A Long December

by Richard Chizmar

  “You were going to leave me,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.

  “I loved her, Kerri. Damn it, I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I fell in love with her. Can’t you understand—”

  “Love!” she spat. “What the hell do you know about love? You fell in love with me after only a month. Remember that, loverboy? Calling me day and night. Writing me all those letters. You remember that?”

  Bobby hung his head. Said nothing.

  “Hell, I should have killed you right along with her,” she hissed.

  There was a long stretch of silence then, maybe one or two full minutes. Bobby stared at the ground; Kerri stared at Bobby; I stared at Kerri. No one spoke. No one moved. And then:

  “You know, it was a lot easier than I thought it would be,” she said. “Killing her, I mean.”

  “Stop it,” Bobby said.

  “No, really. It was a piece of cake.”

  “Stop it!”

  “I mean all I did was push her down and squeeze the trigger. Didn’t even aim. Just pointed and shot her right in the goddamn head.”

  “STOP IT!”

  “And the blood. Jesus, it was—”

  Bobby lost it then.

  He let out a scream that wasn’t quite human and dove over Amanda’s corpse. He crashed onto Kerri’s chest, and they fell hard to the ground and rolled into the shadows. There was the unmistakable sound of flesh striking flesh, but I couldn’t tell who was hitting whom. Then, I saw it—a glint of metal in the moonlight. The gun. Lying in the dirt. I dove toward it. And then we were all fighting for it. Rolling. Scratching. Kicking. Punching.

  A finger gouged my eye.

  Kerri screamed in my ear.

  Someone pulled my hair.

  I felt a hand grab me between the legs and squeeze.

  A wave of nausea hit and my vision went spotty…

  A gunshot roared in the night.

  Then another.

  Two sharp cracks.

  I rolled free, onto my back, and felt something hot and sticky running down my arm.

  High above us, a barn owl screeched and took flight from the treetops, and I watched as it flew across the face of the moon…

  TEN

  I was the only survivor. I suppose I should tell you that right up front. And, although I survived to tell this story, it doesn’t have a happy ending. At least, not in the traditional sense.

  They took me to Parkton General Hospital with a bullet wound to the shoulder. A clean wound, the doctor called it. No muscle or nerve damage. He said I was very lucky. Nonetheless, Janice cried so hard I thought they were going to have to admit her into the next bed. That afternoon, her mother drove down to stay with the kids, and Janice and I spent Halloween night watching Twilight Zone reruns on the hospital television. After a few days, the doctors sent me home.

  In deference to the families, Sheriff Cain tried to keep the story out of the press, but he should have known better. It was the biggest news story in the history of Sparta, and it even made the newspapers as far up north as Boston. There was a rumor floating around town for a couple of weeks that one of those tabloid television programs was coming down to do a story. But they never did show up, and I (and a whole bunch of other folks) were grateful for that.

  Predictably, the out-of-town newspapers and television people went hot and heavy on the love triangle aspect. The headlines ranged from SEX-CRAZED CHEERLEADER GOES ON RAMPAGE to TEENAGE LUST LEADS TO BETRAYAL AND MURDER. They used yearbook photos and maps of Sparta and one channel even used videotapes that had turned up missing two weeks earlier from the high school.

  For a few weeks—right up until around Thanksgiving—it was a real mess. Reporters all over the place, asking questions, badgering folks for comments. Curious strangers running loose around town. People calling the house at all hours. Knocking on the front door. Taking pictures. They even had to block the entrance to the parking lot behind the old post office. And when that didn’t keep the reporters and the sightseers out, they had to string up a barbwire fence, for God’s sake. Seems like a waste of money to me, though. I heard they’re planning to start construction in a month or two on the brand new shopping plaza. I also heard Wal-Mart is moving in, so at least that’s something.

  Just for the record, in case you’ve been on the moon and haven’t heard, here’s the story exactly as they reported it (some were racier than others, but all the reports essentially said the same thing): a seventeen-

  year-old cheerleader from a small town in North Carolina kills her classmate in a jealous rage and convinces her unfaithful boyfriend to dispose of the body. Then, after overhearing the drunken and remorseful boyfriend confess to a teacher at a high school dance, the girl kidnaps them both at gunpoint and forces them to drive to the woods where the body is hidden. Once there, she shoots the boyfriend to death, wounds the teacher, and finally is killed herself in a struggle for the gun. The shaken English instructor is the only witness, and he’s not talking to the press. His only statement, issued through the local sheriff’s department: “A tragedy. Plan and simple. A dark night for this town. A night best forgotten…”

  And that’s pretty much it, the story I told the police after they rushed me to the hospital—all summed up, nice and neat.

  They called it self-defense. A clear-cut case.

  The police and the lawyers agreed. Without question.

  Even Kerri Johnson’s mother and father took the time to send over a card to the house. They scribbled inside that they’d heard at the church that I was having problems coming to grips with what had happened. Reassured me that I was not to blame for their daughter’s death. That it had been “self-defense,” and that she had brought it upon herself through “unholy actions.” The bottom had been signed LOVE, RICH & TERRY. Like a Christmas card.

