by Tammy Bird
Elizabeth began to shake harder. Even in the dimness of the small concrete room, he could see the increase in movement.
“They took my bones, my work, and they left me with nothing but a goddamn dog to kill. That makes me angry, Elizabeth.” He rubbed his temples in tiny circles. He didn’t like to kill animals. He didn’t like to kill without a plan. There was so much wrong with this week, so much cleanup. “I deserve to know who’s still out there. Her transcripts would have told me. How dare she not file them appropriately? How dare she?” His agitation built. “I thought about going into her house. Paige, the dog whisperer. But those canine crusaders made such a racket that I left. We’re going to have to finish up soon. I have so much to do. So much to do.”
He took a few deep breaths. So important to plan. Think. He watched her chest heave as she apparently tried not to cry, tried not to give in to her need to scream. That calmed him. He was in control. Everything was okay. He was actually enjoying this part more than he anticipated, even in his exhausted state. But he couldn’t linger much longer.
“Your ride will be here soon, Elizabeth,” Sandman said. “You’ll travel to Ocracoke, where people feel safe and secure, secluded from the world. I made the arrangements before I came today. A ride in a covered truck bed on the ferry. You’ll be buried in a dune at the end of the island. I’m sorry for that, too, Elizabeth. I would like to have you here, with the others. But it’s impossible.” Sandman remembered the swarms of police and rescue workers, his aggravation as he watched them wade through the flooded beach. So many people on our island the last six days. So many dogs sniffing and people poking, disregarding the need for order and respect for the beach.
One tear escaped Elizabeth’s left eye and ran down her dusty cheek.
Finally. Full recognition of her fate. “Elizabeth.” He reached down to the basket at his side and opened the lid. “My auntie and I picnicked together on the day she died. There was a storm off the coast. The wind felt good on my bare skin. So good…” His voice trailed off into a dreamy pause. He reached in and pulled out two cans of beer. He stacked one on top of the other and popped the top of the first. He held it toward his captive. “Would you like a beer, Elizabeth?”
No words from the mattress in the dimly lit room, and now almost no movement. The shaking had completely stopped. If not for the tear and the slight rise of her chest as she breathed in and out, he might have thought she died sitting up, legs crossed, fists shoved into the creases of the back of her knees.
“Suit yourself.” He put the unopened can back in the basket, moved the open can to his lips, and sucked the foam from the opening. His stomach held a restless energy. He knew it was time, yet he toyed with her, missing the formulation of a well-orchestrated plan. Six days wasn’t enough. “You have to be thirsty, Elizabeth.”
Sandman would miss saying her name. It was one of his favorites, second only to Judith. He remembered the woman from long ago. It was in New York, while vacationing with his parents. They wouldn’t find her amongst the Buxton bones. That kill was spontaneous, like this one, too quick to plan. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cement wall. He could hear her voice in his head. Georgie. Hold Aunt Judith’s hand. No. Like this. The way she intertwined their fingers, the way the young boy looked at her. That’s right, sweet Georgie. The two walked hand-in-hand to a hotel in a seedy part of New York. Sandman followed.
Hug me, Georgie. Her head leaning down to rest against his, her words almost too soft for him to hear.
Sandman waited and watched. She sent the boy up ahead, stayed down for a smoke. It was easy to offer a light and a walk.
He left her body at the bottom of a dumpster, and the next day, he traveled home with his family. He missed having her near.
He opened his eyes, opting to keep Judith tucked away inside himself. Instead, he talked about Helen. Her they would find in Buxton. “After my aunt, I didn’t kill for a while. The psych-babblers have that part right. We can be satisfied with reliving the moment over in our heads for quite some time as long as something doesn’t trigger us. Helen was my trigger, at least the one after my aunt. She lured boys into her home, boys like Sammy, who I babysat for when I was in high school. He was a sweet kid, unsuspecting. He never had a chance.”
