The Ripper of Blossom Valley

by S D Christopher

  "This ain't no game, Lance. I don't do what I do to amuse you." Calling him by name always shuts him up, cuz he knows that's when I'm serious. He hangs his head sheepishly.

  "Ya know, he has a point, Will. We ain't been as busy lately. And I can tell when you're fibbin'. We lived together for years now, ya know. Be straight with us. Are you goin' off helpin’ folks break on through without us?"

  Fine, I hate lying anyway. So hard to remember exactly how I said something every time. "So what if I do?"

  "What?!?! You horse's ass!" Lance looks like one of them damn barracudas with his mouth hanging open like that, acting all uncredulous and self-righteous. Jess is strangely silent, which worries me.

  "Look, when all y'all come with me, it complicates things, ok? It takes longer, for one thing. More chance to get caught in the act. Second, Jess tearing limbs off some of 'em means more cleaning for Lance."

  "That was your idea, remember? I ain’t even wanna do it!"

  "Yeah, I remember. But now that ya done it, ya love it, and you know it. And it's gettin' harder and harder to keep your hands off."

  "Oh yeah? How's this for hands off?" Then she just winds up and slaps me across the face! Like I deserve that shit! What a bitch! And that was low, coming outta nowhere, surprising me like that. Before I can even react, she's stormed off to her room. I'm seething. No one does that to me and gets away with it. I look towards Lance. He darts his eyes away, quickly gets up and slinks away to his room. Couple a' fuckin' cowards, both of 'em.

  I slam the door to the apartment. Need to get away from them, from everyone. Why the fuck did I follow them out here for, anyway? I knew I'd hate it, and here I am, stuck with the witless wonder and queen bee. I coulda stayed home, made it work. I'd still have that shitty job at the diner, but wouldn't be no worse than the shitty jobs I've had here. None of them lasted much longer than dipshit's attention span anyways. They always make up some weak excuse to fire me, but I know it's cuz they think I'm weird, or they're scared of me. I know this office cleaning job I just got is gonna be temporary, just like the rest.

  I ride around town, hoping that I'll catch a whiff of that sweet, sticky, musky scent that gives me purpose. You'd think in a city this big, I'd be picking up on it all the time. I read the obits every day, so I know there's always people biting it. So why don't I smell all of 'em?

  After an hour or so, I go back home, frustrated. Not long after I climb into bed, I hear my bedroom door open. "What do you want?"

  "I'm sorry, Will. That was uncalled for. It's just...I'm worried about you." She stays by the door, maybe in case I ain't so responsive to her apology.

  "Why? Ain't no one ever worried about me before, and I turned out fine."

  "That ain't true, and ya know it. Uncle Bill cared for ya, Aunt Pauline, too." I guess by my tone, she feels safe enough to step in, close the door, and walk towards me.

  "Pfft, they didn't worry about me. They put up with me, outta somethin' obligatal to my folks."

  "That might be true, but they treated you the same as us. And I know Lance looks at you like the older brother he never had. Like it or not, we’re family." She slips under the covers, lays her head on my chest. "So yeah, we do worry when you go off on your own. We don't want you gettin' caught. We don't wanna lose ya, Will."

  "I won't get caught. They’re all already dyin’ anyway, so it ain’t like I make it look like a murder. I ain't an idiot."

  "I know, darlin'. But Lance cleans up our work real good, no hairs or prints left behind or nothin'. Can you really be sure you're leavin' the other scenes spotless like he does?" I try, but I know I ain't as good at it as dipshit, and she does, too. So I don't say a word. "Baby, just promise me you won't go rogue no more. We gotta stick together, like the Three Musketeers. I'm fine if you don't want me to go all Ripper. Just make sure Lance cleans up after ya. Please?"

  "Fine, I promise." I don't think it's a promise I can keep. I ain't always gonna be able to find Lance or her in time. But whatever. It shuts her up, and we have some really good make-up sex after.

  The next morning at breakfast, she announces this new plan to Lance, and he's happy to hear it. "That was dumb, Will. How ya know ya didn't leave any evidence behind? That's why they call me The Cleaner, boss. I clean."

