by Elle Gray
“So far as we know. I don’t believe for a moment that’s it though,” I say. “There could be cases not logged into the federal databases. You know how slow they can be to put the information in.”
“Or cases where the cross wasn’t flagged at all,” she notes. “Sloppy detectives miss things or are too lazy to do things the right way.”
Who she’s thinking of isn’t a secret. She’s right. I doubt the flaming cross will make it into Schreiber’s case file at all. But that problem with laziness and apathy isn’t limited to him alone. It’s a problem with cops everywhere— and people in general. If there’s a shortcut or a way to do less work, people will find it.
“Just because we don’t have bodies that predate that, I don’t believe there aren’t more out there,” she says.
I think back to my conversations with Hayes and recall his reaction when I told him we’d unearthed more than thirty of his kills. He hadn’t had one. He’d asked me a question instead, deflecting my question neatly. And I’d been so focused on him and feeling that thrill of chasing the man; I’d let it slip by. I hadn’t pressed him on it. I should have because, in retrospect, it occurs to me that was confirmation that there are indeed more out there.
The question is, how many? How many more names will we have on that whiteboard? How many more lives will have been snuffed out when this is all over?
“Okay, what do we know so far?” Blake asks. “Run down the profile you’ve been putting together for me.”
I drum my fingers on the table as I order my thoughts. I’ve been working on putting a profile together, but I haven’t fully locked in just yet. I’m unusually hesitant about it. Perhaps it’s because as I look at the whiteboard, I see the enormity of it. I absolutely need to get this right. I see what’s at stake in the starkest terms possible. If I’m wrong and we don’t get this guy, we may need several more whiteboards before this is all said and done.
But if I don’t lock it in and start searching for Hayes, our chances of nailing him are exactly zero. The profile isn’t the end-all, be-all. It’s a helpful tool and guidepost to help us on our way. It’s a tool that can— and will— be amended as we go and collect more information to add to and refine it. It’s a starting point. Nothing more.
“I think he’s unassuming. Not the sort of guy who stands out in a room. He’s a chameleon and can blend in anywhere,” I say. “He got into the Morgans’ house and this office without being seen.”
“I agree. He’s got to be completely nondescript,” she replies. “And also good with camouflage.”
“Exactly. He’s also an omnivore. He kills men and women, regardless of age or ethnicity. Of his victims, twenty-three have been women, and sixteen men, so we know it’s not specifically misogyny that drives him,” I tell her. “We also know he believes he’s on a crusade of his own design and uses religion as a prop—”
“Okay, stop right there,” she says. “Why bring religion into this at all?”
“My guess is he believes he’s exposing or highlighting the hypocrisy of organized religion. Remember, he has a special disdain for religion that probably formed in childhood,” I say. “Also, maybe he gets off on the idea of cops spinning their wheels and questioning priests and pastors. Regardless, it muddies the waters enough that he can swim away undetected.”
She thinks it over for a moment then nods. “Okay, that tracks.”
I stand and pace the room as I speak, all of the disparate information in my head coalescing into one coherent profile. I stare at the whiteboard for a long moment as all of the random bits of information I have keep falling into place like I’m putting together one big mental jigsaw puzzle.
“We know he doesn’t hold a traditional job. His murders are his work. His mission,” I go on. “And we know he funds his lifestyle by targeting wealthy families and abducting their children. But his ransom demands are never exorbitant, and although it’s a healthy chunk of money, it’s not so much that the families will miss it much. It’s always just enough to fund his lifestyle.”
“Why do you think that is?” she asks.
A crooked grin splits my lips. “Because he believes that avarice is rude. Ill-mannered and endemic to those of lower character and those of lower birth. He believes it’s a trait of the unwashed masses.”
Blake nods. “I don’t get the idea that he comes from money or of a particularly high birth though,” she muses. “If he did, he likely wouldn’t need to ransom kids for his lifestyle. But he also seems strangely obsessed with portraying himself as somebody who has. At least to you. That sort of need for you to know that he isn’t of low birth just screams overcompensation for me.”
