In movies, they always refer to the jugular: “Go for the jugular.” But the jugular is actually a vein located on the outer portion of the neck. Cutting it will cause some bloodshed, but not enough to kill, not unless you do something like hang them upside down and slowly let every drop of their blood drip out of their neck. That’s a boring death. I’d probably fall asleep after twenty minutes of listening to the soothing sound of blood dripping.
When slicing a throat, you actually want to go for the carotid arteries, located in the small indentations on either side of the windpipe. You don’t have to slice the arteries: simply applying pressure on the artery will stop the flow of blood to the brain, causing your victim to pass out and—if pressure is continued—eventually die. But that’s no fucking fun. Strangling them for five additional minutes after they pass out? You might as well sing a lullaby and rock them gently into the great beyond. Ralph doesn’t deserve a soft sink into death, his mind blocking out the pain and allowing him a slow and graceful sink into oblivion. Fuck that. This man deserves to bleed. I need him to bleed, I need to provide my dark obsessions with some sort of reprieve after four years of neglect.
The best way to slice his neck is straight across the tracheal area, one quick swipe that will destroy both the windpipe and the carotid arteries simultaneously. This method will removes his ability to speak or scream, plus his gasp for breath will pull the blood in, preventing a spray of blood from covering me.
The problem is, I want his screams. I want to hear his pain, howls of agony that won’t stop until he dies. Screams are always my favorite part of the fantasies; they are the proof that I have the power, that I am in control and they are scared and at my mercy. I also want the blood, want it to spray everywhere, covering my hands and body, my dark needs wanting the proof of their devastation, the proof that we, as a unit, took the life of this man.
But there is Annie to think of. A girl too close, who might hear his screams, who might be scared. A girl who has already been through too much. A girl who doesn’t need me, a stranger, to return covered in the fresh blood of her relative.
For a moment I imagine what I want to do, how I want to decorate his body with my knife, cut off fingers and toes and listen to him scream, to beg me for mercy, for me to hear the strength of my power through spurting blood and gasps of agony. Then my fantasies shut down, pausing when Ralph rushes forward and grabs the front of my shirt, slamming his fist into the front of my face.
Blackness.
I never before realized the level of my inadequacies. I am weak, my muscles worked enough for cellulite reduction and little else. I am puny, easily overcome by a man who is nothing other than naturally strong. One firm punch into the delicate bones of my face and I am stunned, destroyed, every reflex in my body wanting to curl up and scream my mother’s name. But my mother will not save me. She cannot; I killed her. That perverse recognition causes me to fight the pain, to stretch the muscles in my face and open my eyes, blinking weakly as my ruined nerves try to focus.
I am weaker. I am inferior. But I am also a killer, and that sickness may be the only thing to bring me strength.
My vision comes into focus and I look up, my grip tightening on my knife, and stare into the silhouette that is Ralph. He is breathing hard, kneeling alongside my body, leaning down and resting on his hand, which pins my arm into the dirt, the knife useless against 190 pounds of weight.
I grunt, struggling beneath him, trying to move away as he leans over me. “Where. Is. She?”
This is a disaster. It is Jeremy all over again, but instead of a smoking hot man who wants my body, I have the man of my nightmares, have risked Annie in the process, and will be lucky if I live. I need my gun. Fuck the blood, fuck my enjoyment of the fucking process, my once-in-a-lifetime-justified-opportunity-to-kill. I just need him dead, and my inner demons will have to get over the fact that it won’t be picture postcard perfect.
I mask the sound of my movement with a scream, a long, tortured howl, something I pray Annie will not hear. The sound causes him to jerk back, his hand tight on my arm. As my brain reverberates from the noise, I slide my free hand into the pocket of my sweatshirt, grab the gun, pull it out, point and fire. Let the double-action do the work, no cocking needed. One hard squeeze that blows fire from its depths.
