UTOPIA

by Bryon Quertermous

I used to be on television. That's the only reason a woman as attractive as Della Curfman was sitting in my office in Detroit . I also used to be a cop, which is the only reason she was offering me an all-expense paid trip to Utopia, in Michigan 's Upper Penninsula to look for her husband.

"He was doing a feature for one of those newspaper insert magazines," she said, sliding a picture of her husband across my desk to me. "It's a rag of a paper but they have a huge payroll."

"Utopia, Michigan : The city with no pop culture?" I asked, looking at the Celebration Magazine assignment sheet she'd given me with the photo.

"They've had a bit creeping in recently, and apparently that's the problem. Kids these days have cell phones and Internet access and other ways around the town's cultural lockdown. It's created a bit of a gap."

"And you believe your husband has fallen into that gap?"

"He's very good about keeping in contact with me. I'm a bit of a nag, truth be told, but he's good about working with it. I, um, make it worth his while if you know what I mean."

"I wish I didn't. But I've got his picture, I've got his itinerary, and I've got your approval. I can't imagine being better equipped to find your husband."

She was out of her seat and at the door before she said something else in passing.

"And I'll try not to nag you," she said. "Though I suppose you won't have the same incentive as Brent to keep me happy."

"I'll be in touch when I get to Utopia, Ms. Curfman. My assistant will show you out."

* * *

I left Detroit around noon and crossed the Mackinac Bridge shortly after 4pm. It was around this time I realized the disadvantage of not having done more advanced research. I still had another two hours to go into the UP before I reached Utopia and for all I knew, Brent Curfman had already left town and gotten distracted by a particularly mammoth truck stop and would be home soon.

Instead, I had some McDonald's, found a decent classic rock station, and prepared to leave the 21 st Century behind. I lost cell phone reception an hour later, shortly after that my radio station went to nothing but country, and by the time I rolled into Utopia I felt sufficiently removed from modern society.

Dowtown Utopia was three shops, a small church, and one of those all-encompassing diner/store/boutique/car repair shops called Dixie 's Deluxe. This was the only place open at 7pm so I pulled in between a pair of battered pickup trucks and smiled at how ridiculously I was going to stick out.

"Westerns," the fat guy behind the register told me when I asked about what movies made up the video store. "Selection ain't exactly varied but we got more than most people have on their own. We got books too."

"Western books?"

"We're isolated," he said. "We're not ignorant."

"I have a feeling my foot is going to be permanently crammed in my mouth until I leave town."

"And when might that be?"

"Oh, I'm just getting started right now," I said. "Tell me about a reporter that came to town."

"I think our friend here just ordered the special tonight," the man yelled across the room to a squat women in jeans and a too tight t-shirt."

"Figured as much," she yelled back. "I'll call Mo. "

"Mo is the chef?" I asked.

"Mo's going to kick your ass."

I left before they could give me the special, but apparently it was available "to go" because two big guys the size and shape of miniature Mack trucks were standing in front of my car pushing against it. One of them stopped and turned to me as I approached my car. He had a square head and eyes that made him look robotic, like one of the Transformers my assistant keeps on his desk at the office.

"Are you both Mo?" I asked.

"Mo don't do his own dirty work," the Transformer said. "Billy and me, we throw things and hit people."

"And they say Michigan is lacking for skilled labor."

"But not for assholes," he said.

And then he swung at me. For a big guy he was light on his feet and quick with his fists. But he was also a thug, and I knew he was going to strike at me so I easily dodged the blow and got off a slug of my own.

While I was reveling in my own stealth, Billy plowed into me from the side. My feet left without me and landed me on my ass. The Transformer got off a couple more cheap shots at my gut while his brother revved up to give me the full "special."

But they stopped because of a little girl. Well, more like an older teenager.

"Drew, you big goon," she said in a husky, smoke drenched voice. "Get your ass back home. Momma needs something lifted."

