Psycho Within Us (The Psycho Series Book 2)

by Chad Huskins

  Shannon looked up sharply, looking guilty and caught, and, as always, she looked to her Big Sister, her Eternal Protector, who said, “I got up early to get somethin’ to drink, and I spilled it.”

  “What’choo drinkin’ this early fo’? I ain’t even made you any breakfast. You tryin’ to take that away from me now, too?” The words were out of her mouth before she could check them. She hadn’t meant to say anything like it, but there it was, hanging in the air. For months now she had become frustrated with their little conspiracy of two. Late at night, they walked around in their room after the lights were out, whispering their secrets to one another. Jovita had heard them, and often barged in on them a few times and demanded that they go to bed. It gave her a degree of dark maternal pleasure to interfere with their secrets.

  They were up to something, she just knew it. They were still their little conspiracy of two, just like they had been before all that evil had happened to them. Jovita had tried in those first two months, she had really, really tried. But the cravings had started, and it hadn’t helped that Jerome Denney, one of her old dealers, had moved out this way three years ago and had been calling her up, asking to catch up on old times. Kaley already suspected, already knew. And Shannon, well…She won’t even look at me.

  Shan had been through a lot, and Jovita felt for her, went to hug her repeatedly, cried with her and tried to tell her everything was going to be all right. But always Shannon would go limp in her arms, like she was dead. When she was in her sister’s arms, though, some ember of life was kindled, and she would grip and hug, even laugh on occasion.

  And now they hate me again. It was mostly Kaley’s doing. God damn her, she knows what was done to me. She knows I suffered the same as them! When a mother’s daughter was raped, the mother felt violated herself. Powerless and crippled by her shame, Jovita had retreated further and further into her soft, safe world with Jerome Denney.

  Jovita hated herself for not being there for her girls when they had needed her most. Rather, some other lunatic had had some say in their rescuing. And here I was, laid up an’ high as a kite. And she knew that, come later tonight, she was likely to be in the same state. The same demons as before were calling to her; with each passing year, their song grew more sonorous, and the events in Atlanta had put Jovita in a state where she was willing to listen even more.

  No, uh-uh, she told herself. No, you are not doing that again, Jovita Dupré!

  But Jovita knew better. She was strong right now, right in this instant, but eventually…

  Presently, her girls weren’t answering her. She jerked her head towards the hallway. “Get in there an’ get dressed. You both were late for the bus the last time, I ain’t explainin’ that again. That Principal Manning already look at me like he know somethin’ ’bout me. A secret he ain’t tellin’. I ain’t got time fuh his ass today, so don’t you get him on my case again.” She did another jerk with her head, and the two girls walked by her in silent procession.

  As Kaley went by, though, her eyes raked across her mother, assessing her in a moment. Jovita almost said something. Oh, you think you know somethin’ about me, too? But she swallowed the challenge before it could ignite a war. After all, Kaley did know something about her, didn’t she? She knew Jovita Dupré hadn’t changed much in the last five months. New clothes, a new apartment, and a new school hadn’t had any real effect on her, or any of them for that matter. Family and friends in their old neighborhood had heard about what happened, had donated food and clothing, and offered so many tears and support. For a time, Jovita had believed she could change, and perhaps Kaley and Shannon had allowed themselves to believe it for a time, too. But now…

  I know you, those eyes said to Jovita as they slipped on by. What do you know? she wanted to reply right back. But it wasn’t just the eyes. It was the…the…watchacallit? The “aura” as her mother used to say. It was an outpouring of something that went further than just a penetrating gaze.

  Mama said it skips a generation. Jovita’s mother used to have that same knowing look, like she could tell when somebody was lying. And not just her children, anyone.

  But Kaley didn’t need to have any kind of intuition to know her mother. A month ago, the girl walked into the kitchen while she was hunched over the sink, lighting up another crumbled bit of white rock in her spoon. Jovita had been nearly scared to death, nearly dropped the spoon, lighter and all.

  But maybe I only hallucinated a little of that, she thought. After she had stormed out of the kitchen, Jovita had gone to the room her two daughters shared, to check on Shannon…only to find both of her daughters in bed. When she’d gone back to check the kitchen, Kaley was gone. The crack rock, the meth…the horrors that her daughters had faced…her guilt over having done nothing about it…I’m losin’ it.