I would have loved to hold the gun to his face, talk some serious smack, and wait for him to release my arm and back away. But that’d be stupid. Give him time to knock it from my hand and punish me for every smartass comment I made. I already made my stupid mistake for the day. I had wanted intimate bloodshed so badly that I’d allowed him to walk right up and pulverize my face.
So I shoot him, not really paying attention to where, my hand pulling the trigger at a target two feet away. I can’t miss. He starts, his eyes dropping to my gun, then traveling back to my face, anger mixed with pain in his expression. He sits back, holding his side, where it appears my bullet hit. I don’t know what organs lie in the right side of someone’s rib cage, but my fevered mind doesn’t come up with anything important, and I sit up quickly, scooting my legs underneath me and kneeling before him. Having regained my grip on the knife, I bring it forward through the air in a smooth arc that instantly satisfies every wet dream I’ve ever had, moving across and sinking the sharp blade into his skin just under his left ear.
I yank left, cutting the throat as I have imagined, countless, fevered times, the blade jerking in a wet sweep across his neck until it breaks loose of the skin. The movement is sluggish but clean, the blade barely slowing, my mind surprised at how easily it slices, how little effort is required.
Time pauses, a heart-stopping second when I worry that I didn’t cut deep enough, that the knife slid too easily, a superficial wound that will do nothing but infuriate my adversary. His eyes meet mine, fury against fury, strength against weakness.
Then he slumps.
He falls forward, a hand reaching up to the cut, some blood gurgling through his fingers as he tries to speak, tries to communicate the hatred and frustration that blazes through his eyes. I catch him with my hand, holding him upright, my hand twitching around the blade.
Then I bring it up again, and his eyes follow. His other hand reaches out and grabs my shoulder, gripping it tightly, the force behind his grasp surprising me. I can finish him. I can stab, twist, mutilate his body, follow the actions of my countless fantasies. This is finally my moment, my opportunity. But my hand betrays me, falling harmlessly, and I stare at it, useless and quickly going limp around the knife. I reach down into my overfull reservoir that I always avoid, the one perpetually full of bloodlust, the one that scares the ever-loving crap out of me. But it is empty. Drained. I look at him, the despair in his eyes mirroring mine. His for his future, mine for my inability to fulfill my fantasy. His hand goes limp on my arm and he slumps backward, a few thin streams of blood running down his neck and pooling on the dirt and pavement beneath him.
Maybe I am not my mother. Maybe my need of bloodshed stops at the point of mutilation and dismemberment.
I stand, trying to retain my grip on the knife, and stride to Ralph’s car, yank open the door, and grab the keys from the ignition. Then I pull off my bloody sweatshirt, jog to Jeremy’s truck, and toss it behind the driver’s seat, the only thought in my head being Annie. I need to get back to her.
CHAPTER 73
ANNIE
HER MOTHER HAS always told Annie that angels exist. Angels who watch over and keep us safe. Annie had prayed for an angel in the dark space of the shed, and now she prays for her angel to return. She frets, her hands turning the phone over and over, the display flashing in the light. She has never used a cell phone; their family doesn’t own one. Once, she had been given a pink plastic cell phone, its buttons squishy, the faceplate a sticker that displayed all zeros. She had coveted it, feeling oh-so-important when she would pull it out in public, making a pretend call and speaking excitedly into its plastic receiver.
She strains to reme
mber the phone number to their house. Her mother often recited it to her, preaching the importance of knowing it by heart. It starts with a nine. That is all she knows, and she opens the phone, pressing the nine button and trying to remember more. Nine. Nothing else comes. Her stomach growls.
The angel had said to wait until the alarm went off and then dial 911. That number is easy to remember. That she can handle.
She hears an engine growl and looks up, seeing the brown-haired girl pull up in her gray truck when there is still five minutes left on the timer. Annie stands, waving excitedly, seeing the smile on the girl’s face through the truck’s windshield. The girl responds, gesturing Annie to come, and she jumps down the stairs, running up to the truck and climbing in.
