The dark train is different.
The dark train runs on tracks made of crunching, squishy things. It's the train that people like Jack Jr. ride. It's a train fueled by murder and sex and screams. It's a big, black, blood-drinking snake with wheels. If you hop off the train of life and run through the woods, you can find the dark train. You can walk next to its tracks, run alongside as it passes, get a glimpse of the weeping contents of its boxcars. Jump aboard, move through its corpse cars, through the whispers and bones, and you will reach the train's conductor. The conductor is the monster you are chasing, and he has many guises. He can be short and bald and forty. He can be tall and young and blond. Sometimes, rarely, he can be a she. On the dark train, you see the conductor as he really is, underneath the fake smiles and three-piece suits. You stare into darkness, and at that moment, if you look without flinching, you will understand. These killers I hunt are not quiet and smiling inside. Every cell in their body is an unending, eternal scream. They are gibbering and wideeyed and evil and blood-covered. They are things that masturbate as they gobble human flesh, that groan in ecstasy as they rub themselves with brains and feces. Their souls don't walk: They slither, they spasm, they crawl.
The dark train, simply, is where I remove the killer's mask in my mind. Where I look and don't turn away. It is the place where I don't back off, or excuse or look for reasons, but instead accept. Yes, his eyes are filled with maggots. Yes, he drinks the tears of murdered children. Yes, there is only murder here.
"Interesting," Dr. Hillstead had remarked during one of our sessions, after I had explained the dark train to him. "I guess my question--and my concern--Smoky, would be: Once you get on, what keeps you from never getting off the train? What keeps you from becoming the conductor?"
I had to smile. "If you see it--really see it--then there's no danger of that. You can see that you aren't like that. Not even close." I turned my head to stare at him. "If you really unmask the conductor, you realize that he's alien. He's an aberration, a different species."
He'd acknowledged me, smiled back. His eyes didn't seem convinced. What I didn't tell him was that the problem wasn't becoming the conductor. The problem was to stop seeing him, how he looked in his unmasked state. That could take months sometimes, months of waking nightmares and cold sweats at dawn. The thing that was always hardest on Matt was that it was made up of silences. Closed rooms he couldn't join me in.
That's the price you pay for riding the dark train. A part of you becomes a solitude that normal people will never have and no one else can ever enter. A little sliver of you becomes alone, forever. Standing here, in Annie's death place, I can feel it rushing toward me. When it's coming, whether I'm just watching it pass or moving through its cars, I can't have others around me. I get distant and cold and . . . not nice. The exception is a fellow hobo. Someone else who understands the train. James does. Whatever other faults he has, however much of an asshole he can be, James has the same gift. He can see the conductor, ride the rails.
Removing all the metaphors, the dark train is a place of heightened observation, created by a temporary empathy with evil. And it's unpleasant.
I look around the room, letting it seep into me. I can feel him, smell him. I need to be able to taste him, hear him. Rather than pushing him away, I need to pull him close. Like a lover.
That is the thing I never told Dr. Hillstead. I don't think I ever will. That this, that intimacy, is not only disturbing--it is addictive. It is exciting. He hunts everything. I only hunt him. But I suspect my taste for blood is just as rich and strong.
He was here, so this is where I need to be. I need to find him, and snuggle close to his shadows and maggots and screams. The first thing I sense is always the same, and this time is no different. His excitement at the invasion of another's boundaries. Human beings divide themselves, create spaces to call their own. They agree between them to respect that ownership. This is very basic, almost primal. Your home is your home. Once the door is closed, you have privacy, relief from keeping up the face you show the world. Other human beings come in only if invited. They respect this because it's what they want as well.
The first thing the monsters do, the first thing that excites them, is to cross that line. They peek into your windows. They follow you throughout your day, watching. Maybe they enter your home while you are away and walk into your private spaces, rub up against your private things. They invade.
And destruction of others is their aphrodisiac.
