by Mark Murphy
He laughed at his own joke as he clicked off the iPhone display.
Suddenly, Malcolm was hungry.
His stomach felt like an empty pit.
As Malcolm walked back to the place where he had fallen asleep the night before, he saw that Billy had tied a burlap bag to a tree branch about four feet off the ground. When Malcolm opened the bag, there were two bottles of spring water and four Powerbars.
"Billy, I'm liking you better already," Malcolm said out loud.
The sun was rising higher in the sky, dappling the forest floor. Malcolm sat down on the ground and unwrapped a Powerbar. He ate it in seconds, nearly consuming the wrapper in the process, and ate a second one nearly as fast.
He drank from one of the water bottles and watched as an ant crawled over the crumbs from his second Powerbar. There was a soft breeze that rustled the palmettos and stirred the thick branches of the pines and oak trees. Malcolm felt drowsy. He realized he'd had very little sleep; his eyelids were heavy.
Maybe just a little nap, he thought.
His eyes had closed for what seemed like a minute when he heard the footsteps.
Low and uneven, shuffling through the leaves and underbrush with a syncopated rhythm, the footfalls were hesitant and heavy, dragging one foot here and another there.
Malcolm's eyes snapped open.
He saw nothing unusual.
But a pungent odor, like rotten cabbage, filled the air.
Chuff! Chuff!
Malcolm turned around, slowly.
Chuff!
The creature was huge—at least eight feet long, and four feet high at the shoulder. It had tiny, mean eyes like shooter marbles and a snuffling flat snout that seemed comically at odds with the pair of evil-looking tusks that curled below it. The animal's coarse black hair, tipped with silver, stood up jaggedly across its back like toothbrush bristles. Its cloven feet pawed anxiously at the ground.
"Easy, big fella. I didn't come here to hurt you," Malcolm said.
Chuff! The animal snorted.
The gargantuan razorback sniffed at a Powerbar wrapper and then raised its head once more.
"Shit," said Malcolm. "It's the food."
He carefully unwrapped another Powerbar.
The animal jounced its head and bunched up its powerful shoulders.
Malcolm tossed the Powerbar at the boar, but he had misjudged the distance. The bar struck the animal in the right eye.
Sqwueeee! Squweeee!
The creature charged. Malcolm scrambled to his feet and ran, sprinting faster than he thought was humanly possible. But still the boar thundered behind him, massive head lowered, crashing through dense stands of palmetto and rhododendron like a runaway dump truck.
He came to the edge of a clearing and headed for it, the boar galloping behind him. The clearing contained a ramshackle farmhouse, its bone-dry wooden planks gray and splintered. Its windows were shattered and sightless; the peak of the roof had collapsed, its back broken. Only the stone chimney at one end of the structure stood tall and proud, defiant that time had not yet defeated it.
Malcolm could tell the boar was closing on him. He could smell the animal's musky stench, could feel its blind rage boiling behind those cruel, sparkling eyes.
Mal's legs were rubbery. Each shuddering breath felt like a stiletto thrust.
The magnolia sat at a curious angle next to the ruined farmhouse. Its branches radiated out like spokes on a wheel, but its massive trunk was twisted and warped, as though God, Himself, had cursed it.
The magnolia was Malcolm's only chance.
He was almost at the tree when he heard it. There was a sharp crack! like a gunshot, then a sound like the world collapsing in on itself, a sound punctuated by cries of SCREEEEE! SCREEEE! from the giant pig that was chasing him.
And then silence.
Malcolm reached the tree and climbed it, not daring to glance back until he had climbed at least twenty feet. He'd never heard of a hog that could leap that high.
Two pitch-black buzzards lit atop the old stone-and-masonry chimney of the farmhouse, their ugly wizened heads spying this way and that.
The boar was nowhere to be found.
Malcolm looked across the little clearing and into the forest. He saw no animals except the two vultures. And then another vulture landed. Malcolm saw three more circling.
"What the hell?" he muttered under his breath.