Elizabeth stared at him, unmoving.
“She was easy. You just have to know your prey. She knew the young boys. I knew her. No one even started questioning her whereabouts until she lay in her dune for almost two weeks. I was a kid with no record, good grades, a quiet disposition. She was a recluse with no known family in the area. Sammy told me about her letting him drink.” He paused, remembering Sammy’s innocence. He took a sip of his own beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. When he did, the blade held loosely in his fist sent a prism across the shadowy room.
“She let me drink, you know, my aunt, that is. That’s how they get you.” He made a sound of disgust and changed his voice to something resembling an older southern woman. “Only beer, Little Man. Wouldn’t want you getting addicted to hard liquor, now would we?” He tilted the can and drank, not stopping until he finished half of what the can contained.
“Did your mom let you drink, Elizabeth? Did she force you and Katia when you were teenagers? Did it make you feel better about what you were doing?”
“She. Didn’t. Do. Anything.” Elizabeth’s voice was louder than he anticipated it would be when she finally gave in and spoke. Her words throbbed in his temples. It felt good.
Sandman reached back into the basket and pulled out rope and plastic and laid it to his other side. He watched her reaction, felt her fear increase, felt the walls breathe it in and add it to the fear that already lived there.
“Why won’t you listen?” Elizabeth’s voice cracked. “She is…”
He waited. Excitement built.
“She was. My mom was supportive. She never touched me in any way that was inappropriate. She didn’t make me gay. I didn’t make Katia gay. I am gay. Katia is gay. She was supportive because it’s the twenty-first century and everyone has a right to be who they are. Straight. Gay. Bi. Trans. Gender fluid. She loved me. She. Loved. Me…” Her voice trailed off again, but not before he heard the catch in her words.
He could tell she was trying to save her own life, trying to get him to buy into her lies. Sandman looked at her, and this time it was he who didn’t respond right away. Partly because he wanted to see if she would say anything else, and partly because he was reveling in the fact she gave in and gave him this gift. Their begging, pleading, rationalizing, fed him in a way nothing in any of the twenty-plus picnic baskets he prepared ever had. When he did speak, it was in a soft, satisfied voice.
“Gina loved you. You loved Katia. My auntie loved me. That much we have established.” He put the can to his lips and pulled the last drizzle of brown liquid into his mouth. He made a soft slurping sound. He bent the empty can in his other fist and set it on the floor.
“I will be ready for you shortly, Elizabeth. I need to get our blanket ready.” He stood and moved through the doorway to the second of two rooms in the small underground area. He planned the space carefully. He killed ten women in this room over the years. Each time, he improved, perfecting the ritual. He went through the steps: Lay down the plastic. Pull it just so to cover the tile. Leave bare the drain.
He heard Elizabeth behind him. Her chains scraped the lacquered, concrete floor as she tried to break free. Why do they all try? Spread the red-and-black-checkered picnic blanket. Smooth out the wrinkles. Wrinkles annoyed him, made him less satisfied with the moment of release. This situation was a wrinkle, one he was going to have to maneuver carefully.
He set the basket on the edge of the sink, making sure it was balanced evenly across the two sides it touched. He almost didn’t add the sink when he laid out the plans for the room. It protruded from the wall. It required a faucet and pipes that couldn’t easily be concealed. It was important the women ha
d nothing they could use to harm themselves. In the end, he decided it was worth the minimal risk. He chose a heavy concrete base he could build right into the wall and a spout that did the same. To the right of the spout was a single button that, when pushed, produced a stream of water.
Nothing to adjust, nothing to dislodge. It served him well, as had the large, shower area with its varnish-covered sides and bottom, large drain, and large, removable showerhead. He smiled at his ingenuity as he thought about the time taken to figure out how high up the wall to place the head to ensure his guest couldn’t reach to remove it from its place.
