by Jason Parent
Less than ten yards away, Michael skids to a stop. Sam lurches forward as Masterson crashes into her, slamming her against the car window. Her smile is replaced by surprise mixed with pain. Her head flies back then falls forward. After bouncing off the door a second time, Sam collapses to the pavement.
Masterson stands over her, and a sly grin spreads across his face. For the first time, Michael sees the man is holding a large knife. The blade is coated with red. Masterson raises his hand and stabs at the sky. Blood drips down his arm, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
Masterson lowers the blade to his side and tries to close the car door, but a lifeless arm gets in the way. Masterson raises his foot and kicks the door shut. The resulting grotesque snapping sound causes Michael to gasp.
Masterson looks up, smiles, and points the knife at Michael.
Michael turns and runs back the way he came. His weary legs don’t make the jump over the drainage ditch, and he falls against the opposite bank. He can hear Masterson running after him. He scrambles to get back on his feet. Just as he manages to stand and stumble forward again, he feels a hand on the nape of his neck.
Michael screams.
Michael was still screaming when he realized he was no longer in the vision. Masterson had a viselike grip on Michael’s jacket collar, and he was twisting it tightly around Michael’s shoulders as he pulled him up off the floor. Michael was both surprised and frightened that such a small, nerdy-looking man could lift him so easily.
Michael raised his arms and wriggled out of his jacket. Masterson held the empty coat and stared at him with obvious irritation.
Panting, Michael shrank into the corner beside the door. Get a grip. If I live long enough to see Sam die, then I won’t be dying here. Of course, the future is one fickle son of a bitch.
Robbie looked shocked, his mouth hanging open in a which-way-did-he-go-George expression. Tessa appeared completely terrified. The cushion she sat on trembled along with her as she sat curled up tightly, knees against her chest. For better or worse—Michael had quickly decided for the better—Masterson seemed less angry than he had before a teenage boy collapsed onto his rug like some unmedicated narcoleptic. At any rate, Michael was pleasantly surprised Masterson hadn’t decided to kill him yet. He couldn’t know Michael had seen his true face, the killer hiding behind a mask of normalcy.
I know what you are, Michael thought, glaring at Masterson. I see you.
Masterson stared back, eyes full of hate and loathing. They seemed to answer, I see you, too.
Michael was still trying to catch his breath. “May I please have some water?” He thought he might be having an asthma attack, even though he didn’t have asthma.
“In the kitchen,” Masterson said, tossing Michael’s jacket at him. “There are some cups by the sink. Have your drink. Then, I want you and your pudgy friend out of here. If I ever see either of you around here or my daughter again, I’ll kill you. Understood?”
Pulling his jacket on, Michael nodded. “I’ll be right back,” he told Robbie, who appeared rooted to the floor. Michael hurried across the living room and into the kitchen, which along with the dining room was only partly visible from where they had been standing. He went straight to the sink, turned on the faucet, and splashed some cold water onto his face. Once he got his breath back, he cupped some into his hands and drank.
Something to his left caught Michael’s eye. A wooden block full of kitchen cutlery stood on the counter next to him. It was loaded with black handles. The knife! Michael moved toward the block.
“What are you doing in there?” Masterson called from the living room.
Michael ignored him as he reached for the largest handle. This has got to be the one. He pulled the large serrated knife from its slot.
Michael heard a sound behind him and spun around, instinctively holding up the knife. Masterson was storming toward him. The man stopped little more than a foot away as his eyes dropped to the knife pointed toward his stomach. All Michael had to do was stab, and Sam, Tessa, all of them would be safe.
Masterson seemed larger than he was, hovering over Michael like a wolf over dinner. He showed no fear. He didn’t even question why Michael was holding one of his butcher knives.
The feel of the knife’s triple-riveted handle, strong and sturdy in his hand, gave Michael courage. “Move aside,” he said, flicking the knife at air.
Masterson sneered. “No.”
