by Alan Spencer
Morty was no Jack the Ripper.
But something wasn’t right about the man.
Larson couldn’t prove it.
But he would.
Soon.
Chapter Sixteen
Fearing he was going insane, Morty charged into the garage, retrieved his sledgehammer and rushed upstairs into his bedroom. He bashed the business end of the sledgehammer against the wall surrounding the doorway. Morty pounded his message home. No more. Morty started laughing hysterically. This would solve everything. He kicked this problem in its ass. Sledgehammer to wood. No more doorway.
The wood surrounding the doorway crumbled to the blows, the sledgehammer breaking through the thin layer easily. Morty kept smashing and breaking. He didn’t want to stop. It felt so good. So many pent-up feelings were being channeled into this moment. The longer he did this, though, the more Morty began to realize this would make him look bad. Really, really bad. Covered in dust and standing in a small rubble pile of the wall, Morty felt guilty of a crime.
How could he say he wasn’t losing his marbles now? That he couldn’t be the reason for his wife’s bloody slipper, or her disappearance altogether?
He refused to admit things that were lies. Morty Saggs hadn’t gone postal. He was happy-go-lucky Morty. Funny Morty who would rather pay more money buying candy bars from a vending machine than buy them from the store in bulk. Morty who fell asleep while fishing because he’d had too much to drink and woke up in the middle of the lake confused as hell. Morty who had accidentally hit Bruce in the ear with a dart during a game of darts at Side Pockets, and the sight of blood made him so queasy he threw up. But it wasn’t the blood. It was the concern for Bruce that had him so worked up. That he was the one responsible for Bruce’s pain. So he couldn’t have harmed Glenda, right? Right? He wasn’t a sadistic person. He was fun-loving Morty without a mean bone in his body.
“Dad, are you upstairs?”
Cheyenne.
Oh my God, no.
Cheyenne kept calling out to him.
What do I say? I have to keep her from coming upstairs and seeing me like this. She’ll ask me about the wall, and I’ll have to tell her—but what will I tell her? What could I possibly tell her?
Cheyenne was coming up the stairs. She was closing in on the bedroom. Morty did the only thing he could and hid the sledgehammer in the closet.
Morty was spinning responses in his head.
Cheyenne, dear, I was…/Cheyenne, I wasn’t sure about something, so I…/It seems like I’m losing control of myself, so I…/I’m so scared right now, I had to do…/I didn’t want to tell you, but there’s this burning doorway, and it keeps appearing on my wall, and it scares the hell out of me, so I had to…/I think, no, I know, the doorway had something to do with your mother’s disappearance, so that’s why I…
“Dad, why are you looking at me like that?”
Cheyenne’s face was ugly because of her strange expressions.
Her concern for him was that intense.
“I…I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t—”
Morty broke down into heavy sobs. He retreated into Cheyenne’s arms whispering nonsense. What meant to be apologies.
“What’s come over me I don’t know why I’m acting this way I need help I need serious help.”
Cheyenne helped him out of the room, led him downstairs, and set him down on the couch until he was done crying. When he calmed, Morty came to his senses. Morty was so deep in thought, so entrenched in his head, that he hadn’t noticed Cheyenne slip back upstairs. She was in the bedroom. What was she seeing?
Morty was about to launch upstairs and try and attempt an explanation, but it wasn’t necessary. Cheyenne wasn’t worked up when she returned. Instead, she gave him a sad expression.
“You poor man. That detective really did a number on you. Whatever you’re going through, I’m going to help you, Dad. Now go upstairs and get some rest. I’ll work on making you some dinner, okay?”
Morty was dumbfounded.
Why wasn’t she asking him about the torn-up wall? Why, damn it!
Maybe she didn’t go in his bedroom? Maybe she didn’t see the mess? The possibility was strong. It was the only thing that made sense.
So Morty went upstairs. He could clean up the mess, figure things out, and go from there. Cheyenne didn’t need to know about what he’d done with a sledgehammer until Morty had the facts sorted out. Until he was absolutely certain about the strange burning doorway.
He entered the bedroom and wasn’t prepared for what he was going to find.
Just what the hell was he going to do to fix this surreal situation?
He’d ask himself these kinds of questions all night, alongside the best question of all: why was the wall around the doorway undamaged when he had just taken a fucking sledgehammer to it?
Chapter Seventeen
Janet Ranscombe came so close to calling the police on Morty Saggs’s sick ass. She had her finger on the send button of her cell phone after dialing 9-1-1 right after the man had assaulted her. Morty Saggs was a madman, the way he launched out of his bed with that insane expression. The only thing she did was touch the wall where he pointed, saying there was a burning doorway there. Janet only humored the old man, but the second she touched the wall, he went psycho bat shit crazy.
At home, after locking herself in her bathroom so her husband wouldn’t see the collection of bruises on her bicep and shoulders, and worse, the tear through her right nipple, Janet Ranscombe mended her wounds. What would she tell her husband the next time they were intimate? She avoided his sexual advances last night by using the ‘I have a headache’ excuse. She knew it was lame, but what else could she do? Tell him what happened? No, she wasn’t ready to do that just yet. There was a special motive for her silence.
