by Mark Murphy
It was a copy of his Jack the Ripper thesis.
"What the hell?" Malcolm said.
Malcolm looked amongst the piles of junk lying about the clearing for something to jimmy the truck's lock.
Not a single coat hanger in this whole damn place?
He was about to give up when he stepped on a flat piece of rust-speckled metal that looked like an old buttonhook. Malcolm picked it up and wedged it between the window and the door.
A little more and I've got it, he thought. He jiggled and twisted the metal implement, bending the glass outward.
And then he snagged the lock, popping it into the up position.
A crack in the glass spider-webbed its way across the window.
"Shit," he said out loud.
But he opened the door anyway.
The truck's cab reeked of stale beer, mildew and cigarettes, a combination that left a noxious pool hall taste lingering on Malcolm's tongue. The floorboards were obscured by the grease-stained remnants of fast food meals and a litter of crumpled beer cans.
"Jesus, Billy," Malcolm said.
Malcolm's thesis was in pristine condition. Billy had marked several places in the manuscript with Post-it notes. The thesis had come from the University of Miami library.
The check-out date for the book was stamped inside.
Malcolm felt a prickling sensation on his scalp as he realized that Billy had known about the Ripper thesis before ever coming to Savannah. Moreover, although he lived in Highland County, he had driven to Dade County to procure the manuscript before coming here.
Every victim had been to a medical meeting in Miami.
He recalled that conversation and felt a wave of nausea sweep over him.
Malcolm opened the door a little wider. Something rattled in the door's map pocket. He took a look there and found two cell phones—one Blackberry Pearl, a red one, and a cheap-ass gray Nokia. He picked them up and clicked both of them on.
And then the world collapsed.
He did not know whether to hurl the phones into the woods or shove them up Billy's ass. As he stood there next to the truck, staring at the phones with a blank expression, he heard a familiar voice behind him.
"It's not what it looks like," Billy said.
"You sonofabitch," Malcolm said, whirling to face him.
Billy was shirtless, dressed in a pair of worn jeans that draped low over his hips and scraped the filthy earth at the frayed edges of their bell-bottoms. His torso was brown and muscular, and was draped with a bear claw amulet on a leather cord. A vicious scar zigzagged across his bare chest, interrupting the red, white and blue tattoo of a screaming eagle like a lightning bolt.
Malcolm charged Billy, but Billy stepped to one side at the last minute and shoved Malcolm in the lower back so hard that he went sprawling. Malcolm scrambled to his feet, whirled around, and brushed his hair from his eyes, which blazed with hatred.
"I don't want to hurt you, Malcolm," Billy said. "Remember, I was in Special Forces."
"You set me up, you dickwad! You made my best friend think I was a killer!" Malcolm screamed.
"You need to pipe down, kemosabe," Billy said. He smiled nervously, a close-lipped smile, the kind of smile that boys muster when meeting their girlfriend's dad for the first time.
"You'll wake the neighbors," Billy said.
"Why would I give a shit?" Malcolm asked.
"Because they think you're a serial killer. And they don't know me from Adam."
"All this time you're feeding me this line of B.S. about how your brother was set up, and about how you're hell bent to catch this Shadow Man character, and it just isn't true!"
"Now, hold on," Billy said, his palms open. "What the devil do you mean by that?"
"You sent text messages to Ben Adams telling him that you had evidence that I was the killer! You led him to believe that you were doing him a favor! Cop to fellow cop! And then you shot him!"
Billy glowered at Malcolm.
"I did not shoot Detective Adams," he said. "I was his spotter."
"Spotter, my ass! God, I cannot believe that I was so stupid! My damn dog knew you were bad news, and she's ancient and blind! And you fed me that line of crap about Joel Birkenstock!"
Billy took a step towards Malcolm.
"Malcolm, everything I said to you is true. Jernigan killed those women and set my brother up, and my brother was executed for the murders! AndJernigan's voice is the same as Birkenstock's. I swear to God!"
