his waist, spooning him. He reached for Billy's cock, replacing Billy's hand with his own.
He stroked gently at first as he kissed the side of Billy’s jaw and down his neck. "You did such a good job," Steve whispered against Billy's ear, remembering how Eddie had talked to Billy in the van. "Let me take care of you now."
Billy shivered against Steve and tilted his head back on Steve's shoulder. Steve scraped his teeth lightly over Billy's pulse point. He stroked Billy's cock, twisting a little on the upstroke. Billy was cut, and Steve's hand slid over his length easily with the ample precum Billy had already been leaking.
Steve flicked his thumb over the slit and Billy moaned. He sucked on the sensitive skin of Billy's throat, pulling a mouthful between his teeth and biting down while he continued to stroke Billy's cock. Billy fucked into his fist, whimpering as Steve continued to suck a bruise into his neck.
Steve stroked harder and faster, the noises falling from Billy's mouth increasing in intensity. "Such a good fucking cocksucker," Steve growled into Billy's ear. "Never had better." Billy panted and writhed in front of Steve. He felt possessed as he whispered into Billy's ear, "You'll be a good boy and come for me, won't you?" Billy screamed, fucking up hard into Steve's hand as cum poured out onto his fist and the bed in front of them.
Billy shuddered through the aftershocks of the orgasm as Steve made soothing noises and kissed lightly around the bruise he'd left on his neck.
The door burst open.
"Alright, that was both of you, right?" Eddie asked, throwing a towel at them. Steve sat up, cleaning off his hand and Billy's cock. Billy remained an immobile lump on the bed.
"You could knock," Steve said, not actually annoyed but feeling like he should probably at least protest a little.
"It's my bedroom," Eddie announced, jumping onto the bed on the other side of Billy and pulling him into his arms. Billy made a contented noise and burrowed into Eddie's chest. The bravado left Eddie’s voice as he stared down at Billy. "And he needs a little extra, after. I just wanted to be sure he was okay." He looked back up at Steve, who was hovering uncomfortably in the bed. Eddie held out an arm. "It'll be even better if there's two of us."
Steve laid back down, bracketing Billy, who let out a pleased huff. “He did good, Ed,” Billy mumbled into Eddie’s chest.
“Oh, good,” Eddie said, pressing a kiss into Billy’s hair. “Should we keep him, then?” Eddie grinned at Steve over Billy’s head.
Billy nodded. “Yeah. Let’s keep ‘im.” He barely got the sentence out before he started to snore.
“If he wants to stay,” Eddie said quietly, locking eyes with Steve. There was a question there, along with a vulnerability Steve had only seen from him once before, when he’d been talking about Chrissy and how he wished he’d helped her more.
Steve knew this was stupid. He’d told himself this was just going to be sex, that he wouldn’t get involved with locals during an active case. But it was rapidly becoming clear that feelings were taking shape, growing up like weeds out of the sex. He knew he should get up and leave, right now while he still could. He should tell Eddie and Billy he couldn’t do this anymore.
Instead, he looked Eddie in the eye and said, “Yeah. I want to stay.”
Steve settled into a familiar routine in the first few weeks of April. His days were spent interviewing townspeople, anyone who’d had even a vague reason to interact with Chrissy at some point. He spoke with teachers, coaches, other volunteers in the tutoring program, people at the church, and students in her class and on the cheerleading team. They all had the same things to say – Chrissy was a great kid, a model student, but she’d seemed a little off in the months leading up to her death. Crankier, more moody, occasionally even snapping at her teammates. Steve couldn’t be sure, though, how much of that was real, and how much was just people reading more into the past in light of what had happened.
He also spent time poring over Chrissy's diary for any sort of clue he'd missed. During his interviews, he asked about her favorite books, hoping that he would find the key to her book cipher, but had no luck. Every candidate he tried gave him a garbled string of letters that didn’t form any actual words. He had Robin send him a few books on code breaking, although she didn't hesitate to point out that he'd be unlikely to break the code before trained professionals. He spent hours staring at those last few coded entries, trying to make sense of them.
His days were tedious and disappointing, but most of his evenings were spent with Eddie and Billy. He enjoyed their company, even when they weren't fucking, though the sex was the best he'd ever had. The motorcycle rides with Eddie were another source of relief, a feeling of freedom after the claustrophobia of the day. When Steve needed something a little more physically punishing, Billy was always willing to play basketball with him while Eddie heckled them from the edge of the court.
“You sure are spending a lot of time with Munson and Hargrove,” Hopper said to him one day in early April, glancing at Steve over a file he was reviewing.
Steve tried not to blush. It was a small town. He’d known people would likely talk, but he couldn’t make himself stay away. He needed those evenings with Eddie and Billy.
“Yeah, you know.” Steve tried to sound nonchalant. “Hargrove plays basketball, and I used to play. It’s nice to blow off some steam on the court.”
Hopper raised his eyebrows. “Just basketball, huh? Heard tell you been riding around on a motorcycle with Munson as well.”
Steve shrugged. “Sometimes. When the weather’s nice.”
“Uh huh.” He looked back down at the file, clearly unconvinced. “Just be careful. Those two get up to a lot of trouble. Wouldn’t do for you to be involved in some sort of scandal while you’re here investigating.”
Anger bubbled up in Steve’s chest. He hated how patronizing Hopper could be, but he also hated that Hopper was probably right. Steve was walking a fine line here. The only actual rules against becoming romantically involved with people on a field assignment applied to colleagues from the FBI or local law enforcement. There were no rules against him getting involved with a civilian. Or multiple civilians, in this case. But he thought about what his father would say, if he found out. He’d tell Steve exactly what Hopper was telling him, which only served to make Steve angrier. Hopper wasn’t his dad.
“Thanks for your concern,” Steve said briskly, “but I’m managing.”
Hopper huffed discontentedly, but didn’t try to pursue the conversation further.
They were getting nowhere with the investigation. By mid-April, Steve was beginning to worry Creel would pull him back to Quantico soon and send out a more experienced investigator, or consider the case too cold to continue pursuing. The latest in a long string of disappointments came when the DNA lab at the FBI called him.
“We have the analysis back from the blood found at the site in the woods,” the technician told him.
“And?” Steve prompted impatiently.
“None of it is a match for the victim,” she said.
Steve groaned. So they likely hadn’t found the murder site.
“There are multiple different DNA signatures, though,” the technician continued. “Blood from at least five different individuals was recovered. All women.”
“Five different women?” Steve asked.
“Yes, that’s what it looks like.”
“Any matches in the DNA database?”
“Yes, three matches. Two of the victims who were found dead along the Indiana-Ohio state line late last year – Debbie French and Claire Gibbons. The third is a match for one of the girls who’s still missing, no body found – Jessica Walsh.”
Steve scribbled the names furiously in his notebook.
“And there’s nothing more you can tell me about the other two people, except that they’re women?”
“Correct. We’re only analyzing a very small portion of the DNA that’s variable enough to be specific to a single person. It doesn’t tell us much. But we weren’t able to obtain any DNA samples from the other two girls who are still missing for comparison. So it could be them, but there’s no way to know.”
“Alright,” he said. “Thanks for the call.”
It wasn’t the best news – he’d been hoping for a match for Chrissy – but finding blood from the victims along the state line meant Creel would most likely keep him in Hawkins. The FBI couldn’t pull out now that they’d found a direct link to interstate murders. But would Hopper try to claim the rest of the girls and the altar had nothing to do with Chrissy? That they were unconnected crimes? It seemed like something he would say. Maybe even something Creel would agree with, pulling him off the Cunningham case to focus on these other murders.
Steve shook himself and pulled the files of the seven girls out of a box. He needed to stop worrying and get to work.
Dustin found Steve at the breakfast table on Sunday morning, a few days after the call from the DNA lab. "You wanna go see the radio?" Dustin asked.
The radio. Steve had completely forgotten about the radio, and the weird transmission. So much had happened since then. He should close the loop on that potential lead, though. "Sure," Steve said, standing up from the table. "But I need to talk to your mom first."
Dustin's face scrunched up in annoyance. "Why? I'm not a kid, I'm allowed to go outside by myself."
"But you're not going outside by yourself," Steve pointed out. "You're going outside with an FBI agent asking you questions about an active case. For which I need parental consent."
Dustin rolled his eyes. This kid was a little shit. But he did lead Steve into the kitchen, where Claudia was pulling a tray full of scones out of the oven.
"Steve!" she cried with a smile, happy as always to see him. "What can I help you with?"
"Can I show Steve my radio and answer his questions?" Dustin asked in a sarcastic tone before Steve could speak.
"Oh, Dusty, don't bother the poor man!" Claudia gave Dustin a disapproving glance. "He's busy!"
Dustin groaned. "Mom, I'm not bothering him. I'm an important part of his investigation. I have information."
Claudia looked skeptically over at Steve.
"Well, I don't know if I'd go quite that far," Steve said, garnering a disgruntled sigh from Dustin, "but he did intercept an interesting transmission with his radio. So I'd like to take a look at the set-up and see if he has any other potentially useful transmissions recorded. Only if that's alright with you, Claudia."
