THE SIX: A Dark, Dazzling Serial Killer Story

by Anni Taylor

  “Wonderful.” Duncan rubbed his eye as if he were still having trouble waking up from his sleep. “Six of those things, all running at different speeds and different pitches. We need to figure this out, people.”

  “Yeah,” said Richard, raising a wry eyebrow. “That’s really gonna help us.”

  “Well, they can’t be mechanical,” said Saul, breaking his silence. “They must be electronic, because they’ve got the ability to change. They’re responsive.” He shrugged. “I’m a mechanic.”

  “Seven minutes, people,” called Duncan.

  Ruth straightened, eyeing Duncan. “We can all see that.”

  “I’m just trying to hurry it along,” Duncan offered.

  “Hurry what along, exactly?” said Richard. “We don’t know what we’re doing. Until we do, shut the fuck up.”

  “It’s not helpful to give me that kind of attitude,” Duncan admonished. “I’m a team leader at work, and I know how to motivate staff. I’ve got twenty people under me.”

  “Well, I’ve got some unkind news for you,” said Richard. “You’re a—”

  “Stop yapping!” Ruth frowned as she listened. “Some of these have the same pitch. Wait”—she moved around the box, still listening—“they’re in pairs. Every two of them have the same pitch. It’s just the speeds that are all over the place.”

  “Because of our knocking,” I said quickly. “We’ve been knocking haphazardly.”

  “Yes.” She nodded firmly, looking around at all of us. “Because of that.”

  “Then why don’t we try getting the speeds to match with the pairs?” suggested Poppy, her voice breathy and tense.

  “You got it, cupcake.” Ruth wasted no time positioning everyone. She was doing exactly as she said she would—she wasn’t going to allow anyone to get in the way of getting through a challenge, even if she had to physically move them herself.

  Duncan stood back. We didn’t need seven people to do this, and he evidently believed his role was to guide us through the challenge.

  “Okay, people.” Ruth inhaled sharply. “We need to get these speeds exactly the same. Three people need to listen and learn from the person on the opposite side from them.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.” Duncan raised his eyebrows in innocent surprise against Ruth’s glare.

  Richard, Poppy and I put our ears against the sides we’d allocated ourselves and determined the speed—slow, medium or fast. Then, one by one, we coordinated our speed with the person opposite.

  “Nothing’s happening.” Duncan shook his head. “Now what do we do? We need to think, people. Try something else, quick!”

  Ignoring him, Ruth stood back. “Just wait and see if anything happens. If anyone touches the box, I’ll bite their fingers off.”

  Something whirred inside the box. Six triangular sections pushed upwards from the box. Each section contained a wooden metronome, ticking away at different speeds.

  I raised my head to the clock. Six and a half minutes left to go.

  A green light blinked just under the clock.

  We’d done it. And way under time.

  The tick of the metronomes echoed around the room now. Then, all of a sudden, the six of them went dead. There was just the sound of all of us panting and sighing in relief.

  “Hey, what the—?” Richard reached in and picked up one of the metronomes. There were red, yellow and blue wires extending from the metronome to a small box that was marked explosive. He looked at the next. It was the same. “So, what would have happened if we didn’t figure this out, huh? Was the whole shebang going to go kaboom?”

  “I doubt they’d want to ruin this lovely box,” said Ruth, inspecting the wires. “It’s just a gag.”

  The door opened, and the four mentors entered.

  “You did it! I knew you would.” Sister Rose clapped her hands together.

  “I’m pleased to tell you my team managed to complete the test in five and a half minutes,” Duncan said, beaming.

  “Indeed. Well done,” Brother Sage told us. “We’ll escort you to the library so that the other teams can complete this challenge, too. We have some wine waiting for you. It’ll help you get back to sleep after your excitement.”

  We headed in the direction of the library, whooping through the hallways.

  Ahead in the dark haze, a figure stood half hidden beside a statue.

  “There’s someone there!” I pointed. “I thought I saw him in the hall earlier.”