  Jess tries hard to hold in a snicker. "Nobody calls you that 'cept you."

  "Well...we got powers, right? Why ain't we got superhero names?"

  I bang my hand on the table. "Cuz we ain't no damn heroes, that's why. This ain't no comic book or movie. It's real life, cuz. Yeah, it's weird, what we all got, what we can do. But ain't nothin' super about it."

  "Aw, let him have his fun, darlin'. He can see things most people can't. That makes him special, and not the way we used ta think when we was kids." She smiles this devilish smile, and Lance throws his plastic spoon at her playfully. God, they're like children sometimes.

  "Sis, cuz, all I know is that since we teamed up, it's the first time I felt like I meant somethin', can do somethin' useful and helpful for a change. I ain't a fuck up no more! Sure, I know what yer gonna say, I still can't get a decent job, but this is way more fulfillin'. And seein' them ladies just layin' there like that, it gets the juices flowin', boy."

  That's the second time he's mentioned the women I've set free. I shoot Jess a look and see that she's also got her eyebrows all twisted up. "Lance...have you been doin' somethin' with them women after we leave, honey?"

  He stares at her, mouth open as usual, maybe finally realizing what he said. "Well...what I mean to say....I clean up after..."

  "You dumb little shit! Are you fuckin' them after we leave?"

  He hangs his head sheepishly. "Only the last one. Before that, I was too scared ta try."

  "Lance!!! You had sex...with a dead person?!?! That's so gross!!!"

  He don't pick up his head, just tries to defend himself. "She was still warm and soft. It ain't like there was flies buzzin' all 'round her. She just laid there, just like Mary Sue used ta."

  "Hey...dipshit...LOOK AT ME!!!" Finally, he does. "...Did you cum in her?"

  "No. I ain't a complete 'tard. I brought a condom. And I was double sure to check everything was spotless after."

  I move towards him, and he cowers a little. Good. "If you...EVER...do that again...I will fucking KILL you. Do you understand me?"

  I hear Jess, barely a whisper. "Will..." I put my hand up, and she stops.

  "Ya can't kill me unless I'm mostly dead already...right?" He seems legit confused.

  "Oh, I promise, I can get you close to death. I'll have you fuckin' hangin' by a thread, you're not careful."

  "I'd like ta see ya try..." It was barely a whisper, but the boy's showing a little backbone for once in his damn life.

  "Boys, stop, please." Her voice is all shaky. "We gotta get along here. We're all we got. If we don't stick to the plan, them cops on the TV that don’t understand Will’s mission, they'll find us, either one by one, or all together, and it's all over. No more ridin’, no more surfin’, no more us."

  No more us. I'm starting to like the sounda that. I've had it. "They won't find all of us together when I'm in Arizona, by myself."

  Lance looks confused, as usual. Jess' eyes start to water. "Will, please...don't."

  I wanna say something to reassure her, but I'm just too damn pissed off right now, thanks to her stupid necro brother. I grab my keys and bolt. I hear her sobbing as I walk out the door. If she thinks I'll stay just cuz she's crying, she got another thing coming.

  I hop on 85, and debate in my head whether to keep going east to 101, then head over to I-5 and make good on my promise to leave 'em behind and find my own way one state over, or instead just drive around the peninsula or east bay to blow off some steam. I curse myself for not being able to make a clean break. I ain't never needed nobody before, and I sure as hell don't need the Wonder Twins, so why the hell can't I just leave?

  Like it's answering on cue, I catch a whiff of imminent death. Maybe that
'll make me feel better, at least. I pull my hog off the highway and follow that familiar sticky sweet, musky scent. I'll be damned if I go back for Jess or shit-for-brains right now. This one's mine alone. So much for promises.

  As I pull up, I curse at the sky. I swear, if I didn't have bad luck, I'd have none at all. Of course death leads me to a hospital, one of the few places I can't easily do the deed. Too much security, too many machines with sounds and blinky lights, too many cameras. Too much chance of being caught on my way out. Fuck me. Why couldn't it be one of them women in their homes, the easy ones? Ain't had one o' them in over a month. Hope this lucky bastard gets to die soon, so I don't hafta smell this for long. I drive away and go back to thinking about should I stay or should I go.

