As soon as Jackie was out of the house and headed towards her car, he texted Tom, disguised in his phone as Jackie. He made up some bullshit about the fridge breaking and accidentally letting all the air out, and that if he didn’t hurry and come home to fix it, everything inside would spoil. Additionally, he threw in a graphic bit about how she would reward him for his help. A little motivation for him to hurry couldn’t hurt.
A mere twenty minutes later, Tom drove up and parked in the driveway, but Alexander was ready. He was leaned up against the area of the wall that the door opens into, so that when it was opened, he would be hidden by the door itself. His weapon of choice was a baseball bat. One good hit to the back of his skull should set him unconscious without killing him immediately. The fun would come later.
The door opened and, just as planned, Alexander whacked him over the back of the head without ever being seen. Tom fell to the floor limply, hitting with a thud that sounded similar to a bag of lemons being dropped.
For safe measure, Alexander bound his hands with a zip tie, and then dragged his body back into his own car. Before that, however, he wrapped his head with gauze and tape, to stop the bleeding a bit. For this plan to work perfectly, there couldn’t be blood turning up anywhere. With every bit of strength he had in his scrawny arms, he dragged him into the back seat and left him lying there, taking up the entire area. First things first, he went back into Tom’s phone and deleted any trace of his information being tampered with. He deleted the texts he had sent under Jackie’s name, then reverted her contact back to her phone number, and slid it into his pocket.
With Tom still asleep but breathing in the back seat, Alexander drove to his favorite spot in the world: the woods where he had his first kill, followed by more of his tormentors. He unloaded Tom from the back seat, and dragged him out to his favorite spot where cars could not travel, where he had killed and planted Jamie. It was a long way to drag a heavy body, but the adrenaline of the moment made the task feel like nothing at all.
Finally, they reached the tree that grew on the remains of his first victim. It had grown well, as well as Oaks can grow at least. They grow slowly, and aren’t fully mature for about thirty years after sprouting from the acorn, but this one now was two years old and about twelve feet tall and very thin. There was no sign of a dead boy, and there never would be. This place seemed fitting for this kill.
And finally, after years of physical and emotional abuse, molestation, rape, routine burnings and beatings, which led to hatred, depression, and anxiety, which all eventually led to the daydreaming of this moment - it was happening. Alexander had imagined it, played it out in his mind, and thought of all sorts of ways it could happen, but it only just now started to feel real. It had become such a fantasy that planning it wasn’t quite real, executing the early stages didn’t feel quite real, and even dragging his body still didn’t feel real enough. It wasn’t until he stood over Tom, next to the growing oak, that he realized that all the years of imagining it had finally come to fruition. It was really, finally happening, and nothing could possibly interrupt it.
With baseball bat en garde and in hand, he slapped Tom’s face repeatedly until he was awake and groggy. Clearly, he was confused, but it didn’t take him very long to understand what was happening. He had a killer headache underneath all of his bandaging, while lying on the ground in the middle of nowhere with his hands bound; it didn’t take a rocket scientist.
“Don’t you fucking try to stand up,” Alexander said. “I’m in charge now. For the next few minutes, you’re gonna get to feel a fraction of what you put me through. And then I’m gonna fucking kill you, and that’s gonna be the end of that.”
“What the hell are you doing, Alex?” His voice was a chilling whimper and it was almost pitiful, but Alexander felt no empathy for him. No remorse. Tom sat up in a crisscross position, with his hands bound behind his back.
“Don’t you call me fucking Alex!”
Alexander gave a swift kick to Tom’s chest, sprawling him back out across the leaves on the ground. Tom coughed for a remarkably long amount of time, choking, gasping for air.
“You don’t get to call me Alex. You’re a piece of shit. You can call me sir, and you can say please and thank you. But you will not ever call me Alex again. Understand?”
“Yeah,” Tom squeaked.
“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, okay?”
Tom said nothing.
“You’ve turned me into a monster, you sick fuck. And I get it; I know what I am. I know who I am. I know I’m not normal and the things I do and imagine aren’t normal. I know I’m a sick freak, and I know I am this way because of you. It’s because almost all my earliest memories are of you touching my dick when I barely knew what was going on. I didn’t know why it felt weird, or why it felt wrong. All I knew is it didn’t feel right, and it only scared me more when you told me you would kill my mother if I ever told anyone. What kind of evil, fucked up piece of shit tells a five-year-old boy that he’s going to kill his mother?”
Alexander paused for a moment and paced around, unable to take his eyes off Tom. Tom would not make eye contact. Finally, he was the defenseless one.
“And then there were the beatings, the burnings, the torture. I’ve got scars all up and down my body, thanks to you. I have this insatiable craving for blood that I can’t let out, thanks to you. I’m fucked up for life, all thanks to you, Tom.” Alexander drew his face to within an inch from Tom’s. “Fuck you, Tom!”
Tom knew better than to try and sit back up, so he listened from his back. He stared into the clear Texas Spring skies, wondering if he’d ever get to admire it again. His head was pounding and he could feel where the blood dried and crusted his hair. He still said nothing as Alexander paced around him.
