The Final Girl

by Kenneth Preston

  And she could wait by the front door for the police to arrive. Jill had called them before leaving, Amanda knew. They would arrive momentarily. Amanda was not an experienced actress, but to keep Jill safe, she was going to do her best. She was going to put the police on the wrong track to keep Jill on the right one.

  When the familiar unmarked car pulled into the driveway, Amanda threw the door open and ran outside to meet Detectives Moore and Mitchell. The few remaining reporters at this time of night, mostly local, pushed against the police line to get closer to the action.

  “She’s gone,” Amanda said.

  “We know,” Detective Mitchell said.

  “You know?” Amanda asked. “Of course. That’s why you’re here. She called you, didn’t she?”

  Detective Moore nodded. “Why don’t we go inside?”

  Amanda led the detectives into the foyer. Detective Mitchell closed the door behind him.

  “Mrs. Turner, where is she going?” Detective Moore asked.

  She didn’t waste any time, did she? Of course she didn’t. She was a detective. This was an emergency. She needed to come up with an answer, something plausible. Or should she just play dumb, pretend that she didn’t know anything? That’s what she’d been doing so far. It seemed like a reasonable course of action.

  “Mrs. Turner?” Detective Moore said, reminding her that she was taking just a bit too long to answer the question.

  Amanda hesitated. “I don’t know. She was just...gone.”

  “She was just gone,” Detective Moore echoed. “Do you have any idea why your daughter would run off?”

  “No. I...I don’t know.” Not convincing at all, and she knew it. Her heart wasn’t in it. She couldn’t sell the lie because selling the lie would require her to accept what her daughter was out there doing.

  The detectives exchanged glances. They didn’t believe her.

  “Ma’am,” Detective Mitchell said, “you’re daughter is missing. She may be in danger. Take a moment. Think. Did she say anything? Did she do anything? Did she give you any reason to think that she might run off somewhere or do something...reckless?”

  Detective Mitchell was good; the urgency in his tone, his choice of words―danger, reckless―he was close, very very close to wearing her down. And he’d only spoken a few words.

  “Ma’am?” Detective Mitchell said. “I understand this is a difficult time for you, but we need your help. Your daughter needs your help.”

  Amanda opened her mouth to speak, but she wasn’t sure if she was going to tell another unconvincing lie or the unbelievable truth, so she closed it.

  “Do you have something to tell us?” Detective Moore asked. “If so, now would be the time.”

  Amanda looked away and shook her head.

  “The man who killed those kids,” Detective Mitchell said, “the man who attacked your daughter, who was he?”

  Amanda hadn’t expected that question.

  “Mrs. Turner?” Detective Mitchell prompted.

  Amanda didn’t respond.

  “Did you know him?”

  Her mouth opened slowly. “I did,” she said.

  Detective Moore gaped at her. Not the answer she was expecting, apparently. “Who is he?”

  A sob escaped Amanda’s mouth. “Her father.”

  A long pause. “Where is he?” Detective Moore asked.

  Amanda searched for an answer.

  “Mrs. Turner, did your daughter leave to go find her father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “She didn’t know.”

  Detective Moore threw her hands up. “Then how is she going to find him?”

  “Because she has abilities.”

  Detective Moore looked at her askance. “Abilities?”

  Amanda nodded. “She and her father have...I guess you can call it a psychic connection.” She averted her eyes; she didn’t want to see their reactions. “She couldn’t pinpoint his exact location from here, but she can use their connection to track him. It will take some time, but she’ll find him.”

  Detective Moore said, “When I asked you about her father yesterday, you said he was out of the picture.”

  “He was,” Amanda said. “For a long time, he was.”

  “But not now,” Detective Moore said.

  Amanda simply shook her head.

  “So you lied,” Detective Moore charged.

  “No...not exactly. I didn’t know, or I didn’t want to believe...”

  “Didn’t want to believe what?” Detective Moore asked.

  “That he was still out there. That he was still...alive.”

  “When was the last time you saw your husband, Mrs. Turner?”

  Amanda hesitated before answering. “Seven years ago.” She paused, closed her eyes. “The day he died.” She could hardly believe the words had passed her lips, but there they were now, out in the open.

  “The day he died?” Detective Moore asked. “You told us―”

  “I know what I told you. I lied. I had to lie...to protect Jill.”

  “Mrs. Turner, you say your husband died seven years ago?” Detective Mitchell said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we took the liberty of looking at your husband’s Facebook page. He’s been active, posting regularly over the past seven years. He’s posted regularly over the past few months.”

  Amanda shook her head. “My husband has not been posting on his Facebook page, detective.” She paused. “I have.”

  The detectives exchanged glances. “You?” Detective Moore said.

  “Of course. All of those right-wing conspiracy theory articles, my husband was a piece of shit, but he really wasn’t into all that stuff, not that extreme stuff, anyway. But I hated him so much that I thought the worst of him, and when I heard about these right-wing psychos like QAnon, I started posting some of that garbage on his Facebook page, thinking that he probably would’ve gotten into some of that stuff if he had lived to hear about it.”