  “What in the blazes?” Ruth muttered angrily. “No one else is supposed to be out of their dormitory but us. Someone’s spying on us.”

  “I think it’s one of the monks.” Saul squinted from behind his glasses.

  “Well, why is he hiding?” Ruth marched forward. “What are you doing there?”

  The person—a man—fled. He wore a long black gown with a symbol that I couldn’t see clearly on the back.

  “They’re a silent order,” said Richard with a yawn. “They don’t talk. And more to the point, who can blame him for trying to avoid talking to you?”

  Richard shrugged as Ruth whirled around and shot him a scathing look. It was true that they were a silent order, which would explain the monk’s reticence to interact with us. I wondered if they saw many strangers at all from year to year. Still, I wished they’d speak. I was finding it creepy as hell seeing them in random dark corners around the monastery.

  When we reached the library, Richard was the first to drop into one of the plush chairs. He grabbed one of two bottles of wine from a small table in front of him and swallowed a mouthful.

  “Strange the mentors allow alcoholics access to wine,” commented Duncan, eyeing Richard.

  Richard raised the bottle to Duncan. “Cheers. And I’m not an alcoholic.”

  “Well . . . I am.” Duncan perched on the edge of a chair. “I’m pinning my hopes on this treatment changing my wife’s mind about leaving me.”

  “Maybe they expect you to learn moderation.” Poppy shrugged. “‘Cos you can’t get away from alcohol, no matter where you go. And there’s only two bottles here. Well, only one bottle now that Richard claimed one all for himself.”

  “Still, it leaves me struggling more than the rest of you.” Duncan sank back in the chair, looking miserable.

  “This is supposed to be a celebration.” Poppy poured herself a drink and raised her glass, clinking it against Richard’s bottle. “But no one looks happy.”

  “I’m happy we got through it,” I said quietly. “But it’s the thought of five more challenges ahead that are like that one. Okay, so we had six or so minutes to spare, but six minutes can pass in the blink of an eye. We got lucky.”

  I expected Duncan to pipe up with something about teamwork, but he didn’t.

  Richard downed half the bottle. “Haven’t any of you realised?”

  “Realised what?” Ruth demanded, refusing the glass of wine Poppy offered to her.

  Leaning back, Richard crinkled his brow. “It doesn’t make any sense there’s twenty eight people in the program. Twenty eight isn’t divisible by six. But everything here is divisible by six. Look around you. Hexagons everywhere. Six challenges. Six winners. And the monastery itself. Six inner rooms surrounded by twenty-four rooms which are surrounded by yet another twenty-four rooms. Six, six, six. Everything six.” He sounded drunk already, even though he wasn’t. “And we didn’t need seven people to complete that challenge. We only needed, well, you know where I’m going with this . . .”

  “Six,” finished Poppy. “We only needed six people.”

  “So . . . ?” Ruth raised her eyebrows high at him for effect.

  “So, what if,” said Richard, “there’s really only twenty-four of us? And the other four are here to check up on us and see how we’re doing in the challenges? If I’m right, there’s one person in this room right now who’s not one of us.”

  Poppy giggled. “Wow. Paranoid much?”

  But her voice rang hollow. Everyone had gone s
till, quiet.

  It was a crazy thought. Wasn’t it? Why would the mentors need to watch us this closely? They already had cameras in the challenge rooms.

  “Okay then,” said Ruth, “if Richard’s right and there is someone here who’s a mole, you’d better come clean, else you’re going to have to deal with me. Is it you, cupcake?” Ruth eyed Poppy. “I don’t trust grown women who giggle. The sound grates on my nerves so much it gives me stomach ulcers.”

  “Well, I don’t trust women who throw their weight around, like you,” Poppy retorted.

  “Oh, listen to that,” said Richard. “Women are their own worst enemies. Always scratching at each other.”

  It seemed to me that Richard was doing more scratching than anyone, but I didn’t say it out loud. I poured myself a glass of wine. I didn’t want to think about the possibility that one of us wasn’t us but just someone who was there watching and keeping score.

