by Ethan Cross
A crowd from the bar had gathered at one end of the alley. The sounds of a top-forty cover band echoed out of the Asherton Tap as more patrons walked from the bar to see what was happening. Many of the spectators looked disappointed that they had missed the action.
People always seemed to be in awe of the infliction of pain. Why do we find it so interesting to see people beat each other’s brains in? He wasn’t judging. He liked to watch a fight as much as anyone, but he wondered what it was in the nature of human beings that caused a fascination with violence and suffering.
After hearing the story, the Sheriff walked over to Glenn and hauled him up from the pavement while one of his deputies rounded up the cowboy’s friends. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Still dazed, Glenn said, “Sheriff, I didn’t do nothin’. We were just trying to welcome the new guy, and he got all smart with me. Next thing you know, he’s kickin’ and punchin’ people. It was craziness.”
The Sheriff nodded. “Right. I’ve always thought that you should be head of the welcoming committee. Plus, it was real nice of you and your boys to bring that baseball bat and tire iron as house-warming gifts.” The Sheriff shoved Glenn in the direction of his deputy. “Get him out of here.”
Her father pulled Maggie aside.
After a moment, they returned, and turning in Marcus’s direction, the Sheriff said, “Sorry about Glenn, son. Sharp like a spoon, that one. Anyway, it’s against my better judgment, but Maggie has convinced me to let you walk her home. That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. I want you to come into my office tomorrow and give a formal statement. I’ll be gone in the morning, but you stop by in the afternoon. That’ll give us a chance to sit down and have a nice visit.”
Marcus didn’t like the sound of a “nice visit.” The conversation would probably revolve around Maggie and the removal of certain parts of his anatomy if she weren’t shown respect. “I’ll be there, sir.”
“See that you are.”
Maggie gave her father an awkward hug before she and Marcus continued on. After a moment of silence, Maggie spoke. “So why aren’t you a cop anymore?”
A dark alleyway, a scream, the blood, the tears—the memories came rushing back and swirled through his mind like a tornado that leaves a house standing but uninhabitable. What business is it of hers? Why don’t you ask about how my parents died, or maybe if I had a dog that was run over when I was a kid?
But she doesn’t know it’s a painful memory. She’s just trying to get to know you better, idiot. Maybe because she likes you, but now she probably thinks you’re some kind of burned-out psycho, since you’re taking an hour to respond to a simple question.
“Well …”
What do I tell her?
“I think that’s a question we should save for at least our second or third date.”
“How do you know there’ll even be a second or third date?”
“Because you want to learn all my secrets.”
She smiled. As he looked into her eyes, his painful memories slipped to the back of his mind and away from his immediate thoughts. For now, the pain had subsided. For now, his demons were sleeping.
“Thanks for walking with me,” she said. “You’re really a nice guy.”
He grimaced. “The kiss of death.”
She gave him a confused look.
“Nice guys get calls for advice on how to handle bad-boy boyfriends. They drive you to the airport and help you move. Nice guys finish last. And … I’m not all that nice.”
“I disagree. I think that you are a nice guy, and I also think that you haven’t been hanging around with the right kind of women. I happen to like nice guys.”
Their eyes met, and he felt a warmth in her gaze that made his heart race and his mind reel with possibilities. They held the connection for a few seconds. When her cheeks began to turn red, she looked away.
The warm smell of cinnamon rolls straight from the oven made his stomach rumble. The lights were on in the bakery. Maggie was so caught up in the moment that she almost passed by the entrance to her apartment, a small place above The Magnolia Bakery. He remembered a place with the same name on Bleecker Street back in New York. He had loved their red velvet cupcakes.
She stopped and removed a key from her purse. She hesitated, giving him the impression that she was waiting for him to make a move.
It had been a long time since he had done anything like this. “Dinner … tomorrow night?”
Maggie reached into her purse and produced a small pad of paper and pen. She jotted down her number and handed it to him. “Give me a call tomorrow.”
He took the piece of paper, folded it with care, and placed it in his pocket.
They stared at each other for a moment.
He leaned in.
She closed her eyes and appeared to be awaiting his lips.
He touched her on the shoulder, but instead of kissing her, he whispered in her ear. “I don’t kiss on the first date.”
Her eyes opened and narrowed at him. “You’re an odd man.”
He smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
*
“Are you sure that we’re doing the right thing?” the big man said as he thrummed his fingers upon the antique desk.
The smaller man chuckled. He stepped away from the window that overlooked the estate’s lush veranda and took a seat behind his ornate walnut desk. “I find that the older I get, the less I’m sure about anything.”
The big man smiled at his long-time friend, a man known as The Director. “I know what you mean, but I’m starting to have my doubts about this plan. There are a million things that could go wrong.”
“There are a million things that could go right as well. Such is the way of life.”
“I know that, but I can’t shake the feeling that we’re taking unnecessary risks. We’re putting a lot of good people in danger, and this thing could get very messy. Do the ends really justify the means?”
“Do they ever?”
