The Final Girl

by Kenneth Preston

Her hands were shaking, she noticed. She took a deep breath, in through her nose, into her stomach, and out through her mouth. She repeated the exercise several times. She would do her best to keep the fear inside. She didn't want the monster to see the fear. But it would be a challenge because she was more afraid than she'd ever been. That piece of shit husband of hers had never scared her as much as the monster in the hospital bed was scaring her now. She was more afraid now than the day she'd watched the monster kill her husband.

  The monster's eyes were closed. A part of her wanted to grab one of the pillows and smother her, but she had a commitment to keep. She wouldn't try to slay the monster until it was one hundred percent necessary, until she was absolutely sure that the beast could not be tamed. Besides, a pillow over the face would never work. That would take time. The monster wouldn't give her the time. No, slaying the monster would have to be quick. A shotgun blast to the chest might do it. She wouldn't know until she crossed that bridge, and she desperately hoped that she wouldn't have to cross that bridge.

  The monster's eyes opened. She looked at her mother, and her mother wondered if the monster knew what she was thinking. There was a knowing in those eyes. Was that one of her abilities? Could she read minds? She doubted it. If the monster could read her mind, it would have attacked her by now. Unless the monster knew that her mother had made a commitment, that she would do everything in her power to tame the beast. Maybe the monster was giving her the benefit of the doubt. Or maybe the monster just loved a good challenge and was waiting for her mother to make the first move.

  The monster smiled, and Amanda saw her daughter.

  "Mom." She said it like her daughter would say it because Jill was still her daughter, but she was sullied now, tainted by the monster. She could see it in the girl's smile, in her eyes. She could hear it in the way she addressed her.

  She looked at her daughter, and she saw the monster.

  One and the same.

  "Honey." She would have covered the monster's hand, but her own hands were shaking more than ever. She couldn't let the monster see that. The monster probably already knew she was afraid. She could probably smell the fear.

  "Am I going home soon?" the monster asked.

  Amanda forced a smile. "The day after tomorrow."

  There would be press outside the hospital, press on the ride from the hospital, press outside their home. They would be prisoners, for a little while, anyway, until people began to lose interest. In the meantime, the two would be locked up together. She hoped it wouldn't be as bad as she feared because that was all she could do―hope. But she knew better. This was not going to end well.

  When did she realize that it was all going so wrong? When did she first know that she'd brought a potential monster into the world? She furrowed her brow, trying to pinpoint the exact moment, but she couldn't find it. The best she could do was pinpoint Jill's age: nine. That's when Amanda began noticing the girl's peculiarities. She said things; she said those horrible things her piece of shit husband said to her before the beatings started. Jill would come home from school and echo those horrible words.

  Bitch.

  Slut.

  Cunt.

  Jill would come home after the beatings had ended and channel her piece of shit father. She would say those horrible things to Amanda's bruised and bloodied face.

  Those peculiarities had scared her plenty, but everything she thought she knew about Heaven and Hell was turned upside down and inside out the following year when her piece of shit husband cornered her in the basement and began uttering the horrible words that always came before the beatings.

  But the horrible words were where it would end. There would be no beating that day or any other.

  Because the monster had arrived to put a stop to it.

  That's when Amanda turned to God...or returned to God. She'd always been a believer, but she'd turned her back on the Lord years earlier. But in her darkest hour, God called to her. It was Amanda's mission to find the light in the girl, to nurture it, before the girl found the darkness.

  So she'd spent years teaching the girl, praying with her, and doing everything in her power to keep her away from the sullied. Amanda had been one of the sullied. She would be damned if she would allow Jill to sully herself. She would do what she needed to do. She would lock her away from the filth of the world, and she would pray with her. They would pray together for as long as it took.

  But she'd been too late, she knew. She'd failed her daughter. Jill had fraternized with the sullied. She'd rejected the light and embraced the darkness. The monster had arrived. It was just a matter of how long it was going to hang around this time.