"But—"

"And take Mini Me there back with you," she said, pointing to Billy.

When the boys were gone, the girl got in my passenger seat and looked at me like I was making her late for school or something.

"Come on already Magnum," she said, lighting a cigarette with my car's dashboard lighter. "Dinner's not going to eat itself."

I got into the car and only looked at her long enough to appreciate her Simpsons t-shirt, not the grapefruit sized breasts that were filling it out. She gave me directions piece-by-piece and only after I made several wrong turns and missed streets.

"Who's Mo?" I asked, finally remembering I was a detective, not a tourist. "Your mom, or dad?"

"You're looking for that reporter, aren't you?" And then, a little more hopefully she said, "Or are you here to talk to me?"

"Maybe both," I said. "I suspect doing the later may help me do the former."

"That was one of the most awkwardly phrased sentences I've ever heard. And it sounds a bit like you were trying to seduce me."

"Trust me. It was nothing more than poor grammar on my part."

"Well don't be too quick to dismiss flirting with me. You're going to make me feel bad."

"Brent Curfman must have talked to you,” I said. “The Magnum references, the Mini Me insult, and the t-shirt all tell me you're one of the few pop culture fans around here."

"You like my t-shirt?" She asked, sticking out her chest, making her breasts even more defined and distracting. "My mom thinks it's too tight."

"How much farther is it to your house?"

"I'm making you nervous, aren't I? Like Lolita or something."

"I just think I should probably know your name before you go having me analyze your breasts."

Instead of being offended, or aroused, both of which were equally disastrous outcomes, she just laughed. That I could deal with.

"Amy," she said, holding her hand out. "Amy Heffron. And I'm sticking my hand out to shake your hand, not to grab your crotch."

"What will your parents think of you getting a ride home with a strange man?"

"They know who you are. My dad is Mo. "

Damn.

I pulled my car over to the side of the road and leaned over Amy to unlock and open her door.

"Get out. I'm not letting you lead me into another family ass whooping."

Again, her humor with the situation was not the expected reaction. She took my assumption in stride, shutting and relocking her door and smiling at me.

"He sent me to stop the boys from whooping your ass," she said.

"So he can beat on me himself?"

"So he can ask you some questions."

"And then beat me?"

"Well if you don't want to hear what he has to say, I can just tell him you tried to take advantage of his only daughter. Did I mention he's a truck driver?"

I put the car back in gear and continued along our way.

"Seriously though, how far away do you live?” I asked after about 10 more minutes of driving. “For a town of only 600 people you all sure are spread out enough."

"Don't call him Mo though," Amy said. "He always gets pissed when people call him that. His real name is Lester. But don't call him that either."

"I think I'll stick with Sir."

"Turn right here."

* * *

Lester Heffron had never talked to Brent Curfman because Brent Curfman never made it to town. At least that's the story he was trying to peddle as we chatted out back of his small ranch home.

"The wife don't know I was basically pimping our daughter out for cash," he said. "So to speak."

"Curfman was going to pay you to let him interview Amy?"

"Not enough to do anything extravagant with. But money for nothing is something I always like."

"What did he want to talk to Amy about?"

"Exactly how close do you get with my daughter on the ride over here Mr. Ellington?"

"It was her idea," I said. "She just got in my car and told me where to go. She said you wanted to talk with me."

"Mmmm hmmm. And did she try to hit on you?"

"We talked about movies and TV mostly, sir."

"I think dinner is about ready. Why don't we go have a meal Mr. Ellington."

"You can call me Dallas."

"That's a stupid name. But I know you were an actor so I guess it's to be expected. I hope you like roast."

The rest of the family was already at the dinner table and it looked like a scene straight out of The Waltons. Except for the slimy Hollywood-type PI from Detroit sitting between the slightly slutty daughter and the two thug brothers. The roast was good though and they had the flaky biscuits I like where you can peel off the layers and eat them individually. Everything tasted like gravy and you really can't go wrong with that.

