Blood Will Out

by Jo Treggiari

A car roared by, barely slowing at the stop sign at the intersection before jetting off down the street. Lynn jerked her head up, looking for her brother and sisters, counting them off one, two, three under her breath. “Stay out of the road, you dingbats,” she called. They had grouped together, shoulder to shoulder, and were staring intently at something just ahead and out of sight. “Get on the sidewalk,” Lynn said, in her “I’m deadly serious” voice. It worked maybe half the time, but not now. They weren’t shifting. Mark still held a branch in his sticky fist and he was pointing it at whatever it was that had grabbed their attention.

  Lynn pulled herself to her feet, muttering. Her capris were stuck to the back of her thighs and she walked a little bowlegged as she tried to free the sweat-dampened material. Ari followed her, flapping her shirt to try to get some cool air circulating. A popsicle would taste so good right now. The smallest girl, Nelly, was crying. At their feet was a small brown-striped tabby cat, not much more than a kitten. It lay on its side, ribs heaving, and then suddenly it lurched to its feet, and then flopped back over again. It couldn’t seem to hold its head straight. Lynn cursed and shoved the kids back behind her. She looked up the street where the car had disappeared moments before. “Asshole,” she said. Nelly hid her head in Lynn’s shirt and wailed, “Kitty!”

  Ari was mesmerized by the cat, which was doing a weird, disjointed dance, as if it were being attacked by invisible bees. One of its eyes bulged from the socket but there was no blood or anything.

  “What do we do?” Ari said, feeling sick.

  “Brain injury,” a voice from behind them said. “Car bumper probably clipped it.” A woman with curly auburn hair and a voluminous orange sundress had appeared. Ari looked at her and then looked again. She was a new-that-year teacher from school, she thought. Senior biology? That sounded right.

  The woman kneeled down, one hand gripping the kitten by the scruff of the neck and holding it still. “I’m Dr. McNamara.” Ari stared at the cat. It was trying to bite and scratch but Dr. McNamara didn’t even flinch.

  “Don’t hurt it,” Lynn said. She and Ari both had tears in their eyes.

  Dr. McNamara looked at her without expression.

  “I’m trying to help it. See the distended eye? That means there’s pressure building up in the brain.”

  Ari made a movement toward her. “It’s suffering.”

  “It’s dying,” the teacher said.

  “Christina, take the other kids and go in the yard,” Lynn said in a tense voice. For once they listened to her, scurrying across the street and into the yard, where they pressed up against the chain-link fence with transfixed expressions.

  Dr. McNamara had shifted her hands; now both were cupped around the kitten’s head. Its ears were completely flattened, and its back legs kicked fruitlessly. And then the woman did something, Ari wasn’t sure what, a quick twist of her fingers. There was a snap like a twig breaking and when she removed her hands the kitten was still. She laid it down at the edge of the road and stood up, brushing her palms against the material of her dress.

  Lynn and Ari exchanged horrified looks. Oh my God, Lynn mouthed. Behind the fence, Ari heard Nelly say in a tearful voice, “What happened to the kitty?” and then Lynn had rushed up and hustled them all onto the porch and into the house.

  “See you at school,” Dr. McNamara said to Ari and walked away.

  Ari drew a continuous circle around Dr. McNamara’s name now as she thought about the teacher. Yes, most serial killers were men, but there was a coldness about her, a lack of emotion. And she had the knife skills and knowledge of anatomy.

  Above suspicion, she thought. Or maybe protected from suspicion. She jotted another name down and stared at what she had written so far.

  Jesse Caldwell. Completely antisocial. Cold-blooded. Insults, people’s negative opinions just seemed to bounce off him. He could be sociopathic. She remembered the rumors about him cutting that girl’s ponytail off, and he’d been right there at the killing grove. Admiring his work? She underlined his name.

  Jack Rourke. He seemed to be heartless beyond the borders of normal high school asshole-ry, and protected to some extent by his cop father. He liked to antagonize, dominate and intimidate. He had always targeted Lynn with taunts and dirty slurs, usually delivered in a quiet voice. Lynn could look after herself, but still, what kind of guy persecuted the only openly gay girl in school? Someone predatory.

