by David Beers
“You think he’s going to be dumb enough to use a card, wherever he went?” Susan said.
“I don’t know, but do you have any other ideas?”
Susan paused for a second. “Cell-phone?”
“Let’s look at that, too. Maybe we can get his last location.”
7
A Portrait of a Young Man
The sky was a beautiful blue, and despite the last few days, Cindy felt happy looking up at it. She lay her head on John’s chest, feeling it move slowly up and down beneath her. Neither of them spoke much in the past ten or fifteen minutes, and Cindy thought John might have fallen asleep. She didn’t move to check though, because she didn’t want to break this moment. A blanket lay under and another on top of them; the day was unseasonably warm, but the cool air could still bite if they let it.
Cindy was nervous about what she wanted to ask; she really didn’t know what to say. She had given it a tremendous amount of thought, though, and knew she wanted to talk about it. She just needed to work up the courage.
“You awake?” she said.
“Barely.”
“You seem better today.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. She didn’t believe him, though, that he didn’t understand what she was talking about.
“Just … nothing. It’s not important. I’ve been thinking about something but I’m kind of scared to say anything.”
“What is it?” he said and Cindy heard the apprehension.
Why is he like this all the time? Anything I say and he starts to worry, like he’s hiding something.
Don’t start thinking about that. Not right now. Let it go.
Cindy closed her eyes and listened to John’s heartbeat.
“Well?” he said.
“Would you want to,” she smiled and then giggled at the awkwardness. “Would you want to … ahh … it feels so weird saying it. The hell, do you want to do it?”
John laughed. “It? As in it it?”
“The same,” Cindy said still smiling like she just placed first in a race.
“You want to?”
She nodded against his body. “I do. Do you?”
“I think I might like that,” he said and laughed again. “You’re serious right now, because if this is a bait and switch, I’m …”
She heard his pause, a brief thing, but there none-the-less.
“… Going to be pissed.”
“No bait and switch. I’m serious,” she said.
John was quiet for a few seconds, perhaps as long as a minute, but each second seemed to stretch longer than the next. She didn’t know what else to say and didn’t know what was going on inside his head. Silence and the faint sound of wind somewhere in the distance.
“When do you want to?” he said finally.
Cindy pushed herself up—smiling—and kissed him.
* * *
Harry stood in the distance, watching John and his girlfriend lay under a blanket. The only idiots out there, as everyone else on campus was smart enough to know the weather was too cold.
They looked happy together, though they weren’t talking much.
Harry liked that. Harry wanted John to be happy. Because it would make what Harry had planned so much sweeter.
“You awake?”
Harry heard the question and he took a few steps forward. He wasn’t going to venture so near that John could see him, because John was close to fucking everything up. He walked around like some kind of goddamn serial killer last weekend when they went to that fair or whatever. He hadn’t been able to take a joke, that was for sure. Like, he should be enjoying this as much as Harry, but instead he acted like killing this chick would end his life.
Harry didn’t get it.
Harry didn’t really care either.
His objectives here were extremely clear, and John wasn’t getting on board. So Harry had to figure out just how in the hell to get him on board.
He listened as the two spoke, listened closely.
The two soon-to-be lovers were discussing sex.
Harry smiled.
Could this get any more perfect? God, Harry loved this shit.
Did John want to have sex? Was this girl serious? John’s hormones were pumping like a cheetah’s legs as it chased an antelope on an open plain.
Yes, he would love to stick his dingus in your shingus, Cindy. Don’t be silly!
Harry would like that to happen very much, too. He hadn’t been joking when he said he wanted Cindy to be his first. Harry had wanted her to be his first kill too, but things didn’t work out that way. No worries. What did Rocky do? He always got back up when he got knocked down; that was the American Way. So Harry rolled with the punches and he was fine with Cindy being John’s second … No, you missed the second, dummy … third kill.
But she could still be his first lay.
Yes, yes, yes. That would be great, without a doubt. And then they’d kill her.
Harry was barely listening now. The excitement in his mind grew like a steroid stuffed chicken. John would say yes and then they could do the dirty and then Harry could …
Pop up! Hello! Hi! How is everyone? John, you ready to get this thing started? You got your dick wet, now let’s see if we can’t get our shoes wet with a little of Ms. Cindy’s blood!
Harry clapped as Cindy lifted her face to John and kissed his lips. The clap was soft, so that only Harry could hear it, but the happiness was there—oh yes.
* * *
Landstat sat in his car and looked at the restaurant. He was parked on the street opposite. He could see inside through the windows, and when he put binoculars to his eyes he could watch the kid eat.
Well, the two of them.
John Hilt had a pretty little thing with him.
So far, Landstat hadn’t seen a single thing to give him concern. The boy walked to the girl’s dorm room, met her at the front, and then they walked to this diner. Landstat wrote it all down in his notebook, including times and what the two wore. Maybe the kid was a killer, but maybe Vondi was a little off his rocker also. Landstat had never trailed a killer before; most of his assignments were cheating spouses or lost loved ones. Which meant Landstat didn’t consider himself an expert on how murderers looked or what they did, but the kid appeared normal enough.
