by Julie Frayn
Forums filled with angry citizens demanded Douglas and his ilk be strung up, imprisoned for life, put to death, or castrated, chemically or physically. Sprinkled in and among the insanity and blood lust was the occasional cry for forgiveness. For understanding. For reform.
Billie crinkled her nose. Fuck forgiveness.
She returned to the Google homepage and typed his name in again. She took a few deep breaths, hovered her cursor over the link to images, and clicked.
Her screen filled with pictures, some of old men, some little boys. As with all searches, the page was peppered with bare breasts and the occasional penis. But most of what came up were mug shots. Close-ups of an angry man, with a crooked nose and bushy eyebrows. Those brows matched the mouse beige of his hair. In some pictures he was younger, his hair long, bangs nearly covering his eyes. In others he had aged, his nose more crooked, scars on his cheeks and forehead. His hair was cropped short and his face was never fully clean-shaven, though he didn’t have a beard or moustache. Time and prison life had not been kind.
She clicked on one of the pictures of a younger man. Stared intently at the face that had been behind the muzzle of that gun. He wasn’t an ugly man. Not back then. He was only in his mid-twenties. Life had only beaten him down on the inside and hardened his soul. The outside would have fooled anyone into thinking he was just your average Joe. She would have passed him on the street, sat beside him on the subway, ordered a coffee from him, and never known he was the man who had gunned down her family. Not realized that he cared so little for other human beings that he was willing to snuff out the life of an eleven-year-old girl with just the pull of one trigger.
The squeal of the shower tap turning off cut through her thoughts. She sped her mouse around the counter, favourited some of the sites with Douglas’s history, shut down her internet and email, and opened her new client’s manuscript.
Bruce came out of the bedroom with one towel around his waist and rubbing his hair dry with another.
Billie poured him a coffee and handed him the steaming mug. They were taking turns staying at each other’s apartments. Just like Doc insisted. It was lovely to snuggle into his warm frame each night, wonderful to have company and not be so lonely.
But damn. She needed some time to herself.
“So, I was thinking. I haven’t had any episodes. You know, no fugue, no murderous rampages.”
Bruce took a gulp of coffee. “Nope. Just one unofficial judicial intervention that won’t happen again without your sidekick.” He grinned.
“I think I’d like to go to church tomorrow.”
“Okay. We can stay here again tonight if you like, then it’s just a quick walk. Better than the subway ride from my place.”
She put her mug on the counter, took his hand, and pulled him toward her. “I was thinking I’d like to go alone.” She traced a cross through his chest hair, then encircled it inside a heart. “Do you mind? You don’t even go to church.”
“I don’t mind. I can watch the game. Keep Peg Leg company.”
Might have to hit him over the head with it. She drew out a long sigh.
“Oh, I get it.” He put one finger under her chin and lifted her face. ”You need a break. Had enough of old Bruce already?” He planted a dry peck on her nose.
“Not at all. But I wouldn’t mind some time to myself. Catch up on laundry, maybe seek out some new clients.”
Stalk Art Douglas.
She looked up at him, her eyes as saucer-like as she could muster without vomiting. “Is that okay? You’re not upset?”
“As long as you’re not breaking up with me, it’s totally cool.”
She took his mug from his hand and placed it beside hers. “Definitely not breaking up.” She slipped her T-shirt off her Saturday-braless body and slid off the stool. She snatched the towel from his waist, hopped to the bedroom, and lunged for the bed.
Bruce landed beside her.
Sunday
THE GARAGE DOOR SQUEALED its displeasure at being forced open after so many months sitting idle. Dust billowed up from the concrete floor and the smell of old oil and paint thinner sent a spasm of memories through Billie.
She ran one finger along the side of the eighty-five Impala, its black body marred by a thick, ashy layer. She rested a bag of rags and cleaners on the floor, pulled on the latch of the driver’s side door, and inhaled the scents that reminded her of her grandfather ─ Armor All and pine air freshener. The dust on the inside was just a mist across the dashboard and the steering wheel. She folded the old bedsheet that covered the seat and slipped it from the car, then set to work making the interior sparkle. An hour later, she slid into the driver’s seat and gripped the wheel.