Her husband was set in a career. Blake made partner at a local law firm. So why did she need to work? Blake asked her. Her parents were of the same mind as her husband. Investigative journalism was a waste of time. She should be having babies and letting her husband win the bread. When she graduated college, she landed a local job on Channel 4 News. It didn’t pay shit, well under twenty grand a year, and the news was boring. Local stories. Fluffy fillers to make small communities smile. Bake sales and new traffic signs, that kind of shit. She talked to a lot of stay-at-home-Moms and churchgoers and community leaders. Janet wanted something more ambitious and world changing.
If her husband knew she had been attacked by Morty Saggs, forget her chances of taking her career to another level. He would insist she quit the business immediately. Demand it, actually. She would start being a stay-at-home mother. Blake wasn’t shy about his intentions with their marriage. He wanted to keep working as a lawyer, and she could have all the babies she desired. The plan was simple.
Janet wanted children too, but not yet, not now, not when Morty Saggs’s story was on the verge of breaking. This could potentially kick-start her career. Sensational stories of murder always hit the national circuit, especially the kind of story involving Morty Saggs. She wouldn’t be writing articles about fall festivals and local flavor. Janet would tackle real stories. Edgy stories. After Morty, she could become a name. She’d be on Dateline or 20/20. Diane Sawyer-level reporting.
Growing up in Massachusetts, Janet lived next door to a true crime writer. The woman was retired at the time, but re-runs of the television show called Deadly Mothers still played late at night. Janet watched the shows religiously. Whenever Marty Fielding was pruning her hedges, working in her garden or was outside on her front porch reading a book with a cigarette dangling from her mouth, Janet would sneak out of the house and ask her questions about the cases she wrote books on. Marty Fielding fascinated her. Janet wanted to be Marty Fielding. It’s the only reasons she considered journalism as a career. While other kids her age wanted to be Barbie, Janet said she wanted to appre
hend serial killers and deliver them to justice. Because Janet was only ten years old at the time, Marty Fielding was limited on her details about the murderers she wrote about, but Marty said one thing that stuck with Janet to this day.
“If you want to make a name for yourself, you have to break an incredible story before anybody else does. A real sensational story that will keep a neighborhood up at night. The kind of story that will make husbands hug their wives at night tighter and for wives to count the children in their beds. If you’re the first to tell the story, to be the face of the story, they’ll remember you. And if you’re put in any kind of danger in the process, they’ll consider you a hero. You’ll be remarkable.”
Janet wanted to be a mother, but first, she was going to do as Marty Fielding suggested and break Morty Saggs’s story. It had the right ingredients. Danger and intrigue. Motive and murder. This was the moment of truth for Janet. How many more chances would she have to report this developing story, especially when in all likelihood it would turn out to be a sensational murder story? Oh, how the public ate this kind of shit up! Marty Fielding was absolutely right.
From the moment after she was assaulted, Janet kept watch over Morty’s house. He wasn’t right in the head. The man was unbalanced, on the brink of more murders, and whatever mask he wore to cover up his psychotic tendencies was slipping big time.
Janet began today’s stakeout early this morning. She witnessed Morty go to the police station, and the police comb through the man’s house. She stayed parked on the street waiting for something else to happen. Two people arrived at Morty’s house. A man and a woman. Cheyenne let them inside. The sun was starting to go down. Soon, it would be nighttime. Blake probably thought she was crazy doing this. If it weren’t for his most recent client keeping him busy, Janet wouldn’t be getting away with this kind of stakeout.
Janet didn’t care. The way this was going, she might even be able to write a non-fiction account of Morty Saggs, the sociopath who murdered his wife. Janet imagined a book jacket with #1 Bestseller emblazoned on the cover. Everything in her life was coming full circle, Janet thought. Her heart was fluttering. She was high on her own prospects.
Then Janet’s processes were racing for a new reason.
The violent red light blaring from what she assumed was Morty’s bedroom window had her running towards the house. She dialed the police on her cell phone, then she dug into her purse for her 9mm pistol.
Camera, check.
9mm, check.
She hesitated at the front doorway. Was she running into certain danger? Would Morty try to kill her? Those questions and worries fled her mind when she heard the harsh screams coming from the house.
Chapter Eighteen
Morty woke up in bed from another long sleep. It was dark outside. The whole day, gone. The window shades were drawn. He could see the slight tinge of orange coming off of the streetlight in front of his house. How he ended up in bed eluded him. Morty had taken a sledgehammer to the wall, and then Cheyenne came home, and the rest of it, he couldn’t remember.
Where was Cheyenne?
He heard several people talking downstairs.
The first voice he picked out was Hannah’s. Poor Morty, he’s going through such a terrible ordeal. He’s not doing so well, is he?
Then it was Bruce’s voice. They’ve got another thing coming if they think they can push Morty around like that. Cops think they can do anything they want. Morty didn’t do anything wrong. You guys need a lawyer. Did you get a lawyer?
Cheyenne spoke up next. Yes, I made the arrangements for a lawyer. I’m scared, guys. I needed to talk to somebody. Thanks for coming over. It’s just that Morty’s coming undone. I don’t know if I can keep him together. I’m not sure what to do for him. They said at the police station, Morty was asking that detective if he was insane or not. And I mean he was shrieking it at the top of his lungs.