  ----------

  Madison

  Okay, Maddy, stay focused. I think I'm locked on, but something's not right. His signature isn't as massive as it was last time. It must be him, though. Unless I'm sensing a doppelgänger... no. This is the same man who tore that poor woman apart a couple months ago. Probably all those women, the serial killer they're all after, the Ripper. He's on his motorcycle, and he's about the right size and shape as the beast I caught a glimpse of through that window for just a moment. He may have even bulked up a bit more since then, from the look of him.

  He's stopped in front of a hospital for some reason. I pull my car over about a block away, don't want to get too close and give myself away. He hasn't noticed that I've been following him since he got off of 85. It was dumb luck that I stumbled upon him, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna tip him off that I'm following, or let him escape my range.

  Hmmm, range. What range? I've been practicing for months, trying to focus on tracking some of my more benign subjects at greater and greater distances, but I think I've reached my limit. It's further than I can see, which is nice, a few blocks, roughly. But that's not so far that I can trail behind at a distance that leaves me comfortable, confident that I won't be detected.

  My detective skills have improved a little, thanks to a new patient who's got memory issues. In his few moments of clarity, he's been invaluable in giving me insights, without even knowing it. While I'm no closer to any concrete evidence of Lt. Foley's involvement in these murders, I'm confident he's not working with this monster on the motorcycle. They might not even be aware of each other. I wonder how Lt. Foley would react if he knew I was closer to identifying his serial killer than he was.

  Good thing I'm getting better at tracking, since my attempts at hiring a private detective were laughable. And by that, I mean they all laughed at me when I explained what I was doing. Turns out they're even more reserved about tailing a cop than Internal Affairs is. Despite my cryptic warning letter to Foley, and my other anonymous pleas to IA, there seems to be no progress made to deter his actions. He probably even has friends on the inside tipping him off. I don't know what his enhanced sense is yet, but I'm certain he wields the mighty power of persuasion.

  But Lt. Foley's not my main concern right now. I finally have the serial killer he's been searching for in my sight, and I need to find out more about him. Where he lives, where he socializes, where he works. Surely he'll lead me to one of these places if I stay close, but not too close.

  Strange. I thought he'd park and go into the hospital, but instead he drives off. I pull out, almost hitting a car as I do. Damnit, Madison, still have to watch the road.

  I try to get close enough to make out a license plate, but on these local roads, it's more difficult for me to pass other cars than it is for him to weave between lanes. If I'm not careful, not only will I not get close enough to read his plate, but I'll lose him completely. I become more aggressive behind the wheel than usual and manage to gain a few car lengths on him. Still too far away to make anything out.

  Okay, he's turning back onto a highway now, the 101, south, towards Gilroy. Maybe I can keep a closer tail on him without all the local street traffic. I pull onto the on ramp and pick up speed. But my hopes are dashed, as I sense him pulling away at high speed. I step on it, as they say in the movies, trying to keep pace.

  The highway proves even more difficult in keeping up with him than the local streets did, however. I'm limited to the top speed of the cars around me, but I can see him far ahead, weaving between lanes, riding along the divider lines, and generally driving quite recklessly. I'm able to get clear here and there, but even at the top speed I'm comfortable with, I'm losing ground. He must be doing 90, maybe more. Perhaps the police will catch him for speeding. Wouldn't that be rich?

  I'm beginning to lose grasp of him. He's long since escaped my visual range, and now he's threatening to pass outside of my extrasensory reach as well. In my effort to maintain my lock on him, I nearly rear-end the driver in front of me! Why on earth is he stopped? I see others in front of him have slowed to a crawl as well. Fantastic. We resume our previous speed, as it appears we were stopped for absolutely no reason at all. Typical California driving. I press onward for miles, but cannot re-establish my mental link with the biker.

  Finally, I give up, turning off at the next exit to make a U-turn, just before a sign promoting the Gilroy Garlic Festival. I wonder if the killer lives in Morgan Hill, Gilroy, or further south, still. If he does, why would he travel all the way up to San Jose to kill? Perhaps sometime when I have a free day, I'll come back down this way and drive around, see if I can pick up on him again. Today, I've got to get back to my office. I have a memory man to speak with.