  “The girl,” someone whispered. Jovita jumped, turned, looked all about her. “Her?” asked someone else. At once, her hands started shaking. Then, there came a reply. “No, the other one. This one’s the mother, she is no use.”

  “Okay, who the fuck is that?” she hissed. No answer. Nothing at all. Jovita moved around the living room, listening for the slightest noise. Losin’ it. Yeah. Fuh sho’. Oh…God…

  The attic was clear, as was the entire upstairs. Zakhar double-checked the downstairs, every bedroom, bathroom, and closet, flicking lights off as he left each room. He checked behind every curtain and under every table, around every corner and inside every shower and tub. The only thing left to check was the basement.

  Part of him felt silly, and a bit annoyed with himself for being so on edge. This was supposed to be a place of respite, a retreat from the rest of the world, where he could be alone to do what he needed to do. No poachers had ever been so bold as to…

  But Ivan and the others, he thought. Maybe they thought the same thing. Considering what had happened to the rest of his family, anyone would forgive him his paranoia.

  Zakhar went to check the basement door in the hall. The three locks on it were untouched, as was the small wedge of wood he never forgot to jam between the middle hinge and the doorframe; a telltale sign someone had disturbed it, if it had fallen. He went to his bedroom, opened the middle drawer, rummaged around until he found the key ring tucked behind his thickest winter bedclothes, and returned to the hall to go through the locks, one by one.

  When he opened it, the usual darkness awaited him, as did the usual odors. Cleaning solutions, and pine-scented air fresheners. Zakhar flipped the switch beside the door, and fluorescent lights cast a pallid, funereal glow about the staircase. He kept the gun in a kind of loose low-ready position, and started down. The wooden steps creaked in protest beneath his considerable weight. At the foot of the steps, Zakhar flipped another switch, this one with a brighter, more familial glow. To his left was the food pantry for his guest. To his right was the guest room, also triple-locked. Three different keys opened the locks.

  Before he stepped inside, Zakhar knocked twice, then once, then twice again. This would signal his young guest to go to the far side of the room, as he’d been trained. Gun at the ready, he stepped through.

  The room was exactly as he’d left it, and his young guest had kept it clean, as he’d been trained to do. Hard, smooth concrete floors, with two couches covered in plastic sheeting and a television mounted on the wall, high enough so that it was out of reach, and behind Plexiglas. The TV happened to be on, and was playing a SpongeBob SquarePants DVD that Zakhar permitted him. There was a single coffee table, oak, spotless, and with a glimmering top. The room smelled of Pine-Sol. That was good. The boy had cleaned recently.

  Zakhar took three steps inside, and paused. His guest was huddled on the far couch, sitting there obediently in his underwear, thumb in his mouth. Zakhar looked at the TV, then at his young guest. “Are you all right?” he said. The boy spoke English. Zakhar had had to brush up on his own. The boy looked at him, all doe-eyed, nodded slowly, and looked back at the television. Zakhar also looked at the TV. Squidwar
d was wroth with SpongeBob, it seemed. “Have you heard anything? Any knocking? Anyone moving upstairs?” The boy continued sucking his thumb. “I’m talking to you!” The boy jolted, and shook his head, trembling. “You heard nothing? Heard no one?” The boy shook his head. Zakhar nodded. “Dinner will be ready in a little while. Make sure you bathe. I’ll also bring down your shots.” He backed away towards the door. “And don’t watch so much TV. It will rot your mind.”

  Back out the door, locking all three locks, then back up the stairs, switching off the lights as he went. He shut the door in the hall, locked every lock, and replaced the keys in his drawer. Zakhar was about to return to the fireplace, but paused halfway through the living room and thought for a moment. Something told him to check one last time. Perhaps it was paranoia left over from his days in the service.

  The radio was still going in the kitchen, but the weather report was finished for the nonce. It had gone to commercials now for some kind of aftershave. The water in the kettle still hadn’t warmed enough to start squealing yet.

  Zakhar swept the attic one more time, the upstairs, then the downstairs again. The wind blew harder outside, pressed against the windows.

