Four

by Dustin Stevens

  This morning the sun burst through my windows and brought with it the harsh reality that you are still gone and I fear you will continue to remain so. Worse yet, I fear that my pleas are falling on deaf ears, a fear that only grows with your silence.

  Please, don’t make me continue to pay for what has transpired in the past. I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this.

  I am truly, truly sorry,

  Sarah Beth

  Chapter Twenty

  Tuesday.

  I never set out to establish a one-a-day schedule, it just seemed to have worked out that way. In some locations it was easy for me to slip in and out unnoticed, to work quickly from one target to another and be gone before much time had passed.

  Sometimes the job called for me to be as quick as possible. If the link between the victims was blatant enough I had to pick a time when I knew all the targets were within striking range.

  If three people were involved in something together and the first two turned up dead, odds were the third one would catch on and hit the door running.

  When they did, I needed to make sure that door was locked or I was standing on the other side.

  There are people that would make the mistake of thinking what I do would be simpler in a big city. They would argue that scores of people make it easier to slip in and out undetected, but they would be overlooking one key point.

  People have eyes.

  Sure, it was easy for a man to muddle his way to work and home every day and go unnoticed, but the odds were that man’s job didn’t involve ending another person’s life. I would love nothing more than to work in small towns across the Midwest, but that’s not where the jobs are.

  This morning I rose around eight and went for another run. I started by circling out around the Fresh Pond reservoir, heading out to Mt. Auburn and up through the cemetery. By nine I was standing atop the lookout tower therein, surveying the sky line, the autumn wind drying my sweaty clothes.

  When I got back to the hotel I went to the exercise room and did several sets of push-ups, intertwined with military presses, kickbacks and bicep curls using dumbbells from the rack.

  Not the greatest hotel gym I’ve ever seen, but certainly not the worst.

  Sweaty and refreshed I returned to my room and showered, pulled on the jeans and hoodie again and drove past the t-station to Mass Ave. Six blocks east of there I stopped at Andy’s Diner, an old haunt of mine from college.

  There was a time when I was such a frequent customer everybody on staff knew what I liked without even having to ask me. When I got into this business I made certain to avoid places like this where I thought I might be recognized, but by now I feel like enough time has passed.

  It’s been almost twenty years since I was a regular here and the odds of any of the old staff remaining are non-existent.

  Not that it would matter anyway. I am but a shadow of my former self. I see old pictures and sometimes even I can barely believe it’s the same person.

  Choosing a corner booth I put my back to the room and opted for a garden omelet with wheat toast and skim milk. Fifteen years ago I would have scoffed and called myself a woman for ordering such a thing, but my lifestyle forced me to become more conscientious.

  Nowadays, I don’t think anything of it.

  Andy’s was always a favorite of mine because the service was fast and the people were friendly without being intrusive. Today proved no exception and twenty minutes after walking in, I left with a full stomach that only cost me six bucks.

  Try finding that on the West Coast.

  Climbing back into my car I went a couple of blocks back down Mass Ave and turned into the Porter Square shopping center. I parked in front of the new Star Market and swung into the store to its left, Tags Hardware.

  Using another phony credit card I purchased a utility belt, some wire cutters, a pair of needle nose pliers, a hammer and a cord of rope. The Pakistani man behind the counter didn’t even lift an eye towards me as he rang up the items and sent me on my way.

  Twelve minutes after stopping, I was back in my car and on the move again.

  Turning left out the back of the shopping center I headed towards Davis Square before picking up Vine Street and letting it carry me back across Mass Ave.

  It was well after one o’clock by the time I got back to the Tria, the midday sun warming me in my sweatshirt and jeans. I left the purchased items in the car and used the front entrance again, nodding in greeting to the front desk girl as I passed through.

  Once back in my room, I opened the black bag again and took from it a small vial of pills. I peeled off the jeans and hoodie and tugged on a pair of dark blue Dockers and the white Oxford shirt, followed by the blue jacket.

  Standing in front of the mirror I zipped the jacket up most of the way and smiled back at my reflection.

  From delivery man to maintenance man, just like that.

  I stuffed a small wad of cotton into the vial of pills to keep them from rattling around, then put them deep in my pocket and headed for the door.

  I had a date with Liz Gerkin.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Liz Gerkin was far and away the hardest person I’d ever had to research.

  Most of the people that come across my desk did so for a reason. Somebody that became high profile and got into some stuff they shouldn’t. A person that tried to take a stand against the wrong person and got leveled for their efforts.

  Most people had some aspect of themselves that was easily recognizable. For some, it was celebrity status. For others, it might have been a well-known occupation.

  People like a Congressman. Or a research chemist. Or a journalist.

  Nothing of the sort applied to Liz Gerkin.

  I was able to build an overview. Her age, height, weight, address, social security number, all the things most people think are ironclad and locked from the world.

  Beyond that, there was hardly anything.

  No known job listings. No property ownership. Not a thing of note on her credit report.

