A Dark Mind

by T. R. Ragan

  “I love you, Charles.”

  “I love you, too.”

  He tilted the glass against his lips, but didn’t drink any since he’d never been fond of champagne. Maureen finished her glass in a few swallows. Although he was enjoying seeing his wife so happy, he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that something was not right with this picture. He tried to see through the tinted window separating him and his wife from the limo driver, but it was no use. The driver was nothing more than a dark shadow.

  “Charles, what do you think Mitch and Carol will say when they find out about all of this?”

  He grimaced. “Mitch will be thankful it was me instead of him.”

  Maureen laughed. Her laughter usually soothed him, but not tonight. He was definitely on edge. The farther they went, the more uptight he felt.

  “If you prefer, Mr. Baker,” the voice said, “there’s some Woodford Reserve whiskey for you.”

  He and Maureen didn’t get out much. They didn’t have a lot of friends, but somehow La Vue had known that Woodford Reserve was his favorite whiskey. He turned his gaze away from the dark shadow that was their driver and looked at his wife instead. She finished off her second glass of champagne and then leaned her head back against the headrest and smiled.

  “Who paid for our night out?” Charles asked her.

  “I asked, but apparently whoever it is wants to remain anonymous.”

  “So you never talked to the actual person or people who set this all up?”

  She shut her eyes. “Charles, please, we’ve been over this. You called the restaurant yourself. Someone read our story in the local paper. Evidently, the anonymous donors were married straight out of high school, just like us.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why they would want to help us celebrate our anniversary.”

  “Doing nice things for people must make them feel”—her voice drifted off slightly before she finished her sentence—“better about themselves.”

  Charles moved closer to his wife. “How would they know that my favorite whiskey is Woodford Reserve?”

  His wife didn’t answer, prompting Charles to put his hand to her shoulder and give her a shake. “Maureen, are you falling asleep?” Maureen had never been one to take naps or doze off, especially for no good reason. “Maureen,” he said again, surprised by the panic lining his voice. “Wake up.”

  Nothing.

  He put his ear on her chest and listened. Her heart was beating. She was alive, but something was seriously wrong.

  An idea struck him and he looked at the champagne bottle. He lifted it from the ice, took a whiff, and then dabbed a taste on his tongue—definitely a bitter taste.

  Charles slid across the seat, moving closer to the window separating him from the driver, and drummed his knuckles against the glass. “Open this window right now!”

  The dark shadow didn’t flinch.

  Charles slammed his fist hard against the glass. “Turn this vehicle around and take us home!” For the first time in his life, Charles wished he hadn’t been so stubborn about owning a cell phone. He refused to purchase one of those modern gadgets. In his opinion, consumers were easily misled into wasting too much time on phones and computers.

  “Did you know that your wife kept a diary?” the voice asked through the speaker.

  “Take us home now,” Charles repeated as he opened every cabinet and compartment, looking for something that might give him a fighting chance if the driver ever decided to stop the limo.

  “For fifty years your wife dreamed about one man and one man only. And it wasn’t you.”

  “Shut up, you crazy son of a bitch.”

  “Harry Thompson. That’s the man she’s been pining over for fifty years, the man she wishes she had married.”

  Charles stopped his frantic search and looked through the thick glass at the shadow. “How would you know anything about Harry Thompson?”

  “How I know isn’t important, but what I know about Harry and your wife is something I am sure you would find very interesting.”

  “There’s nothing you could say about Harry Thompson that would interest me.” Charles shook his head, wondering why he was even talking to the wacko. “Maureen didn’t want anything to do with that stick-in-the-mud.”

  “Then why did she spend six weeks in Italy with him when you were involved in covert operations overseas?”

  He refused to let the crazy driver get the best of him. “She went to Italy with her girlfriends,” Charles stated calmly. “I’ve seen pictures. I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “What am I trying to do, Charles?”

  “You’re just one more crazy who likes to spend his free time putting doubt in people’s heads.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because putting doubt in people’s minds makes you feel powerful in some way. You have low self-esteem, but you want to feel superior. I hate to break it to you, pal, but you’re nothing more than pond scum.” Charles eyed the champagne bottle and slid across the leather seat until he was closer to the bottle. “What’s the plan?” Charles asked. “You do have a plan, don’t you?”