The big man ran a hand through his gray-white hair. His compatriot broke the silence first. “I think I’m going to fix myself a drink and get some fresh air. Would you like to join me?”
“Make mine a double.”
They exited the Director’s office and strolled the walk that encompassed the massive white house. After a moment, the big man said, “Does it have to be Ackerman?”
“We’ve been over this. You and I both know from past experience that it will take someone of his … his caliber to accomplish our goal. Plus, you know his connection to all of this. We need him. Hell, we’ve set the whole thing up around him. Besides, we’ve done things similar in the past.”
“Not with someone like Ackerman.” The big man shook his head. “He scares me.”
“I know. I feel the same way, but events were set in motion years ago that have led us to this day. It’s fate. Well, fate with a little help from us anyway. We both know that it sometimes takes extreme actions in order to radically change a person’s way of thinking. We’ve planned everything as best we can, and our people know their jobs. They’re the best. You trained most of them. We can pull this off.”
The big man tilted back his head and let the contents of the entire glass slide down his throat. “God help us if you’re wrong.”
The Director shrugged. “God help us, either way.”
3
Maureen Hill sat alone at her kitchen table and stared at the chair that had once belonged to her husband. Jack had sat across from her every morning for forty-two years as they drank coffee and ate breakfast. The realization that he would never sit in that chair again still shocked her even after nearly two years of being without him.
She and Jack had hoarded their money for years, never indulging themselves, never spending or enjoying it. They had planned to travel and see the world. She had wanted to see Paris and Venice before she died, and her husband had always dreamed of Australia. The couple had nurtured hopes of one day grow
ing old in style while they indulged in the simple pleasures that they had denied themselves for so many years. Their children were grown, and they had been good providers and protectors. Their golden years were supposed to be their own, a time for them to enjoy life and each other.
Now, all the years of saving and sacrificing seemed a terrible waste to her. She searched her memory for one instance where they had gone out to eat at a nice restaurant or had splurged on a night of simple enjoyment. There were none to remember.
The diagnosis of cancer had changed all of their well-laid plans. She wished that she could turn back the hands of time and do things differently. She wished that they had lived in the present rather than always looking toward the future. As the tears ran down her cheeks, she wished that they had enjoyed the time they were given rather than assuming that their time would never run out. She dried her tears and attempted to distract herself from old memories and regrets.
With kind eyes and a warm smile, she glanced over at a family photo. Twenty-two grandchildren, whom she adored, filled a modest portion of her time, but they could never truly fill the space left by her husband’s passing—nothing could.
She let out an audible sigh and picked up the paperback David Morrell novel from the table. She read a few pages but had been up late the previous night enjoying a good movie on TV, and her eyelids felt heavy and eventually closed. The book fell to the floor as her head lolled to one side and she fell fast asleep.
*
A man with cold, gray eyes watched the silver-haired woman through the kitchen window. The dark soul behind the eyes contemplated the manner in which she would die.
Ackerman watched her stare at the chair opposite her. He reasoned from the woman’s actions that she had recently lost her spouse and was now feeling depressed and alone. Although she was unaware of the fact, she wasn’t alone anymore. She had company.
He felt sorry for her. He knew that it would only be a matter of time before she joined her husband and passed on into obscurity. Only a handful of family and friends would mourn her passing. After a few years, she would only be thought of when family members examined old photo albums. No one beyond her small circle would ever know her name, and she would fade away as if she never existed—forgotten and forsaken.
He would change all that.
His presence at her home ensured that everyone in the surrounding area would remember the kind grandmother who had been murdered by the sadistic killer. Someday, he was certain that countless books would be written about his exploits. He would be psycho-analyzed and dissected as America’s fascination with the sinister propelled the works of his followers to the bestseller lists.
He would be hated by most, revered by some like him, but remembered by all. He would live on forever in infamy. Through association with him, the silver-haired woman would be remembered as well. She may even warrant her own chapter in some yet-to-be written account of his deeds. Although the woman—like the countless victims that came before her—would never appreciate the gift, through death, he would give her immortality.
*
Part of Maureen’s sleeping mind registered a noise in the room, and she awoke from her slumber. She blinked the cobwebs from her vision, but her heart was unprepared for what her eyes found.
A man with haunting, gray eyes sat in her husband’s chair.
She trembled with fear and was at a loss for words. One of her hands lay quivering on top of the table and shook with such force that it rattled the decorative centerpiece, a vase filled with lilies and orchids. She was about to speak when, without warning, the man produced a knife and drove the blade into the table, directly through the center of her shaking hand.
She screamed in agony. She tried to pull her hand free, but it was pinned to the table’s top. The more she worked to free it, the more intense the pain became. She searched the area within her reach for some kind of weapon to use against the intruder. Ironically, the only thing within arm’s length was a paperback novel that dealt with the hunt for a serial killer.
“Shhhh. Quiet, please. We have much to discuss.”
She convulsed with terror and brought her shrieking under control. But she could not halt her short, raspy breaths or the tears that flowed from her eyes. Between intakes of air that bordered on hyperventilation, she managed to ask, “Who are you? What do you want?”
