Ah, and now you know his name!
Quickly, quickly, filter it through in your mind and see if you recognize him from anywhere else in the story. Is he from Bryony’s hometown? Somebody she works with in the market?
The killer has a name, he has a name. Now that you know, what is the significance of it?
The significance is that he has a name, and it is Peter. That is it. Sometimes when you read too much into a tiny thing, you are bound to be disappointed.
So let us discuss Peter.
Are his crimes completely random? Are they ever deserved? Can they be warded off by good deeds and kindness and talismans and belief?
Peter did not think so. Although his targets were women he didn’t know personally, there was always something about them that caught his eye. Perhaps she had particularly sparkly earrings that day, or she reminded him of somebody he knew when he was young. One young woman was listening to Mika, and he, too, listened to Mika occasionally, when he was in a particularly foppish mood, and that was enough to tie them together. And as far as he knew, nothing could ward him off, except for maybe a large dog or aggressive boyfriend, or switch those adjectives, but even those things were temporary distractions. Women have something sweet and pristine inside of them, a keen desire to be alone and reflect, and sometimes the dog/boyfriend talisman is not wanted.
That is when Peter really has the opportunity to show them what he can do with those wonderful hands of his.
But he didn’t consider himself evil, not really. He recognized his hobby wasn’t exactly socially acceptable, but that didn’t mean anything. There are so many things that aren’t socially acceptable these days, but does that make them evil? Of course not! The next person who kindly but misguidedly says: “God bless you!” to a sneezing atheist might get an earful, true, but the “Blesser” would not be labeled as evil, per se. In fact, the very next person that she says: “God bless you!” to might respond with a “Thanks, I am extremely allergic to pollen.” and all would be well with the world.
Not that Peter believed that murder and sneezing were exactly the same, of course, but it certainly was an argument that downplayed the horrendous atrocity of his actions, and therefore it was an argument he would very much like to make. Peter nodded resolutely to the blackberry bushes as he thought of this.
Suddenly . . . there was a scream. Not a “woo hoo!” scream or even an “Oh my goodness, I am so very startled! Just you wait until I get home and regale my friends and neighbors with this humorous and/or thrilling tale at parties!” scream. It was a scream of the most heart wrenching kind. It is the scream of a woman who had picked up her skirts and fled from death her entire short life, and suddenly it is staring her right in the face. S realizes even though she thought she was prepared, she isn’t, not really. It is the scream of somebody who has so much to live for, so many precious plans, and, in fact, is most certainly going to die.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
In Which the Murderer Becomes a Hero
This is what Peter the Murderer thought:
“Wow, what horrible, painful screams. It reminds me of the good old days. That is certainly a woman who wants to survive. Mmm, how lovely.”
He thought, “How unusual for somebody else to be on my turf. I certainly don’t like it. I just might need to hunt this other person down and have a frank, yet gentlemanly discussion, on what one does and doesn’t do when an active serial killer has laid claim to a specific area.”
He thought, “The girl.”
And once that brief thought ghosted over his mind, he could think no more. “The girl.” The girl he hunted, the girl he had gifted, the lonely girl from the stars whose very countenance had been frosted over by death before he even met her, and now?
And now somebody was beating him to her.
That galvanized him. That got his legs moving. He burst out of the blackberry bushes, heedless of the scratches, and pelted down the trail as fast as his legs could take him. Which was plenty fast, because he was a man with a mission.
It took him several seconds to come upon Bryony, who was kicking and screaming as hard as she could, biting at the arm that wrapped itself around her and ducking away from the sharp and distressing knife trying to force her silence.
“Shut up, shut up!” yelled the man who was pulling her off of the trail. He was sweating heavily, obviously perplexed and dismayed at this wisp of a thing who gave him so much more trouble than he anticipated. Droplets of blood speckled the ground, his clothes, ran down Bryony’s arms and soaked into her socks and sneakers.