“I agree with you. He’s learned to mimic the behaviors and attitudes of the wealthy, but it’s not natural to him.”
“You would know,” Blake cracks.
I chuckle. “This may be the one time I’m glad to have been raised the Arrington way, steeped in all of that pompousness and arrogance— I can spot the fakes and those who are putting on airs a mile away.”
Blake and I share a laugh, but it soon fades away. The somberness of all those faces on the whiteboard staring back at us weighs heavily, saturating the air around us with solemnity and killing any good humor.
“It seems particularly important to him that you know he’s of good character and a high birth,” she says.
I think about it for a moment before the answer comes to me. “It’s because I symbolize everything he wanted but never had growing up,” I say. “Money, social standing, privilege… I got into all of the right schools, never wanted for anything, and had parents who loved me. In their own way, of course. I’m positive those are things he never had.”
“And this goes back to what I said before. This isn’t about you at all,” Blake adds. “This all comes back to him. He’s just focusing his attention on you because, in a way, he wants to be you.”
“Exactly,” I say with a nod. “He desperately wants to be part of high society and the privileged elite. Always has.”
“This is good, Pax. This is really good,” she says.
“It’s a profile,” I reply grimly. “But it’s not going to bring this guy in.”
“No, but it helps us keep whittling away at the haystack,” she tells me. “We keep this up and soon enough, there won’t be anything but the needle left.”
I give her a faint smile. Patience has never been my strong suit. Rather than waxing philosophical and discussing the psychological underpinnings of this bastard, I’d rather be walking him into a cell right now. I just have to keep reminding myself that this is the job. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. The profile is an important piece of the puzzle because if we can understand this guy, we have a better chance of catching him.
And the profile is solid. I turn it over and over in my head and look for the flaws and weak links in the chain but see none. Of course, this is simply based on the information we’re working with right now. It’s possible we receive new information that forces us to scrap the profile and build a new one. But as I look at the faces of the dead and see the way they all seem to be staring back at me, silently pinning their hope that I will bring them justice once and for all on me, I shudder. The enormity of the task before me feels like a physical weight pressing down on me. It’s almost too much.
“Patience you must have, my young Padawan,” Blake says as if reading my mind. “We’ll get this guy.”
“Yeah. We will,” I nod, hoping I sound more confident than I feel.
Twenty-One
Reuben Hayes
Bainbridge Island
The night air is cool. A thick cover of clouds blots out the moonlight. A chill wind sweeps in off the Puget Sound, sending a cool shudder down my spine, but at the same time invigorating me. I hide behind the thick screen of bushes and watch the house, the echoes of their laughter still ringing in my ears. I see their faces, twisted with amusement, and hear their scornful words aimed at me.
I cut a glance aroun
d but don’t see anybody on the street, nor any lights on in the houses. Other than the sound of a dog barking somewhere in the distance, all is quiet. All of these homes are spread out on large parcels of land, so even though they have neighbors, they aren’t too close. Which is good. It lowers the odds of me being seen.
My stomach churns with excitement and fear and the pain of humiliation they made me feel. It all combines within me, making my insides feel as if they’re on fire. I check my watch and see that it’s three a.m. on the button. It’s time. I take a deep breath, slide my gloves on, then pull down the ski mask and slip out of the bushes. Moving on light, swift feet, I follow the path that leads alongside the house, and into the backyard.
I try the sliding glass door on the back deck first. It slides open quietly. I smile beneath my mask. Figures. Rich people always think they’re untouchable. I push the curtain aside and slip into the large room beyond. It’s filled with all the trappings of wealth I expected to find. Ornate art on the walls. Plush furniture. Carefully curated décor. But I’m not here for that.