I remember an interview with one of the monsters I caught. His victims were young girls. Some were five, some were six, none were older. I saw the pictures of them before--bows in their hair and radiant smiles. I saw the pictures of them after--raped, tortured, murdered. Tiny corpses screaming forever. I was wrapping up, about to head out the door of the interrogation room, when the question occurred to me. I turned to him.
"Why them?" I asked. "Why the young girls?"
He smiled at me. A big, wide, Halloween smile. His eyes were two twinkling, empty wells. "Because it was the worst thing I could think of, darlin'. The badder it is"--and he'd licked his lips at this--"the better it is." He'd closed those nothing eyes and had shaken his head back and forth in a kind of reverie. "The young ones . . . GOD . . . the badness of that was just so damn sweet!"
It's rage that fuels this need. Not pinprick annoyance, but fullblown, world-on-fire rage. A constant, roaring blaze that never dies. I feel it here. As deliberate as he might want to be, in the end he destroyed in a frenzy. He was out of control.
This rage usually comes from extreme sadism visited upon them when they were children. Beatings, torture, sodomy, rape. Most of these monsters are made, by Frankenstein parents. Twisted ones create children in their own image. They beat their souls to death and send them out in the world to do unto others.
None of that makes any pragmatic difference. Not in terms of what I do. The monsters are, without exception, irredeemable. It doesn't matter why the dog bites, in the end. That he bites and that his teeth are sharp are what determines his fate.
I live with all of this knowledge. This understanding. It is an unwanted companion that never leaves my side. The monsters become my shadow, and sometimes I feel like I can hear them chuckling behind me.
"How does that affect you, long term?" Dr. Hillstead had asked me.
"Is there any constant emotional consequence?"
"Well--sure. Of course." I had struggled to find the words. "It's not depression, or cynicism. It's not that you can't be happy. It's . . ." I'd snapped my fingers, looking at him. "It's a change in the climate of the soul." I'd grimaced as soon as the words left my mouth. "That's some silly poetic bullshit."
"Stop that," he'd admonished me. "There's nothing silly about finding the right words for something. It's called clarity. Finish the thought."
"Well . . . you know how land masses that are near the ocean have their climates determined by it? By that proximity? There may be some freak twists in the weather, but pretty much it's a constant, because the ocean is so big and it doesn't really change." I'd looked at him; he'd nodded. "It's like that. You have this constant proximity to something huge and dark and awful. It never leaves, it's always there. Every minute of every day." I shrugged. "The climate of your soul is affected by it. Forever."
His eyes had been sad. "What is that climate like?"
"Someplace where there's a lot of rain. It can still be beautiful--you do have your sunny days--but it's dominated by grays and clouds. And it's always ready to rain. That proximity is always there."
I look around Annie's bedroom, hear her screams in my head. It's raining right now, I think. Annie was the sun, and he is the clouds. So what does that make me? More poetic bullshit. "The moon," I whisper to myself. Light against the black.
"Hi."
James's voice startles me out of my reverie. He's standing at the door, looking in. I see his eyes roaming over the room, taking in the bloodstains, the bed, the overturned night table. H
is nostrils flare.
"What is that?" he murmurs.
"Perfume. He coated a towel with perfume and stuffed it under the door so the smell of Annie's body wouldn't get out right away."
"He was buying himself time."
"Yeah."
He holds up a file folder. "I got this from Alan. Crime-scene reports and photos."
"Good. You need to see the video."
When it starts, this is how it goes. We talk in short bursts, automatic gunfire. We become relay racers, passing the baton back and forth, back and forth.
"Show me."
So we sit down, and I watch it again. Watch as Jack Jr. capers around, watch as Annie screams and dies a slow death. I don't feel it this time. I'm untouched--almost. I'm detached and distant, examining the train with narrowed eyes. I get an image in my head of Annie, lying dead in a grassy field, while rain fills her open mouth and dribbles down her dead gray cheeks.
James is quiet. "Why did he leave this for us?"
I shrug. "I'm not there yet. Let's take it from the beginning."
He flips open the file folder. "They discovered the body at approximately seven P.M. last night. Time of death is rough, but based on the decomposition, ambient temperatures, et cetera, the ME estimates she died three days before, at around nine or ten P.M."