Malcolm spied a rusty pipe on the ground. He picked it up, grasping it in his clenched fist and brandishing it above his head like a mace.
"You want to know what I think?" said Malcolm. "You killed those women, and your brother was wrongly accused and was put to death for it, and you got off on the thrill of seeing someone else die for your crimes. So you did it again, and again. How's that for a theory?"
Billy lunged at Malcolm, who took a swing at the Indian with the pipe and missed.
"I loved my brother!" Billy screamed.
His eyes were bloodshot and swollen. His face was a caricature, like someone had carved his features roughly out of clay.
"You killed your brother, asshole!"
Billy lunged at Malcolm again, half blinded by tears, and this time Malcolm swung the heavy pipe in a broad arc and connected solidly with Billy's right shoulder. The pipe slammed into his flesh with a sickening thud! The blow staggered Billy for a moment. He coughed a few times and shook his head, trying to regain his bearings.
"How many people is it now, Billy? Ten? Twenty?"
"I didn't kill anyone!" Billy said, rubbing his shoulder.
"Then why the text messages to Ben? Why did you have my thesis and act like you've never heard of it?" demanded Malcolm.
Billy looked down at the ground. He covered his eyes with his hands.
"Answer me!" Malcolm said.
"He killed my wife," Billy said at last. His voice was almost a whisper.
Malcolm loosened his vise grip on the pipe.
"You said your wife left you," he said.
"She did. I came home and she was gone. It nearly destroyed me. I thought she had left because of frustration over my obsession with my brother's death. But after a day or so, Jernigan called me. He told me that he had killed my wife in retaliation for coming after him. Said he chopped her up and threw what was left of her in a suitcase. He fed her to the gators. There was nothing left of her. He told me . . ."
Billy sniffled loudly, wiping his face with both hands.
"He told me I'd never see her again."
Tears streamed down his face.
Billy started talking again through clenched teeth.
"I loved my wife. And I loved my brother. You ever love somebody so much that you wished you were dead when they were gone? That's the way I felt. This asshole took everything in my life away from me. Everything! I didn't want the cops to catch him because I wanted him for myself. I wanted revenge, wanted to fuck him up like he fucked me up. And I used you as bait. It was wrong, but I did it."
He wiped his eyes with his hands.
"Malcolm, I'm sorry for using you. I really am," Billy said.
Malcolm shook his head in disgust.
"I don't know what to believe anymore," he said. "But you and I are done."
Malcolm hoisted the pipe onto his shoulder.
"Mark my words, Billy: if you are involved in this in any way, you'd better make sure that nothing happens to my wife and daughter. Special Forces or not, if anything happens to them, I'll come after you, and I'll kill you."
"Malcolm, I'd protect them like they were my own. I hope you know that," said Billy.
Malcolm gazed at him and shook his head.
"Right now, I don't think I know anything at all. The only thing I know for sure is that I am in a world of shit."
Malcolm turned to walk away.
"I didn't kill anyone, Malcolm!" Billy called after him.
But Malcolm did not answer. He did not eve
n look back. He just shambled out of the junked-up clearing and into the misty early morning woods alone, his mind a jumbled amalgam of emotion and regret. He tossed the pipe to the ground as he walked away.
Behind him, Billy collapsed to his knees, face in his hands, his tears dropping into the dirt before they disappeared forever.
25
Amy was standing at the kitchen sink, arms deep in suds and warm dishwater, gazing out across the Vernon River, when the phone rang.
The ringing startled her. They used the home phone so rarely now that she had toyed with the idea of getting rid of it entirely. Amy's friend Lisa had done just that and they had not missed the landline at all. But Lisa was an artist, long divorced from Tom, whom she had found in bed with a tattooed purple-haired floozy with three earrings in each ear, a girl young enough to be their daughter. Moreover, Lisa's ex-husband was not a surgeon, a man used to several layers of redundancy when it came to technology. Malcolm had always been one for a backup plan, and then a backup plan for the backup plan. He had installed the largest generator he could find when they had renovated the Rose Dhu house, "just in case." He had made certain that the hurricane straps on the roof of the house tied directly into the rebar of the home's foundation, so that the storm of the century could not tear off their roof. And Malcolm had wanted the landline to remain intact.