The murderer—the second murderer, not our Peter—was making a mess of it. Not a professional, obviously, but more likely a young student at the university who was out for an early morning kill, simply to satiate his curiosity. Or he had done it before, but maybe only once or twice, and he still hadn’t developed his skills yet. Poor guy, thought Peter. He really screwed this up. Perhaps he would have had potential, but now nobody will ever know.
Bryony’s wide eyes caught sight of Peter, and she fastened her gaze on him neatly, much like the near perfect sound a snap makes when it clicks together nicely.
“I don’t know what to do,” her gaze said. “I used every move Rikki-Tikki taught me, which is probably why I’m still alive, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough and now I can’t seem to get free. Would you be so kind as to offer me your services?”
“Who’s Rikki-Tikki?” Peter the Murderer’s eyes asked back. “What an unusual sounding name.”
“Well, actually, it’s Reginald,” her eyes explained. “That’s so formal and it doesn’t fit him at all. He’s just Rikki-Tikki to us. You’ll see what I mean if you ever get the chance to meet him, but I’m afraid that might not be likely. This man sees that you’re here and he’s getting desperate. He’s already shaky with his knife. In fact, I’m afraid and in quite a bit of pain, and might pass out soon, so please help me quickly if you can.” “But that’s so formal and he doesn’t care for it at all. He’s just Rikki-Tikki to us, and you’ll see what I mean if you ever get to know him. And I’m afraid that might not be very likely, for now this man has seen that you are here, and he’s getting even more desperate than he was before, and he’s already very shaky with his knife. In fact, I’m suffering quite a lot of pain and fright, and I might very well pass out in a few moments, so please help me as quickly as you can, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh my goodness,” his eyes replied shame-facedly. “Where are my manners? Of course I shall help you. I will just . . . oh dear.”
Because, you see, the blood and the fear and the pain and the shock and everything were too much for our Bryony, who simply passed out cold.
This was good for two separate reasons: 1) The young, clumsy killer-in-training wasn’t prepared for this, and the weight of her body suddenly going limp threw him off, and 2) Peter the Original Murderer now didn’t have any witnesses.
“Why’d you have to choose this one?” he asked the mystified younger killer. “I’ve been watching her for weeks. You really should have been more careful. There’s etiquette, you know.”
“I’m . . . sorry?” said the younger killer, but it really didn’t matter because it was already too late for him. Peter grabbed the knife from his shaking hand, rammed it into the side of his neck, and watched him bleed out. He dragged the body off the trail and under a particularly camouflaging group of bushes and fallen trees. He had stashed bodies here before, and it did quite nicely in a pinch. He’d sneak back and dispose of the wannabe killer later. Then he returned and sat on the ground, cradling Bryony’s head in his lap.
“We’ll just wait for somebody to jog by and help us, shall we?” he said. She didn’t reply as she was unconscious, and the youthful killer didn’t reply either, as he was dead.
Peter sat there in companionable silence with the young woman he knew he would eventually murder, watching her chest move as she breathed, feeling the breath leaving her lungs, and reveling in the fact that they
shared the same oxygen, the same space. It would be a shame to see her go, really, and for the first time he felt something almost like a stab of regret, but then it was gone. For we are what we are, and he had always thought this, and he was born to be a killer while Bryony was born to be killed, and thus their relationship was set in stone before they ever met. If things had been different, perhaps they would have had a long and healthy friendship, and their children would have played together in the sandbox and on the monkey bars, and they would have gotten together with their respective spouses for neighborly game nights and laughter, but alas, this was never meant to be.
So Peter looked at his ultimate victim, and ran his fingers across the bone under her hair and across her cheek, and down her arms and legs. He was checking the wounds which really were superficial under all the blood. For this he was grateful because he didn’t want to wait very long before he killed her, but she needed to be healed first because that was only polite, because that was good form. He wondered what her last words would be and he wished, not for the first time, that somehow he had been able to tell her his name.
“It’s Peter,” he said to her now. “Peter Culpert.”