The mother, who's name was Tracy if I recall (nobody called her anything but ma), was a skilled table conversationalist. She easily guided the group from general weather chat to the reason I was at their table before the food even made it completely around the table.

"That reporter was going to talk to our Amy because she's not like the other kids in town," she said. "Mo and I don't want to keep the kids sheltered because we think that breeds rebellion."

"But we're not going to throw that worldly garbage in their faces either," Lester piped in. "They have to work for the trash they buy."

"It's not trash daddy," Amy said. "Just because you don't like it."

"But the reporter, Brent Curfman, never made it out here I understand," I said.

"How did you know Mr. Curfman? Mo didn't tell me quite what your business in town was."

"His wife is a friend of mine," I said. "We used to be on television together."

"Television, wow. I had no idea."

"I saw your show, Parker Block, on DVD a couple times," Amy said. "Not bad for another 80s PI show."

"You were on a television show about being a PI and now you are a PI yourself?" Ma asked. "How interesting."

"If you know I'm a PI now, then you probably have some sense of why I'm here."

She smiled but didn't say anything. I wasn't sure if she was being spacey or if she had some sort of nefarious plan under way. A bit of both I suspected. Lester played the understanding, but alpha male husband, but I've noticed men like that tend to be ruled more by their wives then they ever let on.

"I may have heard Amy talking about it," she said, continuing to smile.

"I'm looking for Brent. He hasn't contacted his wife and I guess he's normally pretty good about it. This was the last place she knew he was headed."

"To do a story about our Amy?"

"And that's how I ended up at your lovely dinner table," I said.

"It looks like dinner might be all you're able to get out of us unfortunately," Tracy said. "Your friend never even made it to town."

"Yes, that's what I hear," I said. "I'd still like to talk to your daughter though. Especially since she seems to know some of my work."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Lester said. "She never got to meet the man you're looking for and if that's the only reason you came to town then it's probably best if you leave."

"I'm sorry sir, but even if Brent didn't make it to town, I still might be able to find out where he might be by talking to your daughter or her friends," I said.

"She doesn't have anything to say to you. That's all I'm saying."

"Thank you for having dinner with us Mr. Ellington," Tracy said, getting up from the table. "I can pack up anything you haven't eaten if you'd like to get on the road."

"I've already overstayed my welcome, I fear. Thank you all for your hospitality."

I looked Amy in the eye and tried to get her attention without, getting her attention. I handed her one of my business cards as I got up from the table.

"If you want any more of the Parker Block DVDs just let me know and I'll send you some. I've got a ton of them lying around and no one who wants them."

* * *

I was back in Dixie 's Deluxe parking lot when I ran into Amy Heffron again. I was sitting in my car staring at the building, trying to decide if it was worth the risk of bodily harm to ask anyone in there whether Brent Curfman had really never made it to town, when Amy slammed into the back of my car.

"Scare 'ya?" She asked, when I opened the door for her.

"How in the hell did you get away from your parents? Do they even know you're gone?"

"The story about Brent, it's crap."

"Brent? You call him Brent? How well did you know him?"

"We've been emailing each other for a few months. I met him on one of the movie blogs I follow and he emailed me with this idea for a story he was working on about town like this."

"And your parents were cool with this?"

"I'm not stupid enough to tell them about it."

"So he was just some random stranger to your dad when he volunteered to pimp you out?"

"It's not like he would have left me alone with Brent or anything."

"I don't imagine that would have been real conducive to a no-holds-barred interview."

"Oh he wasn't coming here just to talk to me. That was all done mainly through email. He wanted to talk to my parents and some of the older people in town."

"What about other kids like you?"

"Ha, there's no one like me."

"Yes, yes. You're very unique. And about five years behind the pop culture curve."

"Screw you. Do you want my help or not?"

"But definitely on the cutting edge of rude behavior to adults."