I think it through. "Figure he took a few hours raping and torturing her. That means he'd have gotten here at around seven o'clock. So he doesn't come in while they're asleep. How does he get inside?"
James consults the file. "No sign of forced entry. Either she let him in, or he let himself in." He frowns. "He's a cocky fucker. Doing it early evening, when everyone is still up and about. Confident."
"But how does he get in?" We look at each other, wondering. Rain, rain, go away . . .
"Let's start in the living room," James says.
Automatic gunfire, bang-a-bang-a-bang.
We walk out of the bedroom and down the hall until we're standing in the entryway. James looks around. I see his eyes stop roaming and freeze. "Hang on." He goes to Annie's bedroom and comes back holding the file. He hands me a photo.
"That's how."
It's a shot of the entryway, just inside the door. I see what he wants me to see: three envelopes lying on the carpet. I nod. "He kept it simple--he just knocked. She opens the door, he slams through it, she drops the mail she's holding. It was sudden. Fast."
"It was early evening, though. How did he keep her from screaming and alerting the neighbors?"
I grab the folder from him and scan through photos. I point to one of the dining table. "Here." It shows an opened grade-school math book. We glance over at the table. "It's less than ten feet away. Bonnie was right here when Annie answered the door."
He nods in understanding. "He controlled the kid, so he controlled the mother." He whistles. "Wow. That means he came right in. No hesitation."
"It was a blitz. He didn't give her any time at all. Pushed his way in, slammed the door, moved right to Bonnie, probably put a weapon to her throat--"
"--and told the mother if she screamed, the kid would die."
"Yeah."
"Very decisive."
Rain, rain, go away . . .
James purses his lips, thoughtful.
"So the next question is: How soon before he got down to business?"
Here is where it really begins, I think. Where we don't just consider the dark train, we climb aboard. "It's a series of questions." I count them off on my fingers. "How soon before he started on her? Did he tell her what he was going to do? And what did he do with Bonnie in the meantime? Did he tie her up or make her watch?"
We both look at the front door, considering. I can see it in my head. I can feel him. I know James is doing the same.
It's quiet in the hallway, and he's excited. His heart is pounding in his chest as he waits for Annie to open the door. One hand is poised to knock again, the other holds . . . what? A knife?
Yeah.
He has a story to give her, and he's rehearsed it many times. Something simple, like . . . he's a neighbor from the floor below with a question. Something that feels like it belongs.
She opens the door, and not just a crack. It's early evening; the city is awake. Annie is at home, inside a security-gated apartment building. All of her lights are on. She has no reason to be afraid.
He comes through the door before she can react, an unstoppable force. He pushes inside, knocking Annie down, closing the door behind him. He rushes to Bonnie. He pulls her close and puts the knife to her throat.
"Make a sound and your daughter dies."
Annie forces back the instinctive scream that had been building in her throat. Her shock is total. Everything has happened too fast for her to process. She's still looking for some kind of rational explanation. Maybe she's on a hidden-camera show, maybe a friend is pulling a prank on her, maybe . . . crazy ideas, but crazy would be better than the truth.
Bonnie is gazing up at her, eyes full of fear. Annie would have accepted then that this was no prank. A stranger had a knife to her daughter's throat. This was REAL.
"What do you want?" was her first question. She was hoping that she could bargain with this stranger. That he wanted something less than murder. Perhaps he was a burglar, or a rapist. Please, oh please, she's thinking, don't let him be a pedophile.
I remember something. "She had a small cut on her throat," I say.
"What?"
"Bonnie. She had a small cut in the hollow of her throat." I touch my own. "Here. I noticed it at the hospital."
I see James think about this. His face goes grim. "He made it with the knife."
We can't be sure, of course. But it feels right.
The stranger takes the point of his knife and pricks the hollow of Bonnie's throat. Nothing major, just enough to draw a single bead of blood, a single gasp. Enough to show that he means business, to make Annie's heart jump and thud and quiver.