"Oh, well, of course! What a smart boy my Dusty is!" She pinched Dustin's cheek and he batted her hand away with a grimace. "You know he made that set-up all by himself?"
"Very impressive," Steve agreed.
Steve drove Dustin out to the site, about ten minutes out of town.
"Did you know Chrissy at all?" Steve asked as they made their way to the hill. It could be useful to get an outsider's perspective on all of this.
"A little," Dustin said. "We were both part of a group that tutored special needs kids at the elementary school. I saw her a couple of times a month doing that."
Chrissy had been a very busy kid. "How long had you guys been doing that?"
"I started a couple of years ago, she was already a part of the group then."
"Did you talk to her much?"
Dustin shrugged. "Sometimes. She was the nicest of the older kids."
"Did you notice anything different about her in the couple of months before she died?" He asked this of everyone who’d known her even just a little bit. He wanted to know if the changes in her personality had been drastic enough to be apparent to someone who didn't know her well.
"Yeah. She seemed really tired before the holidays. Not as friendly as usual. Then she missed a lot of the tutoring days after the new year, which wasn't like her at all."
Steve fell silent, mulling over the information.
"I saw her arguing with one of the coaches of the basketball team," Dustin continued. "The week before she died."
"Really?" Steve asked. No one else had mentioned that. "Who's the coach?"
"Mr. Hargrove."
Steve's head snapped to the side, staring at Dustin. "Any relation to Billy Hargrove?"
"Yeah, his dad. Max's dad, too. Or, step dad. I think."
"He's the basketball coach?"
"Assistant coach. Has been ever since Billy was on the team. He stayed on after. He's terrifying."
Steve tried to remember who all he’d interviewed in the past month. He’d gone through all the basketball and football coaches who could have interacted with the cheerleaders in the first week or so of being in Hawkins. He must have talked to Neil Hargrove, if he was one of the coaches, but couldn’t remember anything about the man. There was no way he’d admitted to having an argument with Chrissy during the interview, and none of the other coaches had mentioned it. Steve would have remembered him if they had. He’d need to consult his notes, see what Hargrove had actually said in his interview.
"And he was arguing with Chrissy?" Steve asked.
Dustin nodded. "I stayed late to finish up some experiments I was doing with Mr. Clarke. When I left, the cheerleaders and the basketball team had just finished practice. Most of them were gone, but Chrissy was still in the hallway with Mr. Hargrove. They were whispering at each other, but, like, angry whispers. He had her wrist in one of his hands."
"They looked upset?"
"Yeah. Mr. Hargrove looked pissed, and Chrissy just looked kind of scared."
An older man. An argument. Steve tried not to get too excited. "Did you hear what they were talking about?"
"No. But I was kind of worried about Chrissy—Mr. Hargrove has a bad temper—so I made some noise. Dropped my books on the ground. They both looked over at me, and he let go of her. Chrissy practically ran out of the building, and Mr. Hargrove slunk back into the gym. That was the last time I saw Chrissy."
Steve would need to bring Billy's dad in for more questioning. He wasn’t going to tell Dustin that, though. No use starting rumors, and he had a feeling this kid would blab. He dropped the subject.
They made it to the designated hill, positioned between a few farm fields. A large antenna structure sat on top of the hill.
"Who owns this land?" Steve asked as they began the climb up the hill.
"I think the Nelsons," Dustin said, pointing to one of the farms. "Those are their fields."
"And they just let you put this here?"
Dustin shrugged. "I didn't ask. I guess they assumed a communications company put it up because no one's tried to make me take it down."
Amazing the things you could get away with if you just didn't ask for permission.
Steve and Dustin were both out of breath by the time they reached the top of the hill. The antenna was even bigger than Steve had realized, reaching 15 or 20 feet into the sky. Dustin pulled a few pieces of equipment from his backpack and attached them to the base of the antenna.
"This is huge," Steve said, watching him work. "How'd you get this all set up?"
"I built most of it at camp last summer," Dustin said, then launched into a lengthy explanation of all the various parts that went completely over Steve's head. He nodded along, not wanting to prolong the torture by admitting he had no idea what Dustin was saying.
"And you said the range can go all the way to Utah?" Steve asked.
Dustin nodded and an excited grin split his face. "Yeah, that's why I made it. I've got a girlfriend in Utah, Suzie. She's the smartest girl in the whole country, probably the continent, too. Maybe the world. And she's smokin' hot. Like a real babe. She—"
"So that message you picked up right before Chrissy died," Steve interjected, cutting him off before he could really get rolling. "That could've come from anywhere?"
Dustin shook his head. "Unlikely. There aren't many people who could make a radio that transmits this far." He puffed out his chest. "Most people are limited to transmitting locally."
"Is there any way to tell exactly where it came from?"
"No. If the transmission had gone on longer I would've tried to triangulate the signal, but it was so short."
Steve sighed. Why was he even pursuing this? He had no way of knowing where that transmission had come from. It might not have anything to do with the case. Chrissy wasn't that uncommon of a name. But he remembered how wrong the transmission had made him feel. How sure he'd been, deep in his gut, that that was the murderer he was hearing.
"Have you heard any other transmissions like it?" Steve asked.
Dustin shook his head. "No. I usually just pick up truckers passing by having boring conversations to keep each other awake, kids talking on walkies, amateur radio shows. Never anything like that before."
"If you hear anything like it again, find me right away, okay?"
"Well, not right away." Dustin shot Steve a cheeky grin.
"Yes, right away!"
"I mean, don't you want me to try to triangulate first?" Dustin gave Steve an innocent look. "Or do you just want me to drop everything to come tell you and give up on the chance to locate this person?"
Steve groaned. "Of course I want you to triangulate. I meant come get me as soon as the transmission is over."
"Well, then, you should've said that."
"You're really annoying. Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Oh, loads of people."
Will woke with a start, his heart pounding in his throat as he gasped around it, trying to catch his breath. He wasn’t sure what he’d been dreaming about; no images lingered in his mind, but it had left him drenched in sweat and full of panic. He threw the covers off of himself with a groan. There was no way he’d be getting back to sleep tonight.
He made his way down the hall to the kitchen to get a glass of water. His throat was dry and raw, like maybe he’d been screaming in his sleep, but he hadn’t woken his mom or Jonathan, so he probably hadn’t been. The nightmares weren’t as bad as they’d been in the months after his disappearance, but they still visited him every once in a while. They’d been coming more frequently since Chrissy died, since the FBI man had come to town.
Will worried about him. He didn’t remember much from his nightmares, but he occasionally woke with a sensation that the Special Agent was in danger. His mind associated the man with large puppets made of wheat, with blood and screams and the scent of damp earth. All things he vaguely remembered from his lost week.
He stared out the window as he slowly drank his water. It felt cool on his throat, and the rote movements soothed him. The yard was dark, most of it hidden in shadow. The only easily visible area came from the triangle of pale yellow light cast by the floodlight next to the back door. He started as he caught a vague hint of motion from the shadows. Was someone out there?
The TV clicked on, drawing his attention back to the house. He walked into the living room to see if Jonathan had woken up, but there was no one there. Just static on the TV. The static got louder, so loud it hurt his ears. A whining noise filled the room. The fine hairs on the back of his neck rose. He felt like he was being watched.
He walked to the sliding door and flicked the outside light on. It shone down on a boy. The boy locked eyes with him, eyes that were fully black. Will still recognized him, though, even with the eyes. He’d seen him in the mirror every day. He was three years younger than the Will standing in the house, wearing the clothes he’d worn the day he’d gone missing. Will stumbled back from the doors. The boy approached. The sound of the static dropped off.
The boy had a strange smile on his face. Mean, with a sardonic tilt. “Have you been enjoying yourself out here?” he asked, only his mouth didn’t move. Will heard the words like a whisper inside his head.
“W-who are you?” Will stammered.
“A piece of you. A dark piece.”
“How?” Will whispered.
“You left me behind. To make room.”
Will gulped. The other boy raised his hand to the glass and rested his palm against it. “Behind where?”
“You know. The Black Lodge.”
The words sent a shudder down Will’s spine. Nausea rolled over him in waves. Images flashed through his mind – red drapes, a zigzag black and white pattern, a statue, a couch. All accompanied by an overwhelming sense of dread.
“To make room for what?” Will asked, his voice barely audible.
The boy had no trouble hearing. His face split into a wide grin. “Him.” The smile fell off his face a moment later. “But you’re too young. You’re not ready.”
Will felt an irrational sense of relief course through him. He didn’t even know what he was being spared, but he knew it wasn’t anything good.
“There’s someone else. They’re ripe.” The boy licked his lips.
Before he could ask the boy any more questions, the living room light was switched on. Will turned to see his mother walking into the room.
“Will, what are you doing?” she scolded, turning off the TV. “How did you even find a channel with static that loud?”
Will glanced back at the window, already knowing what he would find. Nothing. The boy was gone.
“Sorry, mom,” Will said.
She tutted gently. “Why are you even awake? It’s three in the morning.”
“Nightmare,” Will whispered.