“You came back!” The words burst from her, relief flowing through her body. Soon she will be home. Soon she will be with her parents. Yanking on the car handle, she pulls open the door, struggling with the weight of it, and climbs into the truck.
The girl smiles, her face scratched, black marks on parts of her skin. “You bet, sweetie. Thanks for following directions. Ready to go home?”
Annie nods, tugging on the seat belt and pulling it over her body. “Yes!”
The girl puts the truck into drive and pulls backward, the truck rolling over the soft dirt. “I know your family is ready for you to come home.”
Annie wraps her arms tightly around her body and looks out the window.
It takes ten minutes to find civilization and a parking lot to pull into. I grab my newly activated cell, the same one that had flipped through Annie’s hands just minutes before, and reach into the floorboard, digging around until my hands close over my iPad. As I pull it out, I notice Annie’s eyes locked on my bag of gas station fare. “You hungry?”
She nods quickly, and I reach over, pulling the bag up and depositing it into her lap. The plastic bag opens to reveal a plethora of chocolate and candy. She shoots me a questioning look and I wave my hand dismissively. “Whatever you want. It’s all yours.”
There is a squeal of excitement, and the sound brings a smile to my face. My fingers dart quickly over the tablet’s surface, and then my search finds an answer, one home phone number for Henry and Carolyn Thompson. I perform a second search, looking for a location close to their home, its area a good twenty minutes from our current location. I take a deep breath, lean my head back on the seat, and try to think, try to figure out the best way to go about this. Then I open the phone, block my number, and dial Annie’s home.
CHAPTER 74
HENRY THOMPSON
HENRY THOMPSON SITS in the living room, his hands tented in front of his face, tears soaking his unshaven cheeks. He had woken up to an empty house, Carolyn having left a note on the counter stating that she had “gone to Becky’s.” Why she would be wasting time visiting family now is beside him. He called the police station twice, both times learning nothing. They knew nothing; the cops are all idiots as far as he is concerned. He has never felt so useless and curses his legs and his inability to drive down to the station himself. The phone rings next to him, and he stares at the receiver. He has waited all night and all morning for the phone to ring. And now that it finally is, he is terrified of the news that it brings. He finally picks up the phone, his voice gravelly when it works. “Hello.”
“Mr. Thompson?” It is a young girl’s voice, one he doesn’t recognize.
“Yes.”
“I have Annie with me. She is safe.”
He sits up, gripping the phone tightly. “Who is this?” he demands harshly.
“Who I am doesn’t matter. I will bring her to you, but only if there is only you and your wife present. Is your wife there now?”
“No. She’s at her sister-in-law’s. May I speak to Annie?”
“Yes, but I need to arrange things with you first. Are you comfortable with meeting me alone, without police?”
“What do you want from us? We don’t have any money,” he responds quickly, worried at the words he speaks, worried that they will affect Annie’s return.
“Mr. Thompson, I am not the one who took Annie. I am just the one returning her. I have no interest in anything other than bringing her back to you.”
He releases a breath, fresh tears running down his face. “Yes, we will meet you alone. Where?”
“I have an address if you will write it down. We can meet you there in thirty minutes. Will that give you time to get in touch with your wife?”
He nods frantically, wiping at his eyes. “Yes. Please let me speak to Annie.”
There is a pause and whispered words that he can’t catch. Then there is a breath into the phone and Annie speaks, and it is the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.
CHAPTER 75
CAROLYN THOMPSON
CAROLYN STARES INTO the woman’s face, sweet tea and wilted napkins between them on the dining room table. In the background a phone rings, and Becky’s eyes flicker to it.
“You’re not getting that phone, Becky. You’re going to answer my damn question. This is my daughter we are talking about!” Carolyn stands, leaning over and looking into the woman’s watery blue eyes. “Do you think that Michael had anything to do with this?” The phone stops ringing, and the sudden silence hangs stagnant in the room.