I move to the staircase and ascend to the second floor, taking care to avoid the creaking stairs I noted on my last trip into the house. I’ve carefully planned for this, doing my best to provide for every contingency. Sticking carefully to the side of the hall, avoiding the creaky boards in the middle, I make my way down the hall, careful to avoid bumping the pictures hanging on the walls.
The door at the end of the hall is halfway open. I can hear the soft sound of their breathing beyond. I slip into the room and see their forms beneath the covers on the bed. They’re fellow teachers at the school I work at, but now they’re just faceless shadows in the gloom. I swallow hard and give myself one last chance to back out of this. I can walk out of this house right now. No harm, no foul.
I reject the idea though. I have been wanting to do this for too long. I’ve felt it building inside of me; a darkness that’s consumed me from the inside out. And I have a feeling— no, I am certain— that when I do this, I will be reborn. I’ll no longer be the meek English teacher who lives hand to mouth, barely getting by, who can’t get a date to save his life. I won’t be the man women reject any longer because petty things like that will cease to matter to me.
I’ve felt this change brewing inside of me for a long time now. I’ve tried to push it away and ignore it. I’ve tried to deny it. But I’m meant for so much more. I’m meant for far greater things than being the poor preacher’s kid from Kirkland. I have the ability to transcend my abusive childhood. To escape the near-poverty, I was forced to endure as my parents drank and smoked away their earnings from the church they founded.
The key to becoming, to transcending my past is right here before me. Delia Johnson and her sometimes boyfriend Alex Ellison are the key to unlocking everything inside of me. I see that now. I see they did me a favor when they mocked and tormented me when I made the mistake of asking Delia out.
I was completely unaware she had a boyfriend, but that didn’t stop them from humiliating me in front of the rest of the faculty. And the bitter sting of rejection and humiliation they made me feel was every bit as vibrant as it had been when I was a kid. It brought back all of the sneering, mocking voices as loud and clear. As if I’d been suddenly transported back in time.
But this was more than mere pain of rejection. This was a sudden realization of the exact type of people they are. Fools. Charlatans. Sinners, if I were to use my father’s bastardized term. They delight in harming others, and so I must remove them from this world.
Sliding the long-handled knife out of the sheath on my hip, I stand next to Alex’s side of the bed and stare down at him. I’d expected to feel any number of things tonight; fear probably chief among them. But as I stand here, the blade of my knife hovering inches over Alex’s throat like the Sword of Damocles itself, all I feel is calm. Certainty. I feel as if this is the first step on the road to becoming who and what I am meant to be.
As if he felt my standing beside him, even in sleep, Alex’s eyes snap open. He stares at me with the starkest fear I’ve ever seen on another man’s face. Without giving myself a moment to stop and think about what I’m doing, I act. His eyes grow impossibly wide as the point of the blade sinks into his throat. I force the knife down, carving through his soft flesh with glee. He lets out a wet gurgle as a thick, scarlet rivulet rolls from the corner of his mouth.
Alex spasms. The wet gurgle turns into a wet, choked cough. He sprays blood all over me. I revel in its warmth. Through the vibrations in the knife, I feel the muscles of his throat click, working overtime to save him. But they will not save him. I drive the knife deeper, burnished by my newfound purpose. Yes.
Delia gasps, falling out of the bed with a hard thump. I give the knife in Alex’s throat a final, vicious twist and then yank it out of his flesh and sigh in contentment at the sound of rending flesh.
I come around the bed to find Delia pressed into the corner, her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around herself. Tears stream down her face. The only sound coming from her is a choked sob. But then she turns and sees her boyfriend, the erstwhile Alex Ellison, and her eyes grow comically wide. A high, reedy keening sound passes her lips as she tears her eyes away from him and focuses on me again. More specifically, on the bloody knife in my hand.
“P—please don’t hurt me,’ she cries.
Looming over her, I feel my own power growing. My transformation has begun. I am becoming.
“I should thank you,” I say.
Her mouth drops open, and she looks at me, a tiny glimmering thread of curiosity wrapped around the ball of fear in her face.