“And you did this shit for as long as I can remember. Sometimes all you would do is watch, and sometimes you would touch. Oh, but sometimes touching wasn’t fucking enough, was it? Sometimes you had to do a little extra. And sometimes you fucking raped me. You put your hands over my mouth to keep me from screaming, and you wouldn’t let up. And you only had more fun with it the older I got. Because the older I got, the stronger I got, and the more I fought back. Then you just loved the challenge of it. And I think you got off even more, knowing this was all happening right behind my mom’s back for years and years, and years.”
Alexander was running out of breath. He was working himself up, losing control of his temper.
“That’s why no one will ever find you. They’re going to think you ran away. Everyone knows you’re fucking crazy, anyway. People will just think that you got tired of the spotlight and just had to leave, especially once they find your credit card charges for a one-way ticket to Indonesia and your car parked outside of the airport. My mom will be sad for a while, thinking you left her, but I think it’s better that way. She can heal easier thinking you just got sick of her fat ass and left, but God forbid she ever find out what you’ve been doing to me all these years.”
Alexander continued his pacing, his eyes darting back and forth furiously from Tom lying before him to the tree he lied next to. He was finally getting to explode. He had never before been able to tell anyone what had been going on, and finally he was getting to let it out right back in the face of the man who had caused him pain. Finally, he allowed himself to feel something other than anger.
All at once, his frustration, depression and anxiety, fear, hurt, and of course, anger stewed together in a pot that reached its boiling point, tipping over and spilling out all over. As he recounted his childhood and the anguish he had endured, hot tears forced themselves out. The tears felt cooked, as if they would evaporate into steam right off his cheeks.
“Do you know what you turned me into? I couldn’t talk to anyone. I couldn’t tell my mom, ‘cause you would kill her. I couldn’t tell my teachers, or a therapist, or my friends, because if it ever got back to you, my life and my mom’s life would be over. Do you know what kind of
a massive fucking weight that is for a child? I had all of this hurt and anger built up for so long, that it has turned me into a fucking lunatic! The only way to let it out is by beating something or someone until the last bit of life disappears from their eyes! The only pleasure or release I get is knowing that I caused something else the fraction of the pain you’ve caused me. Remember the Kitty Killer? That was me. I started on animals. They were the easiest to kill, after all, and a lot less hard to hide than people. Then when that wasn’t enough anymore, I graduated up to people. I killed Jamie. Remember him? The beloved boy that went missing one afternoon and never turned up? We went to his memorial. You donated to the school in his name. I fucking murdered him! Wanna know where he’s buried? If you dig for a while under that tree, you’ll find him.”
Alexander watched Tom, hoping his expression would change. He hoped he’d see some fear or some remorse, or even some shock. He hoped he would see anything at all, but Tom only stared blankly into the sky. If anything, this only pissed Alexander off more.
He doesn’t feel anything at all.
Alexander gave a few more kick jabs into Tom’s ribs, hearing them crack each time he added intensity. He winced in pain, but that’s all he did - wince. He didn’t cry, or scream, or call for help; he didn’t even make a noise. He just winced. Alexander kicked harder and harder until Tom was forced to feel something.
“You want to know what’s going to happen next? I brought an acorn with me,” he said, “and I’m going to beat you as hard as I can, for as long as I can, until that black heart of yours stops beating. I’m going to try and keep you alive so you can feel every bit of it. How does that sound, Tommy?”
Tom was hardly conscious after the pummeling he’d just taken from Alexander’s foot. Breathing had become more and more difficult, as the cracked ribs made it painful just to inhale and exhale. It was a miracle his lungs hadn’t been punctured already. Or, perhaps miracle is not the right word.
Tom craned his neck what little he could, until he was staring up at Alexander, his shadow casting over him. The sun to Alexander’s back blocked out most of Tom’s vision, so all he really could make out was a silhouette with some coloration. But Tom found Alexander’s eyes and looked directly into them.
“I married your mother just so I could fuck you.” He winked.
And then that was it. Alexander’s plan of making the process as slow and painful as possible was scrapped. Raw emotion took the reigns as Alexander caved Tom’s skull in with the baseball bat. Then he did it again, and again, and again, until the skull had been completely crushed and some brain was exposed. Then he continued, beating and beating. Then when the head was no longer satisfying to beat, he worked his way down the body, trying to hear the snapping of as many bones as possible. Tom was probably dead after the first hit, and if not, then definitely after the second, but a rage unlike any other he’d ever felt was in complete control. Something other than Alexander took over. The hurt little boy that would eventually become the product of years of emotional and physical abuse took over, and fulfilled the hate-filled dreams that had been locked away in the dark corner of his soul. Alex took over.
SEVEN
Marco wanted to be the one to inform Delilah. It would seem insincere coming from a no-name officer, or really from anyone that was not close to Gene. At least he and Gene were friends. To Marco, it felt like his duty, or even an obligation - an obligation he wanted to perform.