She didn’t have many occasions to drive, the subway being so easy and convenient and cheap. If the new owners of Grandmother’s house hadn’t let her keep the car in the garage, she would have had to sell it. But they did. So she didn’t.
How many times had Grandpa let her sit on his lap and take the wheel while he barrelled down the highway at twice the speed limit? Her father would have killed him had he known. Too much bacon and salt did the job for him instead. Grandpa keeled over on bowling night, his teammates’ attempts at CPR fruitless. His heart gave out two years before he had to witness the death of his son.
She held her breath and turned the key. The engine turned over with a rumble. She gunned the gas pedal and the motor sputtered out the cobwebs, filling the lines with oil. It was the sound of power and freedom. Of the open road and endless possibilities.
Her heart pitter-patted. She’d have to go driving more often. Maybe take Bruce on a road trip.
She eased the car into gear and manoeuvred into the driveway, climbed out, and closed the garage door. She clicked the padlock shut, climbed behind the wheel and found the nearest touchless car wash.
Billie read the slip of paper again: checked the street sign and the address over the door of the rundown garage. This was definitely the place. The last known employment for Arthur Douglas. But that was a year ago. He could be anywhere by now.
She crouched down in the seat and sipped her coffee, her eyes glued to the building. It took almost an hour, but finally someone appeared inside the open overhead garage door. He rolled out from under the body of a rusty sedan, got up from the creeper, pulled a rag from the pocket of his coveralls, and wiped his hands.
It was the face from Google images. Hardened, scarred, angry. Wider than before, like freedom came with a better menu. Or maybe a less-healthy one. His hair remained short-cropped, like a military cut, but with more forehead, his hairline receded, his hair thinner. His brows were bushier than ever, that weird opposite thing that happens as men age. More hair in the ears, nose, and brow. Less and less on the head.
Adrenaline filled her belly, like hot wax dripping into her stomach.
He picked up a pack of cigarettes that rested on the trunk of the car, lit a match with his fingernail, sucked smoke into his lungs, then exhaled. His body shook with uncontrolled coughs.
Maybe she didn’t need to do a damn thing. He was killing himself, slowly but surely. She smirked. No way. He didn’t deserve a natural death. He didn’t deserve to walk this earth one day longer. Her hatred for him had been all-consuming for twenty-two years. It began the moment her father’s knees hit the alley floor. With every passing year and everything she’d learned about Douglas in the past week — the rapes, the allegations of serial murder — her hatred turned malignant.
Every moment of every day was scarred by the vision of him, by her memories, as fuzzy as they were and as focused on the gun. She was traumatized anew by her imagination conjuring the sight of young girls, raped and ruined and never able to be the same.
The man had no right to live.
He guzzled from a greasy travel mug, slammed it down on a scarlet tool chest, and butted out his cigarette. He disappeared from her view. Seconds later the articulated door rolled down with a shudder and a bang. He reappeared at the sid
e door, followed by another grease-stained man who slammed the door shut and locked it behind him. He waved at Douglas. Douglas offered a lame salute and climbed behind the wheel of a rundown Chevy Malibu. The engine groaned and the car shook. Just like accountants who don’t balance their own chequebooks, he was a mechanic that didn’t care for his own vehicle.
She started her car, took a right, and followed from a distance.
Half an hour later, they neared the abandoned docks. She scanned the street, her stomach in knots and her body quaking. The farther she drove, the fewer cars occupied the streets. Traffic had been camouflage for her stalking endeavour. But as the gut-wrenching stench of dead fish overtook the Impala, she was alone with Art Douglas in the worst end of town. Alone with a murderer and a rapist. No sidekick. No other living soul knew where in the hell she was.
Douglas kept glancing in his rear view mirror.