  You know, self-defense is a nifty little concept when you really stop and think about it. It can mean an awful lot of things to an awful lot of people.

  Truth is, if I do just that, if I stop and think about it long enough, I can almost bring myself to believe in it. Just like all the others.

  But then the dreams come.

  And I see only truth…

  My shoulder is bleeding pretty badly, but strangely enough, it doesn’t hurt. Not even a twinge of discomfort. I’m standing in the shadows with the gun in my hand. I’m not sure how the gun got there, only that at some point during the struggle I’d rolled onto my back and there it was.

  Bobby is behind me, face-down in the brush, dead or dying from a point-black shot to the back of the head. And there, lying at my feet, is Kerri. Smiling up at me.

  I stand there for a long time, staring down at her. At her smile. At her eyes.

  And, once again, I think of Janice and my children. I think of this town I call my home. I think of my school and the kids I have taught there. Finally, I think of Amanda Hathaway and, from the corner of my eye, I glimpse her still body.

  I look back to Kerri—in one night, this girl has taken away so much from me.

  And still she lies there smiling. Unhurt. Unremorseful.

  I take a step forward and raise the gun. Her smile turns into a sneer.

  One step closer.

  And I pull the trigger.

  Kerri jerks once on the ground and immediately starts groaning.

  It’s an ugly sound, and I want it to stop.

  I kneel down next to her and look into her eyes…and see nothing. Nothing worth saving.

  So I pull the trigger once more…

  It’s summer now and Sparta is a magical place once again. The grass is thick and green. The hills are alive and sparkling with nature’s touch. Every day the sun seems to shine a little brighter.

  Just yesterday, the four of us went on a late morning picnic down to Broad Creek. There was no one else there and, for a time, it felt like we were the only ones living and breathing in the entire world. Josh caught three catfish and a sunnie before he got tired and took a nap on a stretched-out blanket i
n the shade. We took off the baby’s shoes and dipped her tiny feet in the cool, bubbling water and marveled at the smiles it brought about. After lunch, Janice picked a bouquet of fresh flowers and they now decorate our dining room table.

  For the longest time, I sat in the sunshine and watched my family. And thanked God for blessing me with so much.

  Janice smiles more often now, and she says I do the same. She thinks I’m finally leaving the bad memories behind, and I have to agree with her.

  Still, sometimes my sleep is troubled and I find myself dreaming of that terrible night back in October.

  And in these dreams, I see their faces.

  Amanda Hathaway, eyes closed forever.

  Bobby Wilcox, weeping and afraid.

  And Kerri Johnson…smiling at me with the eyes of a monster.

  I don’t dream as often now, and I’m thankful for that. One day I hope to stop completely. One day I hope to forget.

  But in the meantime, I’m still father and husband and teacher. I’ve also become a celebrity of sorts around here—albeit a reluctant one. And I still go out and drive some nights. Just not very often now; maybe once or twice a month. Janice still understands, but she worries about me.

  I worry about her, too.

  And the kids.

  I worry about a lot of things.

  Bride of Frankenstein:

  A Love Story

  CLASSIFIED MATERIAL

  The following are excerpts from a journal found in the suspect’s residence:

  June 3

  The time has finally come and I can barely contain my excitement. After weeks of careful planning and preparation, I am almost ready to proceed. I brought in the final load of equipment and supplies from the university early this morning, and I found what I needed from the hospital clinic yesterday. Everyone at the hospital acted delighted to see me, of course, but I could tell they were uncomfortable with having to face me after all this time. They were stiff and serious, and so careful with their words; even the expressions on their faces were fragile masks. I know they were laughing behind those masks. They have always laughed at me. The final piece of equipment is due to arrive here at the house some time tomorrow after lunch. UPS has been very good to me. The basement looks wonderful and is well on its way to becoming fully operational. I must remember, though, to buy a couple of big fans later this week; I’ll have to scrub the floor some more, too, to keep the dust down. The air downstairs is much too musty to work in for long stretches of time, but that should clear up. The overhead lights I picked up were a good fit, but I’ll need at least one more. It’s all finally coming together.

  June 6

  If I am discovered, they will surely think I am mad. Of that, I am quite certain. But they do not share my vision, and they do not feel my pain. Of that, I am also certain. I do not concern myself with the danger of discovery; I plan to be painstakingly careful. Besides, there are so many other things that call for my attention. Strangely, I find myself wondering what my peers would think if they could take a peek into my secret world. I think of that arrogant bastard Fred Benson, his tiny rat face squinting in the bright basement light. Eyes flashing wide when he finally realizes exactly what it is he is seeing, grabbing his heart and swooning the way he does when he wishes to make one of his dramatic scenes. I especially like to envision what the ice princess Jennifer Taylor’s reaction might be. I crack up just thinking about that! She would probably take one look and drop stone cold to the floor. What a sight that would be! But all of this is harmless curiosity. Of course, I do not care for their opinions. They never did understand. Sure, they acted compassionate for a time. Expressed what seemed like genuine sympathy. Told me to keep my chin up. But, then, when I didn’t bounce back to their idea of a normal functioning human on their own damn timetable, they sent Charlie Cavanaugh—as if that moron knew anything at all about the pains of lost love—out to the house to give me the old “life goes on” speech. No, sir. They know nothing of my misery. Nothing of the darkness that has enveloped my heart.

