by Cat Connor
“I am, thank you.” I chewed my lip. “Thank you for looking after me.”
His eyes lit up, making the green in them more apparent. “You know, despite the gruesome sights and pure terror we have been subjected to … I enjoy your company.” He leaned in and kissed me. “No matter what the situation, I’m glad we’re in this together.”
Someone knocked on the bedroom door.
“Come in,” Mac called.
The door opened, and his father entered the room. He smiled at us. His smile was similar to Mac’s. In fact, they looked a lot alike. Mr. Connelly was an older, heavier, shorter, more weathered version of Mac.
“You feel better Ellie?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Connelly.”
He beamed. “I came to see if either of you have any preferences regarding dinner.”
Mac and I grinned at each other causing the older man to chuckle and roll his eyes. “What was I thinking? You two would eat road kill if you were hungry enough.”
I grinned back at him. “Ain’t nothing wrong with bunny pie. I’m not hungry yet. I had that toast earlier.”
“Ignore her. By the time dinner is ready, she’ll be hungry again. Anything, we’re not particular.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “I’ve never seen anyone put away as much food as Ellie can in a day.”
I screwed my nose up at Mac; it’s rude to comment on how much a lady eats.
“Nothing wrong with a healthy appetite, son,” his father replied, nodding wisely, as fathers do.
“How about I help?” Mac volunteered.
I grabbed his arm. “Only if I come too. I need to be vertical!”
I watched him think. His brow creased. “Okay, but ...” There’s always a “but” why is there always a “but”? I waited for it to reveal itself. “You sit and watch us and if you feel weird at all, say something.”
“Deal.” I considered I’d been let off lightly. I felt a wicked grin settle on my face, “There’s something about a man cooking ...” I whispered so only Mac could hear.
Mac helped me up and replied, “Really? You seem to be getting better in leaps and bounds.”
Mr. Connelly waited for us by the door. I noticed him watching me as I walked towards him. Well, not so much watching, as scrutinizing. I reasoned he had a right to do so; after all, I was in his home with his son.
“There’s not much to you, is there?” Mr. Connelly commented as we neared him.
“Guess not,” I replied with a wry smile. “I probably harbor a large tapeworm. No doubt that would account for the large quantity of food I consume.” My head was annoying me. Being vertical wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
“Damn, girl, we best feed you and that worm before you disappear all together.” Mr. Connelly said with a wink. He stepped aside to let us pass. I witnessed a subtle exchange of glances between the Connelly men and knew what it meant. They were going to have one of those deep and meaningful father-son chats. One of those talks that began with a simple question about bleeding brakes and changing oil, then flowed onto a discussion about the best cordless drill on the market, twisted through the complexities of installing a new house alarm and finally arrived at the all-important “How serious are you two?”
Mac sat me at the dining room table.
I surveyed the set mousetraps and said nothing. What the hell could I say? Interesting table decorations you have, Mr. Connelly. Perhaps you could paint them different colors and turn it into some kind of mosaic tabletop design? I was sure House Beautiful wasn’t about to drop by and do a full-color photo spread on this particular table, unless of course, he did do some kind of mosaic thing.
Mac’s mother appeared covered in fine sawdust, and Mac hurried into the kitchen. I knew by the expression on his face he didn’t want to hear the explanation.
“How’re you feeling, Ellie?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.
“Much better thank you,” I replied. Mac may not have wanted to know, but curiosity was killing me. “You look like you have been busy.”
She sat at the end of the table. Dust fell over what little polished surface there was between the mousetraps.
“I’m making wooden bows,” she said. “You can come down to the basement later and see. They’re ornaments for the house, thought they’d be pretty.”
“How many have you made?”
“I’ve got about fifteen finished.” She held her hands out in front of her, a good twelve inches apart. “They’re about yay big.”
I smiled. I thought I was doing well to control myself enough to simply smile. “Y’know you could name them, so everyone has their own bow.”
