by Pamela Crane
I figured he would feel more comfortable sharing if I told my story first, so I plodded ahead, weaving the lie as I went along. “I’m here because I tried to hang myself. I’ve been struggling with ... urges ... that I can’t control. That whole take one day at a time mantra, well, it’s harder than it sounds.”
I paused, hoping he’d jump in at any time. When he didn’t, I continued rambling. “It’s hopeless, you know? I want to stop feeling this way, but I’m broken. Killing myself seemed like the only way out. But here I am, trying to stop death from being the only option.”
Jackson watched me with skeptical eyes. I couldn’t tell if it he bought the act or saw right through me. Maybe he saw a little of himself in me.
“Yeah, I get it. I’ve only thought about it—suicide, that is—but never acted on it. Honestly, I’m not sure why I’m here other than to get perspective, I guess.”
But I knew why he was here. To be honest, I was surprised that this was where he led me as I followed him, two cars behind, from his work. I didn’t take him for feeling guilty about his secrets. Scared of getting caught, yes. But remorse, no. Regardless of why he was here, he was a monster that needed to be wiped off the face of the earth. If not by his own hand, then by mine.
I introduced myself with a fake name, waiting for a polite exchange.
“I’m Joe,” he replied. Another liar like me.
“This seat taken?” On the other side of me stood a woman with long, silky raven hair, parted in the middle and ironing-board straight. She reminded me of Morticia Addams, but the blue eyes on her pale, oval face were intelligent and friendly—and she wore jeans and blouse from the Gap, not a hobble-skirted dress with octopus tentacles at the hem.
“Nope, it’s all yours.”
She extended her hand to me as she sat and I shook it. “Destiny Childs. Suicide survivor. Though I lost a daughter to it. You’re new, right?”
I nodded. “Yep, first time here.”
“Nervous?”
“Not really.”
“It can be overwhelming at first, y’know, sharing your history, your pain. But I’ll tell you, it’s healing. It helped me work through a lot of crap after losing Clarissa, finding peace and acceptance of what happened. We can’t change the past, but we can shape the future.”
She sounded like a walking billboard for the group, but I didn’t want to offend her, so I smiled instead.
“I hope that’s true. I guess that’s why I’m here—to shape the future. Make it better.”
She touched my shoulder lightly. “Good for you.”
Yes, good for me and the rest of society. But not so good for Jackson—I mean Joe.
Jackson Jones had been quiet after his initial vague introduction, fidgeting in his seat and glancing at the clock every few minutes. As soon as the hour-long session was over, he rushed out the large glass double doors of the church where the meetings were held like he was on fire. I knew the truth, though. I knew the darkness that clawed its way out of him, peeling off his morality like a snake shedding its skin.
I followed closely behind. A bright streetlight bathed the parking lot in harsh white. All the other members of the group had remained inside for fellowship and refreshments.
“Hey, Joe,” I called out. By now he had stopped at his car door and was unlocking it.
At first he attempted to ignore me—or didn’t recognize the fake name he’d used—so I yelled louder. “Joe, right?”
This time he looked up as he opened his car door. “Yeah?”
“Any chance you’re heading near Oleander Way?” I knew the uppity neighborhood was where he lived, so he’d be lying if he said no. Plus someone who lived on Oleander Way certainly wouldn’t have the need to rob him, if that’s what he was worried about.
“Uhh ...” Jackson faltered, glanced away from me into the darkness that began to shroud us.
I waited a beat, then added, “My friend dropped me off and is borrowing my car, but I can’t seem to reach him now. I was hoping to hitch a ride home, if it’s not out of your way. If it’s a problem, no biggie. I can see if anyone else is driving that way. Or just wait until my friend comes to get me.” I added the last part as an extra guilt trip.
He exhaled, turned to me, then nodded toward the car. “Oleander Way, you said? Yeah. Alright. Get in. I’ll drop you off.”
“Thank you so much. I appreciate this.” I ran around to the passenger side door and hopped in.