  Before the driver could answer, Charles took hold of the neck of the bottle and slammed it against the glass partition. The bottle broke in half. Champagne sprayed across his face, but the tinted glass didn’t even crack.

  “Your wife has been fucking Harry for fifty years,” the voice said.

  A kick of adrenaline soared through Charles’s body, making his hands shake. He leaned back on the seat, and with all the strength he could muster he kicked both feet through the glass, shattering the partition to pieces.

  The limo swerved and Charles fell hard to the floor. His wife’s limp body rolled on top of him. Charles wiggled his way out from beneath her. On his knees, he caught a glimpse of the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror right before Charles shoved a hand through the frame of broken glass and wrapped his fingers around the scrawny man’s neck. He might be in his seventies, he thought, but he was in tip-top shape. Back in the day, he could kill a man with one hand. He’d done it before and he’d do it again.

  The driver yanked the wheel hard to the left, sending Charles flying. Charles used his forearms to protect his face from hitting the door. His gaze locked onto the broken champagne bottle, which had become lodged beneath the leather seat. Crawling that way, he grabbed hold of the neck of the bottle once more, came to his knees, shoved his hand through the broken window, and stabbed the jagged edge of glass into the driver’s ear.

  The limo swerved across the road, to the left and then to the right, before it careened down an uneven embankment. Charles was violently thrown around, his teeth biting into his tongue as he did his best to protect his wife from injury. At the same instant at which the vehicle made contact with something rigid and inflexible, he felt a jolt as his head made contact with the door. A searing pain jabbed through his skull and all went black.

  CHAPTER 4

  I thought, “God, what have I done?”…I realized I would be in serious trouble. I thought the best way out of the mess was to make sure she could not tell anybody.

  —Peter Sutcliffe

  Davis

  Monday, April 30, 2012

  After a long day at the office, Lizzy returned home, jumped in and out of the shower, combed the tangles out of her hair, and slid on a V-neck T-shirt and a pair of soft gray sweatpants that hung low on her hips.

  A noise at the bedroom window caused a prickling down her spine.

  She stood there for a moment…staring…watching…waiting.

  She took a step toward the window. Her legs felt like heavy weights, her heart racing and her palms clammy and shaky as she reached for the blinds. Fear could be such a subtle yet sinister emotion. It clogged her throat and scraped its tiny fingernails across the back of her neck.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Jared said, stepping into the room.

  She put a hand to her chest and let out the breath she’d been hol
ding.

  She’d hoped that moving in with Jared would help in some way, but she’d been wrong.

  The fear she’d been working so hard to control was back with a vengeance, eagerly spreading terror with every noise, and pumping panic through her veins. Only this time it had no name, just an evil, shapeless face covered in blackness and despair. It was influencing her daily activities: her dreams, her thoughts, her relationship with Jared.

  “I scared you. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she said, surprised by the normalcy of her voice. “I’m fine.”

  He came up next to her and drew her into his arms. “You’re shaking.”

  “I’m fine. Really,” she said again as she stepped out of his arms and headed out of the room.

  He followed her down the stairs and to the kitchen. He stood close as he watched her open a cupboard and pull out a wineglass. “Wine?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  She found another glass and then found herself fixated on Jared’s profile as he opened a bottle of Selene Cabernet. He had a strong jaw and a straight nose. His hair was dark and thick, curling a tiny bit around his ears. He looked handsome, as always, and tired.

  Forgetting about the wine, Lizzy raked her fingers through her damp hair. She’d hardly said hello before running upstairs to the bedroom to take a shower. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d asked him about his day. “How are you doing?”

  He didn’t look up, not a twitch of his eyes to serve as a clue that he’d even heard her. He remained focused on what he was doing. But she knew his mind was churning away as he carefully chose his words, probably afraid of saying the wrong thing. What do you say to a crazy woman?