She didn’t answer, and he didn’t expect it, and he hummed a sort of calming lullaby as he waited, and plotted exactly where he would twist the knife in her ribs when the time came.
She started to come to, and moved a little.
“Shhhh,” he said and stroked her hair. “Everything is going to be all right.”
There, he thought, picking out a particularly fine knifing spot. Right there.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Sorrow and Stars and Light
Eddie Warshouski was getting tired of Detective Bridger.
“So your old girlfriend and your mother were both murdered, and now your new wife is attacked, as well? You’re sort of the Typhoid Mary of killers, aren’t you?”
Well, ouch, Eddie thought. This man pulls no punches.
“I told you I wasn’t in town for my mother’s murder. I was getting married. And a man in my girlfriend’s building killed her. He was a whack job. And this guy that attacked Bryony—”
He couldn’t finish. He was furious. The idea that some sadistic killer would step out on a popular running trail and try to drag his wife off to do who knows what was beyond him. What a horrible and distasteful affair. How absolutely hurtful and unforgivable, whatever he had planned.
Well, he knew what. He knew exactly what this creep had planned to do, and he could hardly think straight. Bryony was still in the hospital, cut and bruised and shaken, but otherwise whole, although they wouldn’t let her out for a few more hours as “a precaution”.
Eddie wanted to hit something.
This detective, mostly, but it wasn’t his fault.
He had spoken with Bryony after she found the body floating in Lake Washington, and he, too, had been unable to deny the tiny bits of her spirit that diamonded out of her eyes and broke upon the floor.
Eddie knew Detective Bridget wanted to protect her because it was his job.Because he was human. Because this was a land of monsters, and right now a monster had gone after a girl made of nothing more than sorrow and stars and light.
Detective Bridger sighed. “Look, Mr. Warshouski, it’s my job. I don’t like questioning you any more than you like being questioned. I can see in your face you didn’t do these things, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask.”
He was not a man to be remiss, Eddie could tell. He sighed, too. “It doesn’t seem fair, detective, and that’s a funny thing to say because I am not a man who believes life is meant to be fair. But every day we wait. Every time the phone rings, I wonder if it’s somebody calling to tell me about Bryony. Every time I see her, I think it is going to be the last time. You don’t know how it is, seeing how fragile she can be. Sometimes it is wearying, but I don’t regret it. I don’t.”
He looked at the detective like the man was challenging him, which he wasn’t.
“You take care of her,” he said seriously. Eddie’s eyes flicked up to his, but the detective shook his head emphatically. “I know you are, but something tells me this isn’t over yet, that your wife . . . ”
“My wife was born to die,” Eddie said simply, and they both sat there for a long time and thought about it, and the words lingered heavily in the air between them, but they rang true. In the other room Peter Culpert was telling another policeman exactly what had happened, how he heard a scream and came running, and chased off the man who tried to take the girl. He was lauded as a hero and a Real Stand Up Guy, and it was an unusual and mildly uncomfortable feeling for Peter. Usually he was laughed at or picked on, and this new feeling was scarier in a way, although not altogether unpleasant. And when Detective Bridger finally told Eddie he could go, Eddie popped into the other room to see the brave and heroic trail runner-turned-white-knight, and invited him to dinner that weekend, to properly thank him for saving his new bride.
The conversation went something like this:
Eddie said, “Hello, I am Eddie and you saved my wife. Her name is Bryony, and she is special and wonderful and very dear to me, and I am afraid without you, she would have been lost. Were you also under the impression that without your intervention she would have been lost?”
Peter said, “Well, she was fighting quite valiantly, so perhaps she would . . . it could have happened that . . . no, she most certainly would have been lost.”
Eddie said, “I am ever so grateful to you—” and there was an awkward and expectant pause as Eddie realized that no, he did not know this savior’s name, and he was certainly hoping to find out, as it would seem ever so discourteous to call him “Hey you” for the remainder of their lives, especially when he owed this man such a great debt.
