by D. K. Greene
Peter freezes. “You know what we’re doing?”
She glowers at him. “When it comes out you’ve got that asshole father of yours traipsing around the freeway, you’ll need somebody on your side. Do you really think the public will listen when you try to explain why you turned a mass murderer loose?”
Inspector Douglas’s eyes go wide. He points a finger at her. “Wait, I know you. You’re that KRTF fact-checker that pestered me a few months ago, aren’t you?”
Peter looks at the inspector, then back at his girlfriend. His mind is a jumble of pieces, and none of them seem to fit together. “You’re wrong. She’s a biology major. Second year.”
“She came to my office with a media pass and a long list of questions about your dad,” Dougy explains. He hasn’t dropped his hand and his incriminating finger still hangs in the air. “She was an absolute pest. Kept asking how many more murders we thought we might pin on him and asked if you were helping with the investigation.”
Mouth open, Peter gasps like a fish out of water. Inspector Douglas turns his gaze on him. “That was months before Oliver asked me to find you.”
Peter feels like someone’s punched him in the stomach. All the air whooshes out of him at once. He leans over, hands on his knees, trying to get the world to stop spinning. Finally, he squawks, “No. No... She’s going to college. Studying Biology.” He looks at his girlfriend with pleading eyes. “We just had our anniversary.”
The inspector rages, his face puffy and red. “You’re dating someone from the media and didn’t tell us? What is this, Henry? If we’d have known... Son of a bitch. You’ve got the evening news sleeping in your bed, and you’re pissed off at me for coming to your apartment because you’re worried someone will figure out who you are?”
“We never slept together!” Elsie blusters. She springs from the car, fists clenched. She eyeballs her car keys, tangled in the inspector’s fingers. “Our relationship was purely professional. I was only leading him on until I broke the story. Nothing unsavory ever happened between us.”
“Unsavory?” Peter throws his head back and laughs. “I’m so glad you held your decorum to such a professional standard while you’ve been lying to my face.”
Elsie’s entire demeanor shifts. Suddenly, she looks just as she always has. A student, innocent to the world. “Petey, I was doing it for you. I wanted your side of the narrative.” She inches toward him with the large, round eyes she bats at him whenever she wants something. “My editor says if I bring in an earth-shattering story, he’ll pull me off the desk. I could be on camera, Petey. Out there breaking actual news. What story is bigger than a son trying to right his father’s wrongs?”
He holds his hands up, pushing at empty air as he backs away from her. “You lied to me. You should have told me. You could have asked for an interview instead of pretending to be my damn girlfriend.” Peter’s anger boils inside him and suddenly keeping her out of reach isn’t enough. He shoves his hands in his pockets to keep from strangling the romantic imposter. His jaw aches from the pressure of his clenched teeth. His words come out as a low growl, “She told me she went to PSU. I didn’t know this cross-legged prude of a bitch worked for the news.”
“Peter!” Elsie screeches.
Inspector Douglas grabs Elsie by the arm, forcing her against the vehicle. Without losing his grip, he gets his cuffs out of his belt pouch and clamps them on her wrists as they fly at him. “Miss, you’re coming with me.”
The reporter screeches like a madwoman. Peter doesn’t know how, but Dougy holds on to her writhing body. “My editor is expecting to hear from me in twenty minutes. If he doesn’t, he’ll call the authorities!” Elsie tries again to yank her arms away.
Peter’s never seen Dougy look so much like an actual F.B.I. agent. He looms above her, a bear holding down a house cat. “Lady, I am the authorities.”
The inspector hauls Elsie across the road and pawns her off on another officer. When he returns, he looks at Peter. “Sir, do you mind if we search your girlfriend’s car?”
“By all means, Inspector.” Peter pulls the partially open door wide and gestures for Dougy to help himself. The show over, traffic creeps along as he ransacks her car, rifling through stacks of papers.
He finds two recording devices and clicks their buttons until voices leak through the small speakers. It isn’t long before he radios across the highway for an evidence box. Special Agent Jones arrives with one under her arm. Dougy gets busy filling it.
