by Julian Folk
“THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO MEN WHO HURT WOMEN.”
Officer Rice puts his hands up to box. Connor sits silent in the chair, perplexed. No windup. No warning. Officer Rice throws a hook at Connor’s left eye. The smack of fist-on-eye-socket stuns Connor. He sees sparrows, literally, sparrows flying outward from his face, left and right, flying along the ceiling and the ground. Next Officer Rice throws a hook at Connor’s right eye.
Same impact on his eye socket.
Without a weapon, Connor lacks the ability to engage such brute force.
The eye punches incapacitate him.
But Nikki taught him to defend himself…
The concussive force of the punches disconnects Connor’s mind from his body. Both nostrils issue blood. Broken facial bones float in an instant soup of swollenness.
He needs to stand. He needs space to move laterally. He can’t defend himself here.
Nikki specifically tailored those tactics to convert his weakness to strength.
“I deserve a fair shot,” Connor says.
The words came to him from nowhere, they resonate as familiar, as if he already said them and this already happened before.
“A fair shot, son?” he says. “You think you’re fit to fight like a man? Sure. Why not? Get up. ”
The monster’s waited fourteen years for this moment.
Getting used to his profuse bleeding, Connor takes a position in the living room. Six feet in front of the wall. Lanes of passage on each side.
“Let’s see what you got,” Officer Rice says, “you fucking faggot.”
Connor cocks his fist:
“Want this sweet ass? Take it.”
The blood Connor accidentally eats isn’t flavorful, but the texture appeals to him.
His aggression is your weapon, Nikki said.
Officer Rice charges, the charge is so fast, like a bear charge, a flat out blitz, but the man isn’t winding up to punch. He intends to tackle Connor, pin him to the floor and mash his face. In the monster’s charge, when his whole body, easily three hundred pounds, is balanced on his left foot, the non-dominant one, Connor slides mere inches to the right, snags Officer Rice’s collar with one hand, seizes a fistful of curly gray-brown hair with the other, harnesses the extent of his puny might and uses it to push Officer Rice’s body as hard as possible in the direction he’s already heading.
Straight at the wall.
The collision produces a thud.
He hoped for a snap.
Officer Rice lies prostate and motionless. Nostrils and ears leak blood. Connor applies two fingers to the man’s neck and detects an excuse-me pulse.
He probes the man’s belt, chest, ankles. No gun. No Taser. None of that hardware he envied on Isoldi.
Monster down. If Connor turns over the penthouse looking for useful items, Officer Rice’ll recover by the time he finds something. Then he’ll kill Connor. Ayelet and Connor Jr. would be left to their own devices.
The choice is no choice at all.
Connor cleans his mouth and beard using Jeff’s lemonade and a pillow cover, though the beard stays brassy. He borrows one of Jeff’s parkas and takes the stairs, keeping his head down in the lobby and exiting the front door.
The temperature dipped again. The cold dulls his broken-face pain. He looks east and west. On the opposite side of the street, a man pushes his black SUV door to. Connor recognizes this man’s marbled meatiness and black beard.
Robert’s strangler.
Connor travels east.
Nothing east but the water. He has no boat. He keeps east anyway. No police in sight. The Strangler pursues on foot, maintaining a twenty yard distance. At the corner, Connor turns north. No police here. But he has no idea where he is. The Strangler pursues.
The man’s expression reads as part-empty, part-beatified. Like Officer Rice, this man’s strength dwarfs Connor’s. Despite his obesity, the man moves like a bull. Same trick, then. Turn the Strangler’s strength to weakness. Make liabilities of the Strangler’s advantages. But how?
Another intersection. No police east, west, or north.
Connor must pick a direction. He pivots and turns west.
CRACK.
What the?
WHIZ.
Something sped past his head. Like the paintballs fired at him in the Berkshires, but faster, smaller. He turns around. At the Strangler’s side, a silenced gun. Now he walks holding it by his side.