He climbed halfway down the tree.
One of the vultures flapped over to the base of the magnolia, gazing at Malcolm with its shiny golden eye. The animal's bald head and hunched back made it look like a little old man, a crooked-nosed old fellow who was up to no good.
The vulture blinked at him stupidly.
"You remind me of a couple of attorneys I know," Malcolm said, waving his arms. "Now, shoo!"
The bird flapped its wings and flew away, talons flexed, glancing back over its shoulder once or twice as it ascended into the sky.
Malcolm looked where the vulture had been. From the vantage point of his position in the tree, he could see the remains of an old well. It was overgrown with weeds and bramble, and would have been hard to see from ground level. He had missed it completely when he was running for his life from the charging wild boar. But there it was now, right by the base of the magnolia, staring at him like a giant black eye.
Malcolm clambered down the tree.
The well had been covered with plywood, but the rotten boards had collapsed. The breach in the well cover was fresh. Malcolm peered over the edge of the well into the inky blackness below. The air in the well was thick and stale, and stank of mildew and dirt and something else. Something sharp and dense, like blood.
And rotten cabbage.
Malcolm could hear ragged breathing in the dark. My God, he thought. The boar fell into the well.
Malcolm's chest ached. The animal had been ferocious, and had fully intended to kill him, but it deserved better than this. He wanted to end its misery, but all he could do was sit there and listen to its huffing and wheezing as it lay dying in that dark hole in the ground.
"I'd help you if I could," Malcolm said out loud, peering into the darkness. He could now barely make out a shuffling gray bulk at the bottom of the well. Water was dripping someplace.
Screee! the animal called out, weakly. Screeeee . . .
"Jesus," he said.
Malcolm squatted by the well until the boar's snuffling breathing slowed, then stopped.
He rolled over into a sitting position and took a deep breath, leaning his back against the crumbling base of the well.
There were at least fifteen vultures that he could see now. Even stranger, thirty or forty crows squabbled in the oaks, just watching. Waiting—for something, anyway.
"What's with the damn birds?" Malcolm said to no one in particular.
He had read of animals sensing things that men could not detect— cats in nursing homes that would sit beside the dying, for example, or cattle becoming agitated in anticipation of an earthquake.
But the birds were creeping him out. More arrived every minute. And they seemed to be watching him.
He began walking back toward the small beach where they had first arrived, looking over his shoulder every few minutes.
The crows, silent now, watched him walk away.
Billy returned within the hour. Malcolm helped him pull the skiff back up the bank, where they covered it with palmetto fronds once again.
"You're famous," Billy said, tossing Malcolm a rolled-up copy of the Savannah Morning News.
Malcolm, leaning against a tree, flipped through the newspaper and shook his head.
"Jeez, they've convicted me already," he said, shaking his head.
"Sells papers," Billy said. "You're the serial killer surgeon. That's big news."
"I have some news," Malcolm said. "I killed a wild boar."
"You what?"
"I was chased by a wild boar—a huge one—and it fell down a well. It's dead."
"Where is it?"
"I'll show you."
Billy dropped a backpack in their campsite and walked with Malcolm through the forest.
"Are you okay?" Billy asked.
"I'm fine. Just wiped out."
"You killing a boar is a really good omen."
"How is that the case? I was just running like hell to get away from it and the damn thing fell down a well."
Billy stopped walking and faced Malcolm.
"The people and the land are one, like this."
He clasped his hands together, fingers interlaced.
"One land. One destiny. Energy flows from one living creature to the next. So when God sends a man a challenge, the faithful man meets that challenge, and the man derives strength from that challenge. You get it?"
Malcolm shrugged.
"I guess so."
"You defeated a powerful, dangerous creature. That creature's strength now flows in your veins."
"I have the strength of a wild boar?"
"Yes."
"Hot damn. What religion is that, anyway? Naturalistic? The Force?"
Billy shrugged.
"I'm Methodist," he said.