“You’d better get back across the freeway. Your dad wants to talk to you.” Mac looks from Peter to the squealing woman being shoved into a car. “If you’re feeling up to it.”
Peter looks at the world around him. Dozens of families stare out the passenger windows at him, waiting to see what will happen next. Ollie still sits in the back of the van across the freeway, but now the door is open. The old man leans out to puff on a cigarette while an officer watches. Peter’s dad appears to be enjoying himself, his expression that of someone watching a rerun of their favorite soap opera.
People shout at one another and dogs bark just inside the median’s tree line.
“We’ve got a partial rib cage,” crackles out of the earbud hanging loosely around Dougy’s sweaty neck.
Peter is in the middle of an unhinged three-ring circus. “If they found something, there’s no point in talking to him. It’s not like he has any more information on this guy.”
Mac pulls her hat low over her eyes in a way that makes her look cooler than Peter’s ever felt. “Maybe if you cry on his shoulder, he’ll feel bad for you and offer to keep this entire thing going. Help us find someone else.”
“My girlfriend’s a reporter,” he blurts. When Mac opens her mouth to yell at him, he cuts her off. “I just found out. That means I’ll be moving tomorrow. No more Peter Samuel Wilson.”
“Is that true?” Mac asks her partner.
Having moved to the back seat, the inspector has to get himself turned around to answer her. He grunts with the effort, then pokes his red face out to look at them. “That’s what we’ve done in the past. Maybe this time they’ll move you to Maui.”
“What if I stay?” Peter’s thumb twitches in his pocket. His mind flashes to his therapist. He can’t just vanish on her. “I’m not a kid anymore. Besides, I’ve got a good thing going this time around.”
Special Agent Jones tips her head across the road. “If she’s a reporter, she’ll out you to the public. Not sure your neighbors will want you hanging around once they know who your family is.”
“We’ll gag her,” Dougy says. He hands his overflowing box to Mac and hoists himself up out of the car. He glimpses Peter’s panicked expression. Once Jones is holding up traffic to cross the freeway, out of earshot, the inspector winks. “Don’t worry, Henry. We won’t do it like your old man. We can shut her up on paper. Make sure she keeps this whole thing buried.”
Peter shuffles through the creeping traffic after Dougy. “Do you think Dad would tell me where another body is?”
“Only one way to find out.” Inspector Douglas shoves his radio’s earpiece into place and straightens his jacket. “Once we get a positive ID on the remains the dogs found, this show’s over unless someone convinces him it’s worth it to keep going.”
“I’ll talk to him. At least I know who the hell he is.” Peter heads toward the van while Dougy disappears in the brush. His voice carries through the air as he shouts orders. Peter stalks silently toward his father. He can feel eyes on him again as cars inch forward nearby. He spins around on his heel when he gets to the van and leans on the vehicle. He crosses his arms against his chest, feeling stonewalled.
“That your girlfriend?” Ollie points with his cigarette at a patrol car parked on the shoulder nearby. Elsie bounces around in the back seat like a cracked-out Chihuahua.
“She was,” Peter grumbles.
“Things don’t appear to be going too well.”
“They’re not.” Peter spits in th
e gravel, frustrated he doesn’t have a more appropriate way to show his disgust.
“I told you she wasn’t Gary Baker’s daughter.” Oliver looks at his son with a half-amused smile. “She lied to you about everything. For more than a year. It’s enough to drive a man mad. Make him want to take his vengeance out on someone. Don’t you think?”
Peter shudders. “Shut up, Dad.”
Fourteen
Walking near the place they found Carol’s body, Peter doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Somehow, being on the trail where he and Ollie hiked makes him feel closer to his dad. He looks over the woods, so similar to the places he spent summers exploring as a kid. The same places Ollie hid his secrets.
In some twisted way, Peter envies his father. Even now, in a prison jumpsuit with decades of prison time behind him, he’s a man who knows exactly how to get what he wants, no matter how foolhardy it seems.