Luckily Peter said, “I’m Peter,” and they shook hands extremely cordially.
“How do you do?” asked Eddie.
“Very well, thank you,” replied Peter.
Eddie said, “Anyway, please come to our home for dinner on Friday night. I’d love for you to see Bryony calm and conscious, and not on hospital drugs. We would really like to thank you properly.”
Peter said, “I would be delighted. What a gracious invitation.”
To which Eddie replied, “Anytime,” and clapped Peter on the back like they were old friends.
Of course they wouldn’t be friends at all if Eddie had any idea what Peter was secretly planning, but Eddie is not psychic, and Peter will not come right out and say: “Can’t wait to murder your wife in the future. Later, man.” So for the moment, at least on the surface, they were friends. And perhaps for that second, their friendship was real, for little is known about Peter and his perception of friendship, and especially male friendship. It could very well be that this moment with Eddie was one of the experiences that he held dearest and closest to his heart. For Peter is a lonely man, a man who constantly surrounds himself with the dead, and this may come as quite a shock to you, dear reader, but the dead are not as friendly and as social as the living. This is true. And a man who reaches out in gratitude, especially a gruff and untouchable man as Eddie, well, it can be hard to resist, and has the tendency to soften even the hardest of hearts.
Yes indeed, Peter was somewhat stunned but also pleased by this unexpected gesture, and he stared at the Warshouski’s address in his hands and tried to do some basic calculations.
What he calculated was this: If Eddie goes to see Bryony in the hospital which is seven miles away (with traffic clipping along at a fairly good rate) and he has to kiss every single cut she obtained, and the younger killer had exactly one minute and two seconds to take as many slashes at her tender skin as he could (at a rather paltry rate of one slash every 3.4 seconds), then how long does Peter have to break into their apartment and poke around before Eddie comes back?
What a delightful scenario. Peter always did enjoy math, very much.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Stunning in its Horror
&nb
sp; They finally released Bryony from the hospital, and Eddie couldn’t help himself: He scooped her up and carried her to the car like an invalid.
“Eddie, I’m all right, I’m all right!” she exclaimed, but she was happy, and kissed Eddie on the cheek, and patted his shoulders, head, and arms with her bandaged hands.
“I invited the man who saved you over for dinner this weekend. His name is Peter Culpert, and he seems nice. I’m happy he was there, Bryony.”
“I’m happy, too,” she said, and they held hands and climbed the rickety stairs up to Eddie’s old apartment, which was now Bryony’s new apartment. As soon as they stepped inside Eddie knew something was wrong. His eyes darted around the room as he took everything in.
Jasmine the Guitar was lying two inches farther to the right than he had left her. He knew this because he always lined her up exactly with the vertical stripes on the awful wallpaper. He was a bit obsessive in this way.
The glass in the sink was wrong. Bryony had a strange habit of flipping every glass that she drank of upside down when she was finished with it. This glass was not flipped upside down.
The door to the bedroom was ajar.
“Bryony, no!” Eddie shouted and reached out to her rather uselessly, as she walked over and flung open the bedroom door. Eddie closed his eyes like a child, as if somehow would protect him from seeing what he knew he would see. A man with a gun waiting for Bryony. A bomb that would suddenly go off, or a guillotine of flashing steel that would zip out of the doorway with a triumphant hiss Thunk! Eddie suddenly believed anything was possible in this life. He was paralyzed, waiting for the world to reel.
“Oh, Eddie, it’s so beautiful!”
Eddie’s eyes flew open and he was across the room and standing beside his wife in a second. Their bed was covered with flowers, hundreds and hundreds of different colored blooms, cascading off the sheets and pooling on the ground like water. It was absolutely stunning in its horror. There were irises and cosmos and tiger lilies and something that looked like Indian Paintbrush, but taller and much finer. There were tulips and daffodils, both yellow and white, and dogwood blooms.
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