Just in case.
So the phone was ringing, and Amy fumbled with the paper towels and dropped the entire roll onto the floor, finally picking up the receiver with a pair of wet hands and hoping to God that that old wives' tale her mother once told her about telephones and wet hands was not true.
"Hello?" she said.
"Yes. I see."
Amy bit her lip, listening.
"No, I agree, it's out of character. We've had some family crises lately. It may be a response to that. My husband Malcolm has been . . . oh, of course. You've seen the stories on the news. So you know what she's been going through. She loves her daddy, you know."
Amy was silent for a moment.
"Yes, I'll come get her. And thanks for convincing them not to press charges. That's something we really don't need right now. I just have to get dressed and I'll be right over."
Amy hung the phone up and stared at the silent receiver for a moment.
"Assholes," she said bitterly.
She drained the sink and dried her hands.
How did they expect the girl to respond? she thought.
The press had all but assumed Malcolm's guilt. They were out there somewhere, right now—local news teams from four networks as well as CNN, Fox News, and even Sky News and Al-Jazeera, all blathering about "alleged serial killer Malcolm King." The first few days had been especially horrible. Dozens of news trucks had been camped out right at the entrance to their driveway, bumper-to-bumper, their roofs festooned with various dish antennae cranked up into the sky like gigantic mushrooms from an alien planet. Amy and Mimi had been forced to brave a gauntlet of incredibly aggressive reporters every time they left the house—hyena-like packs of well-dressed, perfectly-coiffed men and women, pressing in with their lights and their microphones, cameras clicking and whirring like a swarm of cicadas. That nightmare all went away after Ben had wrangled a court order banning reporters from coming within two miles of the house. They posted a pair of squad cars at the entrance to the Rose Dhu subdivision and no reporters were allowed in at all. The helicopter fly-overs stopped after CNN was slapped with a $50,000 fine for hovering over the house one morning, and they stopped bothering Mimi at school after Tina Baker, the dazzling blonde anchor from WKKR, was arrested and jailed overnight for pestering Mimi for a "statement" in the high school parking lot.
Poor Ben, Amy thought.
She would take Mimi to see him at the hospital later. The reporters would probably follow her there, keeping a discreet distance (as though she wouldn't notice them, which was a joke—they were about as inconspicuous as smallpox), but she didn't care. Ben had protected them. She was sorry for doubting him. He had been a true friend when the entire world turned its back on them, and she would be eternally grateful for that. The doctors still were not sure if Ben would make it. He had been on a ventilator, comatose, ever since he was shot. Jerry Arkham, his neurologist, had implied that there might have been brain damage during the time Ben was down, before they resuscitated him.
Amy hoped that Dr. Arkham was wrong.
Grabbing her keys, her purse, and cell phone from the countertop, she left the house, locking the back door.
The CNN and Fox News vans were waiting at the gate. Wary of the court injunction, they only followed her at a distance during the short drive down the tree-shrouded road that meandered through White Bluff, hanging a few cars back as they dogged her every move.
I could lose them, she thought, but what purpose would that serve? They'd simply find her again when she came home.
She pulled into the school parking lot and locked her car. She was halfway to the door of the Administration Building when the door opened. Maggie Bell, the Head of School, stepped outside. She met Amy halfway to the door and clasped Amy's hands in her own.
"Amy, I've got to warn you: she's pretty banged up."
"What do you mean, 'banged up'? I was told that she was in a fight with another girl and that the other girl got the worst of it. That the other girl's family graciously decided not to press charges. And now you're telling me that my daughter is 'banged up'? How is that the case?"
Ms. Bell's eyebrows wrinkled up, slate eyes tearing.
"They're kids, Amy. Teenagers. There's a mob mentality with them sometimes. You've seen it yourself, the way that these children gang up on one another . . ."