“A—Alvin?” she stammers. “Is that you?”
I lean down and turn the lamp on her nightstand on, bathing the room in its soft, warm glow. My eyes still fixed on her, I slip off the mask, revealing the face she’s accustomed to. She can’t yet see the face that’s growing beneath the surface. And she won’t. That face will not be revealed until I finish this. Until I allow Delia’s blood— her sacrifice— to complete my metamorphosis.
I shall be baptized in her blood and come forth sanctified and pure. Yes.
Her eyes widen. The light from her lamp glitters off the tears rolling down her cheeks like chips of diamonds. She opens her mouth and closes it several times, looking like a fish out of water. Her entire body is trembling in fear. She has lost all control of herself.
“W—why are you doing this?” she gasps.
I inhale deeply, savoring the scent of her fear. I take one step forward. Then another.
She screams, but I reach my hand forcefully down and grab her by the throat, pinning her to the corner of the wall. Not enough for her to choke. Merely to stop her from running.
Whatever slight hope she may have had for escape is now snuffed out. Gone, like the life of Alex Ellison. Like her own life, in mere moments.
In a way, like the former life I had led. No longer shall I be bound by the fleeting morality of the world. I know my purpose. All that is left is to complete my becoming.
“Because of you— and Alex of course— I know my purpose,” I whisper, my smile bright. “The pain and humiliation the both of you inflicted upon me was the exact key I needed to turn the lock inside of me.”
She cries and shudders in my grasp. Her cries have given way to hysterics. I can feel her heartbeat skittering wildly in my palm. With every frantic beat of her pulse, I feel as if her life is leaving her and flowing into me. Yes.
“I—I—I don’t know what—what—you’re talking about. P-p-p-lease Alvin.”
“If you hadn’t rejected me, tormented, and humiliated me, I might have never known what I was capable of,” I say. “I might never have found my purpose. To cleanse this world of tormenters and betrayers. To purify it. Without you, I may have never had the strength or courage to transform into what I was always meant to be.”
“P-p-please Alvin.”
I look down at her and smile. Her beauty strikes me as hard toda
y as it did the day I first laid eyes on her. And her role in helping me to ascend, to transform, only makes her more beautiful in my eyes.
“Thank you, Delia,” I say. “You will always be special to me. Very special.”
Yes.
I breathe deeply, savoring the scent of the Sound. I toast the clear evening air and take a sip of a very fine Chateau Cheval Blanc Bordeaux, rolling it around my tongue before I swallow. A sound of extreme pleasure and delight passes my lips. The wine warms and soothes me with an intoxication just as deep as the memory.
That was October twenty-third, 1996. Delia and Alex were my first, though I treasure the memory of her more than him for obvious reasons. I loved her. Wanted her. And as I accepted her sacrifice and started to transform into what I am today, I shared something special with her. It is an intimacy I’ve never experienced with another person before in my life, and one I doubt I ever will again. That bond I shared with Delia that night will forever be in my heart.
There are moments in time when I am agitated or anxious that I think about her and that night, that special intimacy we shared, and it calms me down. It soothes me in ways not even a good eighties power ballad can. As I transformed into this new life, I rediscovered my love and passion for music. Specifically, the music of my youth kindled a sense of nostalgia within me that never fails to make me smile.
Hearing those songs I loved as a child again helped me find those few good memories from my childhood and hold onto them. For so long, my soul was filled with nothing but darkness. Hatred. Bitterness. And anger. But once I transformed, once I was baptized by Delia’s sacrifice, it cleansed my soul. It was suddenly as new and fresh as the day I was born.
So I filled it with music. Memories. I filled my soul with the happier things I managed to find from my previous life and even started to build new memories. And of course, my purpose. My mission. None of those things would have been possible without Delia’s sacrifice. Without her contribution to my metamorphosis. And for that reason, she will always hold a very special place in my heart.