Michael gaped at him. “What do you mean, no? Can’t you see what I’m holding?” His courage was fading. Soon, he would lose it altogether.
“Little boys shouldn’t play with such dangerous things.” Masterson smiled and inched closer. “Little boys might end up hurt.”
Not knowing what else to do, feeling trapped between an immovable object and an irresistible force, Michael charged, knife out. Masterson quarter-turned out of the way as Michael ran past, making a beeline for the door. As he skidded to a stop in the living room, he noticed the blade was wet. Judging by the amount of blood, he must have sliced the man pretty good. Just how sharp is this freaking thing?
He felt a twinge of guilt, but it passed quickly. There was no time to waste. “Robbie, get the door!”
Tessa sat blank-faced in her chair.
Michael grabbed her wrist and yanked her from her seat. “We’re leaving.”
Ordinarily, Robbie was slow, but he apparently took Michael’s command as a matter of life and death. He hadn’t seen what Michael had seen. As Michael pulled Tessa out of the house, he heard some clanging coming from the kitchen.
“Now you’ve done it,” Tessa muttered. “You should have finished him off. He’ll kill you for sure now. He’ll kill us all.”
Tessa’s words registered, but their impact was lost. He heard her sobbing as she ran beside him and Robbie. He was thankful she was coming along willingly, or at least, she wasn’t trying to free her arm from his grip. He never looked back to see if anyone was following.
When they finally stopped to catch their breaths, Michael realized they were near Plymouth Avenue, one of Fall River’s busiest streets. Tessa bent over, panting. Robbie wasn’t nearly as winded. He had pretty good stamina for a big guy. Michael figured it was all that football training.
Michael let go of her wrist. He could already see a bruise forming where he had held her. Robbie stared at him, apparently expecting him to know what to do next. Michael’s fight or flight instincts had gotten them that far, with flight weighing much heavier upon the balance. For the moment, he was all out of ideas.
Then, it hit him, a solution so simple. Call Sam.
“There’s a supermarket about a quarter of a mile that way,” he said, pointing. “We should hang out there. I know a cop. I’ll call her once we get there. She’ll know what to do.”
“Dude,” Robbie said, “you cut that guy.”
Michael shrugged. “Shit happens.”
They headed toward the store. Minutes later, flashing lights whizzed by them. Sirens blared, but the police paid Michael and his companions no notice.
As soon as they stepped into the grocery store’s parking lot, Michael’s cellphone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, saw Sam’s name on the screen, and answered, “Hello?”
“Michael,” Sam said, “what’s going on? Christopher Masterson just called 9-1-1. He said you stabbed him and kidnapped his daughter.”
Michael felt tears burning his eyes. He tried to answer her, but his throat closed up as a lump formed in it.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes. We all are,” he managed.
“Where are you?”
“At the Stop & Shop on Rodman Street.”
“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”
Michael waited in silence with Robbie and Tessa. He looked down at the knife he still held and realized something. What he had done might have impro
ved Sam’s odds of living. He had the knife Masterson would have used to kill her.
And nothing and no one could make him give it back. Not to that piece of shit.
Chapter 21
Christopher listened to Nurse Reynolds chomp her gum. Her smacking sounded like handfuls of mud being slung against a wall. She wore loose-fitting blue scrubs that hung on one shoulder, baring her collarbone. He wanted to bite her there like a rabid animal and rip out her throat, anything to stop that smacking. The pressure mounted in his head. Holding back his rage caused the world to blur. He needed to release it.
Nurse Reynolds, didn’t your father teach you not to chew gum like a slut? These are dark days when one can’t even find common decency within the medical profession. He sighed. Maybe her parents deserve blame. The concession didn’t make him want to kill Nurse Reynolds any less.
Apparently oblivious to his contempt, Nurse Reynolds went about her business in the sterile hospital room. Minor medical devices and some furnishings cluttered the room in no discernible arrangement—a chair, a television, and the bed in which he was lying. The television showed an aged Anderson Cooper fumbling through a piece on some political coup in Egypt. Savages, he thought as tanks rolled through Cairo and across the tiny screen.