She lost her nerve, put on her signal and turned left at the last street before the docks. At the next corner, she turned left again, then a third time, and parked behind an abandoned building. She crawled through a broken window on the main floor, partly covered with plywood, and picked her way through the dingy building until she found a window at the back. In the distance, he stood next to his car smoking another cigarette, safely behind a chain link fence just inside the dock entrance, padlocked against the outside world. He paced the locked gate and scanned the roads.
She’d spooked him. Gotten too close. But she had him now. And she wasn’t about to let him go.
Friday, September 11th
BRUCE RAISED HIS GREEN bottle of Tsing-Tao. “To Billie, superhero of my heart, able to edit piles of literary shit into bestsellers with a few strokes of her magic red pen.” He clinked his bottle against hers. “Congratulations. Not that there was ever any doubt that you’d make editor.”
“I had a lot of doubt.” She sipped her beer. “You should have seen the look on Katherine’s face.”
“You mean the nice Katherine I met in the hospital?”
“Yeah, she was back to bitch on heels by Tuesday. Pulled me in her office and demanded I tell no one about the thrift store thing. Now she’s all pissed that she has to waste her time finding my replacement. And more pissed that they want me upstairs a week from Monday. Got all in my face about how backed-up the pool would be. I told her to take it up with the editor-in-chief.”
“That’s my girl. Kickin’ ass and takin’ names.”
“I have to email my freelance clients tonight and bow out. No way I have time for that now. And I won’t need the money.” Billie made a crucifix with her chopsticks, dragged them across a dumpling and hacked it in half. She picked up one piece and dipped it into soy sauce spiced with chillies and cut with rice wine vinegar. Her favourite part of Chinese food — fried balls of meat covered in greasy dough, dripping in hot salt.
She tapped her sticks against her bowl and chewed, her eyes on the General Tso’s chicken, her mind on the stinking dock that Art Douglas made his home. And probably his body dump. She’d begged off going to Bruce’s twice this week to continue her surveillance. So far, all she got was a repeat of the first time. Chain link fence. Padlock. Murderer disappearing in the darkness.
She needed to get inside. Maybe it was time to call on her Robin. Especially since he was beginning to think she was avoiding him.
She put her chopsticks down and took a deep breath. “So, I have to tell you something.”
Bruce froze, his own sticks in his mouth, Cantonese noodles dangling from his lips. He gave her a slight nod, slurped the food up, and wiped his face with a napkin. “Am I going to hate this something? Because I know that you’re pulling away. I’ve been afraid to bring it up.”
She reached across the tiny table and put her hand over his. “I’m not pulling away from you. I’ve just been kind of … Well. Obsessed with something.”
“Who is he?”
“Arthur Richard Douglas.”
Bruce tossed his napkin on his plate and pushed it away. “I figured.” He lifted his chin and looked at the ceiling, his hands on his thighs, both knees bouncing up and down. He rubbed his face with both palms. “Look, I’ll get the bill and drop you at your apartment. But if this Arthur guy ever does anything to hurt you, call me. I’ll take the bastard down.”
“No, you don’t understand. I’m not dating him. I’m stalking him.”
Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. “And this is better for me how?”
“Stop being silly.” She shook her head. “I’m not interested in him like I am in you. I don’t want to sleep with him or anything.” A shiver passed over her body. She glanced around the restaurant and leaned in. “I’m going to kill him,” she whispered.
Bruce shut his eyes and gave his head a shake. “Sorry, what?”
“He’s the man who murdered my parents. I’ve been following him, studying him. I’m going to kill him.” She plucked a piece of deep-fried chicken laden with red sauce from the dish and popped it in her mouth. “Not sure I can pull it off by myself,” she said through the General Tso’s. She swallowed and took a sip of tea out of a tiny cup. “It’s not like cracking nuts in an alley. I need my sidekick.” She flicked a gnarly piece of putrid squid from the noodles and pulled the plate closer. “You in?”
“So … You’re not breaking up with me?” Bruce snagged the squid from the table and bit it in half.
“Why would I do that? I love you.”