  Dr. McNamara. Or Mephistopheles, as Lynn liked to call her. She stifled a nervous giggle and chewed her lip.

  Still, she had to admit, the list was ludicrous. Nothing she could actually show to anyone. But if she did nothing, Lynn might die. If she did something, perhaps there was a chance. She had to do it.

  Three suspects and they could all be found at school on a regular Tuesday.

  Next step. What would make the killer reveal him- or herself?

  More likely a him, Ari decided. She opened up her computer again and then, gathering her courage, texted to her cell phone. I’m going to find you and then you’re going to pay. With trembling fingers she pressed Send, jumping away from her computer as if it had suddenly turned into a giant spider.

  It was an empty promise, but she was so angry that it fueled her courage and determination. It could be enough to make him let Lynn go and stop what he was doing. Maybe he couldn’t operate out of the shadows.

  Or maybe it would just shine a big old spotlight on her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Klein house is perfect. I’ve been here on my own for three months now. Not only is it a legitimate address for any nosy people who come sniffing around but it is also a safe and private place for me. Mrs. Klein agreed to let me live here for free as a property manager after she went into the nursing facility. I still visit her regularly, and all the bills and such are in her name in case I have to disappear again. Always be prepared, Ma Cosloy used to say.

  It checks every box on my list. I have all the benefits of a higher elevation, perched as it is at the top of a hill. The windows face the intersecting roads half a mile away, unrolling like long gray carpets; the curtains are thick to help warm the house during the winter months. Most of the time I keep them closed and just peek out if I hear the sound of an engine. If a car does appear, it usually turns around as soon as the driver realizes that the road dead-ends and leads nowhere.

  Kitchen, sitting room, two bedrooms upstairs, and a tiny bathroom. And a parlor for visitors.

  A short distance from the house is a sparse row of trees, nothing more really than a marker along the field boundaries. A windbreak. Beyond, the land rolls upward at a slight grade toward the horizon. Grassland belonging to some unknown person who doesn’t care to farm it. And of course there is the river. Dwindling a little in the hot summer months, but deep and studded with tumbled boulders and wide slabs of slick rock. Close by the house, it twists and turns, boiling over the banks in swift-moving rapids. Roaring. In the spring, I tried to ford it, and found the footing unstable and the currents much stronger than expected. Once there was a drowned deer, one leg pinned under a tree branch, stomach bloated with gases so that it bobbed like a balloon on the water’s surface.

  I bend my mind to the problem of Ari.

  She is a curious girl, and you know what they say about curiosity and the cat. Books and movies are full of characters like her: those people who can’t stop themselves from opening the forbidden door, or entering the dark woods, or asking too many questions of dangerous strangers. She is so intent on her own thoughts she doesn’t notice that I am observing her. At first to discover how much she recalled of that day, and then, once I realized she remembered nothing of me, to keep an eye on her comings and goings. I’ve heard that amnesiacs may suddenly regain their memories after the brain settles again. And that conversation we had, just before I knocked her out and threw her into the cistern, was sufficiently traumatic that she could still remember it if her mind allows her to travel back into her fears.

  Such an unpred
ictable thing, the brain. Breathing, walking, swallowing, a hundred functions controlled by a lump of gelatinous goop pulsing with electrical charges.

  I’m enthralled by how parts of the brain shut themselves off, like rooms in a house, the way Ari’s mind has blocked the truth from her, as if by not knowing it she can be saved.

  I have to say it was a shock to find the cistern empty when I went back to dispose of her properly. I’d hit her very hard and the fall was a high one. If I hadn’t been distracted by Sourmash, I’d have made sure. And after I killed him I admit that I lost my head momentarily and left the cabin without covering my tracks. The plan was to come back, kill Ari if she was still alive, and tie up all the loose ends. I managed to get rid of any incriminating evidence, but it was risky, foolish behavior and I was lucky the police were so slow to mobilize.