Amy yanked her hands loose and began jogging towards the Administration Building.
"What has happened to my daughter?" she called out as she ran.
"Amy, wait . . ."
Amy hit the glass door to the Admin Building in a dead run, slamming it open so hard that it vibrated on its hinges.
Mimi was sitting in a chair in the school office lobby. The school nurse was kneeling in front of her, dabbing at Mimi's face.
"Mom?" Mimi said.
Mimi's eyes were both black; one of them was swollen shut. Her upper lip was three times normal size and was split open. Mimi was pressing a moist 4x4 gauze pad against it. The gauze was a deep crimson color, saturated with her blood. She had an abrasion on her cheek that the nurse was cleaning with peroxide.
Amy realized with a shock that a big hank of Mimi's long hair had been raggedly hacked away.
When Mimi saw Amy, she leapt up, nearly toppling the nurse.
"Mom?" was all she said as she ran to her mother.
The two of them embraced.
Mimi was sobbing, her slim shoulders shuddering. Anger boiled up inside Amy, volcanic and poisonous, a white-hot fury that threatened to erupt in a pyroclastic explosion.
"They said Daddy was a murderer, Mom. They said he killed all these people and . . . and . . . that he cut them up. Caroline MacAleer's mom was one of them. Caroline's had a nervous breakdown and they sent her to one of those places they take people with nervous breakdowns and she hasn't come back to school andJacie Jones said, 'Why are you at school, you killer's bitch?' I told her my daddy didn't kill anybody, that he was a good person, and I started crying and she made fun of me. Jacie and I have been friends since third grade and she was laughing at me while I was crying, pointing at me and calling me a killer's bitch, and so I shoved her and she shoved me back and I lost it, Mom. I just lost it. I threw her onto the floor in the hallway and started punching her, telling her to take it back, and she was crying and holding her hands in front of her face. The other girls kept trying to pull me off of her but I wouldn't let them. But then one of them went and got Sam Jackson, Jacie's boyfriend, and he grabbed my hair and pulled me off of Jacie and hit me in the face. I fell against the wall and then . . ."
Amy held Mimi so that she could see her bruised, battered face.<
br />
"Sammy Jackson did this to you?" she said.
Mimi wiped away a tear.
"They all did, Mom. All of them."
Amy shot a furious glance at Maggie Bell.
"What did they do to you, hon?"
"They held me down and slapped me and punched me and cut off my hair and . . . and . . . and . . ."
Mimi stepped back from her mother and pulled up her shirt. Her eyes were filled with tears.
Someone had scrawled "KILLER'S BITCH" across her abdomen with a Sharpie. The words were dark and jagged, like a bad tattoo.
Amy felt like her head was about to explode. She turned to face Ms. Bell.
"You let them do this to her? As if she hasn't been through enough these last few days, to let a bunch of stupid teenagers beat her up and cut off her hair and humiliate her like this? And you tell me that Jacie Jones's parents have magnanimously agreed not to press charges? How generous of them! If I saw that little bitch right now, I'd finish the job that Mimi started. Then they could press all the charges they wanted."
Maggie Bell was crying, as well.
"I know that this was wrong, Amy. And we should have done a better job of keeping it from happening. We didn't see it coming. It happened so fast, and by the time the teachers got there, it was too late. It was a mob scene. The kids have been on edge with the murders and all and it just ignited. An explosion. Just like that."
Ms. Bell dabbed the tears from her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Amy. And Mimi. I really am sorry this has happened to you. But, then again, given all that has happened . . ."
Ms. Bell looked at Amy through red-rimmed eyes. "What?" asked Amy.
"It's just that . . . Mimi probably should not have been here in the first place. That's all."
Amy felt something hard and cold settle in her. It was as though the boiling magma of a few moments ago had suddenly crystallized into unyielding stone.
"I'm taking her home, Maggie," Amy said.
"I expected you to."
"We're not coming back."
Ms. Bell stood with her arms folded. She took her glasses off and put them into her front shirt pocket.
"I think that's best," she said.