His cheeks pinked. “I love you too. But killing?” He shot a sideways look at a nearby table and hunched forward. “That’s kind of crazy.”
“Crazy good, right? Besides, we talk about doing it all the time. And I might have already murdered as many as four people.” Almost five if she’d aimed that knife just three inches higher in Bat Head’s gut.
“That’s different. The editing, that’s all fantasy. And if you were in that fugue state, you couldn’t be held responsible. If you did anything. Which I still can’t believe, despite evidence to the contrary.” He plucked the napkin from his plate and pushed noodles around. “How do you know this is the guy?”
“Tony told me.”
“So why not go to the cops and tell them? They’ll arrest him, try him.”
“Because Tony is dying and wouldn’t be around for the trial. And without him, there’s no evidence. What if they don’t convict? What if I go through it all again and nothing happens and they just let him go free?” She pitched her chopsticks on the table. “He doesn’t deserve to be free. To walk this earth on his two good feet. To breathe.” She picked up a fork and stabbed a dumpling. “He has to die.”
The waiter shuffled up beside Bruce, filled their teacups and gestured at the food. “You finished?”
Billie nodded. “Wrap it to go, please.”
The waiter pulled a bill and two fortune cookies from his apron and gathered the plates.
When he walked away, Billie turned to Bruce. “I’m doing it. I need your help. But if you don’t want to, I understand. But I’m doing it. No matter what.”
Bruce, his eyes unblinking, his jaw set, ripped the cellophane off a cookie and snapped it in two. He popped one-half of the cookie in his mouth and pulled two fortunes from the other.
“Ooh,” Billie said. “That’s good luck. Like double cupcake liners, or a folded potato chip.”
“You are so weird.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
He read both the fortunes to himself and huffed. He handed the slips of paper to Billie.
“You are a true and loyal friend.” She smiled and looked up at him. “Well that’s the truth.” She dropped the tiny paper to the table and looked at the other one. “One must dare to be himself, however frightening or strange that self may prove to be.” She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, my. That’s different.” She cocked her head and analyzed his face. “What part of yourself are you holding back, young Padawan?”
He smirked. “I’ve told you about my past. But sometimes, and I think you’ve seen i
t, that side of me wants out. The rough guy. The pushy guy.” He sipped his tea. “The guy that wants to pound the shit out of anyone who looks at you sideways or makes you feel like you aren’t perfect as you are.” He tossed her the other cookie. “You go.”
She brought her fist down on the cookie and smashed it to bits. The cellophane ripped open, spraying the table with crumb spatter.
A woman at the next table jumped and her baby started to cry.
Billie fished the fortune from the cookie’s belly and stared at the words. “Well, that seals it then. Time for some retribution.”
He took the paper from her fingers. “You are people’s hero, you will always be.” He smiled. “Well, that’s true.” He sat back and put his palms on his thighs. “Billie, I know you want this guy dead. I get it. But real murder isn’t like editing the news.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “You aren’t that person. You’re too good. There’s no way you did any of the things you think you did. It’s just not in you. Maybe you need to see Doc Kroft before your next scheduled appointment?”
Her eyelids fluttered. Should she tell him she’d skipped the last two appointments? Tell him she couldn’t bring herself to take the meds? Every time she picked up that bottle, her skin crawled and her mouth filled with cotton. She thought he understood. Thought he was an ally in her fight for justice. Maybe he wasn’t who she thought he was after all.
“Billie, promise me you won’t do anything crazy. Promise you won’t go after this man. You could be the one who winds up dead.” He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand. “Promise?”
Her head nodded without her consent. She wouldn’t promise. Couldn’t promise. Not out loud.
Saturday
BILLIE PULLED ONTO THE dirt lot behind the abandoned building and parked in the shadows, out of sight of the entrance to the dock. She snatched the small carry-on bag from the backseat and pulled the latch to open the door. A thick fog of putridity rolled in from the river and reached into her nostrils. She ignored it. But she couldn’t ignore the surge of adrenaline quickening her heart and making her limbs come alive.