His mom frowned. “You’re having those again? Do you think we need to go back to the doctor?”
Will shook his head vigorously. “ No .” He’d hated the way he’d felt when he’d been taking sleeping pills—drowsy all the time, even in the day, with a sensation like his head had been stuffed full of cotton and he was watching the world go by underwater. “This is the first one I’ve had in a while. I’m fine.”
“Alright,” she said, draping an arm around his shoulder and directing him back toward his bedroom. “We’ll just keep an eye on it, then. Let me know if they keep happening.”
Will let himself be led back to his room, but spent the rest of his night wide awake, staring at the ceiling in terror.
Chapter 9: Vernalization
Summary:
Steve and Hopper investigate Neil Hargrove, leading to an awkward conversation with Billy. A mushroom hunter finds something disturbing in the woods.
Notes:
Chapter-Specific Content Warnings with Spoilers
-References to domestic violence including child abuse (Neil Hargrove)
- Neil Hargrove in general being a misogynistic buttface
- Explicit sexual content (consensual) including humiliation kink, spanking, degradation, praise kink, cum marking, aftercare
- Blood and horror elements
- ArsonA note on the posting schedule going forward: I have chapters 10-11 mostly written, I'm just still putzing with them a bit. The end of chapter 11 marks the end of the first part of the fic (which is two parts in my mind), so I'm just trying to make sure I get the midpoint conclusion exactly how I want it before posting! I plan to post Chapter 10 on September 21, then end part one with Chapter 11 posting on October 5th. Then I’ll take a short break from posting this story to post my Steddie Big Bang in October, during which I’ll be writing part 2 of the Harrowing, and will be back at the end of October to start posting part 2, which I’m very excited about!
Chapter Text
“What do you know about Neil Hargrove?” Steve asked as soon as Hopper walked into the station.
Hopper had a cup of coffee in one hand and a donut hanging out of his mouth. They’d both been running mostly on fumes since Steve had gotten the report from the DNA lab at the FBI. Though Steve had come here with the suspicion that Chrissy’s murder was linked to the girls who’d gone missing along the state line, the confirmation that the blood on the altar in the woods had belonged to several of those girls had thrown the investigation into a higher gear.
It hadn’t helped that the press had gotten wind of the contents of the DNA report. Hopper had no idea who had leaked the information (Steve suspected Callahan), but they’d both been busy the past few days doing damage control with the press from not only Hawkins, but the towns the girls had come from as well, and even reporters from the city. The headlines ranged from “Serial Killer in Sleepy Hawkins?” to “Human Sacrifice and Witchcraft In Midwest America”. The mayor was not pleased.
It took Hopper a second to set his coffee down and extricate the donut from his mouth. “Neil Hargrove? Not a whole lot. Moved here five, maybe six years ago for a job at the mill. Also coaches basketball at the high school. You probably already talked to him.”
Steve nodded. He knew all of this already. “I did,” he admitted. He’d gone through his notes to find only a few hastily scribbled lines from his interview with Neil – “Minimal interaction with Chrissy, knew who she was since she was a cheerleader at the basketball games and the mill owner’s kid, but doesn’t think he ever even spoke to her.”
“Did he have any links to Chrissy other than her being around at games he coached?” Steve asked.
“Not that I know of. His kids aren’t the right age to be friends with her—Billy’s too old, Max’s too young. Don’t think there’s anything else he’d know her from. Why?”
“Somebody told me they saw him arguing with her at the school not too long before she died.” Steve sat in the chair across from Hopper’s desk as the other man got situated. “But I went through my notes from when I interviewed him. He told me he couldn’t remember ever even talking to her.”
Hopper hummed to himself. “D’you think it was really an argument this person saw? Could’ve just been something quick he said to her in passing that he doesn’t remember.”
“Could be,” Steve agreed. “But they said he was holding onto her arm and they were whispering to each other. While they were alone after practice.”
Hopper put his hands behind his head and leaned back. “Definitely sounds suspicious. Who saw it?”
“Dustin Henderson,” Steve said. “He was showing me his radio set-up since he intercepted that transmission I played for you, so I figured I’d ask if he knew Chrissy. He mentioned seeing that.”
Hopper frowned. “Nobody else mentioned anything like that in your interviews?”
Steve shook his head. “No. Neil’s name never came up. I only talked to him because I was talking to all the coaches.”
“Doesn’t sound super promising, then, but we should follow it up. Neil’s got a… reputation.”
Steve raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Reputation for what?”
“Had to go out to that house more times than I can count for domestic disturbances. It’s always the neighbors that call, complaining of yelling and sounds of breaking glass.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Susan looks banged up more often than not when I go to check it out, but she won’t say a damn thing against him. Not even when I get her alone. When Billy still lived there, back when they first moved here, seemed like he was taking the brunt of it, but he’d never say anything either.” Steve shifted uncomfortably. He’d known Billy had a bad relationship with his father, but hadn’t been privy to any of the details. He didn’t think Billy would be happy about him finding out this way.
Hopper looked up at Steve, a pleading expression on his face. “I’ve tried so hard to get that asshole behind bars. I’ve even had social workers talk to the kid, Max. But they can never get her to talk, and she’s never had any suspicious bruises or injuries that would trigger an investigation from CPS. I can’t do a damn thing about it if no one will even tell me anything’s going on.”
Steve had his doubts about Hopper’s abilities as a sheriff in some respects, but he seemed seriously torn up about this. Steve imagined it must be hard for him to know something like this was going on and be powerless to do anything about it.
“So we know he’s violent,” Steve mused, “even if he’s never been charged.”
Hopper nodded. “Yeah. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Then let’s bring him back in for questioning. I never even got around to asking for an alibi, since he had no connection to the case.”
“He’ll be at the mill,” Hopper said. “Works the day shift.”
Steve wondered what Billy was going to think of all of this as they drove over to the mill. Billy talked about Max a fair amount, but rarely talked about his father, and almost never about his stepmother. Billy most likely wouldn’t care that Steve was pursuing his father as a suspect. Hell, he might even be glad, based on what Hopper had just told Steve. But it still made Steve feel uncomfortable, like he was somehow betraying Billy by bringing his dad in for questioning and listening to Hopper talk about his past without Billy knowing.
“This gonna cause problems for you and the Hargrove boy?” Hopper asked, like he could read Steve’s mind.
“What? No!” Steve acted surprised by the question. “We just play basketball together sometimes.”
“Uh huh,” Hopper replied, sounding unconvinced.
“Really, there’s nothing to worry about,” Steve insisted. “It’s not like we’re talking about his dad while playing basketball. It won’t be a problem.”
“Alright.”
It was Steve’s first time going into the steel mill, though he’d driven past and smelled its fumes nearly every day since arriving in Hawkins. The foreman retrieved Neil Hargrove for them, and they sat with him in a small conference room. It was close enough to the main floor that it was difficult to be heard over the sounds of the machinery.
“Neil,” Hopper greeted the man with a gruff handshake. “Have a seat.”
Neil pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up without asking if it was alright. “What’s this about? Neighbors complaining again? I’ve told you, Susan just likes to jack up the TV volume way too high when she’s watching Bruce Lee movies. Somethin’ wrong with her hearing.”
Hopper shook his head. “Nah, not about that. You’ve met Special Agent Harrington, yeah?”
Neil looked over at Steve as if noticing him for the first time. “The FBI guy?” Steve wasn’t sure if he was imagining the slight tremble in his voice.
“Yeah. You know Chrissy Cunningham, Neil?”
Neil let out a nervous laugh. “I knew of her, sure. She’s the big boss’s daughter. Everybody in the town knew of her. But I didn’t know her personally.”
“Never talked to her at a game or a practice?” Hopper pressed.
Neil shook his head. “Not that I recall. Don’t spend much time talking to the cheerleaders. Got my work cut out for me with the team.” He took a pull from his cigarette as he glanced over at Steve. “I told all o’ this to the Special Agent back when he talked to me. Why you askin’ again?”
“You remember practice the week before she was murdered?”
Neil guffawed. “Hell if I know! That was months ago. We’ve had dozens of practices since then.”
“Somebody saw you, Neil. Having an argument with Chrissy that day.”
Neil shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t recall that. You sure they saw me?”
Hopper nodded. “It was you.”
“Well, I don’t know. I might’ve been yelling at her for distracting the boys. They’d make eyes at the boys sometimes during practice, do cute little moves to try to get noticed. No good for concentration. Had to take ‘em to task for that sometimes, but I don’t remember singling Chrissy out ever.” Sweat beaded on his brow, though the room was cool.
“You don’t recall ever grabbing her by the arm and whispering to her while you two were alone in the hallway after practice?”
“Hell, no!” Neil glanced around the room frantically. “I’d remember if I’d done that.”
“What were you doing the night of February 22nd?” Hopper asked, changing tactics.
“No clue. I don’t even remember what I was doing last week.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.
“It was a Thursday,” Hopper prompted. “You got a usual routine for Thursdays?”
“Late practice on Thursdays, usually. I’m at the school until 10 or so.”
“You go straight home after?”
