by Jo Treggiari
“And he shot him?”
“Looks that way. He’ll have to detox in jail. Fred said he’s hallucinating. They have him on suicide watch.”
“God, Bill. I can hardly stand the thought of it.”
Ari burst through the door, brandishing the phone.
Her mother turned, abruptly knocking over one of the bags of groceries on the counter and sending cans crashing onto the floor. “Ari! We thought you were asleep upstairs! What is it?”
“Lynn is missing. The police are looking for her. But she called me late yesterday afternoon. She left a voicemail,” Ari said breathlessly. “Someone set a trap for her.”
“Ari, tell us calmly,” her mother said, shaking her head. “You’re talking too fast.”
Her father pulled a chair out from the table. “Have a seat. You look like you’re going to collapse.”
Ari waved him away. She didn’t want to sit down. She wanted to keep pacing. “No. Listen to me. She called me.”
She dialed up the voicemails again, deleted the first two and pressed the speaker on the handset. Lynn’s distorted voice spoke her garbled message.
“And she was returning my call,” she told her parents, striving to keep her voice steady. “But it wasn’t me. The person who called her must have my phone.”
“Oh my God,” her mother said. “Karen must be going nuts. I need to get over there.”
Ari felt tears of relief come to her eyes. Her parents believed her. Finally. “Lynn’s mom’s not home. She’s got a taskforce putting up missing persons flyers. But we need to tell the police that it’s someone with a bigger plan. The same person who pushed me into the well and killed Stroud. It wasn’t Sourmash. Or Rocky. Someone else.” Her voice was rising with every word. Now they could figure this out together.
Her parents exchanged looks. The worry lines were carved so deep into their faces that they looked like strangers. Old people. Ari felt the excitement rush out of her.
“What? What don’t you understand?” It was so clear to her. Lynn would have gotten it immediately.
“Stroud hasn’t been reported missing,” her dad said. “He’s camping.”
“Stroud is dead!”
“Oh Ari,” her mother said, sitting down heavily.
“It can’t just be random. It doesn’t make sense,” Ari said, stalking back and forth in front of the window. “You’re in complete denial. You think the Hollow is some perfect, safe little haven, and it’s not. What about the pet killings? What about what happened to me? You need to wake the hell up!” She was barely aware of echoing the words Lynn had spoken to her. Her mother’s face had whitened but Ari was in the grip of some kind of fury.
“Just a second, Ari,” her dad said warningly. He moved forward and slipped his arm around her mother’s shoulders. “We’re just trying to help you through this.”
“Yes, but don’t you see that all this pretending is making it worse for me? It makes me feel like I’m on one side of the wall and everyone else is on the other.” She tried to express the feeling of utter loneliness. “The sun is shining where you are and I’m standing in the dark.”
“It’s the terrible after-effect of what you went through. It will fade away, Ari,” her mother pleaded. “Just give it a little time.”
Ari set her lips. “You can’t just stick a Band-Aid on it.”
“Tell us what we can do for you,” her mother said.
Ari shook her head, miserable. She just didn’t know how to express what she was feeling. “It makes sense to me.” She held up the cordless phone that was still in her hand. “Where is she? Why can’t anyone find her?”
They had no answer.
“Lynn would never leave me alone to deal with everything that’s happened.”
“But you’re not alone, honey,” her mother said.
“I am if you don’t believe me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
She is weakening. I have not given her any food for more than twenty-four hours, and she spent a lot of time kicking against the padded lid of the box and screaming curse words before her struggles ceased and her voice wore thin. She begged me at first. I was disappointed. I thought she would be excited about my plans, but instead she railed and moaned and promised me things I care nothing about. I let her tire herself out, strain against the rubber tubes cuffing her wrists, ankles and knees. “You can scream as loud as you want,” I told her as I prepared to fit the lid to the box. “You can call me every name in the book.” She spat at me and I slapped her across that ripe mouth until she hid her head again.