They came upon the clearing with the ruined farmhouse. "The well's by that magnolia tree," Malcolm said. "You know there was another victim. A woman," said Billy, removing his hat to wipe his brow.
"I saw."
"They found her body at this place called the Isle of Hope," Billy said.
"That seems like a misnomer now, doesn't it?"
"Savannah is in a total panic. It's the kind of thing he likes— chaos, desperation. It's all an ego thing for him. He's controlling it all, herding the whole community like a wolf on the prowl, and he's got every animal in the herd scared shitless."
The two of them reached the edge of the well. Billy unclipped a flashlight from his belt and clicked it on.
"Damn," he said, peering into the depths of the well from a prone position. The beam cut into the darkness like a lighthouse beacon. "That's a big animal. Six hundred pounds, maybe more. I was going to suggest that we haul it up and eat it, but I don't think we can pull it out."
"I don't want to eat it," said Malcolm.
Billy clicked the flashlight off and stood up. He brushed off his jeans with his hands.
"There's a lesson to be learned here, Malcolm. Why did this boar die? Was it because you were faster or stronger than it was?"
"No."
"Then why?"
"Because it fell down a well?"
"But why did it fall down the well?" Malcolm thought for a moment.
"It never saw it," Malcolm said at last.
"Bingo. The boar was just charging ahead, certain that he was going to catch you, and the stupid animal fell into a trap that he never saw coming. Everyone has a weakness. Everyone."
Billy lit a cigarette, took a long drag and blew a thin stream of smoke out through pursed lips.
"My weakness," he said, waggling the lit cigarette between his fingers.
He dropped the butt to the ground and smothered it with a heel. A thin wisp of smoke drifted away, wraithlike, dissipating in the breeze.
"Look," said Billy, making two fists in front of him, as if he were holding a cape. "The matador defeats the bull with deception. A flutter of the cape, a step to one side, and the raging beast is killed by his own predictable responses. So what can we rely on to thwart our killer? What is his weakness?"
Malcolm thought for a minute before responding.
"It's his ego. He thinks he's smarter than everyone else."
"Correct again, kemosabe," Billy grinned. "I mean, the guy fancies himself a modern-day Jack the Ripper—the most famous serial killer in history. He even calls himself Jack. You think that's coincidence? I don't."
Malcolm raised his eyebrows.
"I'm allowed to say 'kemosabe' because I'm a Native American," said Billy.
"What does that mean, anyway?" Malcolm asked.
"Hell if I know."
"So what's your plan? I mean, if you know the killer's weakness, how can you plan to exploit it?"
"I don't know that part yet. I'm sort of making this up as I go along."
"Well, I have an idea," Malcolm said. "But I have to die first."
18
Amy had watered all the plants and cleaned out the hall closet and scrubbed the shower, but it had not helped.
Now, she was cleaning the face of the antique grandfather clock in the hallway. She stood on a footstool and sprayed Windex on a paper towel. Rubbing it over the glass, she saw the ghost of her disheveled, puffy-eyed reflection and sighed.
Ben was gone at last, thank God.
She was emotionally and physically exhausted. And she was frightened of the ponderous unknown that was lurking out there somewhere, waiting to pounce upon her and eat her up.
She tried to banish the thought, but couldn't.
Perhaps Malcolm isn't what he has always seemed.
There were stories like that all the time, right? John Wayne Gacy dressed up in a clown suit for kids' parties. And Dennis Rader, the BTK Killer, was a Cub Scout leader and an elder in his church.
But Amy had known Malcolm her whole life. And Malcolm was still the same sweet boy who put up a Christmas tree in her yard the year she could not, after her father had died. He cried with joy when their daughter was born. He agonized over his patients.
No, she decided. Malcolm is no killer. But I'm not sure about Ben.
It was right before noon, and the sun was coming in across the river. She could hear the gears in the old clock winding up in anticipation of the coming chime.
