The Boy in the Woods

by Carter Wilson

  Elizabeth leaned in at Tommy. ‘You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?’

  The cop stood her straight. ‘Let’s just all calm down now. I need IDs from both of you.’

  Ice water ran through Tommy. My ID? What the hell is happening here? And why aren’t I just telling him everything?

  You know why, the voice inside him said. Because it’s mutually assured destruction. Doesn’t matter that you were only fourteen. Doesn’t matter you weren’t the one holding the rock. You’ve researched enough of the legal system and know enough about the reactionary public to know one thing is certain: talk now and it’s over.

  ‘Please don’t make me ask you again. IDs.’

  Tommy pulled his wallet from his back pocket as he tried to avoid eye contact with the handful of other diners outside. Elizabeth quickly pulled hers from a small pocketbook and handed it to the cop.

  The officer studied both of them, his gaze darting back and forth between them.

  ‘Thomas Devereaux. Colorado.’ He looked up at Tommy. ‘Why does that name sound familiar?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. Elizabeth remained silent, though a faint smile crossed her lips.

  ‘I need to go run these back at the patrol car. Ma’am, would you care to come with me or do you feel safe staying here?’

  ‘I’m fine, officer. I’ll stay here.’

  He gave her a small nod. ‘You two stay right here and I’ll be back. Do you understand?’

  Tommy felt himself nodding vigorously. Elizabeth barely moved her head.

  The moment the cop was out of earshot Tommy leaned across the table.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he whispered.

  Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and glanced up at the night sky.

  ‘Research,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Research. Just like you do. I’m trying to get in the head of my main character.’ She brought her gaze back to Tommy. ‘How badly does Tommy Devereaux want his misdeeds to remain unknown? Enough to keep the police at bay, even when there’s a vicious serial killer within arm’s reach?’

  Tommy didn’t want to admit it, but it made sense. ‘That’s why you made me come here,’ he said. ‘To Charleston. Because you wanted to see if I would do it. You wanted to be able to direct me, predict my patterns.’

  ‘And now I have my answer, which I already knew,’ she said. ‘Tommy Devereaux is quite eager to go back to his normal life and leave this messy business behind him. Tommy Devereaux just wants this woman Elizabeth simply to go away.’

  Tommy looked down again at the knife on the table, thinking it was perhaps sloppy on the cop’s part to leave a weapon on the table when he was questioning them about a potential assault charge.

  ‘He knows people,’ she said. ‘The cop. He reads people for a living. That’s what he does. He knows you’re not a threat. Not to me. Not to him. Not to anyone.’

  He searched her face. ‘You don’t think so?’ he asked. ‘You don’t think I could hurt someone?’

  ‘Oh, sure, if you had to. In defense. Anyone would. But to take an active stance to harm someone?’ She folded her arms across her chest, appraising him. ‘It’s not as easy as it seems, you know. Hurting someone. Killing someone. It requires an inner strength that hardly anyone possesses.’

  Tommy recoiled. ‘What you call strength is actually called psychopathy.’

  She winked. ‘So quick to label.’

  The cop walked back, and Tommy could see in his saunter that they would be fine.

  ‘OK, folks,’ he said, handing them back their licenses. ‘Unless the lady wants to press charges—’

  ‘Press charges?’ Tommy said.

  The cop scowled at him. ‘Unless the lady wants to press charges, you two are free to go.’ He turned to her. ‘Ma’am?’

  Elizabeth let the moment hang far too long for Tommy’s comfort. ‘No, officer, I’m fine.’

  ‘How very noble of you,’ Tommy mumbled, unable to contain himself.

  ‘Just keep the arguments verbal,’ the cop said to both of them. Then he turned to Tommy. ‘Oh, and Mr Devereaux.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good luck with your next book.’

  SIXTEEN

  They walked side by side down the lighted cobblestone street, an arm’s length distance between them. A long arm.

  ‘So now the police know Tommy Devereaux is in Charleston and got into what appeared to be a lover’s quarrel with someone who is certainly not his wife. Fucking fantastic.’