“Yeah, I go straight home.” Neil scoffed. “I’m no spring chicken, don’t stay out til all hours of the night anymore.”
“Is your wife typically still up when you get home?”
“Sure, she is.”
“And she’d’ve been home that Thursday?”
“That woman never goes anywhere, ‘course she was home.”
“Never?” Hopper asked.
Neil glanced at him sharply. “Well, almost never.”
Hopper let it go. “And you wouldn’t have left again after you got home?”
“Where would I have gone at 10pm on a Thursday?” Neil asked sarcastically.
“I don’t know, Neil. You tell me.”
Neil’s eyes narrowed to a glare. “I’m not saying anything else until I get a lawyer.”
Hopper nodded. “Alright.” He stood. “Set up a time to come by the station with your lawyer.” Neil deflated in relief. “But better stick around town til then, right? Wouldn’t want to give us the wrong impression.”
Neil stood with a sneer. “’Course not. Can’t have that.”
He sauntered deeper into the mill as Hopper and Steve left.
“Well, he’s suspicious as hell,” Hopper muttered as they got into the car.
“Agreed. Next steps?”
“Gonna head by the Hargrove house before he gets a chance to talk to Susan, get her side of the story.”
Hopper drove them to a house on the better side of town. It was one of the smallest in the subdivision, but still a far cry better than Forest Hills or some of the rundown neighborhoods near the mill. Steve wasn’t totally familiar with the neighborhoods around Hawkins, but it seemed better than Hargrove should be able to afford as an hourly mill worker.
As they pulled into the driveway, Steve saw a woman in the window, talking on a phone. She glanced up at the approaching car with a terrified look on her face.
“Ah, fuck,” Hopper grumbled. “Looks like he already got to her.”
The woman Steve had seen sitting beside Max at the town hall meeting opened the door. Her face was pale and drawn, with dark circles under her eyes. Steve caught sight of a ring of bruises around her wrist before she hastily pulled the cuff of her shirt down to cover them.
“Good morning, Susan,” Hopper said with a kind smile. “How’s it going?”
“A-alright,” she stammered. “How can I help you?”
“We got some questions about a night in February we’d like to ask, if you don’t mind.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I c-can’t answer any questions without a lawyer.” Her voice was barely audible, her eyes wide with terror.
Looked like Neil had definitely gotten to her. Hopper sighed. “Okay, Susan. That’s alright.” He sounded like he was talking to a spooked horse. “We’ll set up a time to have you come by with a lawyer.”
She nodded. Tears welled up in her eyes. Steve wasn’t sure if they were tears of relief, or something else.
“Thanks, Hopper,” she whispered as she shut the door.
“That didn’t go great,” Steve muttered after they shut the doors of the car.
Hopper grinned. “Could’ve gone worse. Because I already know Susan wasn’t at the house that night. She chaperoned the freshman class trip to Washington, DC. Didn’t get back until Friday. Neil doesn’t have an alibi for after he left practice that night.”
Steve felt incredibly awkward around Billy that night. He, Billy, and Eddie sat in front of the TV in Eddie’s trailer, all crammed onto Eddie’s tiny couch in a pile of limbs and hair. Eddie’s attention was completely focused on the horrible B-movie that was playing. Billy was less attentive, currently focused on kissing the side of Steve’s neck, pulling his hair to the side for ease of access. He sucked on the sensitive skin just behind Steve’s earlobe.
Steve gasped and wiggled in his seat. Billy took that as an invitation. He threw a leg over Steve’s lap and straddled him. Steve’s hands automatically went to his waist, gripping the muscles of Billy’s abs. Really good muscles. Billy was religious about his workouts. They flexed beneath Steve’s hands as Billy leaned forward to kiss him.
Billy was clad only in his boxers. Steve felt the hard line of Billy’s cock as it pressed against his stomach, and the fiery heat of his ass where he rubbed it against Steve’s cock. All trace of discomfort fled from Steve’s brain as Billy rubbed himself back and forth over Steve’s lap, shifting his hips in sinuous wiggles that maximized contact.
Steve licked over Billy’s lips, tasting the chapstick Eddie would never stop making fun of Billy for using. But it worked. His lips were achingly soft against Steve’s, where Eddie’s were chapped and rough. Steve thought about how Billy’s lips felt against his skin, against his cock, and he thrust involuntarily up against Billy’s ass.
Billy chuckled against his lips and continued to frot against Steve. He slipped his tongue into Steve’s mouth, running it along his teeth, his palate, everywhere. Steve felt a wet spot forming on Billy’s boxers, cooling Steve’s skin where his shirt had ridden up. Billy stood abruptly, tearing himself away from Steve’s lips. He slid out of his boxers and helped Steve pull off the basketball shorts he was wearing, leaving him in only a jock strap. Billy pulled the strap down to release Steve’s cock before settling himself back into Steve’s lap.
Billy pressed himself directly against Steve’s cock now and continued what could only be described as humping. He slipped Steve’s cock between his asscheeks and rubbed his hole over its length. His skin slid easily over Steve, like there was already lube there. It was so warm. Steve’s head fell back against the couch as he groaned.
Eddie, who Steve hadn’t even thought had been paying attention, reached underneath a couch cushion then waved a small object in front of Steve’s face. A condom. Steve grabbed it.
“You keep condoms in your couch cushions?” Steve asked incredulously as he tore it open. Billy was busy attacking his chest, sucking deep purple bruises into the skin.
“Always prepared,” Eddie muttered, eyes back on the screen.
“You also have lube in there?”
“Don’t need it,” Billy panted. He slid Steve’s cock between his cheeks demonstratively. “Ed fucked me just before you got here. Still all open and lubed up.”
Steve’s cock jumped, and Billy laughed. Steve wasn’t sure what it said about him that the thought of fucking Billy’s well-used hole so soon after Eddie turned him on so much.
“Fuck, okay,” Steve gasped. Billy pressed himself up on his knees, giving Steve a chance to roll the condom onto his dick. Billy grasped his cock as soon as the condom was in place and positioned it at his rim. He sat down abruptly, taking all of Steve in one go. Steve yelped in surprise, his hands clamping down on Billy’s waist to hold him in place and stave off any further sudden movements. Billy’s face contorted in pain that morphed quickly into pleasure. Steve wasn’t small. He wasn’t even medium. He’d spent a large portion of his life in locker rooms, he knew he was well above average. No one had ever taken him so fast.
“Fuck yeah, big boy,” Billy muttered. “That’s what I needed.”
Steve glanced over at Eddie, expecting some sort of annoyance at the implication that Billy had needed something bigger, but Eddie was still intent on the movie.
Billy tugged against Steve’s hold on his waist, and Steve loosened his grip slightly. Billy flexed the ample muscles of his quads to push himself up almost all the way off of Steve’s cock and then immediately sink back down. He still felt remarkably tight for someone who’d just been fucked, the heat of his ass clenching against Steve’s cock.
Billy braced his hands against Steve’s chest for more leverage and picked up his pace. He fucked himself rapidly up and down on Steve’s cock as Steve just sat there. Billy’s dick flopped against Steve’s stomach on every downward stroke, leaving a trail of pre-cum in its wake.
“Fuck, Billy, I’m gonna cum in like two seconds,” Steve admitted.
“You fucking better not,” Billy warned with a stormy look on his face.
Steve squirmed, trying to combat the building sensation of pleasure in his pelvis. “I c-can’t stop it,” Steve whined.
Eddie reached over without even looking away from the TV and grasped the base of Steve’s cock, hard. Steve yelped in pain, but it worked. The waves of his orgasm receded.
“Stand up,” Eddie demanded, in that deeper voice that seemed reserved solely for sex.
Billy stood with remarkable speed, scrambling off of Steve’s cock.
“Lean over the arm of the couch,” Eddie said. He was still watching the movie, not even looking at Billy.
Billy walked to the side and bent over the couch, ass up in the air. Eddie grabbed something from the table beside him and handed it to Steve. A ring of black rubber—a cock ring.
“Stevie, put that on so you can fuck him hard. He’s not gonna shut up til you do and I’m trying to watch a movie.”
A blush spilled over Steve’s skin. He felt humiliated, for himself and for Billy, and it was turning him on. That was new. He slid the cock ring into place over the condom and walked behind Billy. The other man pushed his ass back toward Steve and wiggled.
Steve brought his hand down in a loud smack that left a bright red handprint on the right asscheek. Billy groaned. Steve slapped him on the other cheek. He glanced up at Eddie, who was still watching the movie, apparently not as annoyed as he’d said he was about the noise. Steve was starting to get used to this back and forth between Billy and Eddie. Billy loved to be humiliated and degraded by Eddie, then put back together after. Steve suspected most of Eddie’s “annoyances” were made up to feed into this dynamic.
Steve smacked his hands across Billy’s ass and the tops of his thighs until the whole area was a red mess with no distinct handprints visible. He grasped his cock and slid back into Billy’s hole, moaning at the delicious pressure. He followed Eddie’s instructions and fucked into Billy at a fast pace, his balls and the skin of his thighs clapping against Billy’s reddened skin. It had to hurt, but a series of wanton moans and keening was all that poured from Billy’s mouth.