  I’d underestimated her. Her fierce inquisitiveness, her thirst for answers. She found the animals in the grove before I’d finished my tableau. She was an impediment, a direct threat to me, and I had to get rid of her.

  Fortunately, her strength of character worked to my advantage and she was easy to lead. I waited until she started heading home from the library that day and then I pulled my car over beside her and rolled down the window.

  “Ari, I just saw that guy, Sourmash, with a pet carrier! He threw it into the back of his truck. I could hear squealing and whining. It was terrible,” I told her.

  She filled in the rest. I didn’t even have to hint at anything. “He’s a monster,” she said, trembling with rage. “I knew it!”

  “We can catch him,” I said, throwing open the passenger-side door. “Together we can stop him.”

  She climbed in without hesitation, although she looked surprised when she saw who was sprawled in the backseat.

  “Passed out drunk,” I said with a small smile. “Safer with us.” I pressed down on the accelerator and we sped out of town.

  I steered the conversation back to Sourmash. “Men like that never stop unless someone makes them,” I said.

  She leaned forward. “I don’t see him. Is he so far ahead? How will we know where he’s headed?”

  “Up there, just past the motor home. I caught a glimpse of his bumper.”

  She sank back against her seat, worrying at her fingernails. “God, I’m freaking out,” she said.

  “It’ll be fine, Ari.” I pointed out the bottle of brandy. “Help yourself. It’ll calm you.”

  She took the bottle automatically and swallowed a small mouthful.

  “I heard he’s got a hunting cabin outside town,” I said, drawing her back to me. “He’s probably been killing animals up there for years.” She was so horrified she didn’t ask questions, just accepted what I told her. I kept talking about it, distracting her from thinking about which way we were heading and how far we were going.

  “Maybe he kills them up here and then moves them to the grove so people can see what he’s done,” I said. “What kind of a monster would do that?”

  She was so pleased that I cared. She took another sip of brandy.

  People are stupid, lazy and gullible. Most of them believe without question. I can put on and pull off masks, appearing one way to one person and completely different to another. On that day I was being empathetic. It’s easy if you remember that humans are easily manipulated.

  I took the turn off to the cabin and parked the car in a dark hollow shaded by close-growing trees. I grabbed a tire iron from the trunk. “He could be dangerous.”

  She turned worried eyes toward me and then toward the car. “Shouldn’t we…?” She was swaying a little from the alcohol. I liked the fact that she obviously didn’t drink often.

  “I’ll protect you,” I said, playing the knight in shining armor.

  “I don’t see the truck.”

  “He’s probably pulled in alongside the cabin,” I said.

  Then, pretending that I’d heard something, I started running into the woods. “Hurry,” I said, over my shoulder, “I think that was an animal screaming.”

  Adrenaline was firing in her so strongly that she was caught up in the story I was spinning. “This way,” I said, dodging around trees, jumping over small bushes. She was completely preoccupied with keeping up and wasn’t paying attention to anything more than preventing the low-hanging branches from whipping her in the face. I purposely chose the overgrown track, trying to wear her out and confuse her sense of direction.

  She was out of breath, bewildered and disorientated by the time we reached the edge of the cistern. I threw my arm up, as if to stop her teetering over the side. “Where is he?” she asked, clutching her ribs.

  I matched my tone to hers. “I think he ran over there.”

  “Where’s the animal? What did he do with it?”

  “I don’t know.” I let fear creep into my voice, but inside I was giggling with glee. “Did he throw it into the well?”

  Immediately she moved forward, perching on the lip, craning her head into the void. Her neck was so smooth and so white. I wanted to bite it. I slipped my gloves on, holding the tire iron in my arms like a baby.

  “Ari.”

  “What? What?” Her voice throbbed with emotion. She was still trying to see.

  I let the mask fall.

  “I killed Tallulah, Ari.”

  “What?” She seemed incapable of saying anything else. She cast quick glances over her shoulder, as if she’d find the answer to her question hiding in the trees.