She has spirit though, and I resist the urge to open the chest and look at her. Her nails gouged grooves into my forearm, and her sharp little teeth tried to bite through my shirt into my shoulder before I was able to knock her on the head just behind her right ear where her thick hair would hide the wound. Funnily enough, it’s the same place I hit Ari. The terror in her voice when she regained herself was the purest sound I have ever heard, a single high note played on a violin. It knifed straight into my heart.
Now she is quiet but for some muffled sobbing and snuffling. She reminds me of the piglets. I have given her a bottle of water; until I’m ready for her, she can rest on the old blanket I folded in the bottom. I don’t want to risk her bruising her skin or injuring herself; no marks that will ruin the perfection of my tableau. There are new breathing holes drilled in the sides. As long as she calms down and conserves her air, she will be all right. If I press my eye to one of the holes I can see her face, staring up. Her little chin so firm and stubborn, silent tears sliding down her cheeks like raindrops. I can smell her fear. It is intoxicating. The glossy curl I took from her head is tucked away in an envelope in my pocket. I stroked it until static electricity made the dark hairs stick to my skin, and then I moistened my fingers and smoothed it into shape and put it back with the others, subtle gradations of light gray and dark gray. It’s the texture that entrances me, various degrees of coarseness and silkiness. I can hear the paper crinkle as I turn my attention to my work.
A few hours later, I set my paintbrush down. Two of the three walls are done. Chaotic violence; a red Milky Way of runnels and burning stars. I can’t see the color, of course, but if I place my palm flat against the paint where it has dried to a crust, I can feel the heat of it. Thick gouts, textured like skin, warm as if the flesh and ruin portrayed were living and breathing just a few minutes before. I remember how the slaughtered cows and pigs gave off heat, steaming in the cold of the butcher shop, opened like red velvet–lined purses disgorging their pearly contents. Standing in the middle of the room, I feel as if I am being reborn in blood, like some triumphant warrior. My final transformation.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Ari leaned out her bedroom window until she could see Lynn’s house. It appeared deserted, doors shut tight, but she knew that inside Colette was wrangling little kids for suppertime and Lynn’s room was empty. Her mom had had dinner on the table early again and the food—pork chops and mashed potatoes—was sitting heavily in her stomach although she had eaten only enough to appease her parents. She looked up at the sky, the specks of birds wheeling far above. She could pretend they were swimmers and she was at the bottom of the pool. Alone, but safe in her element. It was still light but the sun would set in about half an hour, at 6:30. She breathed deeply for a few seconds, and after she’d filled her lungs with that peace, she pulled the sash down, and then the new heavy blinds her father had installed a couple of hours ago.
She turned around slowly. It was shocking how much they blocked the light. Her room transformed, became oppressive, cramped. It felt like the cistern.
Her breathing quickened as she crossed to the bedside lamp she’d kept on, flicked it off, and made her way blindly to the corner by the door.
She sank down, hugging her knees to her chest. Somehow, choosing the darkness now allowed her brain to roam.
It had all begun in the well. She had become a target for someone and they had put her the
re. She didn’t care what anyone else believed. She knew she was right and she had to confront her fears. The police were doing what they could. Mrs. Lubnick and her parents were taking action, but it wasn’t enough. They didn’t see the big picture. She couldn’t just sit around waiting.
She drummed her fingers against her forehead as if it might loosen the web of her thoughts.
Someone had wanted her dead but she had escaped. Surely they still wanted her dead. Maybe even more now than before. She was a liability. She knew things that were still locked in her brain. That person had Lynn, she was sure of it, tucked away in some hiding place. But perhaps she could draw them out.
Bait. She could be bait.
She inhaled, appalled by what she was thinking but excited too. It was like the moment before she dove into the water, the seconds before the race started. She always knew within a few heartbeats if everything was going to work in perfect rhythm or if it was all going to fall apart.