“I’m not supposed to touch you, boy.” Officer Rice’s words. The Strangler could shoot Connor dead with impunity. But he shot only after Connor went west. And probably missed on purpose.
Connor heads east, walks in front of a car. It stops short and honks. No CRACK of the silenced gun. No WHIZ of the bullet past his ear. The Strangler approves of Connor’s direction.
Guess the hospital is west. That’s why he directed Connor east.
Connor accidentally passes a police precinct. Surely, the Strangler will not fire if he decides to turn himself in. He is wanted, after all.
Uniformed officers come and go on the precinct steps.
Connor tilts his head downward, as if the cold gets to him, and sticks his hands in his pockets.
“Hello officers,” the Strangler says.
“What’s up, guy?”
Connor walks another block east and pivots to turn north.
CRACK.
He stops, his foot in the air.
WHIZ.
The bullet flies above his head and deflects off the concrete façade of a medical building.
Okay, north is forbidden.
An unseen dog whimpers.
Fucking ricochet.
Connor travels in the permissible directions, mostly south and east. The journey leads him farther from the hospital; he is mindful of that. To get close to Ayelet again, Connor must encourage the Strangler to believe he’s getting what he wants.
Soon a vast dark liquid mass comes in view. Boston Harbor. The temperature falls and the wind lashes.
So this is what the Strangler wants. This is what it was all about. Provoking Connor to wipe himself off the face of the earth.
That’s the Program. No missile launched from a drone, bullet fired by a gun, grenade lobbed in a room, or knife driven through flesh.
No touch by the killer’s hand. Vincent and Maisie birthed the Program. Bud enforces. Could be another man out there.
Connor was supposed to be Vincent’s trophy. Motherfucker cocked it up big time.
The target drops the parka on the sand and his wallet and wedding band on top of it.
If the Strangler permits it, this is how they will identify Connor.
CRACK. The Strangler shoots behind him. Sand sprays Connor’s calf. These shots tell him to hustle up.
He steps in the water. So fucking cold. A gust of wind blasts him. Even fucking colder. One foot in front of the other.
Cold water kills the pain in his hands.
Pretty soon he’ll be numb.
The Strangler shoots the water in his wake. Connor wades in deeper. Pushes in so fast he almost loses his footing. When he’s numb, he’ll be free to do whatever he needs. He’s in up to his chin, up to his eyes, over his head. He loses contact with the ground.
The cold water kills the pain in his face.
The goal is achieved.
Connor’s numb.
He’s a person with no sensation of a body, no way to get hurt.
He swims south and east.
Chapter 26
Ayelet awakens feeling wonderful but keeps her eyelids sealed. A happy drug infused her IV. Euphoria circulates head-to-toe. And her mind is sharp.
How kind of Nikki.
A conference occurs in the room. Impromptu. Featuring Dr. Noon, Nikki, Val and Jeff. The doctor testifies to Nikki’s abilities and outlines the treatment plan.
“Dr. Watercourse has successfully treated peri-partum psychosis,” Dr. Noon says, “and healed many survivors of intimate partner violence.”
“Before Eric and Maisie contacted me,” Val says, “I had no idea Ayelet’s husband abused her.”
The doctor’s phone pings. “If you’ll excuse me,” Dr. Noon says. He reads the rescue text. “Another lucky woman’s about to be a mommy.” He books.
Dick, Ayelet thinks.
“Dr. Watercourse—” Jeff says.
“Call me Nikki.”
“Oh, sure, Nikki. We left our daughter’s abuser with a retired police officer,” he says. “I called Officer Rice but he hasn’t answered. I’d be surprised if he didn’t sock the bastard.”
“What goes around, comes around,” Nikki says. “The important thing is to love Ayelet and be patient—in this case, extremely patient—with her. The abuse injured your daughter’s mind far worse than her body. She believes that our efforts to help her constitute a conspiracy against her. This delusion penetrates to the core of her being. Ayelet will not accept the reality of her abuser’s death—”
Connor’s not dead!