  Satisfied, he holstered the Colt, and finally returned to the logs. He stacked them neatly in the fireplace and then set up some twigs and kindling. He still liked doing things the old way, using bow-drill kits the way the old wilderness survivalists taught. Zakhar had taken numerous courses on primitive survival skills—living way out here, one never knew when the gas tanks might suddenly shut off, without warning, in the dead of winter. No man could survive the blunt force of a Siberian winter. No man.

  It took a while for the punk to ignite, but once he had a workable ember, Zakhar set the nest of burning kindling lovingly into the pile of smaller sticks of wood, where it quickly caught flame and began to spread. He stood up, and saw his stalker in the mirror over the mantelpiece a second too late. Zakhar spun, his hand going reflexively for his pistol, but he saw what his stalker had in his hands, and froze. Military experience had also taught him when he was too slow on the pickup.

  “Arrogance before the gods,” his enemy said, seated comfortably on the couch, directly below the two hanging bearskin rugs.

  Zakhar’s heart jumped a beat, but he steeled himself, sighed. “What?”

  “I said, get’cho black behind out that do’, befo’ you miss the damn bus! What’s the matter? You got wax in yo ears, girl?”

  Kaley helped Shannon with her coat. It was a hand-me-down from Kaley, but Shan was small, even for her age, and it was just too big. It was almost comical. She looks like a turtle uncomfortable with her shell, Kaley thought, grinning. But she swallowed her smile quickly when she felt the animosity pouring off her mother. Mixed with guilt and fear of the future, it was a disgusting mélange on Kaley’s tongue and on her mind.

  It was a difficult time for all of them. Kaley and Shannon were victims of something horrid, Shan especially, and their mother felt the burden of guilt of not having protected them. In fact, it had been her that sent them out that night, all alone, for groceries she herself ought to have gotten the day before. Now Jovita Dupré emanated such self hate that Kaley couldn’t help but absorb it, and the more she absorbed it, the more she showed her hatred for the insufferable woman. And, the more Jovita Dupré saw the hatred in her daughter’s eyes, the more she hated herself.

  It’s a vicious cycle, she thought. And it’s never going to end. Never.

  The door was hanging open. A new winter’s breeze came sweeping in, and it seemed to penetrate their clothes, finding the tiniest of gaps, slipping up around them like icy tendrils. For a moment, Kaley felt swept away. She smelled…pine? And Pine-Sol? Mom doesn’t use Pine-Sol was the last thing she thought before stepping over the threshold. She shouldered her book bag and handed Shannon hers. “Here,” she said, and they stepped outside.

  And for a moment, Kaley saw something else. Trees. And snow. But it hadn’t snowed during the night and she knew it. She blinked. It was gone, and all that was left was Bentley Drive, in Cartersville, Georgia. Bentley Drive was a short stretch of forgettable road that was a forgettable offshoot of Tennessee Street, and covered by dying oaks and forlorn willows. Of the nine houses on Bentley, there were only two that were actually owned by real homeowners, the rest of the houses were all rented out by the same landlord as the one Kaley’s mother had found through one of the officers at the Atlanta Police Department. The nice detective, Leon Hulsey, the big man who never stopped looking for them that night, had suggested it to them before he was swallowed by controversy—apparently, he’d been turning a blind eye to his brother-in-law’s chop shop, and was now on suspension pending an investigation.

  The trees blew in a sourceless wind, a wind that felt colder by the second. It blew in hard and fast, pushing against both Kaley and her sister. It had another strange odor to it. It didn’t…well, as strange as it seemed, it didn’t smell like the wind was from around here. More of that pine smell, she thought. There were no pines around Bentley Drive.

  “Hurry on, now!” said Jovita Dupré, safely in the doorway, hugging her robe more tightly to herself. “Gawn, I got a job interview to get to! Don’t be late to the bus!” She waved them away, almost like pests, and shut the door.

  Kaley reached for her sister’s hand, gripped it, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. They walked fifty feet to the bus stop, where two other kids were waiting for the bus, as well. They were older kids, though, a couple of ninth graders, white boys who never did more than glance at Kaley and her sister with an exquisite blend of pity and disgust.

  “Did you get the sheets in the washin’ machine before Mama saw?” asked Shan.