Hannah said, I’ve got a few downers I could give him.
Bruce said, He’s stressed. You can’t leave a grieving man to a detective’s interrogation. There wasn’t a lawyer present. There’s no telling what the asshole did to poor Morty. They grill people hard, and Morty can’t handle it. He’s a softy. And with Glenda missing, I’m sure it was even harder on the guy.
Morty couldn’t listen to anymore. How much longer before the people who knew and loved him began to doubt his state of mind? He could stay in this bed and never move again. Maybe that was the way to avoid people finding out he was going insane? Stay in bed.
“So are you ready to confess?”
The voice wasn’t Cheyenne’s, Hannah’s or Bruce’s. The words were harsh and accusatory. Morty feared saying the wrong thing to this mystery voice. He stayed on the bed, glued in place, fearing if he did anything at all, this person could come out of hiding and really hurt him.
Hurt him like they’d hurt Glenda.
Morty couldn’t believe he was addressing the voice. He still couldn’t pinpoint where the speaker was in the room.
“I haven’t done anything to my wife. I wouldn’t harm her, ever. I swear to God. What do you know about my wife? Are you the one who did something to her? Answer me, damn you. Face me!”
“If you ever want your wife back, you’re going to have to tell me what happened to my wife first. I know you took her somewhere. I know you did terrible things to my wife. So where is she? You can’t lie to me. Not me. If you think you can play games with me, you’re fucking mistaken, buddy.”
“Who are you? Who is your wife? I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re confusing me. You’re talking crazy, whoever you are! Show yourself so we can really talk. Do you have a special reason you’re hiding from me?”
Morty was so enraged that somebody was accusing him of harming not only Glenda, but also somebody else’s wife, he growled, “I wouldn’t hurt anybody, not ever!”
“Liar! Liar! You lie! You fucking lie! It was you, Morty Saggs. It was you!”
Morty got up out of the bed and threw open the closet door. Nobody was inside. Under the bed, in the hallway, nobody was there.
So who was talking to him?
Who the hell was it?
“I haven’t done anything to anybody. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why are you hiding from me? Come on out!”
“You come talk to me if you want Glenda back. I’ll make you crack. I make them all crack when I put them in my special room. I’ll make you spill the truth to me. I have my methods. Then, and only then, can you have your wife back, Morty. I want a confession. I want the truth spoken from your lips. I want to know what you did to my poor wife. Join me on the other side of this doorway, and let’s finish our business together, Morty.”
The voice on the air, so ghost-like, stopped speaking.
That terrible smell of burning started filling up the room. Morty was choking on it so hard it knocked him onto all fours. Unable to breathe, he couldn’t move. Morty could only keep his eyes open and watch as the room was consumed by burning red.
Chapter Nineteen
Cheyenne sat with Hannah and Bruce downstairs in the living room. They were drinking coffee and quietly talking about Morty. Cheyenne called the two of them over because she could trust their opinions and advice. Clearly her father wasn’t acting right, even up against Glenda’s disappearance. What had he been doing when Cheyenne was out? Why did her father panic when she went upstairs to the bedroom today? Why did the man collapse in bed and sleep all day? Bruce and Hannah argued that Morty’s actions weren’t anything beyond stress and being concerned about Glenda. People reacted differently to extreme situations. They also agreed Morty wasn’t handling it well. Any husband wouldn’t be handling it well. And Bruce mentioned how Detective Larson probably came down hard on Morty. It wasn’t until after that questioning that Morty started acting different. It was the damn detective’s fault.
Cheyenne wa
s beginning to feel a little better about her father. Yes, he had gone through a terrible ordeal from the start. Then stack on a hard-ass detective’s interrogation, and that horrible article that reporter wrote, making her father look crazy, possibly guilty, how would she fare in her old man’s shoes? Not very good.
They agreed they had to be there for Morty. Stay positive about Glenda and the investigation. Give the man support when he needed it the most.
They were quiet for a moment, then Bruce started talking.
“I was at the front of the search party today. We combed the Hillsdale Lake area. So many miles we searched. It’s so frustrating. Anything can be evidence. Cigarette butts. Clothing. A broken bottle. It’s hard to know if you’re missing something or not.”
Hannah was with him during the search party, and added, “We can’t forget why we’re doing this. I know it’s hard. It seems pointless searching through acres of woods and fields when you don’t come up with anything, but we have to do as the police say. They’re professionals.”
Cheyenne’s eyes welled with tears.
“What if this is one of those unsolved cases? Like ten years from now we’re still searching for my mom? I don’t think I can handle it. How can I go back to work, raise my kids, and live without knowing what happened to her? I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. What’s happening to my father is happening to me. I’m being hopeful, I’m being realistic, but I may never know what happened to my mom, no matter how many rocks we turn over or missing posters we hang up. It’s so damn frustrating. It’s not fair. My mother never did anything to anybody.”
Before Bruce or Hannah could try and inject more hope into the situation, they overheard heavy footsteps upstairs. Thuds.