"You're an actor playing private eye. You don't count as an adult."

"Touche. So you're the only one in town who listens to music or watches movies or cable TV?"

"You make me sound like some sort of freak. But no, there are a couple other kids who follow this stuff, but not quite like me. Jamie is a big Green Day fan. She plays the guitar and downloads a bunch of music, but she's not really into movies or TV or anything."

"Do you think she'd talk to me?"

"She's not going to be as enamored of you as I am."

"Enamored? Kids don't talk like that except in Dawson 's Creek," I said.

"Now who's five years behind the pop culture curve?"

"Very funny. Seriously though—"

"Her mom is never home. So as long as I go with you, she should be cool with it."

"And your parents aren't going to miss you?"

"They think I'm over at Jamie's house."

* * *

"You'd dig Veronica Mars," I said, pulling out of the parking lot and toward the general direction Amy was pointing. "Have you ever seen it?"

"I've heard about it and read about it on Television Without Pity, but on the crapass cable out here we don't get that network. Stupid hicks."

Amy didn't talk much this time, only a few murmurs of direction and the occasional question about my acting. Finally the reason for her silence hit me.

"You're worried about him, aren't you?" I asked.

"It's not so much that I'm worried about him, but—"

"Did you tell me everything about you two?"

"You're a PI. I'm not telling you everything about anything."

She didn't laugh or smile this time.

"Did you ever talk to Brent more than just in email?"

"You mean like IM or something? My parents won't let me use that. Or even MySpace. Do you have any idea how hard—"

"I meant over the phone. Or anything more…intimate?"

"Let's talk to Jamie first, before I tell you anything else.

* * *

Jamie's house was almost exactly like Amy's house. I hadn't expected this kind of suburban cookie cutter design out in the sticks, but I guess even rural folks like cheap housing.

"Does everybody around here have the same type of house?" I asked, as we approached the front door that was swinging open in front of us.

Amy quickened her pace and didn't answer my question.

"Jamie always locks the door when she's home alone."

"This doesn't seem like the kind of place you need to worry about locking your doors," I said, standing outside, slightly clueless.

"She does it so nobody will disrupt her playing. People come over all the time checking up on her and bringing her food and stuff and she hates that."

"Where else would she have gone?" I asked, yelling at Amy as we haphazardly searched the house.

Since Amy's house was basically the same, she knew a few secret places to check that I never would have even thought of. But even in the secret places there was no clue as to what might have happened to Jamie. I tried to calm Amy down enough to think rationally about where her friend might have run off to.

"There's no blood. That's good," I said, gripping her shoulders, trying to be friendly and comforting without being creepy.

Her muscles tensed at my touch but she finally relaxed enough to lean into me. She didn't cry and after a few seconds she started breathing regularly again. I was about to wrap my arms around her more when she pushed me away and pulled a chair away from the kitchen table.

"Thank you," she said, curtly. "That was probably uncomfortable for you."

"I'm not a pervert and I'm not really an adult. That leaves a lot of middle ground for comforting teenage girls."

She smirked a little, but wasn't going to encourage me with a full smile.

"Okay, you're the detective, I'm her friend. We should be able to find her."

"But can we…can you, rather, handle what we might find?" I asked.

"You carry a gun right?"

"I'm not necessarily talking about danger, Amy. I mean—"

"I know what you mean, Dallas . She's probably dead. Or worse."

"And if—"

"But," she interrupted. "While I may not be able to handle what we find. I need to do it."

"There's also more than Jamie to think about."

"They might bring her Tupperware full of leftovers, but don't think anyone in this town would shed a tear if Jamie died."

"I was talking about Brent."

"I know," she said softly. "Why would he do this?"

I pulled out the chair next to Amy and sat down.

"We don't even know what this is," I said. "Maybe she just went for a burger."

"Jamie's a vegetarian. I think she'd rather be murdered."