  ‘And that’s your biggest concern?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Not that you’re walking next to a serial killer?’

  He looked over at her. ‘First, I’m not convinced you’re a serial killer at all. Second, like you said, if you wanted me dead it would have been done a long time ago.’

  ‘You’re the expert,’ she said.

  There were only a handful of people on the street. They passed the occasional bar, but those seemed mostly empty. It was growing late and Charleston was falling asleep.

  ‘What do you want from me? From Mark?’

  She pulled a long strand of red hair back behind her ear. ‘Just walking with you is nice. For starters.’ She folded her arms across her chest, and in doing so she pushed up her breasts just a bit.

  Tommy’s phone rang.

  He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the screen. Home.

  ‘Damnit,’ he said. ‘I completely forgot to call home tonight.’

  ‘Understandable. Considering.’

  He stared at the phone as if it were a lifeline. He knew answering it was a mistake, but he had to hear Becky’s voice, even if it was only to tell her he would call her back.

  ‘Hello?’

  Becky’s voice had no emotion to it. ‘Your children are asleep, in case you’re wondering.’

  He didn’t know what was worse: the longing he felt at the sound of her voice, or the chill from the tone of it.

  ‘God, I know, Beck. I … I got so wrapped up here I completely lost track of time.’

  Elizabeth leaned in and whispered close to his ear. ‘Do you think she’s fucking Stuart? I bet he has a huge cock.’

  How the hell did she know he had hired private security for his family, let alone the man’s name?

  ‘Who was that?’ Becky asked.

  Tommy turned away from Elizabeth and snarled at her. ‘I’m writing at an outdoor café. That was the waitress.’

  ‘It’s nearly midnight there.’

  ‘I know. I told you, I lost track of time.’

  ‘Fine. Try to call your kids in the morning. They would like to hear from you. Good night.’

  ‘Becky, wait.’

  Silence. Then: ‘Yes?’

  He pressed the phone hard to his ear. ‘I miss you.’

  More silence.

  ‘And I love you,’ he added.

  ‘I love you too, Tommy. Now finish writing and get home. I’m tired of worrying and wondering about you.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Elizabeth reached out and brushed her fingers along Tommy’s shoulder. He jerked away.

  ‘I just don’t like all this cloak and dagger stuff,’ Becky said. ‘And I don’t like having Stuart here. The whole thing is just … just not like you.’ She didn’t add what Tommy knew was there on her lips: Becky wondered if this was all about something more familiar.

  ‘I know. When I get home, we can let him go.’

  ‘Just come home soon,’ Becky said, then disconnected the call.

  ‘Goddamnit,’ Tommy muttered, sliding the phone into his pocket.

  ‘She thinks you’re having an affair,’ Elizabeth said.

  He turned to Elizabeth, feeling a rage well within him. ‘No, she doesn’t,’ Tommy said. Yes, she does, he thought.

  ‘That fear is there. In the dark side of her mind, where all the spiders nest.’ Elizabeth reached over and tousled Tommy’s hair, and he pulled back. ‘You’re everything to her, Tommy. Emotionally. Financ
ially. If you went away, she’d be destroyed. So of course she can’t help but think of that worst-case scenario from time to time. It’s human nature.’

  ‘Cheating on her isn’t the worst-case scenario,’ Tommy said. ‘You’re the worst-case scenario.’

  She smiled. ‘Quite true. And when you think about it, you are having an affair with me, aren’t you? You came all the way out here to see me, and you’ll do anything to keep me your little secret. It’s an affair without the sex, which is a little boring I must admit.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Tommy said.

  ‘Such a charmer.’

  Despite the slight chill in the air his face felt hot. ‘And stay away from my family.’