  Someone that clean barely evens qualified as a normal person. A normal person had a spouse and a home and a car and owes boatloads of money on mortgages, charge cards, student loans.

  She had nothing.

  The problem with coming across someone as non-existent as Gerkin was her absentee life meant one of two things. Either she was a woman hanging on by a thread, floating through life like a ghost, or she was a woman that chose the path of non-disclosure.

  She was worried about something, had something to hide.

  For the briefest of periods I got a bit excited about the prospect of matching up against Gerkin, allowing myself to entertain the idea of a worthy adversary. After all of my contacts and deep digging though, something as simple as a Google search told me I was wrong.

  What did it was a website for a mental health clinic in upstate New York, the kind families send members to when they’re concerned for their well-being but sick of dealing with the problem themselves. Places they could ship loved ones and still sleep at night because “they were in good hands.”

  On the home page of the site was an image of a woman in her early thirties, smiling for the camera. Her hair was light brown and arrow straight, hanging to her shoulders, and her skin was pale white. She stood on a grassy lawn in front of a large brick home and beneath her picture read the caption: “Spring Meadow has really changed my life. They’ve been instrumental in helping me turn the corner and retake control!” – Liz Gerkin, former resident.

  Spring Meadow could print whatever they wanted, but as someone that had seen this kind of thing before I knew on sight that this woman had turned no such corners.

  The truth was in her eyes. Large, empty, red-rimmed, they had the look of a woman that hadn’t known happiness in years.

  It was by far the saddest smile I’ve ever seen.

  I didn’t get paid to investigate into people’s lives and make them better though. Truth is it was almost refre
shing for me to see someone that miserable, helping me feel like I was liberating her in some small way.

  The vial I had in my pocket was filled with anti-depressants. They’re fairly common and easy to attain, over eight percent of the general population are on prescriptions for them at any given time in America.

  What made these pills different though is they were loaded with a combination of Zoloft, Prozac and Paxil. Each of the three represented a different class of medication, the mixing of which made them very volatile.

  Not fatal, but volatile.

  I always kept a vial of these on stand-by and when I got the call to come out here I tossed them into the black bag with Ms. Gerkin in mind.

  The pills were homemade, the result of taking several of each and grinding them into powder. I then emptied some anti-histamine, the largest capsules available today, and refilled them with the mixture.

  By formulating them as such, I had the option of how to best administer. I could unscrew the top and deposit the contents into food, drink or a sleeping mouth. If the case permits and I had the access, I could even switch the capsules out with their real medications.

  The mixing of anti-depressants had been proven to alter neurotransmitters so far that suicide often became a byproduct. Not because it altered any mood, it just helped to raise the inhibitions already felt by a person facing depression.

  Knowing that Gerkin was already on medications, it was an easy play for me.

  Mixed in with the capsules was a light sedative, enough to knock someone cold for at least an hour. After they took the medication, I then moved in to finish the job.

  If an investigation ever occurred, it was written off as a simple suicide.

  If somebody got curious and ran a tox screen, the anti-depressant cocktail would tell any medical examiner that the person had been self-medicating and took their own life.

  A little more involved than I liked, but again it left no chance of a trace back to me.

  Ms. Gerkin lived in Billerica, north of 95 and east of Route 3. The drive took me almost forty minutes, the mid-day traffic light going away from the city.

  Before making the trip I pulled up directions online and jotted them down with my notes. Pages of printed directions can look suspicious if a bag gets searched by security, but pages of handwritten notes in a legal pad get rifled through and tossed aside without a glance.

  Billerica was barely more than a suburb, a small burg a good ways outside the city. By the time I reached my destination the landscape was leaning towards rural. Large open lots dotted the streets and heavy pine and ash trees towering above the buildings, blocking sunlight and casting long shadows.

  Liz Gerken lived in a small housing community, well out of the way of any conventional traffic. As I turned onto her street a large sign reading “Welcome to Peaceful Glen” greeted me.

  I drove by the sign and past a few small and dilapidated homes, fast becoming apparent that the sign was the nicest thing in the community.

  It looked like somebody had started the place with the idea of building one bedroom homes for seniors and retirees, but lost interest somewhere along the way. The first half of the street had houses side by side on small plots, but as I drove on they became further apart.

  For Sale signs stood in most of the lots.

  The number belonging to Gerkin sat off the right side of the road about fifty yards, heavy trees lining the front and driveway. It was a simple structure, painted white with water stains running along the windows and at the corners. Black trim outlined the door and the shingles were green with thick swaths of orange where algae had set in.

  I considered parking the car on the street so she couldn’t see it, but decided to pull on up instead.

  Part of me was worried she might think it odd for a repairman to arrive in a Sedan, but a larger part was concerned about neighbors seeing it and getting a license plate number.

  I eased the car into the driveway and parked before pulling the sack from Tags onto the front seat and assembling my gear. I placed the pliers, wire strippers and hammer into the belt and swung myself out of the car. Cinching it tight around my waist, I made a show of looking at the wires running overhead and even pointed a couple of times for good measure.