  “And all the others. Two kittens the other day, just to see which died more easily—the one in the barrel of water or the one in the freezer. I liked doing it. I want to do it again.” It felt so good to admit this to her.

  “Why are you telling me this?” she asked, her mouth twisting painfully.

  Her eyes, impossibly wide, were fixed on my gloved hands, as if she could suddenly see blood on them. I could hear her breathing—quick pants, like a winded animal.

  “Do you think that’s funny? Is this some kind of a sick joke?” she said, making a weird sort of sound in her throat.

  “Such an old doggie. But still she tried to bite me with her toothless gums.”

  Her mouth opened and closed. I watched her struggle to understand. The truth was just dawning on her when I struck. I aimed for the base of her head but she turned unexpectedly and the blow glanced off the side near her temple.

  I cradled her against my shoulder, saw her eyes flood with inkiness as her pupils dilated in pain. It was like watching the seas rise. Supporting her slackening body with one hand, I quickly took my souvenir, pocketing it with my knife.

  “Needs must, Ari,” I said as I pushed her hard in the middle of her chest.

  In a way, I found her even more satisfying afterward. Her limp body curled like a shrimp at the bottom of the well, broken, utterly helpless. I wish she were there still waiting for me, completely compliant, like Lynn is now.

  And inspiration leaps at me. Perhaps there was a reason that Ari survived the well.

  There are always two of them. In all the great stories. I don’t know why I didn’t remember until now. Hansel and Gretel. Kai and Gerda. Rose Red and Snow White. Ari and Lynn are the best of friends. Closer than siblings. Inseparable. The exact opposite of the other and the perfect complement. One a tall, fair, freckled gazelle of a girl. Quiet and thoughtful. I used to think her boring but not anymore; she has teeth and claws. And the other, lush and vivid. Ripe, bursting with life. Together they will be breathtaking. They will make the perfect picture. Their ivory corpses and, all around them, like an implosion of energy and vitality, my beautiful bloody walls.

  And the anguish their deaths will cause this town, their families. An emotional wound that will never heal.

  All I have to do is bring them together. And serendipitously, at the moment I think this, Ari’s phone vibrates in my pocket. So lucky for me that it fell from her pocket as she ran through the woods.

  She’s sent me a text. I keep her in suspense for a good long wh
ile because it pleases me and then send her one back. “87 School Lane. Tuesday morning. Wait for me, Ari.”

  And then I write, “Breathe a word and I will kill her.” And a quote from Poe. I think she will appreciate it and understand what’s in store for her. “We loved with a love that was more than love.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Tuesday morning. 6:00 a.m. The sun would be rising soon but the blackout curtains gave her no sense of time. She’d spent almost the whole day Monday obsessively checking her computer for a reply to her text, pacing her room and peeking out the window until her parents came home. Dinner was mostly silent, which Ari was thankful for, and she kept her head lowered so that she missed nearly all of the glances her parents exchanged. As soon as she could, she escaped back to her bedroom to circle endlessly. When she did sleep, curled up in her nest of blankets on the floor, it was so heavily and fitfully it made her feel sick— as if she were exhaling and re-inhaling all the toxic fears that had leaked into the air. She woke up desperately every half hour, clawing her way to consciousness and feeling as if she was struggling for breath, reaching for her computer before she was fully aware. No answer. No answer. The seconds moved like snails. His response had finally come in at 12:34 a.m. And after that, she had not slept, just watched the numbers magically roll forward: 1 2 3 4. Is it all part of some sick game? Even though she knew it by heart she’d read the message again and again.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them; the words were still seared onto her retinas. Under the blanket, fully clothed, including running shoes, her fists clenched and unclenched. The darkness gathered around her. She couldn’t hear street sounds or birds. It was as if the world outside had ceased to exist. She wished she could stay exactly where she was, cocooned, but she couldn’t. She got up, flipped the light on and started to pace.

  Bastard. 87 School Lane was the address of her school. That instruction was clear. But it was the other part of the message that slayed her.

  Breathe a word and I will kill her. And what was with that intimate postscript? It made her feel like puking but it was strangely familiar too.