“Bait and switch” was an expression her mother used laughingly sometimes when describing her cupcake window display. Customers would come in for the sweet treats and leave with a pound of coffee and a decorative mug as well.
Ari could do the same thing, but in reality, she would be the hunter. What did that entail exactly? Making sure she was alone? Walking blindly into dark alleys? She had to do this with her eyes wide open.
She scrubbed at the itchy scab above her ear. The bandage was flapping loose. She peeled it away and prodded the wound. It was healing. It felt crusty but there was no blood. She poked some more and frowned. Had the doctor clipped her hair? No, she’d have remembered that. The sensation of the cold stethoscope traveling over her back was still vivid, the dry, powdery feel of the latex gloves.
She got clumsily to her feet, stumbled over to the bed and switched the light back on, blinking until her eyes adjusted. She had a hand mirror in the drawer, a full-length hanging on her door. She held the hand mirror behind her and aimed it at the side of her head. Carefully she separated a sweaty mat of hair and pushed it aside. Scalp gleamed. She was missing a big chunk.
She recalled her notes on serial killers. How she’d dismissed that research because it was clearly insane and paranoid.
Her thoughts began to hammer her. Trophies. Killers often took trophies from their victims: jewelry, clothing, locks of hair. She pulled the sheaf of notes out from her desk, flipping through them until she found what she was looking for. Serial killers often exhibited warning signs before they began to murder people. Pet killings—check. Arson? Had anyone been setting fires in the area? She woke her computer, first checking her email. Just spam. She entered “Dempsey Hollow arson” in the search engine. A page of entries popped up. She clicked on the top news article and read it quickly. Six mysterious fires in the last two years. Two on State Park land, but the rest within town limits, derelict buildings mostly.
This was real information she could share with her parents. They could take it to the police together. She rose, reached for the doorknob and stopped herself. They didn’t believe her already. They’d never believe this. Would they force her to see a shrink? Would they put her in a hospital if they thought she was really crazy?
She sat back in her chair and then clicked back over to her email. Lynn. Lynn was out of reach but Ari felt like she had to try. She typed:
You’re not dead are you? I can’t bear it.
Ari stared at this line for a long moment as her heart heaved. And then she deleted it and wrote:
I’m going to find you.
She hit Send and then stared at the wall, fingers playing with her bracelet. A knock at her door made her jump. She closed her computer.
“Going to get some rest soon, Ari?” her mother asked, peeking in. Her parents had been tiptoeing around ever since her outburst earlier.
“Yes, soon.”
Her mother crossed the room and fussed with the blinds.
“Your father and I think you should stay home from school tomorrow. Give yourself one more day to rest. I’ll be at work in the morning but I can come back for lunch, and your father can stop in in the afternoon.” She sat down on Ari’s bed, clasping her fingers together. “What do you think?” Scanning Ari’s face, she said hurriedly, “Or I can stay home with you if you’d like.”
A day, basically on her own, would give her time to figure stuff out. She was pretty sure she wasn’t going to get much sleep tonight anyway.
“I think that’s a good idea,” she said slowly. “I’ll be fine on my own though.” She summoned up a weak smile. “I know it’s super busy at the coffee shop.”
“Need anything? Herbal tea? Crackers and cheese?” Ari was relieved her mother hadn’t suggested warm milk, as if she were a bed-ridden invalid.
“I’m not hungry,” she said.
“Okay,” her mother said, somewhat doubtfully. “Try to relax and let your body heal, honey.”
Ari nodded as her mother dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head and left the room. Ari listened to the sound of her footsteps descending the stairs. Closing the door, she scooped up her pillow and stuffed it against the bottom to block the light. Her parents checked on her periodically during the night, but usually they just stood in the hallway for a few seconds listening with an intensity that was tangible.
She splayed her notes out in front of her. She scanned down. She’d underlined the following: Serial killers are 91% male, 54% white, with an average IQ of 113, which put them way above the norm for intelligence. This was not some alcoholic screw-up or skeletal junkie; this was someone who lived in the shadows by choice, a hunter.