“Won’t the drugs stop that?” Val asks.
“In time,” Nikki says. “When we build up to an effective dose. Even then, the delusion may persist. Picture an accident victim having to learn to walk again. It’s difficult. But with hard work and support, it’s doable. All the conditions are in place to restore Ayelet’s health. Your support is key. Would you folks like a moment alone with her?”
“Yes, Nikki,” Jeff says. “You’re truly an angel.”
“Thank you, sir,” she says. “Congratulations to both of you on your beautiful grandson. He looks just like his father.”
Ayelet hears the door close and opens her eyes.
No way Connor’s dead.
Val and Jeff hover.
“Vincent Jr.’s in the nursery,” Jeff says and flashes an okay sign. “Real hot in there. Like he’s in the womb again.”
“Do you really believe you have the right to name my baby over my objection?” Ayelet asks.
The purity of the disappointment on Jeff’s face confounds her.
How could anyone buy what Vincent’s selling?
“Ayelet, hon,” Val says, “Vincent saved you from your abuser.” She hugs her daughter’s head with her torso.
Ayelet wants to punch this bitch; these restraints suck.
“Eric, sorry, ‘Vincent,’ conned me, defrauded me,” Ayelet says. “That doesn’t upset you?”
Jeff shakes his head. In sorrow more than anger.
“No no no, dear,” Val says. “The seduction on the cruise. The swatting of your house. These things show you how tough it is to free a sufferer from an abuser. You know Vincent and Maisie tested the No Touch Kill program on Connor to free you. Sure, it was messy, dear. But that’s because Connor was so obstinate.”
“Our daughter’s sick, Val,” Jeff says. “She won’t believe anything you say. Like Nikki said.”
“Ayelet, dear, you act against your own self-interest,” Val says. “It’s always been a problem. You chose the wrong extracurriculars in high school. The wrong friends. The wrong college. The wrong major. The wrong profession. The wrong law school. The wrong law firm. The wrong second career. The wrong spouse. The wrong gender of spouse—you’re a lesbian, dear; you came out to us years ago. If it were up to you, Ayelet, you would’ve chosen the wrong hospital to give birth to your baby in, the wrong doctor to deliver him and the wrong name to give him.”
“You’re so fortunate, honey,” Jeff says, “we’re so fortunate, that Jasper allowed Vincent to use No Touch Kill against Connor. So many lives were lost just to give you your life back. Don’t make that sacrifice be in vain.”
Rage emboldens Ayelet. She feels like she could break her restraints and choke her parents to death. But the words No Touch Kill bounce around her head like pinballs.
Her parents are civilians. They know the name of the Program. Why? Well, Vincent told them only because he plans to kill them. Good old Val and Jeff are about to bite it.
And Ayelet is too.
Her parents misinterpret their daughter’s silence.
Val turns on the TV.
“We know you’re still attached to Connor, hon,” Jeff says. “It’s time to cut the cord.”
“Have a good cry when you see this, dear,” Val says. “Get it out of your system.”
Her parents stand on either side of the bed. They reach out to hold Ayelet’s hands but she balls her fists. So they hold onto her wrist restraints.
The local news returns from a commercial break.
“The police called us fifteen minutes ago,” Jeff says. “We told them we’d tell you.”
“This is definitive, Ayelet,” Val says. “Seeing it on TV...”
“And now for a tragic story…”
Static camera shots devastate Ayelet: dawn light, listless water, red parka, skinny wallet, wedding band.
The wedding band she chose.
Cut to video of tiny diving teams jumping off dinky boats.
“North Berkshire Community College Professor of Sociology and anti-bullying activist, Connor Yard, drowned himself in Boston Harbor this morning.”
Ayelet chisels a marble sculpture of denial on her face. Connor’s a good swimmer; they won’t find his body. He’ll come find his family.