The cock ring was a godsend, allowing Steve to keep going until his thighs began to tire.
“Think I should let him cum?” Steve asked through panting breaths, directing the question at Eddie.
Eddie shrugged without looking away from the TV. “Your call. Was he any good?”
Steve wrapped a hand around the front of Billy’s throat and pulled him up almost to standing. Steve still wasn’t comfortable tightening his hand and cutting off Billy’s air, but Billy seemed to like just having the pressure there, the potential for a threat. Steve continued to rabbit his hips into Billy as he trailed his free hand down to rest on Billy’s upper thigh, just to the side of his bright red cock.
“What d’you say, baby?” Steve whispered in Billy’s ear. “You think you were good for me?”
“Y-yes,” Billy stammered. “I was so good. Please let me cum.”
Steve wasn’t capable of holding out on Billy when he begged so pretty, not like Eddie was.
“Yeah you were. So good. The best hole I’ve ever fucked.”
Billy keened at the praise, throwing his head back. Steve grabbed his dick and fisted it fast and hard. Billy shot off in his fist seconds later with a loud grunt.
Steve pushed Billy forward until he was leaning over the couch again. He thrust furiously into his ass for a few more seconds before pulling out and stripping off the condom and cock ring. He held Billy firmly against the couch with a hand on his lower back as he stroked his own cock. It only took two or three pumps before he was cumming all over Billy’s ass cheeks, the thick white ropes standing out against the abused red skin.
He leaned against Billy as he pulled in heaving breaths. That had been a workout. Steve’s legs trembled with fatigue. He wobbled over to the kitchenette once he could move and wet a washcloth to clean the cum off of Billy.
He wiped gently over his ass as Billy whimpered beneath him. He helped Billy stand and led him over to the couch, sitting him down beside Eddie. He climbed onto the other side and sat with his back to the arm of the couch so he was facing Eddie and Billy. He spread his legs then pulled Billy in between them and directed him to lay his head on his chest. Billy nuzzled into his chest. Steve wrapped his arms around Billy, gently running his hands over his back.
Eddie shifted on the other side of the couch, pulling out a bottle of soothing lotion. He rubbed it onto Billy’s ass and thighs. Billy sniffled against Steve’s chest.
“You did good, Billy,” Steve whispered, planting a kiss on the top of his head.
“So good,” Eddie echoed, having given up his charade of concentrating on the TV. He leaned over Billy, fully bracketing his body, to kiss his temple. He stood to grab a blanket and threw it over Steve and Billy, then leaned gently into Billy’s space.
They lay in silence as the movie continued to play in the background. Steve rubbed Billy’s back and pressed kisses into his hair until Billy’s breathing slowed. Steve’s mind wandered, inevitably traveling back to the things Hopper had said about Billy’s father. About how he hit Billy. Steve shuddered. He hadn’t had a problem with spanking Billy before; it had come so naturally to him, and Billy really seemed to like it. But now, knowing what he knew about Billy’s past, he felt a little bit like a monster. How could Billy actually enjoy it, after going through that?
Steve must have been shifting around, because Billy lifted his head with an annoyed grunt. “What is wrong with you tonight?”
“What d’you mean?” Steve asked, feigning confusion.
“You’ve been twitchy all night. I thought fucking would help but it’s somehow made it worse.”
“No, I haven’t!” Steve protested, glancing at Eddie over Billy’s head for support.
Eddie snorted. “Yeah, you have.”
Steve gave him a wounded look.
“Seriously,” Eddie continued, “what’s your deal today? This isn’t your normal investigation-related moping.”
Steve sighed. He couldn’t tell them much, nothing related to the actual case. But if he didn’t tell Billy what he’d found out, it was just going to keep eating at him. “I talked to Billy’s dad today, as part of interviewing all the coaches.”
Billy pushed himself up off of Steve’s chest to a sitting position. “He’s a fucking asshole. He say something to get your goat?”
Steve shook his head. “No, not really.” He paused. It was so hard to find the words. His palms began to sweat. He glanced frantically around the room, looking for something that might help. Billy and Eddie gave him time. “Just…” He forced the words out in a rush when they finally came to him. “Hopper told me some things when I asked for background before we went into the room with your dad.”
Billy’s face fell. Eddie frowned.
“He told you he used to beat the shit out of me?” Billy asked. “That he still beats the shit out of his wife?”
Steve was grateful he hadn’t needed to say it himself. “Y-yeah.” He wanted to say more, but his words were stuck.
“Let me guess,” Eddie said, leaning over Billy to poke Steve in the arm. “Now you feel weird about wailing on Billy’s ass.”
“That’s- wh-” Steve sputtered. Eddie was so crass. But also annoyingly insightful. “Well. I mean, yeah,” Steve admitted finally. “But I also just felt weird about knowing. When you didn’t know that I knew.”
Eddie nodded sagely while Billy rolled his eyes. “I felt the same way when Billy suggested spanking to me the first time,” Eddie said.
“And it was fucking bullshit then,” Billy interjected. “Just like it’s bullshit now.” He let out a deep sigh. “Look, I don’t care that you know. Everybody in this shithole of a town knows. But don’t get all patronizing with me. I’m a big boy. Just because my dad was an abusive shit doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy getting my ass spanked during sex.”
Steve opened his mouth to respond but Billy pressed on. “And don’t fucking read too much into this, like some fuckheads I know.” He glared over at Eddie, who held his hands up in surrender. “It’s not some sort of trauma response. It just gets my rock off. Capiche?”
Steve stared at him open-mouthed for a few moments, waiting to see if he was finished with his rant. “A-alright,” he stammered, when it seemed like Billy was done. “Sounds good.”
Billy nodded with a sense of finality, and that was the end of that.
Hopper set up the meeting with Susan and Neil Hargrove, along with their legal counsel, a few days later. He and Steve had spent the intervening days re-interviewing the basketball team, coaches, and cheerleading squad. Steve still thought Chrissy’s case was most likely linked to the other missing girls, so he also looked into any potential links there. The basketball team had played games in two of the towns where girls went missing—Liberty and Bath—but he couldn’t find a link to the towns over the border in Ohio.
They asked everyone they interviewed the same questions, looking for any indication that Neil Hargrove may have known Chrissy better than he let on. Person after person told them the same thing – Neil might have talked to her at some point during a practice or game, but nothing out of the ordinary. Lucas Sinclair was the only person to say anything different.
Steve remembered him from the booth at Joyce’s the day Dustin had played the tape for him. Lucas glanced nervously over his shoulder as he walked into the classroom they were using to interview the basketball team.
“Everything alright, Sinclair?” Hopper asked.
Lucas nodded and sat down. “The other guys told me you’re asking about Coach Hargrove.”
The gossip had probably already made its way back to Neil, but there wasn’t anything he and Hopper could do about that.
“Yeah,” Hopper confirmed. “You ever notice him talking to Chrissy Cunningham?”
Lucas swallowed audibly, and glanced over his shoulder again. “You’re not gonna tell him anything I say, are you?”
Steve sat up straighter in his seat. Were they actually gonna get something?
“No, kid. Confidential.”
Lucas nodded. “Alright. Well. I’m kinda terrified of Coach Hargrove. I’m close with Max, you know, and he really doesn’t like that. So I try to keep an eye on him whenever he’s at practice. Make sure I’m never alone with him.”
Hopper nodded along. Lucas looked over his shoulder again.
“A couple of times over the past few months, I noticed him slipping out of practice early. When the cheerleaders left. One time I had to take a piss after he’d left. I walked past a bunch of dark classrooms, then there was one with a light on. I looked in, wondering who was working this late. Coach Hargrove was in the classroom with Chrissy.”
“What were they doing?” Hopper asked.
“I think they were just talking. She was sitting at a desk and he was leaning on a desk nearby. I kept walking pretty quick, didn’t want him to see me watching.”
“You remember when this was?”
Lucas looked up at the ceiling as he thought. “Uhhh, I think it was after we beat Grissom High. But before we went to the semi-finals. So that would’ve been, like, mid-February maybe?”
“There was no one else in the room with them?” Steve asked.
“Not that I could see,” Lucas said. “But I high-tailed it out of there pretty fast.”
“You get a good look at Chrissy’s face? Was she scared?”
Lucas shook his head. “She was turned to the side, I couldn’t see her face well.”
“But you’re sure it was her?” Hopper leaned forward.
“Yeah. Nobody else on the squad has hair that color.”
“You see him with her any of the other times he left early? Or any of the other cheerleaders?”
“No. Like I said, I try to avoid him whenever I can. No way would I have followed him willingly.”
“Alright,” Hopper said, standing up. “Thanks, Lucas. This is helpful.”
“And you’re not gonna tell him I told you?” Lucas clarified, wringing his hands.
“No, ‘course not. We talked to everyone on the team and the cheerleading squad today, there’s no way this could get traced back to you.”
Lucas didn’t look like he quite believed Hopper as he left the room.
“Well. I’d been hoping for more but that’s something,” Hopper said.
“Not much, though. Not unless we can use it to get him to tell us more.”