"Do you have a cell phone number or any other way of contacting her?"

Amy shook her head no, though she furrowed her brow like she was still thinking about the answer.

"A cell phone was just one more way for her absent, yet over-protective, mother to keep tabs on her."

"Absent, yet over-protective?" I asked. "That's quite a combo."

"It's almost like she knows she's a crappy mother, so she overcompensates by trying to get too involved on the few days a month she's around here."

A traveling absentee mother and a disappearing teenage girl. Things were starting to click and spin in my brain.

"What does Jamie's mother do, exactly?" I asked.

"She's a stewardess. Her main route is Detroit to Los Angeles ."

"She lives six hours away from the airport she does most of her traveling from?"

"That's why I said she's only home a few days a month."

I hopped up from the table and went back into the rear of the house where Jamie had her bedroom in which she kept her computer.

"When was the last time Jamie's mom was in Utopia?" I asked Amy, firing up her friend's beat up blue iMac.

"I'll help you find her but there are still best friend loyalties that need to be maintained," she said. "You have a very solid lap by the way. I see a fruitful career as a mall Santa Clause if this PI thing doesn't take off for you."

"Anything good on there? Incriminating emails or dirty pictures?"

"I don't know how comfortable I am going into her private emails and stuff like that."

"Even if you can find something that might save her?"

"Save her from what? If she's already dead, then all I'd be doing is violating her memory. Maybe we should go—"

"If something already has happened to her that we can't stop, don't you still want the person who did it punished?"

"Jamie didn't really believe in retribution or revenge or anything. I don't think—"

"I'm talking about you, Amy. What would you want?"

She stopped typing and got off of my lap.

"I know you're trying to manipulate me," she said. "By playing with my emotions and trying to focus on what I want instead of what is best for Jamie."

"I don't—"

Amy held her hand up to my mouth and I stopped talking.

"And I don't think you're doing it out of malice or anything. But you don't have Jamie's best interest at heart. She's not your client or even part of your official investigation. Maybe we should just leave her alone for right now."

"That's fine if she's dead or if she's safe," I said. "But what if your friend is in danger somewhere, scared and helpless? What if something you know, or something you can find, can help you save her?"

"You're still being manipulative, but it's working a little better now."

"Did Jamie know about you and Brent Curfman?" I asked, as Amy went back to work at the computer, this time in her own chair pulled from under a pile of ridiculously narrow blue jeans and an endless supply of vintage rock concert t-shirts.

"She's the one who actually turned me on to him."

"She already knew him?"

"Even though she's not a movie or TV junkie like me, Jamie still follows a lot of the same websites and blogs that I do because she's always on the lookout for new music and soundtracks can be great places to find new bands."

"And one of these blogs she followed was Brent's?"

"Yeah, sort of. He doesn't really have his own blog, but he posts frequently to a couple of the big gossip and industry blogs about upcoming projects, and to pimp his own stuff of course."

"Did he mention anything about this story or coming to Utopia on any of these blogs?"

"I don't think so. The article wasn't going to come out for a while so it wouldn't serve any purpose for him to pimp it this early."

I continued to quiz her on the basics of her online life while she zoomed through the keystrokes and flashed through hundreds of websites in an ADD-inducing blur. The most recent post from any of the blogs was almost a week ago and didn't mention anything connected to Utopia, or the girls, or even Celebration Magazine.

"I think we need to get out into the town and see if anyone else has seen her," I said.

"Nobody is going to notice anything about Jamie. I told you, she's like the town pariah, well her and her mom."

"There's nobody else in town she hung with? What if she ever got sick? Would anyone take care of her?"

"Some people from the church would bring things over, but like I said, they wouldn't exactly stick around and hold her hair back if that's what you're asking about."

"What about boys?"

"The only boys Jamie had eyes for were rockers and guitar gods."

Click. Click. Beep. Beep.