Leaning against his Mercedes-Benz in Gene’s driveway, he made the call. As the phone rang, he halfway hoped that she would not answer, and that he wouldn’t have to say the words. He hoped he wouldn’t have to hear her cry, or her raspy voice plead. He didn’t want to picture her beautiful face with tired morning eyes sobbing. He especially did not want to do this over the phone, but as she picked up on the other end, the moment had arrived. The cadence of the phone’s ring was a drumroll, a crescendo to the moment she answered.
His palms were sweaty and his eyes were puffy and red from his own crying - a look that Delilah would soon adorn.
“Hey there, Delilah,” he said. His voice cracked and squealed in a sort of nervous, prepubescent way that reminded him of his middle school years, trying and failing to flirt with girls.
“Hey there, yourself, Marco. What’s up?” She was excited to be talking to him.
“Oh, nothing much, really,” he said, but that was a lie. He was afraid to get to the point of his call. “Actually, I’ve got some bad news. Can you talk for a minute or are you busy right now?”
Marco could almost hear metaphorical glass shattering as he dropped the bad news bomb on her. Her interest was piqued in an unpleasant, butterfly-stomach sort of way.
“I’m not busy. Just lying in bed right now. What’s the news?” Her voice grew soft, and the cheery attitude was quick to vanish. Marco was more interested in seeing her in bed.
Back to the task at hand, he said: “Well, it’s Gene. I don’t quite know how to put this…” He trailed, paused, and cleared his throat. The other end was silent. If she was breathing, it wasn’t audible. She feared the worst, but said nothing. “I found him this morning. Someone broke in last night and shot him.” Marco didn’t know what to say next. Dead? It seemed too brutal, too distant, too unemotional. Passed away? It seemed insincere and fake, even. Departed? It seemed fictional. He just went with his gut. “Delilah, Gene was killed. He’s passed away.” He wished there was a kinder way to phrase it, but there was nothing kind about the situation. Nothing fair or good, or even or right, or just.
Delilah hung up.
---
At LAX in Los Angeles, California, Delilah purchased a last-minute flight to the DFW International Airport.
---
Marco walked sullenly back into the Homicide division of the Dallas Police Department just as the Captain had issued a briefing. Everyone, including all the officers that set up shop in this division, were scuffling for the large and open room down the hall.
“Moretti! Briefing room!” Sergeant Davis shouted as he’d noticed Marco’s quiet entrance.
Marco did as ordered, and was the last to enter the room. What few chairs that were set in the center of the room were taken, so Marco opted for the lonely corner in the back. Distant from everyone else, he leaned up against the wall and crossed his arms.
The briefing room was used regularly as a meeting room of sorts, but was usually not filled to capacity as it was at this moment, unless the case was high-profile and required all hands on deck. Captain Cole and the Lieutenant were each standing at the front of the room, on either side of a 4x4 bulletin board. Blown up and pinned to that bulletin board were the faces of Zoey and Terry Edmund, Det. Eugene Maxwell, and Alexander Hart. Marco supposed that Captain Cole was officially connecting the dots between the abduction and two subsequent murders.
“Alright, everyone shut the fuck up and listen!” Captain Cole had a way of garnering attention - demanding it, rather. The room that was once filled with collective whispers and chatting that combined to form a quiet roar, now fell immediately silent. When God spoke, the people listened.
“As all of you know, and soon the rest of Dallas, too, one of our own was killed. Detective Eugene Maxwell, as the news will call him, but we knew him as Gene. Late last night, his home was broken into, and he was shot and killed at the bottom of his stairs. Nothing was stolen; there were no fingerprints; there was no struggle, and Gene was armed. This was an assassination, so let that be perfectly clear. Someone came into him home and assassinated him; they assassinated one of us. Who would have the motive to do that, you ask? One person. Alexander Hart,” he proclaimed as he pointed to the portrait of his number one suspect. His muscles looked almost as if they were about to pop through his shirt, and sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping down and dissolving the pomade in his slicked-back hair.
“Gene was working on only one case. He’s only really been working on one case at a time for the last six months or so as he was nearing retiremen
t. And the case he was working on when he was assassinated was the disappearance of Zoey Edmund,” he said as he moved his finger over to the photo of Zoey. “Zoey Edmund was divorced to this guy, Terry Edmund,” he continued, dragging his finger across the bulletin board to his photo. “Terry Edmund had been working closely with Gene and Marco, assisting them as much as possible in their investigation. Really, he was the only person that was of much help, and he was the man responsible for positively identifying the sketch that we had earlier on. Terry informed us of Hart’s instability, his temper, his obsession with Zoey, and that he had recently become recluse in a home he had built. That very night, both Terry and Gene were killed within an hour or two of each other. In both instances, there was no struggle, no fingerprints, and nothing stolen or missing. They were both assassinations. That leads us to believe that Mr. Hart, the creepy son of a bitch you see here, is not only responsible for the disappearance of Zoey Edmund, but he then found out about Mr. Edmund’s cooperation and had both he and the lead detective killed.”
Captain Cole stopped speaking to breathe for a moment, allowing the room to digest the onslaught of information that had previously been kept between just a handful of people. For dramatic effect, he allowed the murmuring to continue for a just a bit longer than he normally would.
Decay Page 25