  ‘Your family doesn’t interest me. Now, I must say I was a little tempted to kill Stuart, just to teach you a lesson about the futility of protection. You know, slice his throat and leave him for your kids to find.’ She twirled a strand of her hair with her index finger. ‘But he’s just doing his job, and I do have some conscience. Plus it would have been a lot more planning that I really don’t have the time or energy for, so Stuart gets to live. But you can get rid of him. Your family is safe. You have my word.’

  ‘Which we all know is as good as gold, right? Is that your serial killer code?’

  ‘It’s no code at all. It’s just logic. I know you would do anything to protect the people you love. You would sacrifice anything for them. You are more motivated if they are alive.’

  He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. ‘You’re right,’ he whispered. ‘I would do anything for them. I swear to God I will kill you if you get anywhere near them.’

  ‘You can swear all you want, Tommy. Swearing doesn’t put a knife in someone’s chest. Swearing is simply talk. Can you do more than talk when so much is at stake for you? Can you play dirty, Tommy? Can you be like me?’

  He held his breath for a few seconds, thinking he could calm himself. ‘What is it you want from me?’

  Elizabeth ignored him and kept walking. Someone catcalled in the distance, and the sound stumbled along the ancient streets until it faded back into the night. She turned down a small, tight alley and he reluctantly followed her, walking away from the light of the larger street into the solitude of what felt like another time. He didn’t feel danger, but he did feel an acute sense of awareness that heightened as the darkness consumed them bit by bit. Tommy forced himself to keep walking, though what he wanted more than anything was to run. Run away. Away from everything. He wanted to run back to the life he knew just a week ago, when the biggest problem he had was figuring out a way to finish his book.

  Elizabeth started humming. Soft and quiet, a nighttime song for a baby. The peacefulness of it unnerved him. Tommy saw her only though his peripheral vision. She wasn’t answering his question.

  ‘You’re a lunatic,’ he said.

  She shrugged. ‘ToMAYto. ToMAHto.’

  Suddenly he wished he’d kept the steak knife. ‘Do you want me to scuttle the book? Is that what you’re afraid of – that you’ll get caught because of what I’ve written?’

  She laughed, her tone soft and feminine. ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning I love that you’re writing a book about me. But the book you’ve written is completely wrong.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Because I’ve read it.’

  ‘How?’

  She stopped and looked at him. ‘You are incredibly naive, Tommy, you know that? When you write at the Denver Hyatt, you connect to their open Wi-Fi signal. You think it’s that hard to hack into your computer and download all your files?’

  ‘My God. You stole my book?’

  ‘And this is what surprises you?’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’

  She turned and resumed walking, knowing he would follow. Her posture was perfect as she strolled.

  ‘The problem, Tommy, is even though I find your book quite good, it’s not right. It’s not right at all.’

  He kept a few paces behind her. ‘I don’t care what you think of it.’

  ‘Oh, but you need to care. I want you to understand me the way I really am,’ she said. ‘You research, but you don’t understand. I can’t have you write me like that.’

  He sighed. ‘Then you’ll be happy to know I deleted that book. Back at the restaurant.’

  She pivoted around to face him, her eyes wide. ‘Did you really now?’

  Tommy felt a momentary wave of comfort. Finally there’s something she doesn’t already know.

  He didn’t tell her he wanted to re-write the book; he didn’t like the fact that they both seemed to have the same idea about the finished product.

  The sound of an empty glass bottle rolling on the ground emanated from fifty feet or so in the distance. Then Tommy heard mumbling, a man talking to himself. The sound of homelessness.

  She moved her fingers lower and touched the buttons on his shirt. ‘I want you to feel what I feel, so when you do write about this, you’ll do it perfectly.’

  He felt electricity go through him. ‘Don’t touch me,’ he whispered.

  She dropped her hand and took a few slow steps toward the mumbling man in the distance. ‘You need to capture my essence perfectly. I want to be immortalized through your words but, as you said, as a fictional character. That, Tommy, is what I need you for.’

  The simple questions always formulated first. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to be famous.’

  Tommy considered this. ‘And if I … meet your expectations, then you’ll leave me alone?’