“My name is Francis Ackerman Jr., and I want to play a game.”
Between sobs, she said, “Why are you doing this?”
Ackerman seemed perplexed by the question. “Do you ask a lion why he eats meat? Why is the grass green and the sky blue? Some things just are the way that they are, and this is who I am.”
Ackerman stood and walked over to the kitchen counter. He picked up a baking timer. The small plastic device was white with a round dial. Black, ornate script, located in the bottom right corner of the tool’s face, spelled out the brand name, Lux.
The killer sat back down at the table. He held up the timer in front of her and rotated it in his hand, as if examining such a device for the first time. “I love these things,” he said, looking deep into her eyes, as though she was his oldest friend. “I have to admit that I am completely fascinated by any device that measures the concept of time. Strange, isn’t it? I mean, time is such an elusive and fluid thing. And yet, we design devices to put this grand concept into a nice, neat little box that we can understand, measure, and assign value to. Time is ever flowing and changing around us. It’s the fabric of the universe, and we are nothing—only single drops in the grand ocean of time.
“I also love that time, in regards to personal perception, is completely relative. For example, as you sit there in terror with a knife stuck in your hand, time feels as if it has slowed to a crawl. But as I sit here in great enjoyment of the moment, it feels as if time is slipping away at an amazing pace. It’s all relative, but that’s what is so interesting about this device.”
He held up the baking timer. “No matter how the passage of time may feel to a person whose perception is altered by their situation, this device is constant. In all actuality, the seconds count down on this device no faster or slower based upon who you are, and that’s something else I love about time. It’s fair. No matter who you are, what you’ve done, or how much money is in your bank account, time passes the same for us all. And sooner or later, it will catch up to every living thing on this planet. Time is the greatest killer of all.”
He placed the timer on the tabletop in front of her. “So, in honor of this most interesting device, the little game we’re going to play is a fight against the clock for the both of us. We’ll call this game … The Theory of Relativity. First of all, I’ll set this timer to six minutes. Then, I’m going to let you go hide somewhere in the house. While you’re hiding, I’m going to sit here at the table and watch as three minutes’ worth of time counts off the timer. After the three minutes have passed, I’ll have three minutes remaining to find you. If I find you within that time, you will die a death more horrible than anything you’ve ever imagined. If you manage to elude me and the timer reaches six minutes, then I’ll leave you unharmed, and you’ll never see me again.”
Ackerman stood and picked up a dishtowel from the counter. He moved to one of kitchen cabinets and removed two glass cups. Her eyes followed the madman as he put the cups in the dishtowel, closed the towel tight, and smashed the glasses within, leaving a towel full of broken glass.
He turned back to her and continued. “But before we play, we need to establish some rules for the game. Number one, you must remain inside the house.” Ackerman walked to the back door and sprinkled some of the glass shards in front of the exit. Once finished, he moved down the hall toward the front door.
While her attacker was out of the room, she stiffened her resolve and grabbed the knife that pinned her in place. She wiggled it back and forth slowly, but each movement caused her great pain and forced her closer to the brink of unconsciousness.
She could hear th
e killer approaching, his footsteps growing in volume as he grew nearer.
With her heart thudding violently in her chest, she intensified her efforts. If only I can free the knife, I can stab the killer before he knows that I’m free.
She rocked the knife back and forth, desperately trying to release it from the grasp of the table’s thick wooden top. She was not a weakling, but she was not a strong woman either. Her wounds, both physical and emotional, had sapped any strength that she did possess.
Each movement of the blade severed skin and cut nerve endings, sending sharp, shooting pains up her arm and down her spine.
The killer was now in the hallway just outside the kitchen.
She steeled herself for one final effort, and with every ounce of strength that she had left, she yanked up on the knife. She felt sweat running down her forehead from the exertion of her efforts. The streams of sweat and tears coalesced into one. The knife moved up slightly.
She continued her efforts, but it would not budge a millimeter farther. It was of no use. The knife was secure, and her traumatized muscles could not remove it.
Ackerman reemerged from the hallway and eyed her like a parent who had found their child with a hand in the cookie jar. He walked over to the table and stood over her. “You see, darling, a knife is kind of like a Band-Aid. You just have to rip it off.”
With a quick movement, he grasped the knife and pulled it from the table and out of her hand.
The trauma almost overwhelmed her. Cold tendrils of pain shot up her arm. She could feel her vision tunneling down into unconsciousness, but she fought to remain awake. She shuddered to think what the psychopath might do to her while she slept.
“Okay, back to the rules,” Ackerman said. “As I was saying, you must remain inside the house. That’s why I sprinkled the broken glass in front of the exits, so you won’t be able to slip out without me hearing you. Rule number two, no trying to call for help. I’m not going to cut the phone lines, but I think we both know that no one will arrive in time to make a bit of difference. Your only real chance of survival is me not finding you within the allotted time. If you break the rules, it’ll just give me more time to find you. All right, now that we’ve established the ground rules, let’s begin.”