After giving him a fake address three doors down from where he lived, my heart drummed the whole way there. Lucky for me Jackson kept to himself and didn’t know that a Ms. Eller, a wealthy dowager, actually lived there.
Despite the risk of taking him out virtually in his front yard, I wanted him close to home when his dead body was discovered; I wanted his wife to find the beast she married put down like an animal. It was poetic justice that the man who brought evil into his home died in his own hoity-toity neighborhood.
Not a soul was about as Jackson piloted his whisper-quiet Lexus through the empty streets. Sweat beaded on my lip and I soaked it up with my sleeve. The adrenalin rush—anticipation of the kill—was both intoxicating and sobering.
As he pulled up to the curb, I unbuckled my seatbelt then slid my hand into my jeans pocket, feeling for the familiar slickness of the utility knife’s handle. Cool in my clammy palm, I gripped it tightly and pulled out the blade, resting the razor edge against my outer thigh as Jackson parked the car.
“Thanks again, Jackson,” I said, only a moment too late realizing my slipup. Unfortunately, Jackson noticed it too.
“How do you know my real name?” His voice was gravelly with anger and he turned to me with a hard stare.
I couldn’t waste another moment. Lunging across the seat, I jammed the index finger and thumb of my left hand into his eye sockets and squeezed. He flailed his arms and screamed girlishly as my knife hand sought his neck. A random blow sent me flying against the passenger-side window. For an infinitesimal moment I saw the raw terror in his eyes before I bounced back at him. With a feral cry I pulled the short blade across the bastard’s neck with a satisfying snik. A bright red necklace sprouted on his throat, where the Adam’s apple rose and fell convulsively. I felt my fingers lace around my own neck sympathetically. In the rearview mirror I glimpsed my avid expression and wicked grin.
His cries ceased almost immediately, drowning into a bubbly gurgle.
“Why?” he rasped. The word was short and wet, a final question that the world would never answer. Blood soaked the collar of his Eton shirt as he slumped against the door, his eyelids fluttering then closing.
Although veiled by evening on an empty street, I felt the urgency to get the hell out of Dodge. I needed only a minute more to clean up after my mess. In my back pocket I had brought alcohol pads to wipe away my fingerprints. Ripping open a packet, I ran the alcohol pad over Jackson’s eyes, then pulled my sleeve over my hand and opened the door, swiping the cloth over the handles inside and out. I’d worn all black to mask any blood spatter, but I couldn’t help but break into a jog to put as much distance between me and Jackson as quickly as possible. Only when I found myself two blocks over did I finally slow my pace, and that’s when I hit the wall of regret.
I’d just killed another person. A human being.
I didn’t even give him a chance to say goodbye to his wife or to explain why he did what he did.
I was becoming just like the monsters I loathed.
And yet I suddenly felt unstoppable.
Chapter 7 Ari
If I were to imagine millions of tiny, hairy spiders crawling all over my skin, that’s what it felt like the moment I saw him: George Battan, his wire-rimmed glasses slipping down his sweaty nose, dwarfed in a faded orange jumpsuit, being led into the visitor’s room by a mammoth black guard. The man’s boxy shaved head sat on the stump of his neck, forming a single ebony monolith. His V-shaped torso tapered down to a slim waist. Admiring his python arms, I pictured him snapping Ge
orge Battan’s swizzle stick body in half over one of his tree trunk legs. The guard caught me smiling. I looked guiltily away from his flinty stare.
“Fifteen minutes, Battan.” The basso profundo voice reeked with unquestioned authority.
Battan’s chair squealed as it scraped against the concrete floor. A cool metal table connected us, while a wall-to-wall piece of Plexiglas kept him safely tucked away where I couldn’t strangle him. I bit back the urge to drive my fist through the plastic and wipe the shit-eating grin off his smug face.
Two chairs down from me a young mother holding her infant son played peek-a-boo with Daddy through the glass. Despite the miasma of violence and animalistic survival that permeated the place, the family laughed as if the world around them had melted away and it was just them enjoying family time in their living room.