  “Why?” Detective Moore asked. “You could’ve just told people that he ran out on you and left it at that. Why bother posting on his Facebook page?”

  “If he just vanished without a word, it might’ve looked a little suspicious, so I posted here and there on his page to keep up appearances, to give people who might’ve cared the impression that he was still floating around out there.” A pause. “I did it to protect Jill. You understand, don’t you, Detective Moore? A mother will do what she has to do to protect her daughter.” Another pause. “You do understand, don’t you? You have a daughter...or had.”

  Detective Moore winced. Amanda had hit her right where it hurts. Detective Moore had looked at Jill the way mothers look at their daughters, the way most mothers look at their daughters. Amanda had never been able to look at her daughter that way. She had been too busy praying for the girl’s soul and fighting to keep the monster in its cage.

  “She has abilities,” Amanda said. “And she used them to kill my husband.”

  “Telekinesis?” Detective Mitchell asked.

  Amanda nodded. “It happened just like Jill said.” She was looking at Detective Moore. “Just like she told you.”

  Detective Moore sighed. “A dead man just killed four kids. Is that what you’re telling us?”

  “I thought he was dead,” Amanda said absently. “We buried him.”

  “Seven years ago?” Detective Moore said. “Your daughter just handed us a letter that is almost definitely written by your husband. The paper is white, like it was torn from a notepad yesterday. The ink is days old. The letter was not written seven years ago. Are you telling me that your husband came back from the dead and wrote your that letter?”

  Amanda took a moment. She didn’t know how to tell Detective Moore that that’s exactly what happened. She didn’t know how to tell her the truth, her truth, without telling her the whole truth. “I don’t know,”
she finally said. “I don’t have all the answers.”

  “Why don’t we take this from the beginning,” Detective Mitchell said. “The night your husband died. Tell us what happened.”

  Amanda hesitated, looking past the detectives, into the past. “My husband was abusive, physically abusive. He beat me...a lot, before and after Jill was born. One night, seven years ago, he was beating me...again...in the basement. That was the last time. Jill came down the steps, into the basement, and my husband just...stopped. He was frozen...mid-punch. His fist was frozen in mid-air. Jill...she was looking at him, just...looking at him. The look in her eyes, she was angry. I’d never seen that look on my daughter’s face before. His face was being―” She took a deep breath and released it. “―pushed in...over and over and over again. It was like somebody was punching him...the way he punched me. His face was bleeding. I heard the crunching of bone. His face was caving in. Then she...let him go.” She paused.

  “She let him go...” Detective Moore prompted her.

  “He collapsed to the floor,” Amanda said, “then he was...gone.”

  The detectives did not look convinced.

  “I knew you wouldn’t believe me,” Amanda said.

  “Did your husband have these abilities?” Detective Mitchell asked.

  Detective Moore gave her partner a sharp, incredulous look, like she couldn’t believe he would ask such a question. But it gave Amanda some hope. Maybe he believed her.

  Amanda shook her head. “No...I mean, not that I know of. When he hit me, he used his fists.”

  “But you said that your daughter and husband have a psychic connection,” Detective Mitchell said.

  “And you said you buried him,” Detective Moore added cynically. He may have believed her, but she clearly didn’t. Or was this some kind of good cop-bad cop routine?

  Detective Mitchell said, “I’m just wondering if the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Maybe your daughter inherited these abilities from your husband who, for some reason, didn’t develop them. And like my partner said, you buried him. Now he’s alive. Maybe he never died to begin with. Maybe he was just severely injured and dug his way out.”

  Amanda thought about this for a moment. “No,” she whispered. “He was dead. I’m sure of it.”

  “Where did you bury him?” Detective Moore asked.

  “In a wooded area.”

  “Have you been back there since you buried him?”

  “No, I wanted to. The man was a piece of shit, but he was my husband. I wanted to visit, leave some kind of a marker, but Jill wouldn’t let me.”

  “Jill wouldn’t let you?” Detective Moore asked.

  Amanda shook her head.

  “Mrs. Turner, are you afraid of your daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Amanda was taken aback by the question. “She’s a monster.” If felt good to get it off her chest. “If you’d seen what I’d seen, Detective Moore, you’d be afraid of her, too.”

  Detective Moore looked at her for a long moment.

  “Jill told you she was going after her father,” Detective Mitchell said. “Does she know where he’s buried?”

  “Yes, she helped me bury him. But she’s not going there, if that’s what you’re thinking. I didn’t want to believe it at first, but Jill raised him from the dead.”

  “That’s not possible,” Detective Moore said.

  “Even if it weren’t possible, even if she didn’t raise him from the dead, Jill believes that she did. There’s no reason for her to go back there.”

  “That’s a chance we’re willing to take,” Detective Moore said. “Tell us exactly where you buried him.”

  Chapter Forty

  When she got Harry alone outside, she folded her arms across her chest and glared at him.

  Harry shrugged. “What?”

  “Seriously?! What the hell was that in there?!”

  “Good cop-bad cop.”