Hopper grunted. “Yeah. Let me take the lead when we’re talking to him. I know him pretty well. I’ll see if I can get under his skin.”
A group of boys were clustered around something in the hallway when Hopper and Steve finally left the room they'd been holed up in all evening. Steve walked past slowly in an attempt to get a look at what was going on. He heard the pastor's voice and stopped to listen. He couldn't see him over the tall boys clustered around him (a bunch of centers and forwards from the looks of it) but his voice carried with the force of a well-practiced orator.
"I know this has been so very difficult for all of you," the pastor said. "You all knew Chrissy, such a bright and shining star in our community. To have her ripped away from you in such a violent way… I can't even imagine what you must have felt. My own son has been in shock for weeks, barely able to function."
Steve glanced over to where Jason was leaning against the wall, glowering at his father with a rage that looked nothing like shock.
"And just as you're all beginning to heal a little with the tincture of time," the pastor continued, "you're pulled back in for questioning and have it all dredged back up." The pastor sighed theatrically. "I know this must be so tough for so many of you. And I want you to know that the church is a place you can always come if you need a kind ear to listen. Even if you're not Baptist. I'm happy to talk with each and every one of you if that's what it takes to help heal this town."
One of the boys in front of Steve shifted, opening a gap with a direct line of sight to the pastor. The pastor glanced his way.
"Ah, and here's the man who's going to help us all with the closure we need to heal," the pastor said with a broad smile. All the boys turned to look at Steve. "Special Agent Harrington, so good to see you. Your dedication to this case is admirable, and such a solace to the hurt citizens of Hawkins."
Steve shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. "Uh. Thanks," he muttered awkwardly.
"Why don't you all head home now?" the pastor said to the gathered boys. "You've had a long day."
The boys filtered out slowly, talking to each other quietly. Steve was impressed the pastor had managed to keep their attention, but he was a very charismatic speaker. Steve and Hopper were left with just the pastor and his son, who still looked embarrassed and annoyed.
"I hope this hasn't been too much for you, Special Agent," the pastor said in a warm, inviting voice, placing a hand on Steve's arm. "I heard it's your first assignment. Are you holding up alright?"
The patronizing comment irritated Steve, but he tried not to let it show on his face. "The FBI doesn't just let anyone out on field assignments," Steve pointed out wryly.
"Of course, of course," the pastor said apologetically, patting his arm. "I didn't mean to imply you weren't capable, of course. Just… if you ever need to talk, you know where to find me."
Steve would never tell this smarmy man anything about his inner thoughts, but he smiled and gave him an amicable nod. It wouldn't do to piss off the town pastor.
"How'd you know the boys might need a little pep talk?" Hopper asked. He'd been quiet through the awkward exchange with Steve.
"Jason called to tell me why he was going to be home late." The pastor threw a fond smile at his glowering son. "I thought they might need some kind words after all of that."
"I didn't want you to come," Jason grumbled. The pastor's smile twitched, but he otherwise ignored Jason.
Steve watched them walk out to the parking lot, stopping briefly to exchange a few words with Neil Hargrove, who didn't look even remotely worried about what had gone down today. They really had their work cut out for them.
Neil walked into the station the following morning trailed by a well-dressed man with slicked-back hair and an expensive briefcase. Susan followed a few steps behind, looking drab and run-down next to the man.
“Sheriff Hopper,” Neil said. “Susan and I are here for your questions. This is our lawyer, Tim Jones.”
Hopper looked surprised as he shook hands with the lawyer. “You’re not from around here. You come down from the city?”
The man nodded briskly. “Yes. Shall we get started?”
Hopper led them back to a small interrogation room. “We’ll need to talk to Susan and Neil separately.”
The lawyer nodded. “I’m representing them both, so I’ll be present for both interrogations.”
“Susan, you mind coming in first?” Hopper asked.
Susan turned to Neil. He gave her a brusque nod. “Alright,” she whispered, and followed Steve and Hopper into the room.
“Susan, do you remember what you were doing on the night of Thursday, February 22nd?” Hopper asked as soon as they were ready to begin.
The lawyer must have coached her beforehand based on the questions Steve and Hopper had asked Neil the week before, because she answered immediately. “I was chaperoning the freshman class trip to Washington, D.C.”
There went Hopper’s idea of cornering Neil with their knowledge of his lack of alibi.
“So you weren’t at home with Neil?”
“No,” she confirmed.
Hopper shifted in his seat and paused to think. Steve had agreed to let him take the lead on these interrogations. “Had you noticed anything unusual about your husband’s schedule in the first few months of this year?”
She shook her head without providing a verbal reply.
“Could you please answer with words, for the sake of the recording?” Hopper prompted.
“N-no,” Susan said. “Nothing unusual.”
“No nights where he came home from practice later than usual? Extra shifts picked up at work? New practice times?”
Susan shook her head again, then remembered the prompt. “Nothing like that. He’s a very regular man. Kept to his schedule.”
“Did you guys ever socialize with the Cunningham family?”
“Oh, heavens no,” Susan said with a self-deprecating laugh. “They own the mill. Neil just works there.”
“Chrissy Cunningham ever come over to your house for tutoring or anything like that?”
“Oh, no. Max is doing quite well in school.”
“She never babysat for you or nothing?”
“Well, she was part of the group of high school kids that ran the after school program Max went to in middle school. I remember Max talking about her, she really liked her. But she never babysat Max at our house.”
Hopper paused, looking down at his notepad. He looked over at Steve. Steve shrugged. He couldn’t think of anything else to ask her.
Hopper took a deep breath. “Susan, did you ever suspect Neil might have another woman in his life?”
“Mrs. Hargrove, you don’t need to answer that,” the lawyer interjected. He’d been so silent up to that point Steve had almost forgotten he was there. “It has no bearing on the current investigation.”
Hopper looked at Susan, a mute plea in his eyes. Her lower lip trembled. She bowed her head in the direction of the lawyer and kept her mouth shut.
“Alright,” Hopper said with a sigh. “That’s all I have. Special Agent Harrington, anything else you’d like to ask?”
Steve leaned forward. “Mrs. Hargrove, can you recall if your husband ever visited Oxford or Reily over in Ohio?”
She frowned. “I don’t think so. Don’t know why he would. He only really travels for games, and they don’t play in Ohio.”
“Nothing else from me, then,” Steve said. He let Susan out of the room and made sure Neil came in before they could talk to each other.
Neil had a smug grin on his face as he slid into the seat next to the lawyer. “Well, Hopper,” he said with an expansive hand gesture. “Ask away.”
“Neil. Last time we spoke, you told us you’d gone home to your wife on the night of February 22nd. But she wasn’t even in town.”
The lawyer cleared his throat. “I think you’ll find, Sheriff, that my client did not say that. What he said was that he didn’t recall what he was doing that exact night, as it was so long ago, but that he usually went home to his wife after practice on Thursdays.”
Hopper frowned. Steve tried to recall the conversation. They’d have to check the tape, but it was possible that’s all Neil had said.
“Alright,” Hopper allowed, apparently coming to the same conclusion. “Now that you’ve been reminded that the date I was asking about was that unusual week when Susan was gone, do you remember better what you did the night of the 22nd after practice?”
Neil sat back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “I went home, ate dinner, and went to sleep. Susan made a lasagna that she froze for me before she left. She’s not a great cook, but it was edible.”
“Anyone able to confirm you stayed in your house all night?”
Neil shook his head, but didn’t look worried. “You’re welcome to ask the neighbors if they saw me leave, but if you’re asking if I had someone else in the house with me, then, no, I didn’t.”
“And you didn’t leave the house again until the following morning?”
“Right. My shift started at the mill at 8. Left the house at 7:30.”
Steve scribbled everything down on his notepad, even though they were recording. Writing things down helped him stay focused.
“Alright. Let’s go back to how you said you don’t remember ever having a conversation with Chrissy. We told you someone saw you arguing with her in the hallway a few days before she died, but now we’ve also got someone who saw you alone with her in a classroom after a practice in February.”
Neil’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”
The lawyer placed a hand on his arm. “One person saw him?” the lawyer said scornfully before Neil could say anything more. “They made a mistake. My client was never alone in a room with Ms. Cunningham. He would remember if he had been.”
“You saying someone lied to us, then?”
“I’m saying eyewitnesses are inherently fallible, Sheriff. You know a single eyewitness rarely stands up to scrutiny in court.”
Steve knew it was true. The defense would have no problem completely discrediting Lucas on the stand. And given how he’d acted during questioning, Lucas might not even be willing to testify.
“I was talking to Neil,” Hopper said. “Neil, were you ever alone in a classroom with Chrissy?”
“No,” Neil said with a smirk. “I would never have gone into a room alone with a cheerleader. That’s career suicide.”
Hopper spent about five more minutes asking Neil questions, but they got nowhere. Neil claimed he didn’t even know where Oxford and Reily were, and had definitely never been to either town. The lawyer interjected whenever Neil seemed like he was going to start spouting off. The Hargroves left the station an hour later, Steve and Hopper having less than nothing to charge Neil with.