  Out in the corridor, the bells chimed again.

  It was time for the next team to enter the challenge room.

  15. CONSTANCE

  JAMES CALLED ME FOR AN UPDATE on Kara, asking if I was okay and if there was anything he could do. With a sigh in his voice, he told me that Ruby and Vonda had been to our house looking for me, wanting to know if I still intended acting as secretary of the volunteer Lafayette County parks and historical committee. I’d forgotten to inform them that I’d be out of the country for an indefinite period. James said that he’d let them know that Kara was missing, but they’d been a bit pushy.

  It wasn’t like anything the committee did was urgent. It had a say in the upgrading of the shared open spaces around the county, ensuring that heritage items were being cared for and that the parks and walkways were modernised and kept beautiful.

  I listened to James, incredulous that Ruby and Vonda still wanted to know if I intended taking the minutes of their meetings after James told them what was happening with Kara. Ruby and Vonda were supposed to be my friends. The committee obviously meant more to them.

  Well, bless their big lard-bucket asses.

  Finishing the call with James, I stretched out on the hotel bed, too angry for the moment to even think about Kara.

  What was I even doing on that committee?

  This isn’t who I am.

  Did it really take travelling to a strange country on my own to realise that?

  It had been a long time since I’d felt like myself. A long time since I’d felt . . . dangerous. Doing dangerous things. Making dangerous things happen.

  I’d become comfortable.

  I’d spent more than the last decade not doing a damned thing except committees and luncheons and dinners. Kara had been my one light.

  The first year of college had been my year of glorious chaos. Driving too fast, slamming down Yellowhammers before a game, and skinny dipping in the murky waters of the Mississippi, Alabama. Alabama was where I’d chosen to go to college. I was the first person in my family to go to college. I’d wanted to get as far away as possible from the poverty-stricken place in which I’d grown up. I’d thought I was so grown up. So smart and cool and in charge of my future. But I was anything but those things.

  Alabama was where I met Otto. In his second year of a medical degree, he’d been there at a club filled with college students, louder and prouder than anyone. He prioritised partying over studying, which I thought was incredibly edgy. He was teetering on a high wire, and I was too stupid to know it. Three weeks after our first date, he was kicked from his course.

  He picked himself up, grabbed my hand, and kept running.

  My world became a frenzy of living. Too much, all the time.

  Otto was broken but beautiful. When he said, I love you, I believed him.

  He was a trust fund baby. We lived in one of his parents’ investment houses and painted the walls every colour of the rainbow. Just because.

  Mere months later, we slid into heroin addiction. We were like children playing the game What’s the Time Mr Wolf? blindfolded and at the edge of a cliff. I didn’t understand then that heroin was the wolf and I couldn’t recognise what had happened to us. Because we weren’t like those images of addicts scoring hits in back alleys.

  Otto and I got fat. No one thinks of heroin addicts being fat, but we were. As fat as only addicts with money can be. Between shooting up and smoking pot and eating takeout, we imagined ourselves as heroes of some never-ending action movie. But in reality, we spent most of our time slumped on the couch.

  Other people moved into the house. When you have money and heroin, you have lots of friends.

  Crazy things happened without warning or reason. A fire would start somewhere, and we’d all have an in-depth discussion about who was responsible for it before anyone took action. People I’d never seen before would suddenly appear in one of the bathrooms or bedrooms, casually brushing their teeth or casually having sex. I got pregnant, and it just seemed one more thing that jumped out at us from the field where crazy things lived. It all went on and on until the night a couple wearing superhero costumes jumped from our balcony onto a pavilion below, tearing a great big hole in it. One of the superheroes died.

  The police came that night. Otto’s parents flew in from Barbados, seeming more dismayed at the state of the house than the splattered superhero. All of our great friends fled, washing their hands of any association with us.

  Otto had his trust fund stopped, and we were turfed out of the house.