“You’ve been asking me the same question for thirty minutes!” Becky’s voice breaks and she pushes to her feet, stepping away from the table and to the front window, looking out the blinds. Looking at the place where the police cruiser sat last night. “He’s your blood.” she finally says, her back rigid, a hardness coming over her face, the words broken and dead. “You should know how he is. Secrets…he’s always had secrets. And he hasn’t been interested in me for a long time. We’re not like you and Henry. We live together. Not much else.” She turns to Carolyn, stubborn pride mixed with indecision in her eyes. Her hands knot together and Carolyn waits for more, the woman before her hesitating, thinking through her next words. Then the phone starts up again, a demanding shrill, and she moves quickly, hurrying to the wall, away from Carolyn, and snatches up the receiver. “Hello?”
There is a pause, and then she turns, her eyes large. “It’s Henry. He says he has news about Annie.”
I have one final item to take care of and glance over at Annie, who is fiddling with the radio, flipping through pop stations. She smiles hesitantly, and I return her smile, seeing her eyes light up when she finds a song she likes. I quickly create a bogus e-mail address and send an e-mail to John Watkins, one of two deputies listed on the Brooklet Police Department’s online roster. It is a brief e-mail, stating the address where Ralph lies, stating that he may or may not still be alive and that he was the responsible party in the Annie disappearance. I press “send” and then set down the tablet.
“Okay, sweetie. Let’s go meet your parents.”
CHAPTER 76
CAROLYN THOMPSON
ANNIE’S REUNION WITH her parents is held at a church parking lot ten miles outside of Brooklet. The marquee is faded, the building poorly maintained, but Carolyn Thompson doesn’t notice anything but the empty parking lot. She had quizzed Henry from the moment she had walked in the trailer door, asking questions she knew he didn’t have the answers to, speaking just to speak, nerves frying every receptor in her body. She doesn’t trust it, this strange girl calling to return Annie, someone they don’t know, her intentions unclear. It is too good to be true. And meeting here, without police, smells like a trap. She wanted to call John, wanted to involve the police or the FBI—who have so far been utterly useless—but Henry had been adamant about following the stranger’s instructions to a T. So here they wait, alone and exposed, their sanity as much at risk as their safety. She doesn’t know if either one of them can handle disappointment at this stage.
She unloads Henry’s chair from their handicap-accessible van, and he sits in the sun, his eyes closed, a small smile on his face. He seems utterly at ease, a condition that infuriates her. How he can be calm
baffles her. If only she had been home, had spoken to Annie, heard the words that could have been her last. Henry had had that moment, and she feels cheated—an unfair sentiment, but present all the same.
“It’s late, Henry,” she says tightly, looking at her watch. “She said eight, right? You told me she said eight.”
“Relax, Carolyn. It’s only a minute past. Give them some time.”
And then there is a sound, an engine, and Carolyn almost cries, her heart breaking as she turns, afraid to give credence to her hope. A flash of blond reflects from the passenger side of a truck, and her throat constricts. The truck comes to a stop in front of them, the sun’s glare obscuring the windshield, and she runs, oblivious to anything but the thought of Annie. She flies to the passenger side, scrambling for the handle, ripping it open, and catching Annie when she tumbles out, gripping her tightly and sobbing into her curls, her hands squeezing the small body, which squirms in her grasp. “Oh, Annie!” she gasps. There is a squeal of metal on metal and she turns, seeing Henry struggling in his chair, trying to roll over the root-filled dirt, his eyes catching her, and his hands releasing the wheels, straining outward, reaching toward her.
Cursing her inconsideration, she runs with Annie in her arms to Henry, falling into his embrace, Annie tumbling into his lap, her giggles reaching their ears. Henry’s eyes meet hers, tears spilling from them, his mouth shaking as he reaches down, cradles Annie’s face, choking on his sobs. His arms grab her tight, and the three of them embrace for a very long time.
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