Hopper sank into his desk chair with a groan. “Where the fuck did Hargrove find that guy? I was expecting Mark Danzig from the local firm, I coulda walked all over him.”
“He did seem… expensive. Are the Hargroves that well off just from Neil working at the mill and coaching at the high school?”
“Hell, no!” Hopper exclaimed, pounding a fist on his desk. “That’s why I’m so confused.”
“You think somebody else might be involved? Somebody who could get him an expensive lawyer?”
“Maybe. I wasn’t even sure Hargrove was involved until he pulled this stunt. Now I’m sure something shady’s going on with him.”
They were interrupted by Hopper’s phone. “What?” Hopper barked as he picked up the receiver. He listened for a moment. “Put him through.”
Steve couldn’t make out what the person on the other line was saying, but Hopper’s eyes went wide with surprise. He hung up the phone and immediately stood to grab his coat.
“Callahan’s got something,” he said. “In the woods. Hiker found an old freight car with a bunch of blood, some ropes, some hair.”
Steve grabbed his own coat and hurried out to the car with Hopper. They drove out to the woods, and Steve was struck once again by how wild the woods around Hawkins seemed. He was used to newer forests that had grown back after the devastation of intensive agriculture. And the forests around Hawkins were new growth—there were none of the giant and imposing trees Steve associated with the old growth forests he’d visited out west. But they had an atmosphere to them that made them feel untouched by time. Dark, imposing, and overbearing. The skinny trees felt big. They loomed and pressed. Steve felt a dark weight settle on him as they pulled onto an unmarked service road, heading deeper into the trees.
Callahan was waiting for them on the side of the road a few miles in, standing next to a young man with incredibly long, perfectly straight black hair and a dazed expression on his face.
“What’ve you got?” Hopper asked as they hopped out of the car.
Callahan jerked his thumb at the kid. “Argyle here stumbled across something out in the woods. Abandoned freight car.”
“How’d someone get a freight car out here?” Steve asked, looking around at the thick woods that bordered the road.
“Used to be a set of tracks going through the woods not too far from here,” Hopper explained. “They haven’t been used in over 50 years, though. Must’ve been left behind back then.” He turned to the kid. “What were you doing out here? You said your name’s Argyle?”
Argyle nodded slowly. He looked like the kind of person who did everything slowly. He also looked (and smelled) like he’d smoked a lot of weed recently. “Argyle’s the name, yessir. Was out here lookin’ for some mushrooms.”
“Mushrooms?” Hopper asked with raised eyebrows. “What kind of mushrooms?”
Argyle’s dopey smile dropped off his face, like he’d just realized he was talking to the cops. “Uh. Like those expensive ones. That rich people like.”
“Truffles?” Steve asked, trying not to laugh.
“Yeah!” Argyle agreed, pointing at him. “Truffles!”
“You need a dog to find truffles,” Steve pointed out. “And do they even have truffles here?”
“Oh, shit, really? That explains why I didn’t find any.” They all politely ignored the basket full of mushrooms that definitely weren’t truffles sitting on the ground nearby.
“Never seen you around here before,” Hopper pointed out. “You from the city? How’d you get here?”
“Nah, man. I’m from Cali, baby.” He grinned at them and held up his hand with the thumb and pinky stuck out, then shook it from side to side.
“Well, how’d you end up in Indiana, then?” Hopper asked in an exasperated tone when it seemed the kid thought no further explanation was needed.
“Just here visiting a friend. Jonathan Byers. He dropped me off out here to look around while he did some other stuff. Told him about the freight car when he came to pick me up and he went back into town to call you fine gentlemen and inform you of the situation.”
“Can you show us to what you found?” Steve asked.
“Can do, my friend.” He nodded, long black hair falling in front of his face. “Follow me, brochachos.”
He turned and walked into the woods. Hopper, Steve, and Callahan followed, Hopper mouthing “brochachos” to himself with a grimace.
The freight car wasn’t far from the service road they’d parked on. It had clearly been abandoned in the woods for a long time. Vines spread over the structure and moss grew on its sides. A tree sprouted from the center, growing through a large hole in the roof.
Steve walked around the freight car until he found the opening at the back. The door was rusted open, like it had been left that way when it was abandoned decades ago. The trees blocked the sunlight from reaching the interior of the car; he could barely make anything out in the incredibly dim light. He pulled his flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on.
The inside of the car was a mess—dirt and leaves strewn everywhere with the tree splitting the space. It was an oak, and looked old enough that it must have started growing as soon as the freight car was abandoned. Acorns scattered the floor around it, some crushed as though beneath heavy boots.
Dark stains stood out against an area of the floor that had been cleared of leaves and dirt. Steve squatted beside them to get a closer look. Red splatters spread over the floor. The symbol he was becoming all too familiar with was painted on the wall above the stains with the same dark red substance. Beside the stains lay a pile of clothing, the telltale green and white of a Hawkins High cheerleading uniform. Steve snapped on a pair of gloves and poked through the pile, revealing dark stains on the shirt. Beside the clothes lay a doll made of wheat, like the ones they’d found by the altar. A lock of strawberry blonde hair was wrapped around the doll.
A sharp pain tore through his head as a high-pitched whining noise filled the air around him. He gasped at the pain. His vision swam. The freight car receded as blackness filled his visual field.
He blinked. When he opened his eyes, he was in a different place entirely. It was quiet. So quiet it made his head hurt just as much as the whining from before. His eyes were drawn to the dark red velvet drapes bracketing the room, to the zig-zagging black and white lines on the floor. A couch, two lamps, the statue of a woman. He’d seen this room before. In a dream.
He looked down. He was sitting on a black leather chair, still in his suit and tie. The room flickered, and then there was someone on the couch across from him. Chrissy Cunningham. She wore a long-sleeved full-coverage black dress, and her hair was loose around her shoulders. The outfit made her look much older than she had in any of the photos he’d seen of her, when she’d been in her cheerleading uniform or clothes that clearly marked her as a teenager, with her hair always pulled back in a high ponytail.
She smiled at him, like she had a secret. “Welcome back,” she said. The words sounded wrong—garbled, like they’d been run through a speech distortion machine, but he could understand them.
Steve wanted to ask so many questions, but his mouth wouldn’t open. He sat in silence as a low humming noise filled the room. It reminded him of being on an airplane.
“Be careful,” Chrissy said. “He’s watching you. He wants you.”
Something stirred behind the velvet drapes. An overwhelming sense of dread settled over Steve. A hand reached through a gap in the drapes, the same hand he’d seen once before—perfectly manicured nails with a deep red polish. He knew he didn’t want to be here to see the body attached to that hand. He needed to leave.
Pain stabbed through his head again and he looked away, back to Chrissy. A man crouched beside the couch, staring up at her with unbridled avarice. He had long, gray hair that hung in greasy hanks around his face. A manic grin split his face, showing nearly every bright white tooth in his mouth. Bile rose in Steve’s throat at the sight of the man. He wanted to scream, but the sensation was trapped in his chest. It wouldn’t come out.
Steve’s eyes were drawn to the ground beside the man’s feet. Something sat there on the floor. A matchbook. The silhouette of a woman with flowing hair standing in front of a shell took up the majority of space on the cover, with the words “Venus’s Spa” in a cursive font beneath it.
Steve’s eyes flicked back up to Chrissy. She stared at the man crouched beside her with a look of resignation. He reached for her with a snarl. Motion in his peripheral vision drew Steve’s gaze back to the drapes. The hand with the red nails poking out between them tugged. A sharp blast of noise tore through the room, like a foghorn, followed by a flash of brilliant white light. Steve shut his eyes against the onslaught.
When he opened them again, he was back in the freight car, sitting on the dirty ground. Hopper’s hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. “Harrington? Kid? What the fuck is going on?”
Steve shook off Hopper’s hand and stood on shaky legs. “N-nothing,” he stammered. “Sorry. I slipped.”
Hopper shot him a skeptical look. “You just slipped? Then why weren’t you answering me?”
Steve had no idea how long Hopper had been trying to talk to him, so didn’t know what an acceptable excuse would be. “I think the jolt from falling triggered a migraine,” he mumbled, using his old excuse.
Hopper didn’t look convinced. “You sure get a lot of migraines at crime scenes for somebody who’s an investigator. Seems like it could be an occupational hazard.”
“I’ll be fine,” Steve insisted. “We need to get forensics out here.” He pointed at the cheerleading uniform. “Looks like this could actually be the murder site.”
Hopper nodded. He glanced around the dirty interior. A crow cawed loudly from where it was perched atop the freight car. “Awful place to die,” he muttered.
Steve kept his response to himself. There was no good place to be murdered.
They’d barely made it back into Hopper’s office to debrief after wrapping up with the forensics lab around 1am when Daniels’s voice crackled over Hopper’s radio.
“We’ve got a situation,” Daniels said. “Fire at Forest Hills.”
Steve stood up immediately, his heart rate picking up.
“What happened?” Hopper asked into the radio.
“Not sure yet,” Daniels said. “Fire department’s on their way, but it sounds like there might be a fight going on as well. I’m headed there now but I might need back-up.”