He opened the basket and pulled out the plastic and the blanket. It was just like the one he brought to lie on with his aunt. Time for a picnic. He hung the blanket over the edge of the basket and eyed the plastic, looking for the end with the small pinholes that were cut to fit perfectly over the drain. He could already feel the warm blood pooling around his legs and ass, feel it moving slowly toward the drain, the holes allowing for a slow release of the fluids.
When he was satisfied with the positioning, he moved back to the basket to retrieve the blanket. He closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the fabric that initiated the ritual. So thoughtful, Little Man. Auntie loves you so. He took the blanket edges in his hands and flicked his wrists to fan out the fabric. The unrestricted parts of the blanket puffed out and floated down, coming to rest in the area that was slightly lower than the rest of the room, the area with a showerhead and a drain, the area where he washed the blood away after each guest.
He repeated the ritual between shower and basket until he secured each corner of the picnic area with silver duct tape and put the cheese, bread, and knife within reach of his place on the blanket. In death, others live. In death, others live. In death, others live. In death, others live. In death…
His whispered chant eased and stopped. Look, Auntie. Perfect.
He returned to the room where Elizabeth waited. Her eyes held the knowledge of her impending death. Wild. Afraid. “Do you want to confess your sins, Elizabeth?”
He stood, studied her face for a full ten seconds. “Very well. I’m going to unlock your feet and hands from the chains, but I’m not going to remove the chains from around them. If you don’t fight me, I’ll give you the dignity of walking to the picnic area. If you fight, I’ll take you by whatever means necessary. Do you understand?”
Her eyes widened, and her chest rose and fell quickly. He could tell she was debating his words, deciding. He looked down at her, the air in the room growing stuffy. Two more steps. Kneeling, hands moving toward the lock, key at the ready.
She spat, the bubbly white strand missing what he presumed was its mark and landing on her own leg. She looked from the wetness to his face and back again. Her hair hung in strands on either side of her chin. She didn’t look up again.
Chapter Fifteen
Andrew sat at a table overlooking the Pamlico Sound. Across from him was Gerald Wells, the assistant director for the FBI Cyber Crimes Division. To his right stood a young man, poised, pen and pad in hand, ready to take their order.
“Good afternoon,” the young waiter said, looking from one to the other of the two men. “Welcome to Café Pamlico.”
Andrew motioned for Gerald to go first.
“Water with lemon for me,” Gerald said.
“Same. No lemon.”
Gerald’s eyes scanned the menu. “These vegetables really from your own garden?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You wash the dirt off before you cook them?”
“Sir?”
“Kidding, kid. Kidding.” Gerald pointed at the menu. “Give me the crab.”
Andrew realized two things as he listened to the two men banter back and forth about the menu. One, his boss was a condescending ass, and, two, he himself felt a duty to the people in this town. He dare not say anything, but he was relieved when Gerald ordered and shut up.
The two men made small talk while they waited for their meal of fresh crab cakes and potatoes from the cafe’s garden.
“What do people do here in November?” Gerald asked. “I drove in on that two-lane road and felt like I was driving into a ghost town.” He tucked his tie between two buttons on his shirt as he spoke.
The tie was worth more than most of the folks on the island made in a week. The assistant director had no point of reference for the community building he witnessed on the island. “Some kiteboarding and windsurfing. And lots of fishing. Lots. November and December are prime months.”
Andrew tried fishing several times on Cape Point at low tide. It was Brent’s and Elliot’s favorite spot. They went on and on about catching blue fish and sea trout. All he could think about at the time was trying to stay balanced in the ridiculous thigh-high fishing boots. Now he wished he paid more attention. He didn’t particularly care for Brent, but he found Elliot to be a good all-around guy, even if he was one of the most boring he ever met. If there was bad-mouthing to be done, he would decide when it was appropriate.
The waiter sat a plate in front of each man. “Can I get you anything else, gentlemen?”
Gerald answered for both of them. “No.”
