Killer Within

by S. E. Green

  I head downstairs, and while I’m making coffee, I flip on the news.

  ANOTHER MASKED SAVIOR VICTIM

  Jesus!

  This one took place in Silver Spring, Maryland, last night. I’ve never been to Silver Spring. A homeless teen was found tasered, zip-tied, and beaten to near death by a baseball bat. Drugs are suspected to be involved. Witnesses report a person dressed in all black and a ski mask who can be none other than the Masked Savior.

  It occurred at ten in the evening. If Aisha was in that dark car following me last night that was between eight thirty and nine. She could’ve made it to Silver Spring and committed this act.

  The one thing I do know—it wasn’t me.

  Drugs suspected. Teen boy. Sounds like Aisha.

  The reporter goes on to detail a local task force that has been put together to blanket DC and the surrounding areas to stop the Masked Savior from continuing this string of violence.

  Great. Now I have a task force hunting “my” ass.

  I grab my laptop and bring up “my” site. Sure enough the message board is buzzing.

  [underground_jill] Homeless teen? Give me a break!

  [mean-liz] Do u really think the M.S. did this?

  [j_d_l] M.S. should be targeting whoever gave that 10-yr-old drugs.

  My thoughts exactly. Wait a minute, j_d_l left a comment before, too. I scroll back through the pages and find his other post. The M. Savior should’ve overdosed JJJ like he did those kids.

  I agreed with him then, too. I’m not sure I like that I agree with someone on my forum.

  Victor comes out of the office and lays an unopened card on the dining room table. It’s another condolence. This one’s pale blue. I hate these cards.

  “Just put it with the others,” he tells me, and I know he hates them too.

  I pick it up, see it’s postmarked Richmond as well, and open it. It’s the same handwriting, but this time addressed solely to Victor:

  My thoughts are with you and the children in this tragic time. ~Marji

  “From someone named Marji,” I say. “Who’s that?”

  He gives that some thought, then shrugs. “I don’t know. Probably someone your mom knew from work. Just put it with the others,” he says again.

  Marji. I roll that name around in my head. I don’t recall my mom ever speaking about a Marji. And why would she send me a card and then Victor one too? That doesn’t make any sense.

  I slip it under my laptop and head to my Saturday shift at Patch and Paw. I’ll see if I can figure out this Marji puzzle later. This Masked Savior copycat comes first.

  When I get to the animal hospital, I find Corn Chip in his usual spot. “Hey, C-squared.”

  He does that whole-body-wiggle thing and I melt. I love the little guy. I let him out and pick a few other dogs he likes better than the rest. We all go out to the side yard. I throw ten too many balls and smile as they yip-yap their way in a zillion different directions trying to get them all.

  “If Corn Chip’s mom ever decides to give him up, you’ll be first in line to adopt.”

  I don’t have to turn around to know Dr. Issa’s behind me. “True.”

  He takes a step closer and I close my eyes. There’s something about Dr. Issa that always stirs my insides.

  “You missed a great surgery earlier,” he says. “Wished you could’ve been here.”

  “What was it?”

  “Open heart on a German shepherd.”

  I turn around, my momentary pleasure replaced by genuine curiosity. “How was it?”

  Dr. Issa smiles. “Phenomenal.” And then he goes on to describe in detail all that was done.

  He finishes and I’m totally jealous. “Next time try to wait for me to scrub in. Please.”

  He nods. “I will.” Neither one of us says anything for a few seconds, and then he tilts his head and gives me a study. “How you holding up, Lane?”

  I’ve always found it difficult to lie to Dr. Issa. My guard seems even more down around him since killing Mom. “Pretty shitty,” I honestly tell him.

  His lips curve in amused understanding. “Great description.”

  He lost his mom years ago. Granted, he didn’t kill her, but at least he knows what it’s like to lose a mom.

  “Would you like to talk?” he offers.