Oliver Roberts isn’t just a crazy homicidal maniac. He’s a man no one pushes around. Someone people will always remember.
Peter kicks a rock. He’s been so many people in his life, he can hardly remember himself. How could he possibly expect anyone else to reminisce about him? Maybe it wouldn’t be terrible to be more like his father.
His unsettled sigh is absorbed by the wind blowing through the trees. Peter has to figure out how to get out of the mess of life he’s stuck in. He thinks about going after Elsie. Would it be poetic, reenacting his mother’s murder with a former lover? After all the woman had done, he doubts anyone would blame him if he showed up at the news station and went on a rampage.
The forest floor stretches out in front of him, and he tries to imagine Elsie sprawled across it. He can’t decide if she’d look better with a knife sticking out of her chest, or a noose slung around her neck. Peter shrugs the image off, uncomfortable with the make-believe violence.
Even though he hates her, he doesn’t think he could kill her. He wouldn’t be able to bear watching the light fade from her eyes. It would be like reliving his mother’s death all over again. He doesn’t want anyone to die. Not even Elsie.
But he can’t stop thinking about what his dad said. About being able to connect. If only he knew what it was like to stalk and kill his own prey. He tries to think of some other way to experience whatever warped sense of accomplishment his father keeps talking about.
A horrible thought cycles in his mind. Peter has never felt accomplished at anything. Really, what does he have beyond a life consumed by death?
Peter wanders deeper into the forest. He might be able to claim responsibility for someone’s death through inaction. Refusing to save them would be easier than forcing their last breath. He’s practiced that countless times. After all, isn’t that what he did whenever his father invited one of those people over for dinner?
As Henry watched them spooning heaps of his mother’s mashed potatoes into their hungry mouths, he’d known deep down they’d never be seen again. Maybe he hadn’t known exactly what would happen to them, but he knew they’d only share a meal with his family once. He knew his friendly, outgoing father was only pretending to be a kind Samaritan.
But he’d never whispered warnings or showed the strangers to the back door when Ollie wasn’t in the room. He’d just let them sit there, thinking they were lucky to be spending time with a quiet, Godly family.
Peter looks down at his hands. He’s already a killer. He’s been assisting in murders for as long as he’s been old enough to set the table.
He thinks on his father’s suggestion to make a secret prize contest. The thought of orchestrating a scheme for some kid to open up a box and die seemed unfathomable. But it was like Ollie said. He wouldn’t have to kill a kid. Maybe he could give genuine prizes to friendly people and save death for weird cat ladies and basement dwelling bachelors. “Sure,” Peter mutters to himself with a nod.
Could waiting for someone to game the system work? Find some dick trying to pull one over on him? Peter mulls the idea over for a long while. The ease of it evaporates. Do kids even get prizes in popcorn boxes anymore? If they do, wouldn’t the box have some factory seal? Peter doesn’t know how to make sure the only person who dies is someone who deserves it.
Exhausted, Peter slumps against a tree. The damp ground seeps its moisture through his jeans. Soon, he’s wet and shivering, thinking about Carol. Ollie had picked her up at some shop in town and they’d gotten into a debate about religion. She was one he’d invited over for dinner, so she could see the peace and love of a faith-based family firsthand.
How anyone so preachy could convince perfect strangers to come to a family dinner was still beyond Peter. He couldn’t even convince his coworkers to go out for drinks after work, even if he offered to pay the tab.
But Carol had come. She’d smiled when Henry told her about school. After dinner, she’d remained seated at the table to discuss theology with Oliver over coffee. Peter remembers telling her it was nice to meet her before going up to bed.
The next time he’d seen her, Carol’s face was staring back at him from a missing person’s flier at the grocery store.
Tears fill Peter’s eyes and he lets them fall freely since no one is around to watch. He cries for all the people still stashed away, waiting for someone to stumble across them. He cries for his mother, who died because she loved Henry so much. She wanted to make Oliver stop killing so her boy could have a normal life with sleepovers and backyard birthday parties. Peter cries for his dad, who was so invested in saving lost souls that he couldn’t stop killing them.