  Chapter 17

  Bob

  I remember...the Alamo? No, that's from a movie. Or maybe history class. Did I learn about the Alamo in history, ever? Was it Mr. Kowalski's US I class in junior year? Maybe. He loved talking about Texas, and how they were all discombobulated, always in a state of flux. I remember him talking about the Great Compromiser, Henry Clay. The Missouri Compromise. But what did that have to do with Texas? It's all connected, all related, he said. I remember now.

  I remember...McCoy. Henry McCoy? No, he was a doctor. Yes, Spock. Dr. Spock. Nonono, it was Dr. McCoy. "Remember," Mr. Spock told him. Before he died. Then he was inside his head, had to find himself. That was definitely a movie. Mr. Kowalski never talked about anyone searching for Spock.

  I remember...running around the pool, slipping, hitting my head. I remember throwing up. I remember the nurse telling me not to fall asleep. I remember my mom reminding me how often she had told me not to run around the pool. She said maybe that'll knock some sense into me. But maybe not, since I did the same thing three years, two months, and twenty-four days later. Different pool, though. The first time it was at Lincoln School's indoor pool. That second one, where I shoulda known better, was at 16th Street. I was chasing Sue Greenfield. She was cute. I liked her boobs.

  I remember...Kate. She's cute, too. I like her boobs, too. Like, really like them. I liked her since I first saw her, just like Mary Ann Holden in 6th grade. It's all connected. She was a redhead, too. I'm a sucker for redheads. Kate beat me at trivia, but I like her anyway. Nobody beats me at trivia, I thought. But she did, and not just once. Three times!

  My friends and I thought it was a fluke at first, on account of me slipping into some weird time warp. I didn't really travel through time like Marty McFly or Hermione or that guy from Slaughterhouse Five, though; just in my head, traveling through all times at once. Now I can do it whenever I want. Sometimes I can't make it stop. Like the second time Kate beat me. We went to the hospital together. She sat in the ambulance with me. It was awesome.

  I came back, though. When I did, she was still there. That’s when I knew I liked her, and not just for her boobs. She cared about me. She gave me her number, and a third chance to beat her. Instead, she broke me.

  Well, she keeps saying that, but she didn't break me. She opened my eyes. To everything. Total recall. Not that movie, or that other movie. Total recall of everything I've ever experienced. I can relive my whole life from womb to tomb if I want, though I have to play it on fast forward and skip around
, or I'll just be sitting there drooling for the rest of my life, and what fun would that be?

  Yes, I said from womb to tomb. What's cool about remembering every single detail of your life is that you start to pick up on the overarching patterns you never noticed before. And you can use these patterns to extrapolate future results. For instance, I knew exactly how long it would take for me to get to second base with Kate: three dates, 24 days. This was based upon all of my prior experiences of how long it took me to get there. Well, ok, it was a small data set, but three is enough to detect a pattern. Then I had to factor in that, as I and the unlucky woman I'm with get up there in age, it takes less and less time to score, as they say. You know, on average. I'm also predicting that I stop saying things like "second base" and "score" in ten years. Five, if Kate stays with me and beats it out of me.

  Using this method, I've already figured out that I'll get sick of pumpkin spice Pop-Tarts next Thursday--until next year; will need to find a new job in two years, five months, and fifteen days; and will die in forty-five years, two months, and eight days. Curiously, some of my calculations have that last number at one year and twenty eight days instead. The disparity is worrying, to say the least.

  How can I be so sure of these exact dates? Well, it's genius, really. I can't. That's why it's called predicting. Always in motion, is the future. But I'm not making it up off the top of my shiny head, not in the least. My method of statistical analysis is tried and true. Nate Silver would be proud.

  It's simple, really, though hard to explain. I think Kate kinda gets it, but not completely. At least she humors me by listening and asking questions. My other so-called friends just roll their eyes and try to change the subject.

  "So what you're saying is...you failed your biology midterm in sophomore year of high school because your fourth grade science teacher, Ms. Hamilton--"