  But Amanda had made her commitment, and she wouldn't give up on the girl until she was absolutely sure that the girl could not be saved.

  She watched her daughter's eyes flutter shut and was struck by the fact that in the last few moments, she'd been thinking of Jill as her daughter and not the monster. It gave her back the little bit of hope she'd thought she'd lost. But hope wouldn't be enough, not by a long shot. She would have to fight for her daughter's salvation, and she would have to fight the only way she knew how.

  She got down on her knees next to her daughter's bed, and she prayed.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  "Randall Turner was born on September 6, 1974 in Hempstead, New York," Harry said, reading from the computer monitor on his desk. "He was an only child."

  "Just like Jill," Darlene commented, seated next to Harry.

  "Unlike Jill, he has a lengthy criminal record."

  "Jesus," Darlene said, perusing the list of offenses.

  "Yep. Breaking and entering, burglary, shoplifting, drug possession, vandalism, and public drunkenness. This was all when he was a teenager. Somehow, through all of this, he managed to graduate from high school."

  "Way to go, Randall," Darlene said.

  "Yep. He joined the Marines right out high school. Served four years. Parents died in '94. Murder-suicide. Father shot the mother before turning the gun on himself."

  "Shit," Darlene muttered.

  "He was discharged in '96. He worked as a truck driver before marrying Amanda Stiles in 2000. He was twenty-six. She was twenty-four. At that point, he began working in the Stiles family business, the hunting and fishing store, which he somehow managed to convince Amanda to rename 'Turner Hunting and Fishing,' despite the fact that he didn't own the store."

  "He was abusive," Darlene said. "He bullied her into it."

  "And to that point, the police were called to the Turner residence for domestic disturbances six times in their nineteen years of marriage." The number was lower than Darlene had expected. "Amanda accused her husband of domestic violence. He was arrested twice, but Amanda declined to press charges."

  "Not surprising," Darlene said. "Does he have a social media presence?"

  "Just Facebook." Harry pulled up Randall Turner's Facebook profile, a bright yellow 'Don't Tread On Me' banner stretching across the top of the page.

  "Oh, he's one of those," Darlene said. "Why am I not surprised?"

  "What does that mean?" Harry asked.

  "It means exactly what you think it means, Harry."

  "What, that he's a right-wing loon?"

  "Your words, not mine."

  "Not everybody who displays a 'Don't Tread On Me' banner is a right-wing loon."

  "No, but all right-wing loons love their 'Don't Tread On Me' banners."

  "That's a stereotype."

  "I'm not getting into a political discussion with you, Harry. I know where you stand. But this is not about conservatism; this is about extremism. There are right-wing extremists; there are left-wing extremists. Extremism is bad, regardless of where you fall on the political spectrum. I'm willing to bet that Randall Turner's a right-wing extremist."

  "Well, let's find out, shall we?" Harry scrolled to the first post on Randall Turner's Facebook page, a QAnon conspiracy theory blog post.

  Darlene patted Harry's shou
lder. "Right-wing loon," she whispered.

  Harry scrolled down. "There's a lot of that kind of stuff. And there's a wide variety of it. Everything from QAnon conspiracy theories to more mainstream conservative views on big government, socialism, gun rights, blah, blah, blah."

  He scrolled increasingly faster as the nature of the posts blended into one, long, right-wing kaleidoscope. But there was the occasional post that caught Darlene's eye, and after one rolled by, she asked Harry to stop. "Scroll back, please." An article, How 'Halloween' Invented the Slasher Genre, dated October 30, 2012, posted by Randall Turner on April 14, 2020. "Scroll down." She waited. "Stop." Another article, Friday the 13th at 30, dated May 9, 2010, posted by Randall Turner on March 7, 2020.

  Harry continued to scroll, taking his time. Interspersed with the plethora of right-wing posts was the occasional reference to the horror genre.

  "The guy loved his horror movies," Darlene said. She looked at her partner, holding his gaze, before turning her attention back to the screen. "Is he in any Facebook groups?"