  “No.” I shrug. “It felt good just saying that much.” Actually, it feels really damn good.

  “Okay.” His phone buzzes, and right before he answers, he says, “Know I’m here anytime if you change your mind.”

  “Thanks.”

  He heads off, and I do my usual shift. At the end I make my way into the medical closet and straight over to the tranquilizer section. I snag a vial off the shelf in preparation for Aisha.

  I sign out, hop on the parkway, and take it all the way to her apartment community. In a spot not illuminated by a streetlamp, I parallel park a little up from her door. I sit for a second and take things in. She’s home. I see her car.

  I do one last visual sweep of the area and get out my science homework. I try to read but it’s too dark. Plus my thoughts are scattered. I close my eyes and play through the scenarios of how this might unfold. If Aisha leaves tonight, she could go to Starbucks again. But I can’t go inside. She’s already seen me once. A second sighting will be way too suspicious.

  For all I know, she could already be out with one of her drug pals beating someone up in my name and have left her car at home. I open my eyes to check my watch at the exact second my driver’s door flies open and someone yanks me from my Jeep.

  A huge guy pushes me up against my hood. “Who are you?” He gives me a hard shove. “What do you want?”

  Fear slams into me and my whole body uncontrollably shakes.

  Don’t succumb to weakness or inferiority. I try my best to channel my aikido sensei’s words but come up blank as I stare up into the man’s narrow black eyes. What is wrong with me?

  Into my peripheral vision steps Aisha. I swallow, and way back in my brain echoes, You’re in trouble.

  “Why are you following me?” she quietly asks.

  I try to speak but am rendered mute.

  She steps closer. “I. Said. Why. Are. You. Following. Me?”

  I swallow again. “I’m not.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Let this be a warning. I catch you again, and you’ll wish you never saw my face.” She raises her dark brows. “Got it?”

  I manage a jerky nod.

  Aisha reaches forward and pinches my earlobe. “Got it?”

  “Yes,” I croak.

  Big guy grabs the front of my jacket and shoves me back in my Jeep. They stand there while I fumble with my key, jab it in the ignition, grind the car in gear, and pull away. I don’t look back once, and only after I’m several miles down the road do I pull over and release the death grip I have on my steering wheel.

  I gulp in a couple of breaths as my heart bangs in my chest cavity. Holy shit in good goddamn hell. I haven’t felt so alive in months.

  I put my fingers to the artery in my neck and feel it pulsing my pads, and my mind zings back through the years. . . .

  Screams shatter the air. Blood splatters the ceiling.

  Mom rears the knife above her head and lunges toward the woman.

  Dad turns to me, delight dancing in his eyes. “Is your heart pounding? Do you feel how alive this makes you?”

  Chapter Seven

  THE NEXT NIGHT AS I’M heading to have a little one-on-one Taser/zip-tie conversation with Aisha, ­Victor announces, “Wait right there. We’re going to church tonight.”

  Daisy, Justin, and I all look at each other. I can’t remember the last time we went to church, and, clearly, neither can my brother and sister.

  I hold up my book bag. “I was heading to—”

  “No, yo
u’re not. There’s a service tonight. Thirty minutes,” he tells us, and heads into his room to get ready.

  I don’t disguise my aggravated sigh.

  Forty-five minutes later we’re walking into McLean Worship Center. It’s packed, and we find seats in the church equivalent of the nosebleed section. No one spares us a glance, and I find the anonymity comforting.

  The sermon is on breaking free from the past. I chance a quick look up at heaven. Did God know I was going to be here today?

  The minister is saying, “As we focus and put on our new self, we will obtain freedom from that which has shackled us. Colossians . . .”

  Freedom from that which has shackled us. Why didn’t I see this before? I need to release my mom and my dad. I need to say good-bye and let their ghosts go.

  All these childhood memories I’ve been having. Taking my energies out on that cheerleader and that freshman. Freezing up with Jacks. Being taken off guard by Aisha. I’ve lost my focus. I need to get it back.