  The front sidewalk was made from old brick that hadn’t been touched since it was laid fifty years ago. Many were missing and the rest laid at odd angles as grass poked up between them.

  Picking my way through, I made it to the front of the house.

  The screen door was peeling white paint and rattled as I raised my hand and knocked three times. I stood back so I seemed smaller and less threatening, assuming a pose similar to the one I used outside of Brockler’s door, waiting for a reply.

  Several seconds passed before the door wrenched itself open. It took two or three good pulls to get it free and when it finally swung back the same haunted eyes from the website stared back at me.

  The brown hair was shorter and ragged, giving the appearance that she took a pair of scissors and was hacking at it as I approached. She wore a plain sundress that was threadbare and hung lank from her shoulders.

  Large dark stains dotted the front of it.

  Stains that looked like dried blood.

  I flashed the most assuring smile I could manage and said, “Good afternoon, I’m here on behalf of the electric company. With the high winds the other night we’ve had some homes in the area reporting sporadic loss of electricity and we’re out checking to make sure that doesn’t happen to anybody else.”

  Gerkin stared at me with an expression so dazed I couldn’t tell if she heard what I said or not.

  “You’re here to help me aren’t you?”

  The question caught me off guard, filling me with the impression that she was not referring to electricity.

  “Yes ma’am, I’m here to help,” I replied.

  Without a word she turned and walked away from the door, leaving it standing open behind her. I took it as an invitation to enter and stepped inside, pulling it closed behind me.

  I allowed a moment to pass standing in the doorway, waiting for my eyes adjust to the darkened room. As they did so, my surroundings took shape around me.

  An ancient brown print sofa stood against the back wall with a matching arm chair beside it. A coffee table stacked high with newspapers and magazines rested in the middle of the room.

  Old clothes and blankets were piled on the chair and sofa.

  Without turning to look at me Gerkin trudged through the room and on into the kitchen. I could hear her feet scraping along the sticky linoleum and followed her in to find a sight even worse than the living room. Dishes were piled high in the sink and stains of every imaginable color were splashed across the floor.

  The only clean thing in the entire house was the kitchen table, void of everything save a parchment pad, a quill, and a bottle of ink.

  I had no idea people still used such implements.

  Gerkin, using the same stiff and slow walk, moved to the other side of the table and sat down. She pulled the items over close to her and motioned for me to sit.

  I grabbed the chair closest to me and pulled it out, grabbing a handful of napkins from the seat and setting them on the floor as I did so.

  Something told me she didn’t want them on the table.

  Staring across at her I saw a woman that was maybe thirty-five in age, but decades beyond that in experience. Her temples already bore large swaths of gray and thick wrinkles lined her face.

  Most surprising though, were the cuts lining her arms. Sitting beside her, I could see they were not the shallow nicks of a woman needing to feel alive, but the deep wrist gouges of a woman wanting to be dead.

  I swallowed hard as my gaze traced the cuts. Most of the people I came across had no idea death was approaching.

  They certainly didn’t ask for it.

  Hell, those that did see me cried and begged for the exact opposite.

  Gerkin noticed my eyes passing over he
r arms and held them out for me to get a better look. “I’ve tried and I’ve tried,” she said.

  I looked them over a moment longer and met her eyes, nodding my head.

  “You said you’re here to help me,” she whispered.

  “I am.”

  Gerkin let out a full body sigh of relief, her shoulders slumping a little as the air pushed from her lungs. “Thank you. I have been like this for so long now. I can’t do it any longer.”

  I waited for her to explain, but no more words escaped her.

  “Is there anything I can do to help? Any way to ease your pain?”

  Gerkin stared past me for several seconds, her eyes focused on nothing in particular.

  “Make it stop.”

  She shifted her gaze back to mine, as earnestness etched in her features that told me the only thing this woman wanted was out.

  Out of this house. Out of this world. Out of her life.

  Out.

  Again I nodded. “How can I do that?”

  “He was never supposed to be there you know. We were only staying for a few nights until our place was done.”

  Tears welled in her eyes and her breath came in ragged wheezes. Her frail body wrenched so hard it rose from the chair and after a moment she looked up at me. Tears ran down her cheeks and hung from her jaw before falling towards the floor.

  “Why couldn’t it have been me? Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied, and did something I had never done before.

  I reached out and touched her hand. Surprised as I was by my own movement, she didn’t seem to be at all. Instead she grabbed it with both of hers, clutching and holding it tight as tears continued to fall.

  “Please,” she said, her voice cracking, “help me. Make it stop.”

  She slowly raised her head and looked into my eyes, lank brown hair framing her face as it stared into mine. “Please.”

  I nodded and started to reach into my pocket for the pills, but decided against it. I released her hands and rose as she laid her head down atop her folded arms, her sniffles still audible.