How long do you want me to follow him? he had asked Vondi.
Until you’re sure nothing is going on.
That could take some time, which was fine with Landstat.
He put his binoculars down as the boy and girl stood up from their table, done with their burgers apparently.
He watched them leave the diner and walk down the street. He didn’t move his car, not until they took a left heading back toward campus. Then he turned the key in the ignition and crept along, making sure not to lose them.
* * *
Sometimes John was a goddamn idiot. That’s what Harry thought, at least. He loved the guy, truly, but Christ, how did he miss so many obvious things?
The whole night he had been so incredibly infatuated with his girlfriend that he hadn’t seen the car showing up everywhere they went. It was like John purposefully refused to notice.
Not Harry, though.
Where John failed, Harry succeeded. Harry kept his eyes peeled and looked at the details, because if he didn’t, trouble would find John long before Harry had what he wanted.
He didn’t know when that would be, nor did he care. Just as long as …
Fuck it.
He let John drop Cindy off before coming out of the shadows. Spooking him around his girl was bad enough, but doing that and telling him someone was following them? Oh Lord, John was too sensitive for that.
“Hey,” Harry said from John’s right.
He smiled a little as John jumped.
“How do you keep letting me scare you? Who else is going to follow you around this late?”
“Someone wanting to hurt me,” John said, turning back to the concrete path leading to his dorm.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, accctualllyyy,” Harry said.
“We’re not hurting her.” John kept his head down and his hands shoved in his pocket.
“I’m not talking about the bride to be. You’re being followed.”
John laughed, a disrespectful, dismissive thing. Harry loved it.
“I’m serious, man. You got someone looking at you. You haven’t noticed because you’ve been thinking about getting your pecker into missy, but you’re missing a lot. Kinda one track minded, aren’t ya?”
John still didn’t look at him, but just kept pushing forward. “Who would be looking for me over here?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking a lot about it, but I can’t figure out why anyone would. Doesn’t change the fact they are, though.”
“Where are they now?”
“They’re always one street behind. But wait until we make a left on the main road. You’ll see the car come peering around about a hundred yards back.”
They walked in silence, Harry a few feet behind, whistling into the cold darkness.
They reached the main road, and John stopped, looking to his right.
“Wait for it,” Harry said.
“There’s no one coming.”
“Trust me. Wait for it.”
They both saw it at the same time, two headlights peering through the night on a mostly empty road. John watched for a few more seconds, then shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. He walked the last twenty feet to his dorm, put his key in the door, and hiked up the stairs to his room. Harry followed him in silence, letting what John just witnessed simmer for a bit. John wasn’t big on being rushed, which sucked, because Harry was huge on rushing.
Finally, once they were in the room, Harry sat down in the chair.
“Whatdaya think?”
“A car pulled out on a street. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“I’m telling you, I saw that car all night. Before dinner. After dinner. Now. It’s the same one.”
John looked at him, anger and hate radiating from his face. “Why would anyone be following me? You’re going to have to explain that before I even consider what you’re saying.”
“John, do you think I’m all knowing? I’m the same as you. Maybe not flesh and blood, but I only get the knowledge presented to me. I don’t know why someone is out there, but I know they are. You can walk downstairs right now, and I bet within seeing distance, you’re going to find the same car sitting there. Wanna take that bet?”
John was undressing. He ignored Harry, just hung his clothes up and climbed in bed.
“I want you to leave, Harry. I don’t ever want to see you again.” He rolled to his side and turned the lamp off, then closed his eyes.
Harry sat alone in the dark until John finally fell asleep. Then Harry closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he opened John’s as well.
* * *
Harry opened his eyes. Or John’s eyes. Whatever, it was all the goddamn same.
Frustration didn’t begin to describe the emotions running through Harry as he stood from John’s bed.
“Gotta do everything my goddamn self. Here I am, trying to help him, and he just goes to sleep. Doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.”
Harry turned on the overhead light and rummaged through John’s clothes. He threw shit behind him that didn't interest him. He wanted a very specific type of clothing: black. John didn’t wear black, goddamnit, because John never prepared for anything.
Always Harry. Always having to find the people to murder. Now he had to make sure no one caught them before they really got started.
He finally found what he wanted, a pair of black sweatpants and, while not black, a dark gray thermal sweater. He put both on and then went to the desk. He opened it and rummaged through the crap inside until he saw a small knife. A pocket thing that would be hard as hell to kill someone with, but Harry didn’t have a lot of options. He grabbed it and walked to the door. He didn’t bother picking up anything he strew across the floor; John could clean that up since Harry was cleaning up everything else.
Harry locked the door as he left, though. He would do John that tiny favor, but no more, since he was basically saving the damned day.