  Officially saying good-bye to my parents is the key to regaining my equilibrium and purpose.

  The sermon continues and I listen intently. Maybe this church thing isn’t so bad after all. By nine o’clock we’re back home, and I go straight to my room.

  I clear it of anything that is connected to my mom. The necklace she gave me when I was ten, the books she bought me at twelve, and the souvenirs she picked up when on business trips. Everything I can find, I gather it and put it in box.

  I crank up my laptop and delete every picture and every file of not only her as my mom, but the Decapitator as well. I don’t ever want to see anything again.

  When I come downstairs, Victor shoots me a look. “Where are you going?”

  I hold the box up. “My lab partner texted me that he needs this stuff. Mind if I make a quick run?”

  He nods. “Okay, be safe.”

  “I will.” I stop. Now would be a good time to ask. “Did you ever clear out Mom’s personal stuff from her locker?” If he did, I could dispose of it, too.

  “No.”

  I nod. I know it’s hard on him. I’ll be patient.

  He sighs. “But I will. This week. I promise.”

  “Take your time,” I encourage him, and he gives me a relieved smile.

  I’m out the door and driving to a gas station to fill up an empty gallon container. I jump on the toll road and go straight to where it all started—4 Buchold Place in Herndon.

  I sit in the yard for a few seconds remembering when I came here with my mom. She walked through the house with me, acting all normal, knowing what she and my father had done here. Knowing what they made me watch. What they made me participate in.

  Anger rolls through me, heating me to a boil, making my jaw clench and my breath come slower, deeper.

  I hate her. I hate him. I hate what they did to me. What they made me become.

  I throw my door open, stalk to the house, and use my keys to let myself in. I go straight to the room where they killed my preschool teacher and stand in the center, panting now, seething, allowing the raging fury in. To take over.

  I toss the box of mementos down, saturate the whole room with gas from the container, and open the window.

  I charge straight out the front door, pull a lighter from my pocket, flick it, lock it, and throw it in through the ajar window. The room erupts in flames, and my pulse deepens to a thick thud.

  I stand for a second, watching, soaking the heat into my face as the flames cleanse me. Renew me. I am my parents’ daughter. I am a killer. But I am nothing like them. Nor will I ever be. I will not carry on their twisted legacy.

  I am me. I am justified.

  A siren pierces the air and I move, not even glancing back as I pull away. I don’t have enough time to fit an Aisha visit in, so I drive straight home to find Daisy waiting in my room.

  “I’m ready to ‘part ways,’ ” she tells me.

  “Excuse me?”

  She laughs a little and it reminds me of the old Daisy. “I’m ready to be a big girl again. I’m moving back into my room. And I’m going to start eating lunch with my friends again. No more bugging you.”

  “You weren’t bugging me,” I fib.

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I was.”

  I smile. “Well, just don’t go back to being a bitch.”

  Daisy gives me a playful punch.

  “Hey!”

  And then she wraps her arms around me. “I love you, Lane.”

  I hug her back, harder than I recall ever hugging her before. “I love you, too.”

  She heads out and I sit on the edge of my bed. It seems that sermon did us all some good.

  Victor knocks on my door.

  “Come in.”

  He hands me a business card. “Listen, I know you don’t like Dr. Depof. So I’m hereby giving you permission to not go anymore.”

  I almost fall over in shock, but glance at the business card instead. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a group thing. Thought you might like that better. If you go, it’d be just you going, no family. It’s a mixture of people who have lost loved ones.”

  Yes, but is it a mixture of people who have killed their loved ones? “Do you want me to go?”

  “I would very much like that, but I’ll leave the ultimate decision up to you.”

  I look up into his caring eyes and see how much this means to him. “Okay, I’ll give it a try.”

  He smiles, and my heart relaxes at his relief. “Good night, then.”

  “Good night, Dad.”