  Darlene's expression softened, and she dropped her arms to her sides. "Oh...so you're not buying into this superpower stuff?"

  “It’s called telekinesis, but no, I’m not buying into it. I was just trying to get her to open up.”

  “Oh, thank God. For a minute there, I thought you were turning into Fox Mulder on me.”

  Harry smiled. “No, but if I were, you’d make a great Dana Scully. You even have the hair for it.”

  Darlene smiled bashfully. “Or had the hair for it. I don’t recall Scully going gray.” She self-consciously ran her hand through her graying hair.

  “You think he’s dead?” Harry asked.

  “I don’t know what to think, but if we find a body, we can rule him out as a suspect. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think, either. He’s dead, but he’s out there killing people. Both things can’t be true.”

  “Maybe the truth falls somewhere in between.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. Amanda probably hit him with something, knocked him out cold. Maybe they thought he was dead, buried him in a shallow grave, and he dug himself out. As for all that telekinesis stuff, they probably told each other the same story over and over again until they convinced themselves it was true. I don’t think the Turners are playing with a full deck.” He looked over Darlene’s shoulder. “Here she comes.”

  She looked every bit as tentative as she did when Darlene had suggested she take them to the exact spot where she claimed she’d buried her husband. She clearly did not want to do this. Why she didn't want to do this remained to be seen.

  Amanda sat in the back, uttering barely a peep beyond directions. Darlene tried to coax her into idle chit-chat here and there but to no avail. She glanced back at Amanda from the passenger seat on occasion to find her staring vacantly out the side window. She clearly knew the area well, telling Harry where to turn while staring off into the distance as if she weren’t paying attention.

  The silent ride came to an end when Amanda said, “This is it, on the left side.”

  Harry slowed the car. “Are you sure?”

  Darlene was as skeptical as Harry sounded. They were in the middle of nowhere. The long stretch of deserted road was lined by dense forest. There were no markers. Nothing stood out. It all looked the same.

  Amanda pointed back over her shoulder. “Yes, right there. You just passed it,” she said without a trace of doubt in her voice.

  Harry made a u-turn and pulled onto the shoulder of the road.

  “How can you tell?" Darlene asked. "You said you hadn't been back to the site in seven years.”

  “And I’ve been replaying that night in my head for seven years. Trust me. This is it.”

  Darlene peered through the passenger side window. A dense trail was visible. “You’ll be able to find it in the dark?”

  “If you let me use your flashlight, I’ll find it.”

  “How far back is it?” Darlene asked.

  “Not too far, a few yards.”

  Harry sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Flashlight in hand, Amanda led them along a trail that looked like it hadn’t been regularly traversed in quite some time. Grass was beginning to grow, and Amanda had to push past the occasional thin branch. One of them came back and whacked Darlene on the forehead.

  Amanda stepped off the trail and through a thicket of trees and thick brush before slowing her stride and stopping. “Oh my God,” she gasped.

  "What?" Darlene asked, moving up alongside her.

  Amanda had the trembling flashlight beam trained on a mound of freshly dug dirt.

  “There it is,” she said.

  Darlene and Harry stepped past her. It was clear enough to see, but Harry shined his flashlight on the approximate eight-foot by four-foot hole all the same.

  “I don’t believe this,” Darlene muttered.

  “Believe it, Detective Moore,” Amanda said. “She did it. She really did it.” A pause. “She brought him back.”

  Darlene grabb
ed the flashlight from Amanda’s hand, walked to the edge of the hole, and peered in. It was about three feet deep, a shallow grave.

  She rounded on Amanda, shining the flashlight in her face. “You dug him up.”

  Amanda shook her head. “I didn’t.”

  “You did. Dead men don’t come back to life.”

  “This one did.”

  Harry said, “At the very least, Mrs. Turner, you helped your daughter bury your husband’s body. That makes you an accessory. That’s if your husband was murdered. If he was, and if he was buried here, either you or daughter dug him up. Why?”

  “Detectives, I know this is difficult to believe―”

  “No, it’s impossible to believe, Mrs. Turner,” Darlene said.

  “But I’m telling you the truth. My husband was buried here. I did not dig him up. My daughter did not dig him up, not with a shovel, anyway. She used her gift to bring him back from the dead. And he’s out there somewhere. Jill knows where he is, and she’s going after him. She’s in danger.”

  Darlene stomped toward Amanda. “All right. Let’s go,” she said, grabbing Amanda’s arm and practically dragging her back to the car.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Jill could almost smell her father; her connection to him was that strong. He was moving away from her, not toward her as she’d expected. He was challenging her, but he wasn’t looking for a direct confrontation; this was a game of cat and mouse, catch me if you can.

  She didn’t know if she would catch him. Worse, she didn’t know what she would do if she did. Sure, she caved in his face when he was alive. But dead? Or back from the dead? Did the same rules apply?

  Worse than not knowing what she would do if she caught him was what would happen if she failed to catch him. That was the cat and mouse game. Her father wasn’t coming after her; he was going after them, the same them she’d wanted to go after herself, but with a punch or a kick, maybe a body slam, rather than a knife.