Steve’s thoughts went straight to Billy and Eddie. Billy’s recent haul had finished a few days before, so he was home right now. If there was a fight and a fire happening at Forest Hills, the chances that he was involved somehow were annoyingly high.
“Be there in ten,” Hopper told Daniels. “I cannot catch a fucking break in this town,” he muttered to himself as he got up from his chair. His face was drawn with exhaustion. He turned to Steve. “You don’t have to come for this. Got nothin’ to do with the case you’re working. Get some rest.”
“No,” Steve said. “That’s alright. I might be able to help.”
Hopper narrowed his eyes. “I don’t need you there, kid. This is local business.”
Steve knew a dismissal when he heard one, and he didn’t push Hopper on it further, but he wasn’t going to let that keep him away. He called Billy’s trailer on the station phone once Hopper had left. No response. He tried Eddie. No response. His anxiety spiked. He tried to tell himself they might just be out at the Hideout, but he couldn’t shake his worry. He drove out to Forest Hills, following the sound of sirens.
He saw the smoke while he was still almost a mile away, billowing up into the night sky and blotting out the nearly full moon. His worst suspicions were confirmed as he pulled into the trailer park and pinpointed where the flames were coming from. The back of the park, toward the south. Where Eddie’s trailer was.
Fire trucks blocked the small road leading to Eddie’s trailer. Steve parked before the trucks and ran the rest of the way to the trailer, pushing his way through a crowd of on-lookers.
It was a conflagration. He could barely even see Eddie’s trailer through the hungry flames, licking the trees above. He spotted Eddie’s motorcycle parked off to the side, and his heart sank. Eddie had been home.
He glanced around frantically for any sign that Eddie had gotten out, and his eyes fell on Hopper and Daniels. They were physically restraining two men—Hopper held onto Billy and Daniels had Chrissy’s boyfriend, Jason Carver. Jason had a bloody nose and a puffy eye; Billy looked unhurt. Where was Eddie?
Steve pushed forward further, walking around the barricades that had been erected by the fire department.
“Harrington, what the fuck are you doing here?” Hopper growled when he saw him. Billy was trying his best to buck off the bigger man, but Hopper’s hold was firm. “I told you to go home.”
Steve ran up to Billy. “Where is he?” Steve demanded.
Billy knew who he meant. He nodded to the side, and Steve caught sight of Eddie wrapped in a shiny reflective blanket as a paramedic examined him. He let out a sob of relief at the sight of him, alive and unburnt.
Steve rushed over to Eddie, needing to make sure he was okay. The paramedic had moved off to the side, and Steve took their place, squatting down in front of Eddie. He put a hand on each of his cheeks and tilted his face up. Eddie was covered in soot, but didn’t look too bad.
“Are you okay?” Steve asked. “What happened?”
Eddie nuzzled his face into one of Steve’s hands then looked back up at him. “That little fucker started a fire outside my trailer.” He nodded over at Jason.
“But you got out alright?”
“Yeah. By sheer dumb luck. I was sound asleep, dead to the world, but Billy went out for a cigarette and saw the fire. Got me out.” He glanced over at his trailer, which was completely engulfed in flames the firefighters were working hard to put out. He shuddered. “Woulda died in there if he hadn’t come out for a smoke just then.”
“Jason stuck around?” Steve asked. “Did Billy see him start the fire?”
Eddie shook his head. “Don’t think so. Billy caught him sneaking off into the woods after he pulled me out of the house. Dragged him back.”
Steve looked over to where Hopper was cuffing Billy while Daniels put Jason in cuffs. Eddie stood, throwing off the blanket, and stalked over.
“Why are you putting him in cuffs?” Eddie demanded, getting up in Hopper’s face. “He didn’t try to burn down my house with me in it.”
“Assault,” Hopper grumbled. “He was beating the shit out of Carver when we drove up.”
“For good reason!” Eddie yelled.
“Munson, step back,” Hopper warned. “I don’t care what Carver did, I can’t just let assault slide.”
Eddie looked like he was about ready to punch Hopper. Steve grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back a little. “Eddie,” Steve whispered. “That’s not gonna help.”
Eddie sagged in his grip, and let Hopper escort Billy to his car. Billy locked eyes with Steve as they passed. “You take care of him, Harrington,” Billy whispered. Steve nodded, not letting go of Eddie’s arm.
As Hopper walked him past Jason, Billy lunged in Jason’s direction. Jason stumbled back into Daniels with an undignified squeak, and Billy let out a maniacal laugh. Hopper shoved him into the back of the car more roughly than necessary, then threw a glare at Steve. He knew this wouldn’t be the last he heard about showing up here tonight.
Once the cars had pulled away, Steve and Eddie turned to stare at the fire. Gradually, the firefighters got it under control, and there were no more flames, only the smoking shell of a trailer. It was completely ruined.
“Where are you gonna stay?” Steve asked, touching Eddie lightly on an arm. “You could come back to the inn with me.”
Eddie shook his head. “I’ve got a key to Billy’s trailer. I’ll stay there.”
“I’ll stay with you.” Eddie shouldn’t be alone tonight. Steve wasn’t going to let Billy down.
“What about Billy?” Eddie asked, staring in the direction the cars had gone.
“They’re just going to process him and get all the details straight. He should be out by morning.” Probably. Unless Hopper decided to be a really big asshole.
“Alright,” Eddie said. There was no fight left in him. He plodded slowly over to Billy’s trailer, letting Steve in. He looked lower than Steve had ever seen him as he stared around the trailer, with none of his usual frantic energy or teasing demeanor. Steve pulled him in for a hug, letting Eddie bury his face in the crook of Steve’s neck. Steve heard a sniffle, and felt a wet trickle down his neck, and then Eddie was sobbing. Big, heaving sobs, rocking his entire body with their force.
Steve rubbed Eddie’s back and made soothing noises, holding him as tightly as he could through the shaking. Eddie’s sobs eventually trailed off into sniffles and hiccups. He pushed himself out of Steve’s arms and rubbed a hand over his face, smudging a trail of soot into the tears.
“Sorry,” Eddie said with a watery smile. “Just got a little overwhelmed.”
“You don’t need to be sorry. Your house just burnt down. You almost died. You’re allowed to cry about it.”
Eddie huffed a laugh. “You sound like my mom.”
Steve grinned at the glimmer of Eddie’s usual humor. “You should take a shower, you’re covered in soot.”
Eddie rolled his eyes, but walked toward the bathroom. “Not beating the mom allegations.”
Steve went into Billy’s bedroom while Eddie showered, stripping down to his boxers and climbing into the bed. He felt out of his depth. He wasn’t sure how to best comfort Eddie, and he wished Billy was there. The sheets smelled like the spicy soap Billy used. He hoped Billy would be okay in jail overnight.
Something caught his eye as he placed his watch on the bedside table. A matchbook, with the silhouette of a woman and a large shell, and the words “Venus’s Spa” beneath. He had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, his brain working in overdrive to place where he’d seen that image before. Then it clicked. The vision he’d had in the freight car. The matchbook beside the terrifying man’s foot.
He wondered what it meant for a few moments, before shaking his head to dislodge the thoughts. It had to just be a fluke of brain chemistry, like when he’d have an erotic dream about someone he wasn’t at all attracted to because they were the person his brain picked out of the void when he started feeling horny in his sleep. He must have seen the matchbook here before, and then his brain had pulled it out of his memories to populate the vision he’d had in the freight car. That had to be it. He put it back on the table, but couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was missing something.
Eddie stumbled out of the shower, barely toweling himself off before he slid into bed next to Steve. He pressed himself against Steve, burying his face in Steve’s chest and wrapping his arms and a leg around him.
“You’re still wet,” Steve muttered into Eddie’s dripping hair.
“Mmph,” Eddie responded.
Steve wrapped his arms around Eddie, giving him a pass given the trials of the day. “You gonna be okay?”
Eddie sighed. “I guess, yeah. Long as nobody else tries to set me on fire tonight.” He pulled his head out from under Steve’s chin and looked up at him with a weak grin, a ghost of his usual smile. “You sure you wanna take this chance, big boy? Sleeping in a trailer with me is a hazard.”
Steve poked him in the side. “Only because of your snores.”
Eddie held a hand to his chest in mock affront. “Excuse me? I do not snore. I breathe with gusto.”
“Oh, is that what you’re calling it?”
Eddie turned around with a harrumph, putting his back to Steve, but then reached behind him to pull Steve’s arm around his waist. Steve pressed his body against Eddie’s and hugged him tight around his middle. He moved his wet hair to the side and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Wake me up if you need me, okay?” Steve whispered.
Eddie squeezed his arm. “Thanks for staying, Steve.”
Steve kissed him again. “Anytime.”
Eddie fell asleep faster than Steve had expected—what could only be described as snores started up after just a few minutes of silence. Steve held him tightly, remembering the fear he’d felt upon seeing the fire and thinking about his worry over Billy at the station. When had this thing he had with Billy and Eddie gone from a way to pass the time and let off some steam to… whatever this was? He couldn’t keep lying to himself after tonight—he genuinely cared about both of the men. This wasn’t just a fling.
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