“The doctor says you’re free to go as soon as you feel up to it,” Nurse Reynolds said between smacks. “Guess you’re not gonna die today after all.”
“Really?” Christopher shook the IV line pumping saline into the back of his hand for emphasis. “Do I take this with me?”
“Oops.” She giggled. “I guess I forgot to remove that. Don’t be such a sourpuss. I’ll take it out, and you’ll be on your way in a jiffy.”
“Fantastic.”
Nurse Reynolds didn’t seem to be in any hurry to remove the line. She turned and started restocking a drawer with tissues, gloves, and biohazard bags, all the while prattling on about her personal life, and Christopher completely ignored her. His focus was on the gum. Her open-mouthed chewing never stopped. He couldn’t block it out no matter how hard he tried. His headache worsened. He wanted to stop that smacking. No, he had to stop it.
“That’s a disgusting habit,” he snapped, wishing he could remove that gum from her mouth and half her tongue with it. Someone had to teach her manners. Someone had to teach her self-respect. Why doesn’t anyone in this goddamn world have any goddamn respect?
“What?” She’d been rambling absently to whomever she thought was listening but finally shut up long enough to consider what he’d said. “Oh, my cigarettes?” She pushed the pack deeper into her shirt pocket. Christopher hadn’t even noticed it. “I’m trying to quit,” she said, blushing.
“That, too,” he replied. Though he had been referring to the gum, the cigarettes were equally appalling. He wondered why someone who saw daily what cigarettes did to people would want to smoke them. She’ll never quit. Whores like her always need something in their mouths. He sneered. Like that fucking gum.
“Huh?”
Christopher shook his head. He really didn’t need to call more attention to himself. “Never mind.”
She shrugged and went back to work. She didn’t stop chomping, but at least her chattering had ceased. She moved a bit quicker, too. After pulling the needle out of his arm with as much delicacy as a wolf enjoying fresh rabbit, then slapping a bandage over the spot, she shuffled out of the room.
Minutes later, he heard a knock on the door. Before he could answer, a woman in a charcoal wool overcoat and knee-high black boots stepped into the room.
Christopher grinned. “Detective Reilly.” He welcomed intelligent company, even if she was an adversary. “Have you come to apologize?”
“Not likely. I’m going to nail your ass to the wall.”
“Such ugly words from such a pretty face. Aren’t officers of the law supposed to serve as role models for our country’s youth? It’s no wonder most of them are wayward.”
“Save your preaching for someone who gives a damn, Masterson. Maybe your cellmate will listen to you if he’s not too busy fucking you up the ass. Of course, that’s only possible if your mouth isn’t stuffed at the same time.”
“Why the hostility, Detective?” Christopher remained calm. He wasn’t dumb enough to be provoked into saying something that could be used against him. Whatever she thought she had on him was nothing his lawyer, already on call, couldn’t unravel. “Could it be because your little spy violated my rights as an American citizen? I have to admit, I’m a bit surprised to see you here. Is it because you wanted to make sure my recovery was going smoothly? After all, we wouldn’t want your pet to go to prison on murder charges. Is your relationship with the boy causing some tension back at the office? Why is it my fault that you clearly don’t know how to do your job?”
Reilly raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t respond. “What are you talking about? I have you dead to rights. We’re going to run some tests on that knife taken from your place. I’m sure we’ll find Jackson’s DNA all over it.”
Christopher smiled. Baited like a worm on a hook. “Whose DNA? I haven’t the faintest idea what you might be referring to, Detective. The only person’s DNA you’ll find on that knife is mine, unless you count that insolent brat’s grubby handprints. But if you want to waste your time with that, feel free.”
Reilly huffed. “It is going to be so satisfying when the jury gives you that big G-word. Every cop in Fall River knows what you did to Gloria Jackson. There’s no escaping where you’re going. You’re a marked man.”