I felt oddly at home in this cinderblock shell, probably from years of growing up in the foster system and being shuffled from facility to facility. Hostile and sterile, it represented my view of the world, of my heart. But Tristan was slowly, steadily chipping away the rough edges, reviving every part of me, even parts I didn’t know I had.
George picked up the phone on his side; I followed suit. “Ari Wilburn. Slumming in the ol’ slammer, are we? I hope you didn’t come empty-handed.” George leaned forward and folded his thin arms on the table with a casualness that annoyed me. The man was in jail and he acted like we were chatting over breakfast at the Waffle House.
The scent of betrayal wafted over me; I hoped Tristan would forgive me for my secret visit without him today, but it was something I needed to do on my own. I didn’t want him there no matter how much he felt he needed to protect me. At breakfast this morning I had forgotten to mention that I planned to visit Battan. Well, maybe forgotten wasn’t the right word. A simple omission. I’d tell him after the fact. It was easier to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission, not that I needed his permission. I was a grown-ass woman, for crying out loud. I was allowed to visit an inmate if I wanted to ... even though this inmate happened to be the one I would be testifying against soon. I made sure not to mention that when I requested the visit.
“I’m here on business, so don’t get too excited. And it’s not being recorded, in case you were wondering.”
“When they told me I had a visitor, I never imagined it would be you. I almost didn’t believe them. I didn’t expect you to care so much. But this is a nice treat.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not here to stroke your ego or retract my testimony, in case you were hoping.”
“No pleasantries? Oh Ari, you’re no fun. Always one to cut to the chase.”
“Look, I don’t want to be here any more than you want to see me. But we’ve run into a ... situation. One that we could maybe help each other with.”
He leaned back, arms still folded, eyes narrowing on me. Those beady eyes made my skin crawl. “I’m listening.”
“Right now you’re only facing maybe seven to ten years for child sex trafficking. And with good behavior, they might offer you early parole. But what if I told you I had evidence you killed Marla Rivers that could put you behind bars for life?”
“I’d say you’re bluffing,” he sniffed. But the sudden sickly pallor of his face told me much more.
“Is that a risk you’re willing to take?”
“You said this was a situation we could help each other with. This doesn’t sound like you’re helping me at all.” He massaged his face with surprisingly long and elegant hands, restoring the pink color. His cool demeanor unsettled me. I was dancing with the devil.
“Here’s where that comes into play. You know who has Giana Alvarez, Tina’s baby. Give me a name and I’ll see what I can do to keep murder off your rap sheet.”
“Considering I know you don’t have evidence on me, this isn’t a deal, Ari. This is child’s play. You’re not ready for the big leagues, little girl. Are we done now?”
I couldn’t give up so easily. “George, please. What do you have to lose by giving me a name?”
Battan made a strange hooting in his throat that made me sit back in my chair. The sound exploded into raucous cackling, like the crazy vocalizations of a barred owl that, as a little girl, I’d heard one night outside the bedroom window of one of my many foster homes. It took me a moment to realize he was laughing. Even the hulking black guard seemed dismayed and shuffled his feet a little nervously, I thought.
“Oh, you have so much to learn. You should know by now that I don’t fold when I have a winning hand.”
“But you did kill Marla, and I will prove it.”
He leaned forward, pointing his finger and resting the tip against the glass. “Just remember what you’re threatening, Ari. If you try to pin that on me, you’re taking your father down with me. Is that what you want? To put your own flesh and blood behind bars for life ... or worse? They don’t take too kindly to child killers in these parts.” His breath left a frosty film on the windowpane.
The guard approached from behind George, lifting him by his shoulders from his seat like a doll.
“Quit your jibba jabba, Battan. Time to go.”
Before backing away, he pointed at me. Then with his fingertip he wrote in the condensation that still clung to the glass, the digit sliding across the surface like he relished every second of my suspense as each letter was painstakingly formed, backward from his perspective, readable from mine:
DIE, ARI.