When he made his way down the back stairwell, he slowed considerably. He needed to be careful here, because if anyone saw him, the game ended. They paid a goddamn geezer to live down the hall, which probably wasn’t the best investment. No, he had to be careful because security guards walked the grounds from time to time. Harry didn’t know their schedule—he couldn’t get that without coming out every night, and he wouldn’t take that risk.
So he had to avoid the patrols and then make sure the fuck sitting in the car didn’t see him. Harry didn’t feel the same thrill he felt last time leading up to John’s killing. He wondered if he even could feel a thrill without John in the driver’s seat—if he couldn’t, that truly sucked. John was as needed for this as he was, apparently.
He would never know the sacrifices Harry made.
Harry opened the door slowly, looking out through the narrow opening, but not stepping all the way through. He looked both ways down the street in front of him, and sure-a-goddamn-nuff he saw the same shitty car sitting at the end.
Harry let the door close, doing his best to not make a single sound.
The car faced the building but the driver couldn’t have seen Harry’s face (Or John’s? Whatever. Same shit.) from the distance. Harry wanted to come up from behind the vehicle, though, which he couldn’t do from this door.
Harry walked across the dorm, a building shaped like an ‘L’, and came out on the other side. He stood just outside the door for a few minutes, his eyes adjusting to the dark, and looking across the lawns in front of him. Other dorms surrounded this one but he saw no one outside. Harry moved fast—actually surprised at how fast John’s body reacted. If John wanted, he could be a track star or something. Luckily for Harry, John only wanted to fuck Cindy and murder people, even if he didn’t realize it yet.
Harry came around the corner of the building and saw the car sitting in the shadows. This would be tough. Harry didn’t like it. He wanted to plan things out, to understand completely what would happen when John moved. This was like a game of Russian roulette.
Harry wasn’t the type to sit around contemplating forever, though. This guy was definitely following John and had to be discarded. Harry reached into his pocket and pulled the knife out, flicking the blade open with his thumb. He kept it pinned to his side and started walking to the car. His feet fell silently on the black asphalt and his eyes focused on the man’s head. The guy wasn’t turning, so he either didn’t see Harry approaching or was asleep. Either way, not good for said guy.
Harry bent over as he got closer, walking up to the side of the car, pressing his body close to the metal. He stopped right before he reached the driver’s side door, slipping his hand up, not worrying if the door was locked—Harry wasn’t big on worrying, because if this didn’t work he’d find another way—and pulled on the handle. He heard the soft click, and then Harry saw nothing.
His body moved, but Harry might not even have been there at that point. His body did, simply, what it knew to do. The knife slashed through the air, plunging into flesh over and over again. The body did not stop. Did not care about where the blood went or who might see. It only knew to keep cutting.
Red liquid sprayed out at first, as the man’s heart continued pumping, but as the knife kept working, the sprays turned into drips, and finally stopped completely. The man lay in a heap across the front seat of the car, his face now in tatters.
Harry stepped back, breathing as if he had been held under water for the past five minutes.
Well, that took care of that, didn’t it?
* * *
John woke feeling like while he slept, someone had repeatedly bashed him with a baseball bat. He’d never experienced soreness like this. John opened his eyes and wasn’t sur
e he could move at all, like he might actually be paralyzed.
Finally, his muscles loosened up a bit and he stretched his legs—pain crying out from every fiber all at once.
“JESUS!” he shouted, following it with a long groan as he did his best to not move another inch. Even his ribs ached from breathing, as if each one of them were broken in ten separate places.
“Calm down,” Harry said.
“I can’t move. We have to get help. I don’t know what happened. Bring me the phone.” John said the words in short gasps, trying his best not to use his lungs anymore than necessary.
“I can’t do that, John, and I think you know it. Now calm down for a second and listen to me. You’re sore because you killed someone last night, and then spent a lot of time disposing of the body and cleaning up.”
John looked to his left where Harry stood, his neck doing it’s best to refuse the movement. Each inch turned felt like opening a rusty, hundred year old door. “What are you talking about?”
“The guy who was following you last night, you took care of him.”
John shook his head, short tiny movements, and even though it hurt he couldn’t help himself. What Harry said wasn’t possible. He hadn’t moved all night.
“You’re lucky you did it, too, my man. Look at this.”
Harry walked to the bed and pointed to a notepad right next to John’s fingertips.
“It’ll hurt, but you’re going to want to read it.”
John breathed in and out, trying to settle his body and mind.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
He stretched his left hand just a bit down, gritting his teeth at the pain. His fingers touched the paper and he worked with the concentration of a chess prodigy to get a grip on it. He lifted it up and put it in front of his face, using two arms because one could barely support the notepad.
“Ol’ Dr. Vondi decided to send someone looking for you, apparently.”
John read the notes in front of him. Barely legible, tiny short marks filled up the page in almost random places. John ignored Harry as he read, or tried to. He couldn’t for long though, because the chicken scratch backed up what Harry said. Gerald Vondi. John Hilt. Murderer. Seventeen years old.