  Harry clicked on Randall Turner's groups list. "Plenty. Right-wing groups and yeah, plenty of groups dedicated to horror."

  Harry looked at Darlene. "Like father, like daughter. I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

  "Any pics?" Darlene asked.

  Harry clicked over to Randall Turner's photo albums and sat back. "Plenty."

  Darlene and Harry leaned in as Harry scrolled through the photos: Jill as a newborn, as a toddler, as a teenager. A multitude of photos of a smiling Jill posing with her smiling father intermixed with photos of a smiling Jill posing solo.

  The photos told a story: She was happy. They were happy. She was a daddy's girl. He was a devoted father. She loved him so very much. And he loved her back.

  Not a single photo of Amanda.

  It was just the two of them. He didn't have a wife. She didn't have a mother. And they wouldn't have it any other way.

  "What about personal info?" Darlene asked.

  Harry scrolled to the top of the page and clicked on Randall Turner's personal information. Nothing regarding location or occupation, as Darlene suspected.

  "He doesn't want to be found," Harry said.

  "I don't think he will be."

  "And to that point," Harry said, "I took the liberty of asking George in IT to track his cell phone."

  "Any luck?"

  Harry shook his head. "The phone has to be on. He has an account, and he's been paying his bill, but...nothing. It's like it doesn't exist. We can track it the next time he turns it on. Until then..."

  "We wait," Darlene said. "Next time he turns the phone on, we'll see if we can get a location."

  Darlene's phone rang. She pulled it from her jacket pocket. "Mrs. Turner," she answered. "Is everything okay?"

  "Yes, everything's fine," Amanda said. "I probably should've told you earlier, but I got word from the doctor last night; Jill's being discharged tomorrow morning."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Harry rose in the early morning hours with a theory about the case weighing heavily on his mind. It was a theory he'd just begun to formulate after interviewing Diane Wright. She'd hinted that Richard Caulfield and Jill Turner might have planned the murders together. He'd touched on this theory with Darlene last night, but she'd swiftly poked a hole in it, pointing out that in order for his theory to work, Richard Caulfield had to have been suicidal. She'd been right, of course. Richard Caulfield may have been suicidal, but they needed evidence. So Harry intended to find some.

  He and Darlene were supposed to escort Jill Turner home from the hospital, but Harry decided that Darlene and the numerous uniformed cops could handle this one without him.

  Looking into a potential lead, he texted Darlene. Probably nothing. I'll get back to you if it pans out.

  What are you talking about? she texted back. What lead? We're supposed to escort Jill home from the hospital.

  You'll have to handle this one without me, Harry replied.

  Call me as soon as you can, she texted.

  Will do, Harry replied.

  After a quick breakfast, Harry locked himself in his home office for the better part of two hours. He searched Richard Caulfield's Facebook and Instagram profiles. There was plenty to sift through. He was looking for a few tell-tale signs, a common thread, really just about anything that would add any bit of credence to his theory, or at the very least, give him the encouragement he needed to continue this pursuit.

  After scrolling through the countless condolences that had been posted on his Facebook and Instagram pages over the past day, he found what he was looking for. The frequency of Richard's posts increased in the days leading up to the murders, and the posts had a common theme.

  There wasn't enough in the posts to give his theory any credibility. They were the musings of an angst-ridden teenager. If he brought his theory to his fellow detectives and used the Facebook and Instagram posts of a disillusioned teen as supporting evidence, he'd be laughed out of the precinct. At the moment, the posts were nothing more than hearsay. But they didn't invalidate his theory. On the contrary, they gave him the encouragement he needed to forge ahead. And forge ahead he did.

  He drove to Sachem High School. All classes were canceled due to the horror that befell five of its students two days ago, but the main office was open for business. Harry wore his badge on his belt for all to see, not that it mattered. The school administrators knew him well. He could have walked into the office in his pajamas, and the staff would have bent over backwards to help him.