  He turns back. “I really love it when you call me Dad. Thank you for that.”

  Mom always insisted I call him Victor. She was adamant he was my stepfather. I never realized it until now, but I bet that hurt him. And it gives me one more reason to despise her.

  From now on I will always call Victor Dad. Because the truth is, he’s more of a parent than my real ones ever were.

  Chapter Eight

  THE NEXT MORNING DURING FIRST block TA, Zach finds me in the library. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey.”

  “Can we talk?”

  In my experience that question rarely prefaces a positive conversation. “Okay.”

  He blows out a nervous breath that makes me even more curious as to what he wants to say. “We haven’t really talked-talked since everything happened, and I was hoping we could have a little heart-to-heart.”

  I give him my full attention.

  He pulls the chair out beside me and takes a seat. “It’s not a big secret that I had the world’s biggest crush on you.”

  I catch the word “had.” And . . . “crush”? I wouldn’t call what we had a crush. We had sex. That qualifies as more than a crush in my mind, but I continue listening.

  “The thing is, I like you. Sometimes I like you too much. And that freaks me out. Especially with our history.”

  Is he talking about me beating up his ex-girlfriend, Belinda? Or maybe he’s talking about the fact he was strapped naked to a table, about to be killed, and my mom “rescued” him.

  “I keep thinking we can maybe get back to where we were or pick up where we left off or whatever, but it’s not going to work. I’ve discussed this with my therapist, and that’s why I’m here talking to you. I’m choosing honesty over avoidance.”

  Everyone seems to have a therapist these days.

  “Have you thought about this at all?” he asks.

  No, not really. I don’t reply with this, though, and instead am brutally honest. “Zach, I like you. I trust you. But I don’t want to date you.” I can’t date anybody. I have way too much going on inside this bizarre head of mine. “I do, however, want another orgasm.”

  His face turns slightly red.

  I shrug. “Just being honest.”

  He laughs a litt
le. “That right there is why I fell so hard for you from the get-go. However, my services are not for hire.”

  I give his joke a smile. “I get that.”

  We stare at each other for a few long seconds as his laughter gradually fades away. Something in the air shifts between us, making me wonder what he’s going to say next.

  He sighs and looks away. “I don’t want to be friends. I mean, I want to, but I can’t. I’m sorry.” He brings his eyes back to mine. “Please don’t ask me to do you any more favors. I don’t want to be mean to you; I’ll acknowledge you when I see you, but I don’t want to talk anymore. This is something I have to do for me and my recovery. And I’m going to tell Daisy not to call me anymore too.”

  Recovery? He hasn’t gone back to drinking, has he? “Zach . . .” Wow, I’m speechless.

  He stands. “Maybe someday . . .” He gives his head a quick shake. “No. I’m getting sidetracked, again, which is so easy to do with you. Okay, see you around.”

  I watch him walk back across the library, and with each step emptiness knocks around inside me. I don’t want to be friends. I’m floored. I can’t believe he actually said that.

  But . . . I get it. I wish I didn’t, but I do. He knows what he needs to do to heal—to move on. It sucks that it’s staying away from me. But, yeah, I get it.

  The question is: What do I need?

  I need to stop Aisha and this copycat thing. I also need to find out who Marji is.

  That night I find my stepdad in the office looking through all the condolence cards I had put away. His sad expression sends a pang through my heart. “You okay?” I quietly ask.

  He closes the latest one, the one from that Marji woman. “Yes, fine.” He gives me a fake smile. “Heading out?”

  I hesitate. Yes, I want to, but maybe he needs me here.

  “Go,” he encourages me, seemingly reading my mind. “Everything’s fine.”

  I still hesitate.

  “Seriously.” He laughs a little. “Go.”

  “Okay . . . but can I borrow your car? My heater’s not working too well.” Plus, Aisha won’t know me in his car.

  “Oh, well, let’s make sure we get it checked.”