  The lab is complete now. Everything seems in fine order. Tomorrow is Saturday. I will make my move in the morning.

  June 8

  It was so easy! So damn easy! If a single sliver of doubt that my vision was true and honorable existed before yesterday’s events, it is certainly gone now. This must be my destiny! I am so filled this beautiful spring morning with hope and wonder and the tingle of sweet, sweet memories, I feel I could burst! Yesterday was as mentally numbing and physically exhausting as any day I have ever known, but after just a few hours of sleep, I feel more than sufficiently rested. Indeed, I feel rejuvenated, enlightened. Body and spirit.

  I found her only miles from here. A dear, sweet woman. A classic beauty with thick, flowing hair the color of sun-sprinkled wheat and the lean, tan body of an athlete. After I did what I had to do—the hardest part—I gently placed her in the back of the van and covered her with the flannel blanket Marilyn and I always used to spread for picnics. Drove carefully home and backed into the garage. Carried her in through the breezeway and down into the basement. Spent most of the night checking and rechecking the system, then hooking her up. Today will be a busy day.

  June 9

  Spent the past eighteen hours with her. I’m drained, but not at all discouraged. If I am to break new ground here, I must remain strong. Looking at her, I can’t help but daydream about Marilyn—wonder what we would be doing if she hadn’t left me…what our lives would be like. I find myself thinking of one day in particular…back when I was very young, the first semester of my final year of undergrad school, I think. We’d awakened that Saturday morning in each other’s arms, eaten a light breakfast outside on the back porch. Spent the afternoon downtown, walking hand-in-hand, munching soft pretzels and snow cones, browsing in the book and record shops, playing video arcade games in one of the sidewalk mini-malls. Hours later, our legs begging for mercy, we stopped for dinner at one of our favorite Fells Point seafood restaurants and watched the boats cruise the harbor, their white and blue and red lights dancing a private show for us as we enjoyed our meals. We slowly walked the streets home, her head on my shoulder, and made wondrous love for over an hour before finally falling asleep. It had been a truly magical day, full of life’s simpler pleasures. The kind of pleasures you had to be in love to understand and fully appreciate. The kind of pleasures Marilyn blessed me with each and every day for over 35 years…and then took away so cruelly.

  June 12

  Something is wrong. It’s not working. I checked and rechecked the entire system and cannot locate a problem anywhere. I wonder if, perhaps, I am the problem. I’m not thinking clearly enough, I know that much. My vision is blurry, and I keep hearing Marilyn’s voice down there, but now I can’t understand her sometimes. It’s almost as if she’s going farther away from me instead of coming closer. And I keep seeing things…a wave of a finger, a blink of an eye, a twitch of a nose. But it’s not possible…not yet. I just need some rest tonight. That’s all. I will keep at it in the morning.

  There has been no mention of the missing woman on the television news. I’ve watched the Channel 11 spot every day, and taped the other two channels. Nothing. There was an article in the Sun, but this is the city, so something like this merits a mere three paragraphs of mention on page 9. Off to bed now. But first I’ll say a prayer that I dream of Marilyn and that I find the problem tomorrow.

  June 19

  I had no other choice…I had to go out and find two more. It wasn’t as easy as the first time. I had to drive out to the country this time, but I did it anyway. I made it back safely, and they are waiting for me in the basement. I should have known that Marilyn’s sweet voice was telling the truth—that the first woman was not the one. I was not the problem; she was. She had been telling me that all week, but I wouldn’t listen. Wouldn’t listen to anything she was saying. Now I know better and have two specimens to choose from; I only pray that one of them will work out. I’m starting to feel t
he pressure now. Things are going to heat up in a hurry, I’m sure. Three incidents in just over two weeks will make this big news by the morning paper. I can’t risk the chance of going out and finding another…please let one of them be the one!

  June 20

  Success at last! The third woman is perfect! She’s so much like Marilyn that it’s almost spooky. And her voice is so strong and clear now; so chipper and cheerful, just like when she was here with me. Before I hooked her up today, she begged me to carry her upstairs and let her sit in her favorite old chair for a while. I obliged and promised her only fifteen minutes, but ended up rocking and humming to her for over thirty. She’s safe and sound in the basement now. Finally, all the pieces are in place. Soon we will be together again!

  June 21

  Must keep it brief tonight. I haven’t felt this drained since residency, when the thought of a good night’s rest was a fool’s dream. The procedure is progressing magnificently, if a lot slower than I expected. It seems the only matter I overlooked was the lack of an assistant, and the delays that could possibly arise because of that. Nonetheless, I am supremely confident, and will continue in the morning when my strength allows. Soon, my love.

  June 23

  My God, it’s over! I’ve failed! They have come for me! The alarm is sounding upstairs, and I can hear the angry shouts of the men and the hungry cries of their dogs. They are pounding on the door and I fear they will break through at any moment! It rips my heart that I am so very close to eternal love but I will never feel her tender lips on mine ever agai—