“Is that a threat, asshole?” I yelled back at him, slamming my fist against the Plexiglas, my cheeks burning. The guard shot me a warning look.
George snickered, pleased he’d riled me. “No, Ari, what you got in the mail—now that’s a threat.”
Chapter 8 Ari
Child Trafficker Linked to Murder
Durham, North Carolina
In addition to facing child trafficking charges filed last month, George Battan has been indicted for the murder of Marla Rivers, the ten-year-old daughter of Bill and Justine Rivers. After going missing December 6, 2013, Rivers’ remains were recovered in Eno River Park on June 8, 2015, when a hiker stumbled upon a shallow grave. Dental records confirmed the skeletal remains were those of the missing child.
“I had always hoped Marla was out there somewhere, alive,” a grieving Justine Rivers commented. “At least now I can lay my baby girl to rest.”
After almost a year of no leads, the Durham Police Department received a tip that Battan was behind the murder. According to an anonymous eyewitness testimony, Rivers had been held hostage by Battan at a Durham residence and forced into a child prostitution ring. Investigators are currently looking into the authenticity of the claims.
Burt Wilburn, manager of SunTrust Bank Durham branch, was later brought in for questioning, although the nature of his involvement is undisclosed. Investigators are currently pursuing all leads that could give closure to the Rivers family.
“All we want is whoever killed Marla to get what they deserve,” Bill Rivers told the press in an interview yesterday. “A murderer is still on the loose, and we intend to do whatever it takes to stop him from making another family go through the pain that we’ve gone through.”
Any additional information should be reported to the Durham Police Department.
**
As I read the article in the News & Observer on my back porch that afternoon, I saw red. Tina, you friggin’ idiot, what the hell were you thinking? By incriminating Battan and mentioning my father, she was leading the cops straight to my father’s door, when really what did she know? A vague memory of a mustached man who may or may not have been my father taking Giana from her over three years ago. How could she be so sure it was Burt? Lots of guys had mustaches ...
Despite what my dad had done to me, giving up on me, tossing me to the wolves as a child, he was still my father. My flesh. My blood. My memories. The one who kissed my skinned knee after I had fallen off my bike. The one who carried me on his shoulders at the zoo so I could see the lions, tigers,
and bears, oh my. The one who taught me to body surf the waves during day trips to Wrightsville Beach. Although the years had faded my memories to gray, I couldn’t step aside while my father took the heat for Battan’s crimes ... not until I knew the truth.
People of power and means like Battan had their ways of throwing others under the bus. I couldn’t let my father be his scapegoat while Battan got a slap on the wrist. Now that Tina leaked this to the press, it’d be an uphill battle to cover it back up, pack it down, until I could find out exactly how my father was involved. In the meantime, Tina would be getting an earful from me about it.
**
It was a North Carolinian late spring, the brief balmy season between when the winter chill drove you indoors to seek warmth and the summer heat drove you indoors to the air conditioning. For a few precious weeks I could sit on my porch in shorts and a T-shirt without sweating myself damp in minutes. I wanted to enjoy the woods-scented breeze, the song of the whip-poor-will, the sprouts of color lining the concrete walkways.
And yet Tina, in her passive-aggressive way, managed to ruin it for me. While the tulip poplars were in full majestic bloom, adorned with orange and yellow flowers, and tiny vetch blossoms carpeted the earth in purple, all I felt was angry red.
I pushed the pile of lacy bras, skinny jeans, and strappy tank tops from the torn love seat cushion to the floor. Tina’s thick mascara rimmed her eyes like she’d slept in it, and her dark roots poking out beneath her at-home blond dye job were a loud cry for a trip to the hairdresser.
A hidden bag of Doritos Cool Ranch chips crunched and crackled under my butt as I sat down in a pile of crumbs.
“Don’t you ever clean up? This place is a dump.” I grimaced at the stench of rotting Chinese takeout and stale pizza. I moved an empty mug aside, unsticking it from the cheap Ollie’s coffee table I’d bought her, leaving a brown tacky ring of what I assumed had been coffee once upon a time.