"Do what I say," he says, "or your daughter dies slow."
And right then, it was over. Bonnie was his leverage, and Annie belonged to him.
"I'll do whatever you want. Just don't hurt her."
He smells Annie's fear, and it excites him. An erection stirs in his trousers.
"I think Bonnie was there while he raped and tortured Annie. I think he made her watch it all," I say.
James cocks his head. "Why?"
"A few reasons. The main one is that he kept Bonnie alive. Why? It gave him an extra person he had to control. It would have been easier if he'd just killed her. But Annie was the prey. He's into torture, he likes fear. Anguish. Having Bonnie there, having Annie know she was there and seeing what was happening . . . it would have driven her insane. He would have liked that."
James mulls this over. "I agree. For another reason too."
"What?"
He looks me in the eye. "You. He's hunting you too, Smoky. And hurting Bonnie makes the cut that much deeper."
I stare at him in surprise.
He's right.
Chug-a-chug-a-chug-a-chug-a, the dark train is picking up speed . . .
"Do what I tell you, or I'll hurt your mommy," he says to Bonnie. He uses their love of each other like a cattle prod, driving them toward the bedroom.
"He moves them into the bedroom." I walk down the hall. James follows. We step inside. "He closes it." I reach over and shut the door. I imagine Annie, watching it close and not realizing that she would never see it open again.
James stares at the bed, thinking. Envisioning. "He still has two of them to control," he says. "He wouldn't have been afraid of Bonnie, but he can't relax yet, not until Annie's secured."
"Annie was handcuffed in the video."
"Right. So he made her handcuff herself. Just one wrist is all he'd need."
"Take these," he'd said to Annie, removing a pair of handcuffs from a bag, tossing them at her--
No, that wasn't right. Rewind.
He has the knife to Bonnie's throat. He loo
ks at Annie. Looks her up and down, owning her with his eyes. Making sure she understands this.
"Strip," he says. "Strip for me."
She hesitates, and he wiggles the blade against Bonnie's throat. "Strip."
Annie does, weeping, as Bonnie watches. She leaves her bra and panties on, one last resistance.
"All of it!" he growls at her. Wiggles the knife. Annie complies, weeping harder now--
No. Rewind.
Annie complies and forces herself not to weep. To be strong for her daughter. She removes her bra and panties and holds Bonnie's eyes with her own. Look at my face, she's thinking, willing. Look at my face. Not this. Not him. Now he removes the handcuffs from the bag he'd brought in.
"Handcuff your wrist to the bed," he tells Annie. "Do it now."
She does. Once he hears the click of the ratchet, he reaches into the bag and pulls out two other pairs of handcuffs. These go around Bonnie's tiny wrists and ankles. She is trembling. He ignores her sobs as he gags her. Bonnie looks at her mother, a pleading look. A look that says: "Make it stop!" This makes Annie cry harder.
He's still cautious, careful. He's not letting himself relax yet. He moves over to Annie and handcuffs her other wrist to the bed. Followed by her ankles. Then he gags her.
Now. Now he can relax. His prey is secure. She can't escape, won't escape. Didn't escape, I think.
Now he can savor the moment.
He takes his time setting up the room. Positioning the bed, getting the video camera just right. There is a way that things are done, a symmetry that is impor- tant, vital. You don't rush this. To miss a step is to take away from the beauty of the act, and the act is everything. It's his air and his water.
"The bed," James says.
"What?" I look at it, puzzled.
He stands up and walks over to the baseboard. Annie's bed is queen-size, formed of smooth, rounded wooden pieces. Sturdy.
"How did he move it?" He walks to the headboard and looks down at the carpet. "Drag marks. So he pulled it toward him." He moves back to the base of the bed. "He would have gripped it somewhere here and pulled it by walking backward. He'd need leverage . . ." James kneels down. "He'd have grabbed it at the bottom and lifted it." He stands up, walks to the side of the bed, drops onto his back, and squirms under the bed up to his shoulders. I see the light of his flashlight go on, then back off. When he comes back out, he is smiling. "No print powder there."
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