  "Agnes," he said solemnly, extending his hand to the main office's septuagenarian administrative assistant.

  "Harry." Agnes stood and took his hand in her rather frail own. Agnes had been an administrative assistant in the school's main office when Harry was a student some thirty years ago, back when administrative assistants were called "secretaries." She was in her forties then and had been on the job before Harry went from middle school to high school. She'd looked like an Agnes then, and she looked like an Agnes now. Some things never change, and Harry was thankful for that.

  "I wish I were here under better circumstances."

  Agnes gasped. "Is this about..." Her voice trailed off.

  Harry nodded. "I'm afraid it is."

  "Did you catch the man who did this?"

  "We're working on it. I'm hoping you can help me, actually."

  Agnes frowned. "I can't imagine how, but I'll help you in any way I can."

  "Thank you, Agnes. I appreciate that. As I'm sure you can imagine, this is a very delicate matter."

  "Of course."

  "I'm hoping we can keep this as quiet as possible. Ongoing investigation and all that."

  "I understand."

  "Good. I'm gonna need to see the records of five students."

  Harry didn't need to see the records of five students. He only needed to see Richard Caulfield's, but the public had not been told about Richard's probable role in the murders, and asking for his records and only his records would be akin to announcing that Richard was the prime suspect.

  "The five students from the campsite...including Jill Turner," Agnes said.

  "Including Jill Turner."

  "How is she, by the way?"

  "She's expected to make a full recovery."

  Agnes dropped her head and sighed. "Thank goodness. But the poor thing. I can't begin to imagine what she's going through. What records are you looking for exactly? Academic?"

  "Everything."

  "Everything?"

  "Everything. Academic, medical, counseling records, and notes. If any of them were seeing the school psychologist, I'm gonna need to see the notes and records from those sessions."

  Agnes hesitated. "Uh...okay, that's gonna take some time."

  Harry smiled politely. "That's okay. I have plenty of time."

  "I'm not even sure I have the authority."

  "Who does? Principal―" He squinted at the sign on the door b
ehind Agnes. "―Stanton? Is he in?"

  "He is. Let me get him for you."

  Principal Stanton―a young, enthusiastic go-getter―personally escorted Harry from one counselor's office to the next to gather everything on paper pertaining to Richard Caulfield, Gary Butler, Denise Richardson, Jessica Lewis, and Jill Turner. Next, the principal took him to the nurse's office to gather the students' medical records. Last but not least, Harry was escorted to the school psychologist's office. Students were encouraged to visit the school psychologist if they needed help. Less than a quarter of the school's student body visited the school psychologist from time to time, and fewer than five percent of students met with the psychologist regularly. Harry was interested and not a bit surprised to find that Richard Caulfield had been among the five percent who visited the psychologist's office on a weekly basis.

  "Is there anything else I can help you with?" Principal Stanton asked.

  "No, I think I have everything I need. Is it all right if I use this office for a bit?"

  "I don't see why not. Just let me know when you're finished."

  "Will do."

  Harry waited until the principal closed the office door behind him before laying Richard Caulfield's file across the psychologist's desk. One by one, he scanned each page in the file, searching for something akin to a smoking gun. It didn't take him long to find it. One word, used varyingly.

  Suicide.

  References to suicidal thoughts or suicidal tendencies were scattered throughout his profile.

  "There it is," Harry muttered.

  Chapter Thirty

  Surrounded by a contingent of uniformed police officers, Jill and her mother stepped out into a humid June morning and were met by a crowd of chattering reporters, their microphones held aloft, as if they actually expected her to give them whatever scoop it was they were looking for. Jill had expected this. Detective Moore, trailing Jill and her mom by a few feet on their way to the parking lot, had told her that the press would be waiting for her. Detective Moore had told her to ignore the reporters, to keep her eyes down. She was doing just that, but it wasn't enough to shut them out. She could still hear their questions. She could still feel the camera flashes. She could still feel them pushing toward her.