“Are we going to do this dance, Detective? You’ve got nothing on me, despite all your tough talk. I, for one, am done talking. Neither I nor Tessa will be answering further questions without our attorney present.”
“Tessa’s beyond your control. Right now, she’s a ward of the Commonwealth and represented by it. I can and will ask her anything I want.”
She was right. Christopher found it humbling, for a moment, then as irritating as an itch in a hard-to-reach place. He had warned Tessa of the dangers of talking and the fate that would befall her if she did. Many times. Getting her to talk wouldn’t be easy. But the female detective could be crafty. She’d already manipulated one kid to steal a murder weapon from his house. Could she turn Tessa against me, too?
For the time being, Christopher couldn’t do a thing about it. He needed to get out of that damn hospital bed. His migraine was blinding.
He rubbed his temples, stopping once he noticed the detective’s stare. In a moment, his problems would become moot. He would simply walk out the door, pick up Tessa, and gently remind her of her vow of silence.
Well, maybe not too gently.
“Anyway, I’m not here about the guidance counselor,” Reilly said.
“Do tell, Ms. Reilly. What brings you to my modest hospital room?” Did they finally find Mr. Girl Scout Cookies? That could be a problem. If she’s here on behalf of that fat oaf, perhaps it’s time to move again.
“Michael Turcotte.”
Christopher rolled his eyes. “Him? That little cretin can relax. I’m not pressing charges.”
“Who’s to say he’s not pressing charges against you? By both his and Robert Wilkins’s accounts, you assaulted Michael as he was trying to leave your home. You even knocked him unconscious.”
Christopher couldn’t suppress his laughter. The boy fainted, just like Tessa did the first time I had her watch, and I never even touched him. Children are so feebleminded.
“Did I say something funny?” Reilly asked.
He waved a dismissive hand. “By all means, go that route. But tell me, did you find any bruises on Michael? Did he spend the last few days in the hospital? Is there any disputing that he came to my house and stabbed me, an unarmed man, with my own kitchen knife? Stop pressing this stupidity. It won’t end well for you or the boy.”
“Is that a threat?”
&
nbsp; “An observation. You should try making them from time to time. The cards, as they say, are stacked against you. I was trying to be merciful and move past all of this, give the child a second chance. Live and let live, so to speak.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“The boy is clearly troubled and could use some good old-fashioned corporal punishment. But instead, he would be introduced to the criminal justice system. By the time he got out of it, he would be a worse criminal than he was when he entered, deprived of any chance of a good, honest life.”
“How altruistic of you.”
“Say what you will unless, of course, you’ve already said it. Then you would just be wasting my time.” Christopher avoided her stare, trying to keep his thoughts hidden. His decision not to press charges had nothing to do with the failings of the American penal system or that kid’s future.
The real reason he didn’t press charges was much simpler: Christopher wanted his knife back. The mere thought of his knife block sitting at home with just the one slot empty made his blood boil. He wondered how long it would take him to retrieve it from a police evidence locker. There would probably be a stream of paperwork to wade through, but the police would give it back eventually. In the meantime, he would have to make do with the empty slot, an inconvenience as irritating as Nurse Reynolds chomping.
“Are you even listening to me?” the detective asked, frowning.
Apparently, she had continued talking while his mind had drifted back to his knife. He hadn’t heard a word of it.
“If you want a statement from me, speak to my attorney. Now, if you’ll be so kind.” He hopped from the bed, not caring that he wore nothing but a faded blue hospital gown, his bare ass hanging out the back. “Or do you plan on keeping me here against my will? I wouldn’t enjoy reporting you to your department for false imprisonment. Honestly, I wouldn’t.” He grinned broadly for her benefit.
She looked almost amused by his assuredness. Christopher didn’t like that. Cops were usually easy to read, even predictable. Her reaction to his goading worried him. He wondered if she was going to arrest him or shoot him. She walked closer and stood directly between him and his pile of clothing.