  ‘Forever and ever,’ she said, moving her finger across her chest. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die. And the beauty is, the faster you write and get it published, the faster I’ll be out of your life. You get a little bit of control back.’

  Tommy knew this was bullshit. The woman was a sociopath, and taking her at her word was the same as believing a crumb-laden five-year-old child who insisted someone else stole the piece of cake. But unless he wanted the truth to come out, all Tommy could do was follow her instructions until he came up with a better idea.

  Tommy was waiting for the catch. ‘And if you don’t approve?’

  ‘That’s the tricky part, now, isn’t it, Tommy?’ She twirled on her toes aimlessly, left and then right, as if still dancing at the ball as the clock turned midnight. ‘But I think you know the answer to that.’

  Elizabeth walked deeper into the alley.

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘You’ll tell the world what happened.’

  She turned and beamed at him, a little girl staring into a pet-store window. ‘In gory detail!’

  ‘But then you’ll sacrifice yourself in the process.’

  She shrugged. ‘Que sera sera. I’ve had a good run. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to be caught, but it’s a chance I’m willing to take. You know killers, Tommy. You know my actions since coming back into your life have been uncharacteristically brazen. That should tell you I’m willing to push the envelope a little here. I want to be immortalized by you, and this is my last shot.’

  ‘What do you mean “last shot?”’

  ‘It means now or never, baby. The timing is right. You do your job right, and we’ll both be famous. But I’m a fierce critic. You need to capture my essence perfectly. I’ve read all your other books. Compelling, each one of them. But you don’t understand the kind of mind it takes to do what I do. Not really. You need to understand me to write about me. You need to feel the lust. The desire. The raw energy that feeds me.’

  ‘And you’re concerned I won’t be able to.’

  ‘Concerned …’ she mused. ‘That’s not quite the right word. I just need to make sure you learn how to play the game properly. Play it the way I do. Once you get that, you will see it all.’

  The sound of mumbling increased. There was someone in the alley with them, and not too far away.

  ‘So you want to teach me your game?’

  She winked playfully
as if responding to a flirt. ‘Come here,’ she said. ‘I want to show you something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just come here, you goose.’

  Tommy walked toward her and the mumbling man. The alley stretched for another couple of hundred feet before feeding into a brighter street, the light from which backlit Elizabeth, rendering her into a simple silhouette of a woman. Nothing more. Not a killer. Not a monster. Just the curves and confidence of a forty-something woman with red hair that spilled down her back like water.

  Elizabeth stopped walking and Tommy closed in, approaching her slowly from behind. When he was a few feet away he could see what – who – she was looking at.

  ‘Homeless,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I passed through this alley earlier and he was there. Guess he hasn’t moved.’

  The faded light served only to highlight the filth of the man on the ground. He was sitting, his back propped against the brick building, his ancient army surplus jacket tattered and torn like a battle flag. Long milky whiskers hung from his face, and the dirt streaked on his cheeks and forehead accentuated his bright eyes, which were the only things lively about the man. Eyes that darted back and forth, looking at everything. Looking at nothing. Tommy guessed the man to be fifty, seventy, or somewhere in between.

  An empty Seagram’s bottle rocked back and forth like a baby’s cradle between the man’s feet.

  ‘Spare change?’ he grumbled, the words spoken with the automation of a Wal-Mart greeter.

  ‘Yes,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Of course.’ She opened her purse and took out her wallet.

  Tommy didn’t understand the sudden benevolence, or why she wanted him to see it. But seeing her wallet, something occurred to him.

  ‘The ID you gave the cop,’ he said. ‘What name was on it?’

  ‘Patricia Damotto.’

  Tommy’s jaw loosened. He hadn’t heard the name Patricia Damotto in a long time. He had dated her for three of his four years in college and hadn’t spoken to her since.

  ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘Yes, Tommy. Because I spent so much time researching everything about you so I could land a few good jokes here and there.’

  ‘What …’ The confusion began to overpower him. ‘Why would you do that?’