  We rented a little bedsit apartment for a while. Things got nasty between Otto and me. I can’t remember why we turned on each other, but suddenly we were spewing toxic venom onto each other with impunity.

  Still, we couldn’t let each other go.

  Me getting pregnant and then finding blood in my underwear prompted us to clean ourselves up and get healthy and kick the drugs. We rented a better place. An endless cycle of trying and failing over years. I did kick the drugs. Otto didn’t.

  In the aftermath, my psych would claim that Otto and I were addicted to each other, and she was right. We’d each injected ourselves into the other’s bloodstream.

  It had only ended when Otto decided that the pain inside himself could only be ended by killing himself. He said that every action needs a reaction of equal force to stop it. I didn’t know the source of his pain—he’d never told me about his childhood, and I never did get a chance to hear it. He drove away one night in a black mood and died in a crash.

  My psych’s analysis of my love affair with Otto was filled with doom and gloom. She was wrong. It might have been doomed, but it wasn’t all bad. My own analysis was like a sieve that continually sifted the relationship from year to year until what was left was a fine, velvety powder.

  I still had Otto’s ashes. His parents hadn’t wanted them. I imagined the urn now, tucked away in the attic where James had never seen it, filled with Otto’s velvety, intoxicating powder.

  God, what was I thinking? Velvety powder? I was going nuts, going crazy, here alone desperately searching for my daughter.

  But I couldn’t stop thinking about Otto.

  I blamed Ruby and Vonda.

  These days, I had everything a person could want.

  Yet everything felt hollow.

  16. GRAY

  WILLOW AND LILLY CHARGED INTO OUR house as soon as I opened the front door. They ran from room to room, as though they’d been gone for years and not just overnight at Marla’s.

  They tore about before making their final selection of toys—Willow with her iPad, Lilly with her collection of toy dinosaurs and dolls. I knew they’d been expecting to see their mother. Even the cat was prowling around expectantly. Things were different and upside-down. Evie was always here. I was the one who disappeared each day and headed off to work.

  I stood in the kitchen, holding the bench top at arm’s length, letting my head drop and inhaling slowly.

  What was actually going on here?

  In the past few months, Evie had been through peaks and va
lleys. Over-the-top happy and then just as quickly so down I’d suggest she see a doctor. Sometimes, I’d sensed she was secretive, which had hurt because she’d always been so open with me. Evie used to tell me everything, in so much detail my head would spin. But ever since she got the restaurant job in the city, she’d held back.

  How much had she even told me about her job? She was vague about names of the people she worked with, vague about what she did all those hours.

  A thought crept in—the kind you can’t send packing. Was it another guy?

  Hell.

  Couldn’t be. She wouldn’t.

  And her note said she’d be coming back. A woman wouldn’t run away and have an affair for a week and then return to her husband. Would she?

  Willow loudly complained from the other room. Lilly was being annoying. Lilly jumped in to put in her counter-complaint: Willow wouldn’t play with her.

  “Be nice to each other, will you?” I hollered.

  That only unleashed a torrent of grievances on both sides, Lilly barely able to explain her issues with her sister before dissolving into shrieking sobs.

  I stepped into the living room. “Play quietly and we’ll get some ice cream later.” Evie wouldn’t be impressed. She kept telling me not to bribe the kids. But right now, I didn’t have time for that delicate balance of patience and compromise that Evie used.

  Lilly turned off her cascade of tears. “Promise?”

  “Double promise.” I gave her my serious-Daddy nod and then turned and headed for the stairs.

  First things first. I was going to call the restaurant and see if anyone there knew where Evie might have gone. I didn’t like calling her place of work, and there was no way of doing it without sounding a little bit suspect. Looking up the name of the restaurant that Evie had given me, I tapped the number onto my phone.

  They sounded busy as soon as they answered. Lots of background noise. Music.

  “Would I be able to speak with Evie?” I asked.

  “Who?” The woman’s voice was pleasant but hurried.