  Always looking out for me. “Yeah, I got it,” Kaley said. At least, that’s what she meant to say. Only when her lips moved, different words came out. “Arrogance before the gods.”

  “Huh?” Shannon said.

  The man on the sofa lounged for a moment, then stood. In his hand was a Glock. His grip showed it was nothing casual; he knew how to use it. He wore black jeans and a black jacket, unzipped, and the shirt underneath had a message written in English: YEAH, I’M INTO THAT SHIT. The man’s complexion was pale, his hair black and wild like overgrowth in the forest, his face…there was an illusion on his face. A shadow, brought on by the dark stubble. But something else was wrong. The hairs weren’t growing right. There was some sort of distortion, like a scar that—

  “Hubris,” said Zakhar’s enemy. “That’s arrogance before the gods. And there’s a spirit of vengeance, set against those who succumb to hubris. That’s what the Greeks believed, anyway. Guess they’re good for somethin’ besides makin’ a mean eggplant.” He smiled, and Zakhar noted that the smile was slightly off, too. “Do you know what they called this spirit of vengeance?” The man stepped around the coffee table, his boots were wet and his jeans were soaked almost to the knees. He took a seat at the edge of the table. “Nemesis. That’s where the word comes from.”

  Zakhar started to speak, felt something catch in his throat, and swallowed. After he cleared his throat, he said, “What do you want? I have money—”

  “You know, I never much believed in god or gods, still not sure that I do, but it’s interesting how they supply a kind of, uh…what’s the word…underpinning?” The gunman nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, an underpinning for how we describe what takes place around us. A basis, a foundation for the things we don’t understand.”

  “If you want money—”

  “If I wanted money, Vladimir Putin, why the fuck would I come way out here to planet Earth’s frozen asshole?” Vladimir Putin? That was a little strange. Either the man was insane and really believed Zakhar to be the former Prime Minister, or else he was using the sarcasm that the English were known for. Zakhar didn’t know the language well enough to place the regional accent.

  “You can have anything in the house that you want,” he told the man.

  “Oh, I’ve got all I want. Right h
ere, right now.”

  “I’m…not sure I understand you.”

  The man smiled, and his smile…didn’t quite happen the right way. The left side, it twitched a little, and kind of frowned as the rest of the face smiled. Something had happened there, something terrible. Zakhar reminded himself of the Colt Woodsman .22 at his side, ready to be drawn, ready to be fired. And his eyes constantly flitted to the Glock in the intruder’s hand.

  The gunman suddenly changed topics. “There’s this bigass crater in America. Maybe you’ve heard of it? It’s called the Barringer Crater.” The gunman raised his eyebrows. “It’s outside o’ Flagstaff, in Arizona. It’s a meteor impact crater. You guys have one like it here in Siberia. I think ya call it Popi-guy? Poppy-gay, somethin’?” He waved his gun hand dismissively. “In any case, the Barringer Crater, it’s like four thousand feet wide, and like six hundred feet deep. You could fit about five major aircraft carriers inside. You could also fill that crater with how much shit I know that you don’t know. So when you say, ‘I don’t understand,’ believe me when I say, I know. Only in this instance, I think you do know.”

  “Know what? What the hell are you talking about?”

  The gunman tittered. It was a disturbing little titter, almost girlish, and it made Zakhar think of the boy downstairs. “You’re really gonna make me say this, aren’t you?” He shook his head in wonderment, stood up, sighed. “You fuckers, you don’t even have the guts to own up to what you’ve done. An’ they call me the freak.”

  Zakhar raised his left hand slowly. “Tell me what you want,” he said reasonably, “and then maybe we can work out an arrangement of some kind.”

  “An arrangement. Like what you’ve got here?” He looked around at the living room, giving an appraising look at the moose on the wall, the considerable fireplace, and mantelpiece. “Quite the arrangement.” He took a step closer to Zakhar, and Zakhar took a step back, bumped against the mantelpiece and then walked slowly to his left, to the far side of the fireplace. “I’m no vengeful spirit, but I am here because of your little arrangement here. Fascinating how you stayed off the grid with your work. A smart plan. Much smarter than the rest of your ilk, the ones in Germany, and Ukraine.” He smiled knowingly. “And Derbent? Mm?”