Something soft flew at my head from the vicinity of the kitchen I looked over and found Mac trying to attract my attention. “Did you want me?” I asked with much innocence.
“Yes.” I had never heard the word “yes” delivered with that much inflection before.
I stood up and excused myself. Walking to the doorway was a challenge but I got there. “Problem?”
Mac whispered in my ear as he wrapped his arms around me, “Don’t encourage her! Name them? Jesus, Ellie, I don’t want my name on one of those oddities she’s created.”
“Really?”
“You’re evil,” he rasped in my ear as he hugged me, “Cough, if you need me to save you.”
I returned to my seat and watched Mrs. Connelly light another cigarette. She was unaware of the one still burning in the ashtray. She hadn’t noticed my leaving or returning and had continued the conversation alone.
I let my mind wander and pretended to listen to Mrs. Connelly’s ramblings. I remained focused enough to “uh huh” and “mmm” every now and then.
Mac and his Dad were engrossed in conversation. I roused myself from my stupor in time to hear Mac explain how to wire room sensors. I drifted back to the semi-darkness that still lurked inside me. It offered zero insight. The murmuring from Mrs. Connelly stopped. She paused for breath and lit another cigarette. I counted three cigarettes, all burning down in the ashtray, not including the one in her mouth.
A hand fell onto my shoulder. Mac’s Dad was stood next to me.
“Come with me a minute, Ellie,” he said. “She’ll be right back,” he told his wife who hadn’t realized he was there. In the kitchen, Mac made the final additions to a salad.
“Mac, come out to the garage,” his father whispered.
None of us spoke until we reached the comparative safety and seclusion of the garage. I looked around and surmised that Mr. Connelly’s cars lived better than many people do. It was warm in the garage. I suspect he heated the room, and he’d lined the walls too, making the whole place feel cozy. We walked to the far end past the cars. There stood a table and chairs, behind them a bookcase and next to that a magazine rack with newspapers folded in it. This was Mr. Connelly’s retreat. Mac pulled out a chair for me. His dad told us what was on his mind.
“The way I see it,” he began, “you two are in a pickle. I know the FBI are doing everything they can ... and I’m not being arrogant or an ass … but I think the three of us can maybe go a long way to solving this case.”
I nodded and resolved never to do so again. “The thing is Mr. Connelly. I ...” I looked at Mac. “No, we don’t want to endanger you or your wife. And if it were my choice we’d be in a hotel right now.” I maintained a calm tone.
Mr. Connelly nodded. “First up, I’m Bob.” He smiled. “Never have taken too kindly to the mister prefix.”
“Fair enough,” I replied.
“Second of all ... you two need help. I do understand your reluctance to be here, and appreciate that you are concerned about us. At the same time ... it’s about time you both used your brains and came home.”
Mac grinned. “Dad,” he said interrupting him, “this sicko taunts us, and deposits parts of people we know in places for us to find.”
“I know, boyo,” his father said. “Humor me. I’ll be less worried if you are here.”
Mac sighed. I reco
gnized the expression on his face – resignation. He didn’t want to be here anymore than I did. I held his gaze and he smiled. It was going to be okay.
“Well, we’re here and, unless Caine has another idea, we’ll be staying for a bit.” His eyes never left mine as he spoke.
“Grafton is on his way over?”
“Yes,” Mac replied. “Will you join us when he arrives? I value your input.”
“Sure. We best get back to the house. Beatrice can talk the legs off a table and probably hasn’t noticed we vanished. But all the same we should go in.”
Our stomachs keened stereophonically. Mr. Connelly chuckled. “We best get some food into you both,” he said. “The only time that woman is quiet is when she’s eating.”
We headed back into the house and set about clearing mousetraps from the table in preparation for dinner. Beatrice hadn’t noticed us leave and was still talking nineteen to the dozen and smoking like a train.
She looked up at Bob and forcefully said, “Why don’t you keep your hands off my stuff, dammit!”
“What now?”