At precisely twelve o'clock, the clock erupted into a startlingly brilliant rendition of Heber's hymn "Holy, Holy, Holy." It was this song which had made Malcolm want the clock so much. It had been shipped from England, "piece by bloody piece," as Malcolm had said, and painstakingly reassembled by old Mr. Carnegie, God rest him.
The hymn ended and the hours sounded, sonorously, one by one, an almost funereal sound. She felt the tears coming back again.
And then her cell phone rang.
It was Malcolm.
She snatched it up in a pair of shaking hands and answered, the flood of tears overwhelming her in full force just as the clock chimed the last hour's note.
"Hey," he said, his voice soft.
"Hey," she said, sniffling.
"You okay?"
"We're hangin' in there. Cops didn't leave until about two hours ago. I had to talk to this horrible little homunculus wearing a ridiculous Sam Spade fedora . . ."
"Sam Baker," said Malcolm.
"That's the one. A real prick. Pretty much told me that you were going to die in the electric chair."
"He'd like that, I think. Probably wants to throw the switch himself," said Malcolm.
"Are you okay?" she said.
"I'm hangin' in there, too."
"Where are you?"
"Ames, I really can't tell you that. I don't want you to have to lie for me."
"That was stupid of me to ask that. I'm sorry."
"It's okay," he said.
Amy dabbed at her eyes with her fingers. Daisy was gazing up at her with big, brown cow eyes.
"I had to tell Mimi," she said quietly. "I didn't want her to see it on the news."
"I figured," he said.
"I told her you were innocent."
"What did she say?"
Amy smiled.
"She said she already knew you were innocent. She's angry at the police for harassing you. She told Ben that herself."
"They're not bad. They're just doing their job. I told Ben to watch out for you two," Malcolm said.
"Ben said that. And when he told her that he wasn't going to let them hurt you, that calmed her down a bit."
Amy felt her doubts about Ben bubble up inside her. She shook her head.
Not now, she thought.
"Hon, listen. I can't talk long because people can trace me on this cell."<
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"Okay," she said. "I'm listening."
Amy closed her eyes so that she could focus on her husband's voice.
God, Mal, I've missed you.
"You're going to see some news stories that I've killed myself, and that my funeral is in a few days. That won't be so, of course, but our killer has a pretty big ego, and we think he may feel compelled to show up in person at either the funeral or the visitation. Ben's spoken with Waverly Funeral Home and they are willing to fake it all for us—closed casket, the whole deal. He's calling it 'Operation Tom Sawyer.' After the Mark Twain character who attended his own funeral."
"You're just going to pick the killer up at the funeral?"
"That's the idea."
"How can you be certain who the guy is?"
"I have a friend who lost a brother because of him. He's a cop from Florida—a guy named Billy Littlebear. He knows what the killer looks like."
"But how are you going to grab him? If you're supposed to be dead, you can't be running around the funeral home nabbing a killer."
"You're right. Ben is arranging the stakeout. Billy, the guy whose brother was this killer's prior target, will identify the killer and the cops will move in."
Amy pursed her lips.
"I'm no cop, but this plan seems stupid," she said at last.
"Why do you say that?"
"Would you believe it if someone anonymously sent you a ticket to the Super Bowl? Or said you won a million dollars in the Ethiopian lottery?"
"Of course not!" Mal said.
"But you expect your killer to believe that his target just conveniently killed himself?"
"It's possible," Malcolm said.
"So you think your killer is an idiot," she said.
"On the contrary. He's brilliant. But his ego is huge. That's his weakness—and we're going to use it to nail him."
Amy felt hot tears spilling out of her eyes again and it made her angry, the way the whole situation made her angry. She wiped them away furiously.
"You're sure you can trust this Billy Littlewhatever guy?"
"Littlebear. Like Ursa Minor, the constellation. And I can trust him. He saved my life."
Amy sighed.
"Malcolm, don't do anything stupid," she said.
"Ames, I . . ."
"I don't want to go to a real funeral for you, Mal. Fake ones are bad enough. Just be careful. You're making a lot of assumptions with this plan of yours."