"You keep mentioning that guitar," I said, getting up from my chair and wandering around the room. "Yet I don't see it around here. Did she keep it someplace locked up or in a different room?"

"You're right. Her posters are gone too."

I looked around the room and if I looked hard enough I could see an emerging negative space where several posters could have hung.

"In fact," I said. "For a guitar worshipping teenager, Jamie doesn't seem to have any guitar stuff up in this room."

"She left on her own then."

"Maybe, or somebody she knew convinced her to go somewhere," I said.

"Brent?"

I nodded.

"I think I need to call my client."

* * *

Della Curfman was in physical therapy when I finally got to her. I had to say several things I wasn't proud of, and a few that I was, to get someone to answer the phone next to her table.

"I think Brent was coming up here for more than just a story," I said. "I think he was meeting teenage girls."

"You interrupted my physical therapy to tell me that, Dallas ? I didn't hire you to track down my husband's infidelities. I know about most of them and I'm not about to spend good money on a PI to find out about the others."

"I think it's more than just meeting young girls for sex. One of the girls is missing and the other one is helping me find her. This town is shut down tighter than a nun fresh from the convent when it comes to information."

"So come home. If he's involved is something nastier, I want no part of it and I don't want you to have any part of it."

"You might be my client, Della, but you're not my boss. I'll stop looking specifically for Brent if that's what you want. But I'm going to find this girl and if he's involved with her, then—"

"Don't even go there Dallas . I don't want to be involved. Do what you need to do and we'll sort out the ramifications later."

I hung up with Della and Amy was staring at me, waiting for an update on the end of the conversation she couldn't hear.

"I guess that makes you my new client," I said.

"I don't have any money. Can I still boss you around?"

"We could do one of those touching scenes where you scrape up a dollar to hire me and we all cry and hug. But I don't care about the paperwork, or the protections of client confidentiality. I'm going to go to work on this town and pull my gun and kick down doors and raise all hell until I find your friend, or find out what happened to her."

"Kick ass," Amy said.

"You still can't swear though. But maybe I'll let you hit someone."

* * *

"You've got to be kidding me, boy," the greasy chef at Dixie 's register said when Amy and I walked in.

"Shut the hell up Elmer and cook me up some bacon and hash browns," Amy said. "Get Mr. Ellington here whatever he wants too."

I stared at Amy with slack jawed awe and fear.

"Mo needs to slap that mouth offa you, girl," Elmer said. "I'll make your damn food but don't tell me how to do my job."

"I'll yank that ponytail off your greasy head and wrap it around your nuts if you call my dad while we're here too. Now get to it."

We seated ourselves in a booth at the furthest back corner of the diner space while Amy basked in the glow of her dominance and mouthiness.

"Who are you exactly? And why are grown men scared of you?" I asked when she wouldn't stop smiling.

"Look at me. I'm ripe and ready to pop, so to speak. I scare the hell out of old men and they'll do anything to keep me away from them so they aren't tempted to do anything illegal."

"Like me?"

"Nah, I just like rubbing my boobs against my t-shirt around you for the hell of it."

"I really do hate you," I said.

Elmer brought Amy's food out in a ridiculously quick manner and while she dug into the mound of grease and potatoes, I got up from the table and started making the rounds of the other tables in the dining area.

"Hi, good to see you," I started off with. "Enjoying your food tonight? Hey, by the way, do you know anything about a reporter named Brent Curfman coming to town and disappearing?"

I was on my third table when Elmer came out from the kitchen and punched me in the back of the head.

"That mouthy little slut isn't going to protect you if you start pissing off people she don't scare with her body."

"Just getting to know the locals," I said, staying on the floor and rubbing the back of my head.

"We don't want you in our town. Leave now before somebody shoots you and buries you in their basement."

"Sounds like this town has a community plan for body disposal."

I wobbled to my feet and sat down at an empty table close by.

"That seems mighty odd for a town rumored to be murder free since it's inception," I said.