The only person Peter doesn’t cry for is himself. He won’t pity his own life. Not today. For once, he will stop blaming everyone around him for the misery that plagues him. After all the years of trying to be normal, Peter will give in and embrace who he really is.
He just needs to find the right way.
Fifteen
“How are things?” Jeanne smiles gently as Peter shuffles into the room.
He sits in the chair across from her, slouching against the upholstery. Peter wishes he had the energy to reflect the happiness in his therapist’s gaze. “Everything’s screwed up.”
Jeanne’s eyes are soft and round, lined with black mascara. She tilts her head curiously, unaware that his bad mood is about to run over her innocent features like a deer in a semi’s headlights. “I’m sorry to hear that. Care to embellish a bit?”
“Elsie and I broke up.” Peter pulls at the collar of his shirt. The soft ridges of cotton are suffocating.
“From what you’ve told me, I can’t say I’m surprised. What was it that finally clinched it?” Jeanne leans forward, her attention fully on Peter’s haggard features.
He inspects the ceiling because looking her in the eye is painful. “Ugh, who knows? We were ships passing in the night. Isn’t that what people say when it just doesn’t work out?”
“Yes. But this wasn’t a short fling, Peter. Long-term relationships rarely end without reason.” Jeanne rests her elbows on her chair’s arms and steeples her fingers. For the moment, she looks like a real shrink, not just a beautiful woman with a compassionate ear. “There’s usually a catalyst that ends the relationship. I’m sure you and Elsie had an excellent reason to split up. But, if you don’t want to talk about it, I am happy to respect your wishes.”
The formal tone Jeanne uses makes Peter feel she’s upset he’s holding something back from her. He’s miserable, there’s no way around that. But maybe he can make her happy. Jeanne’s happiness usually makes Peter feel better. “Elsie wasn’t who I thought she was.”
“Figuratively, or literally?” Jeanne asks.
“Literally.” Peter shifts his eyes from the ceiling to Jeanne. “She was a prostitute. I had no idea she was working men from Barbur Boulevard to MLK. When I thought she was at study groups, she was hiking her skirt up for strangers downtown.”
“Well,” Jeanne says, a hint of surprise in her breathy voice, “that explains her distance with you, doesn’t it?”
/> Peter loves that no matter what he tells her, Jeanne doesn’t challenge him. She takes his word as it is. Sure, she asks clarifying questions. She couldn’t call herself a therapist if she didn’t. But her questions don’t make him feel defensive. Instead, they make him want to give her more. He smiles at her, realizing how comfortable she makes him feel.
“So, have you had yourself checked out?” The arch of her right eyebrow lifts a centimeter. Peter longs to know what it would be like to run his finger along the short hairs and kiss her brow.
“Checked out for what?” he asks.
“For STIs. If you’ve been with a woman who has been selling her body to other men, you want to talk to your doctor.”
“Oh, that. Yeah, I went to the clinic right away. I’m still waiting for results.” Peter’s thumb twitches, so he folds his hands together in his lap. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. We weren’t very...”
“Intimate?” Jeanne offers.
Her eyelashes wave at him and he can make out a slight blush on her cheeks when she says the word. Peter imagines she’s thinking of him being sexual with Elsie, and that makes him blush, too. “Yes. Elsie didn’t do much of that stuff with me. I guess she didn’t think I was attractive.”
He shrugs. It wouldn’t matter if he looked like a movie star or a fitness guru. The only thing about him that’s attractive to Elsie is his story.
“It sounds like she may have been using you.” Jeanne picks up her pen and jots a quick note on the nearby pad.
He grunts in agreement. “I think that’s safe to assume.”
“Did you spend much money on her?”
Peter thinks back on the outings that Elsie and he had together. “I bought a lot of dinners, mostly. A person has to eat.”
“If you weren’t lavishing her with gifts, what do you think she wanted from you? Surely she wasn’t with you for dinner reservations.” Jeanne frowns, trying to piece together the puzzle of their relationship.