“Professor Yard’s life has been in upheaval since Labor Day, when hackers…
“The FBI believes the same hackers issued a fraudulent warrant for Professor Yard’s arrest on suspicion of kidnapping his wife—”
“Ha!” Ayelet says. “What a surprise! A fraudulent warrant!”
The newsreader continues:
“An FBI investigation confirms the hacking of Boston PD’s servers—”
Val shuts off the TV. The “fraudulent warrant” bit peeves. She’s like a child whose toys were taken away.
Mom doesn’t care whether these accusations against Connor were bullshit or not. She’s afraid of anything that undermines her beliefs about Ayelet. And that’s what this news does.
“There you go, bitch,” Ayelet says.
“This error on the part of the station nourishes your delusions, Ayelet,” Jeff says. “I’m sorry you had to hear it. I promise to have this newsreader fired.”
“How pathetic it is that you’re incapable of admitting a mistake,” Ayelet says.
“Vincent will straighten this out,” Val says.
They quit the room in a huff.
“You deserve the bullets Vincent’ll put in your head,” Ayelet says.
Nikki saunters in toting another leaky syringe. The FBI agent’s ballpoint pen in the chest pocket of her scrubs. The psychopathic smile on Nikki’s gorgeous face arouses Ayelet, who gets it now. The burning hatred that powers Nikki. This woman truly loved Robert. They killed him. She has no one else but her parents. She has nothing else but this job.
“There’s no sign of Connor’s body,” Nikki says. “He may have survived.”
“He was on swim team,” Ayelet says. “Swimming was his sport.”
Nikki pops the cap of the ballpoint pen.
This is no pen. It’s the sharpest spike Ayelet’s laid eyes on. She’s afraid of it.
“If the baby’s safe, and you’re not, plunge this into Vincent or Maisie’s neck. Go deep. Aim for an artery. If you’re not sure you hit one, wiggle it around. Don’t take it out. They could grab it and use it on you.”
Nikki carefully slides the cap on and tucks the fake pen under Ayelet’s side.
She injects the bag.
“Get sick,” she tells Ayelet. “To evacuate you and Connor Jr. unharmed, we need you both to look like shit. I’ll loosen the restraints when you’re symptomatic and move you where assholes can’t go.”
Chapter 27
Swim team paid a dividend. All those blue ribbons won at Saturday morning swim meets. This morning, Connor’s chilly harbor swim earned him another chance to fight.
Numb and weightless, he swims ashore.
Connor lost all feeling once he was totally submerged. He swam south and east. Down an
d away. Numbness penetrated to depths he didn’t know he had. Though the water was cold, under fifty degrees, the air temperature dropped to freezing in his time underwater. Now the shallow water he wades in feels warm. And the air is an arctic assault.
He wobbles ashore. Feels like someone surgically stole the nerves from his legs. His thoughts are frozen. Mild disorientation cramps his style. The animal in him seeks warmth.
Unless he was declared dead, the warrant’s out for Connor’s arrest. No hospital for him. No homeless shelter either.
But what does he know about hypothermia?
That wet clothing continues to lower body temperature while the water saturating it evaporates. That one should only remove wet clothing if dry clothing is available. Which isn’t the case.
How does he warm his body?
On a whim, Connor jumps up and down. He’s a runner as well as a swimmer. He runs and falls and rolls around on sand.
Maybe if he convinces himself he’s warm, his body will warm up.
He sprints back and forth, staying in the same area, leery of the Strangler.
The moment his broken eye sockets ache again, he decides it’s time to go back into the city.
His task: find a homeless person. Ask where to get clothes and a coat. Where to grab breakfast. Where to sneak a peek at the news. Where to have his busted face examined, no questions asked.
The sun rises, not high enough to shine, but no one’s awake yet.
Homeless people prove elusive.
Connor knows you guys are here.
In the distance, a vast outdoor mall. The mall lights are still on. Security patrols it and watches the video feeds.
No homeless there.
He ambles upon a tiny row of boutique shops. White brick storefronts. Black signs and lettering. Cobblestone street.