"Ain't no rumor. There hasn't ever been a murder in Utopia."

"Nobody's ever been murdered in Utopia, or nobody's ever reported a murder in Utopia?"

"Don't see no difference," he said. "It's a good town, so get out before you wreck that."

I left Elmer standing in the middle of the dining area while I went back to the table and grabbed Amy by the hand. I led her back toward the exit and only stopped long enough to say, "We're leaving here, but we're not leaving town. I'm going to find my friend's husband in this town whether he's dead or alive."

"You lay another hand on that girl and Mo'll slice you off at the waist and make you eat your own dick."

"I'm going to make his job easy and go to his house," I said, leading Amy out the door.

* * *

"How many guns are there in your house?"

We were about a quarter of a mile down the road away from Amy's house, stopped along the side of the road.

"Who do you want to shoot? I mean my dad is big but he's pretty quick. Now my mom—"

"I don't want them to be able to shoot me," I said.

"Oh, don't worry. They like doing it with their hands."

"Your dad and your brothers?"

"Mostly just the muscle twins, but I bet Mo'd make an exception for you."

"Goody," I said. "What the best way to get your brothers away from the house without anyone dying."

"Assuming we don't have a transporter beam, right? Because if we did, then—"

"Real world solutions only. Is there anyway to bait them or get them to come out to us?"

"You could take advantage of me in the car here. Mo doesn't ever leave the house, so he'd have to send the boys out here after you."

"I like it. Do you have your phone with you?"

"Oh, my plan's not that simple, PI man. You're going to have to make this look real to get them out here."

"You'll be on the phone. They won't even be able to see you."

"But I need to sound like I've been attacked. They may seem thick to you, but they can hear the desperation in my voice when I'm really in trouble. That's the way you want them coming after you. It gets 'em so riled up they don't think straight and they make stupid mistakes."

"Amy, I'm not going to—"

She shot her little fist away from her body and landed a solid punch straight to my groin.

"Don't be a pussy," she said, unbuckling herself from the seat. "Make a move. Be the hero."

My stomach was clenched shut and my crotch was pulsating with pain It was hard to speak, but I argued anyway. She didn't hit me again, but she remained on the offensive. With her seatbelt off, she rolled herself from the passenger seat onto my lap and grabed my face.

"Am I pissing you off, PI?"

She was hanging on the edge of contact with my lips. Stray lines of saliva were connecting our lips but there was no touching. Her body was hard against mine and her ankles were wrapped into my legs. My lap was numb and my head was swimming.

I gripped the bottom edges of my seat with both hands and willed myself not to touch her. But it wasn't enough. When she held me at the edge long enough, she finally made contact with my lips and I exploded.

My hand flew up to the back of her head and pulled her face into mine. Her hands held firm against my head while my hands roamed her back and down toward her ass. I tucked my hands into the waistband of her jeans and took hold of her through her silky panties.

She took off my shirt and I moved my hands to the front of her jeans. When my fingers touched her moist skin, she bit me.

"What the—"

She pushed herself into me even more and positioned herself so her best spot was right under my fingers.

"Make it real," she said.

It wasn't working in the car, so I unlocked my hands from her body and opened my door. We fell out into the street where she continued dominating me. I fought back, and in defending myself against her moves, I grew more aggressive. When her hair was ratted around my hands and her pants were around her knees, I pushed her off of me.

"Make the call," I said.

"Oh hell no. You're going to finish."

"Is this what you did to Brent?"

"I told you I haven't seen Brent at all recently?"

"Were you trying to seduce him away from Jamie? Did something happen?"

"Quit asking me about Brent."

"Make the call, Amy."

She huffed and tried to swing at me again, but I grabbed her before she could hit me and threw her to the ground.

"Call," I said.

I tried to regain my humanity while she talked on the phone. These young girls, my God. It's like mainlining pure hormones and that stuff screws with your mind and with your body. It's almost like I could feel the hair on my chest thickening, my back curving, and my teeth sharpening when she was on top of me.