“You know what I mean!” She huffed. “You took my can of red paint and my quarter-inch brush!”
“I didn’t take it,” he replied. “It’s on the shelf in the basement, with your other paint cans. The brush is in the drawer with your other brushes!”
“See?” she complained, looking at Mac. “He did take them, otherwise how would he know where they were?” I watched Mac hurry back into the kitchen. He did not intend to be dragged into his mother’s accusing spree.
Mac’s father rolled his eyes. “I picked up the paint from the coffee table in the living room and put it away!”
“See you did take it!” She seemed delighted to have a confession but was still angry. “Keep your hands off my stuff!”
Bob ignored her and went back to the kitchen. I heard him mutter under his breath, “It was two days ago. Jesus, woman! When will you ever learn to put things away?”
I watched Mac set the salad on the table. I could tell he was struggling to keep his comments to himself. My own highly-developed self-preservation instinct kicked in. I zoned while Beatrice ranted.
Bob swooped in and removed the ashtray laden with cigarettes that had burned down. That caused another outcry from Beatrice. “I haven’t finished with that!”
His arm reached out and swiped the burning cigarette from her hand as it waved in his direction. “Now you have,” he replied, stubbing it out and tossing the contents of the ashtray into the trash. He placed a fork in her flapping hand. “We’re eating now,” he told her. Mac slid a plate in front of her.
“About time,” she complained.
Mac smiled at me as he took his seat.
“This looks great,” I said. Mac piled salad onto my plate next to a juicy steak. I watched in childlike wonder as he pulled my plate towards him and cut up the meat for me. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Eat up.”
We ate in silence. My mind threw up random excerpts of general eccentricity. The other shoe was about to drop; I could feel it. I looked across at Mac. I felt Caine’s presence. Words fell in some sort of disjointed order from my mouth. “Mac door Caine.”
He glanced up from his plate as a loud knock sounded at the front door. He gave me a “damn you’re spooky” look. “I’ll get it,” he said. I glanced at his plate as he left. Once again he had devoured his food at an inhuman rate. I looked at my own plate: I wasn’t far behind.
I felt surreality taking hold of me and seemed powerless to stop it. Caine and Mac appeared. Both looked grim.
“‘Little Bo peep, you lost your sheep, and don’t know where to find them. Leave them alone and they’ll come home dragging body parts behind them.’”
Caine arched an eyebrow in my direction. “Nice, Ellie.”
“They’re dead, Caine, he killed them. That’s two FBI agents added to the mix.”
He didn’t say a word.
“Ol’ King Cole was a merry old soul and a merry old soul was he. He called for his pipe, he called for a knife and he called for his fiddlers three.’”
Caine and Mac froze and stared at me. So I stared back.
“Ellie?” Caine sounded odd. He’d added a new tone to his repertoire. I couldn’t place it at all; from anyone else’s mouth I would have considered it to have a fearful quality. Caine was never afraid.
“What?”
“You should be resting.”
“Plenty of time for resting when I’m dead,” I retorted.
How rude. I’ve had enough damn rest. Meanwhile there’s a killer loose.
“Am I the only one who thinks we are playing fiddle to accompany a killer? Every move we make, he’s there. He’s ahead of us, behind us, with us. How? How can he find us so readily? How does he place bodies under our fuc’n noses? Does any of this bother you?”
Mac’s eyes widened and filled with uncertainty.
I didn’t think I was being irrational. They were perfectly reasonable questions. “I’m fine,” I assured him.
“For the record, you almost sound fine,” he replied, taking my hand and encouraging me to stand.
I looked around. Mac’s Mom was talking between each mouthful and appeared unaware that I had spoken at all.
His dad, however, had laid down his utensils and watched with interest. He spoke with calm clarity, “If you three fiddlers would like to go on back to your room. I’ll be along.” He flashed me a wink.
I knew then I wasn’t alone in my observations.
Mac stooped to bring his mouth close to my ear. “You sure you’re fine?”