What kind of person was she looking for?
Dahmer. Gacy. Bundy. Gein. All predators who hid in plain sight and were part of society. Sourmash had lived totally off the grid and made no attempt to pretend he was anything other than what he was. Maybe she was looking for someone who was the opposite? Pedophiles sometimes worked in jobs that brought them close to children. It was like the witch in the gingerbread house.
It had to be someone who knew things about her and Lynn, their routines, who had used that information to track Ari and then get to Lynn. It had to be someone who saw them regularly.
Bundy had sweet-talked his victims. Charmed them and played with them. He liked to kill college girls and so he hunted them on campus, blending in with the other yuppie jocks.
She slid her chair out, found a notebook and a pen and scribbled down a name. Circled it.
What were her and Lynn’s regular haunts? The bookstore. Ice cream parlor. The park. The school. Who did they see every day? The person she was looking for knew Dempsey Hollow, the grove, the neighborhoods with the most pets, and they were above suspicion. That implied a certain stature in the community. Her pen tapped like a metronome. Or maybe below suspicion. If this was someone who was just starting out on their career path, they could be young. Her own age.
Who did she know who could butcher a family dog? Who seemed capable of acting on morbid thoughts? Had a cruel streak? She wrote down another name and chewed on the end of her hair. She supposed it said something about her that she was writing down the names of possible serial killers living in her town, but she didn’t care—her friend’s life hung in the balance. Wake the fuck up, Lynn seemed to say. This is a sick business. She shook off the guilty feelings and returned to her list.
Many people believed that Jack the Ripper had been a doctor. His kills were so precise, so surgical. Ari considered the local family physician, Dr. Prentiss. He was a white-haired, fluffy, doddering man who gave out lollipops to all the kids no matter what their age, and still handwrote his careful instructions though his fingers shook with tremors. He was barely capable of holding a pen, to say nothing of a knife or a gun. Was it an act? She didn’t think so. She’d heard her mother and Mrs. Lubnick mention Parkinson’s disease and retirement. The pet killings were recent. It made sense to her that the person she was looking for was just starting out and not someone who’d been living here for f
ifty years. She crossed Dr. Prentiss’s name off and threw down her pen. Dammit. Her brain felt encased in sludge. It hurt to think. Power nap, she thought. I’ll just rest my eyes for a second. She laid her head down on folded arms. Sleep rose up and submerged her like a wave.
* * *
Ari jerked awake. Apart from the bedside lamp and the glow from her computer, the darkness was enveloping, the silence so thick she could hear her blood pumping in her temples. The clock on her computer said 3:47 a.m. Monday morning. She hadn’t slept for that many continuous hours since before the cistern. Out of the grogginess a memory sprang to mind, and she fought to capture it before it could disappear back into the murk.
It was three years ago, summertime, and she and Lynn had just finished freshman year. They’d been playing on the street outside Lynn’s house. It was some old-fashioned game and Ari didn’t fully grasp the rules.
“You touched on Wales,” Lynn said.
“Did not,” Ari said, pushing her wet hair off her face. It was boiling hot, and the tree they were using had some kind of fungus that had curled and stripped all the leaves off, so it offered no shade. She shrugged her shoulders, trying to un-stick the back of her shirt. Her shorts kept riding up in a really annoying way.
“Popsicle run?” she suggested.
“Can’t leave,” Lynn said with a sour look. “The Shits.” Lynn’s triplet siblings were seven years old. Thankfully the Littles (Horror, Bother and Monster) were in daycare for the summer.
“Where’s your mom?” Ari asked, flopping down on the edge of the sidewalk.
After a moment, Lynn joined her.
“Work, as usual.” She sounded bitter. This whole summer her mom had either been taking extension classes in admin stuff or putting in major hours at the school, catching up on curriculum. “She’s going for the principal position vacated by our dear, wish-he-was-truly-departed Mr. Oickle.”