"They might bring guns," Amy said, coming up close to me.

"You said they like to kill with their hands."

"I think they might be bringing Mo too."

"You said Mo never left the house," I yelled.

"Calm down. He normally doesn't. But apparently you did a good job attacking me because he sounded pissed ."

"You were the whore. Ripping and clawing at me."

"I didn't stick my hand in your pants and try to rape you with my fingers."

"You're insane. I think this same thing happened to Brent, and I think you had your family kill him and hide him."

"There have never been any murders in Utopia. My family loves this town and wouldn't do anything to hurt it's reputation."

"You're all crazy and I'm getting out of this goddam town."

I pushed her away from me and got back into my car. Amy started punching at my driver's door window as I pulled back onto the road. When she realized that wasn't working she jumped in front of my car and weaved me back onto the side.

We played that game a couple times before I finally faked her out and got back onto the road. I was so busy trying not to kill Amy, I didn't noticed the headlights coming toward me until they were close enough to see the bulbs inside.

My body jerked against the force and slammed me into the dashboard and then back into the seat when gravity caught up with the impact. I got my gun from the glove box before I opened my door.

"Tell them what really happened Amy," I yelled, assuming it was her family that had hit me. "Don't let them shoot me."

Somebody answered with a gun. Two shots ripped into the hood of my car, sending me behind my door for cover. I returned two shots of my own blindly and waited for a response before I moved. It was 15 seconds by my count before I heard the next voice.

"You shot him," Amy said.

I dropped my gun hand from the firing position and ran toward the voice. I found Amy next to a huge 70s model Buick. The brother who looked like a Transformer was on the ground, bleeding from his chest. I dropped my gun and bent down to the body. While I was focused on the chest wound, I felt somebody behind me and then was knocked off my feet before I could do anything about it.

The other brother, Brent, was on top of me, nailing me in the kidney repeatedly with his fist while using his knee to hit any area he could. I expected Amy to jump in like she did last time, but she was too concerned with her fallen brother so Brent continued his assault on my vital organs.

He was all strength and no strategy, so I kept my head cool and focused on survival until he made a bad move and I capitalized on it. His rage was clouding his mind, so instead of continuing to move around my body with his punches, he kept them in the same area. It was easy enough to catch one of his punches and turn it on him.

I gained the upper hand quickly but I was still edgy from my encounter with Amy so my head was almost as cloudy. I didn't see him go for my gun until he had it pointed at me. We struggled some more, while I tried to get it free from his hands, until I heard another shot.

My first thought was that Mo had joined us and was going to shoot me in the back. But a second shot never came and I didn't hear any voices. I scrambled off of Brent and he got to his feet and we both saw her at the same time. Amy had been shot in the stomach and when I fell down next to her I saw she was holding her cell phone out to me.

"For you," she mumbled.

* * *

"I can't believe you didn't hear about Runaway Island ," Jamie said for the fifteenth time.

I was sitting in her living room with Amy's parents, Jamie's mom, and Brent Curfman. Jamie and Brent had left to join a reality show that everyone else in the country seemed to know about except the PI too busy watching TV on DVD and the parents from the town without pop culture.

"You could have told someone," I said again, for the fifteenth time.

"We couldn't. The producers said so," Jamie pleaded.

"What about Della?" I asked Brent.

He shrugged.

"We don't tell each other everything."

Amy was dead shortly after the ambulance pulled her from the road two nights ago. I was never a fan of reality shows, but this whole situation made me understand the wackos. The ones who filed lawsuits, and civil suits, and organized boycotts.

Brent was going to turn it into a book and use the money to wire Utopia for digital cable and high speed internet access. We were talking about it a few days later over beers in Detroit when he said the most profound thing about the city.

"It may be a goddam hole. But at least they have cable."