I nodded, then sighed at my stupidity. You’d think I would learn.
As soon as we were inside the room Caine spoke, his voice flat and tired, “Our decoy agents in Richmond ... we’ve lost them. I’m hoping they turn up alive.”
“Jesus,” Mac hissed, he leaned on the door. “How the hell did that happen?”
“He must’ve known it wasn’t you two from the outset,” Caine replied. “I’ve got the DEA fuming and breathing down my neck wanting to know why this prick killed Matheson.”
“What else?” Mac asked.
We both sensed there was more to come. We looked into the face of a very worried man. For a change, he wasn’t so hard to read.
Caine frowned. The lines on his face deepened. “I want you both to log in and check your mail. I’m betting he has a message for you after his last little spree. Maybe we can find out where the bodies are.”
“And?” I asked. “Was I right? Were the agents at the hospital dead?”
“Yes. We found the two agents who were supposed to watch you at the hospital. Agents McLean and Morley were drugged, stabbed, and left in the trunk of their car. The car was within the hospital grounds.”
“You keeping a tally?” I glared at Caine. “‘Cos I’m starting to lose count here.”
He sat on the bed with his hands resting on his thighs; I watched as his fingers tensed before he spoke, “A question. Most of his poems are short and quite childlike in their composition. He’s used and distorted several nursery rhymes. What does that suggest to you?”
I tried to piece together all the little pieces of information we had gleaned so far. It wasn’t easy when my mind attempted to rebel and wreak havoc on its own accord.
“A troubled childhood,” I replied, sure my own little restructured poems weren’t far from his mind.
“Why does he leave the bodies for you?”
I shrugged. “Maybe he likes me. How the fuck would I know?” I was in no mood to play twenty questions on the topic of multiple murders.
“Pretty close. We have a psych profile if you’re interested.”
“Just spit it out!”
Caine almost smiled. “The brainiacs have decided this sonofabitch was an abused kid, perhaps still gravitating back to the abuser or another abuser. His poetry began as a cry for help, but nobody picked it up. He may have read things into
your poetry, Ellie, and yours as well, Mac, which suggested a similar background.”
“Uh huh,” I replied.
“Neither of you dwelled too much on such things in the poetry room, as far as we can tell from the transcripts and poetry we have read. You both come across as strong characters who have moved on. He hasn’t. He looks at you both as heroes, his heroes.”
“Why kill our friends and acquaintances?” I thought that maybe, just maybe, this was usable information for once.
“They suggest he has appointed himself the guardian of the chat room. He has discovered his power lies in the deaths of those who may or may not have offended you.”
Well, that just sounded like a load of horse manure, and I wasn’t about to plant roses.
“In the deaths? Or the killing?” Mac asked.
“Killing. He now has power he never had before. He decides who lives and dies.” Caine pursed his lips as if he’d just sucked a lemon. “And he seems to be embracing his new power with open arms, proving his worth to you by killing anyone who is, was, or could be a threat.”
I grimaced. “A threat to what?” I had an urge to scream.
How the fuck did he know about Chicago? How did he know about Carter? How did he know Carter was dealing in ketamine?
I didn’t scream. I formulated a pressing question and stated it with a calmness I did not feel. “Is it possible that this sick bastard is FBI or even a cop?”
“It’s possible. Whoever he is, he’s smart. He appears to know too much and can find you too easily. Being in law enforcement would help explain his ease in locating you.”
Mac asked, “Is this personal? Could he just as easily have picked another room and another set of victims?”
Caine shrugged. “That’s the thing, Mac, we have no solid suspects, and we have no way of knowing for sure if this is personal. For now, the safest option is to assume it is.”
“He’s mobile, right?” Mac asked rhetorically. I watched thoughts form in Mac’s eyes. He added, “We’re pretty sure he’s using satellite ... so he could be any-fucking-where.”
“That’s what worries me most right now, and why it took me so long to get here. I don’t want to be the one who leads him to you.”