The young man retreated. Andrew said, “You could be a bit more pleasant.”
“Fucking lagoon life.” Gerald pointed with his fork toward the window to his left before maneuvering the squashed potato and butter that rested on the tines to his mouth.
“It’s not so bad,” Andrew replied.
“Says the man who has lived in his computer for years. Since when do you think being in the land of people…” Gerald paused, looked around the empty dining area, shrugged. “The land of few people, isn’t bad?”
“Not as horrible as I thought when you asked me to take it on last year.” Andrew stopped to put a piece of crab cake in his mouth and continued while he chewed. “Some of the best seafood I’ve ever eaten. Nobody much messes with me. They think I’m a bit off.” He gave a crooked smile and widened his eyes.
Gerald told Andrew once that he reminded him of Ichabod Crane with his pointy nose and long neck. Now Andrew pushed his shoulders down and stretched his neck as far as he could. He opened his hand wide, put it in front of his own face, palm in, and made a circular motion. “All this? All this and a few inappropriately placed comments? Well, let’s just say I’m not a town favorite.”
“You play your part well,” Gerald said. “Just don’t play it too well. We need an in. And soon.”
“I’m in,” Andrew said. “I just need to somehow make my obsession with the morbid a bit clearer. Damn bodies at the beach didn’t help. Everyone’s going to be on high alert.”
“You think it’s connected with our baby porn and death whacko?”
“Such a way with words, Gerald. Can’t say, but the sick shit I have access to online is beach and dune centered. Whoever’s taking them loves the sand.” Andrew took a drink of his water.
He secured the position as an undercover agent for the FBI’s narcotics and violent crimes division several years prior. His focus was dark web crime. This time, that focus forced him out of the safety of the Internet and into the Hatteras Island EMS, an assignment he argued against when first presented with it.
He had pointed out tons of reasons for not getting assigned to Buxton Beach as a paramedic, not least of which was the years he had spent away from the business of saving the lives of his fellow marines.
Yet, here he sat, across from the man who had insisted his background was exactly why he was the perfect person to take on the persona of a slightly creepy newcomer to the quiet little piece of the Outer Banks known as Buxton.
Gerald thought it was his power over him that ultimately made Andrew agree to the job, but it wasn’t. It was actually Andrew’s parents, who decided to sell their home and kick him out, that sealed the deal.
The assignment forced him to leave the obscurity of his room and the darkness of Tor, where you are a click away from g
uns, drugs, and far worse, and to enter the face-to-face world where he bounced between sleepy serenity and siren-screaming, tires-screeching, adrenaline-pumping ambulance driving and bad-guy chasing. He found it suited him.
When Andrew finished his bachelor’s degree in 2013, he never dreamed he would be a small town emergency worker putting his paramedic skills to use to catch a criminal who plastered the dark web with anonymous exploits of rape and murder. But his exceptional hacking abilities and his blurring of dark and light in a way that kept him barely on the side of right, made him an integral part of the FBI narcotics-and-violent-crimes task force.
Andrew currently had two identities. Agent Hunter, a man focused on bringing criminals to justice, and “The Darker the Better” Andrew Hunter, who worked virtually with evil to monitor evil. Some days he thought he might be a little too comfortable in the second skin, but he never dwelled on that.
Before coming to Buxton, Andrew was recognized for preserving the integrity of a bust in one of the largest child pornography websites found on the dark web to date. In that instance, he went deeper than he had ever gone before and had seen things he would never be able to wipe from his mind. He also found evidence that someone here on this island might be connected to some of the images on that bulletin board website. With that site shut down, hints of new sites popped up throughout the dark web, but they were buried deep, deeper than even Andrew was currently able to navigate. The mastermind was still on the loose, and if clues proved true, he was close by.
Until they found the person or persons responsible for obtaining and maintaining the new sites, millions of people would continue to obtain the deviant material they desired at the expense of millions who may not even know they were being exploited.