  She’d been living with him for two months, and nothing was working. The terror, the nightmares, and the constant feeling of alarm were all there, worse than ever, thick and tangible, beckoning her with their familiarity. It was no use. She’d been fooling herself into believing the anxiety and panic would magically vanish.

  A sigh escaped his lips as he turned toward her, his dark eyes searching, probably hoping to find something worth fighting for—a pinch of optimism, a dash of hope, anything that might stop them from tumbling down another muddy hill. Rolling about in the mud for a while wasn’t so bad. It was the climb back up that could be a real bitch.

  “Are you sorry you asked me to move in with you?” she asked.

  “Never,” he said, forcing a smile. “I like having you around.”

  “I work late most nights,” she said. “I come home and hardly say two words to you before hopping into the shower. I find it difficult to focus, and I jump when you enter a room. I’m not getting any better. It’s getting worse.”

  “You just need time to adjust to your new surroundings.”

  “It’s been two months.”

  He shrugged. “Two months, two years, there’s no time limit, Lizzy.”

  “Linda Gates said the same thing.”

  “She’s a smart woman.”

  Her therapist was right. Jared was right. She needed time to adjust.

  He poured the wine. She took the glass he handed her and followed him to the couch. The news was on and a reporter announced that the Lovebird Killer had struck again. In a distressed tone, the reporter delivered fear through the screen and across the airwaves, no doubt sending more than one million people in Sacramento County into a panic as she talked about two more bodies found.

  Lizzy sat on the couch next to Jared and tucked her feet under her. “Another double homicide?”

  “Two bodies found miles apart, one strangled, one stabbed. Too soon for the media to assume it’s the work of the Lovebird Killer. These two were not married, but they were childhood sweethearts who recently reunited. They were also living together. The man reported the woman missing a week before their bodies were found. If these killings are the acts of LK, then we have our work cut out for us. Every couple found has been killed in a different manner. No pattern, no particular style of murder. The only consistent factor is that the victims were in relationships.”

  “So you don’t think this is the work of the Lovebird Killer?”

  “It’s too soon to tell. The task force is on it. We’ll be able to compare preliminary reports in a few days, but it’s highly unlikely that the string of homicides in the past few years were the acts of one single psychopath.”

  “What about the older couple who went missing last year? Were they ever found?”

  He shook his head. “Maureen and Charles Baker are still considered missing persons.”

  As Lizzy sipped her wine, she looked at him over the rim of her glass. Jared had been assigned to the Lovebird Killer task force nine months ago. He was working closely with a National Center for Analysis of Violent Crimes coordinator in Virginia. Working with the NCAVC meant a lot of traveling, yet the stress and fatigue rarely showed.

  “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Work on some of the most horrific murder cases in the country and still keep your upbeat, encouraging attitude?”

  “It gets to me at times, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly it. How do you stay sane in an insane world?”

  “When I come home, I try to leave it all behind. I do the best I can. That’s all anybody can do.”

  “That’s the difference between people like me and people like you,” Lizzy said. “I can’t seem to let it go. Logically, I understand that’s what I need to do, but all of those horrid memories pop into my mind when I least expect it.”

  “I try to find criminals and stop them before they find another victim. You were a victim. It’s not the same. You’re too hard on yourself. You know what I hate most? Offenders get caught and they go to jail. Perhaps they die,” Jared said. “But even in death they are still inflicting pain on their victims.”

  She knew he was talking about her, but there was nothing she could say to make either of them feel better, so she said nothing.

  “I’m not telling you to let it go or get over it, Lizzy. It makes me sad that one evil man has the ability to continue to hurt someone I love from his grave, but you’re the only person who can fix whatever it is that’s broken inside you. I’m here for you, though. I can lend an ear. I can hold you during the night and tell you everything will be all right, but only you and you alone can fight the demons within.”

  Setting her glass on the coffee table, she slipped her arms around his waist. She wasn’t ready to talk to him about moving back to her apartment. In fact, she might never be ready. She wasn’t sure what their future held, and she had no idea how long she could live in his house or sleep in his bed without crying out in the middle of the night. She knew he would find a way to deal with whatever life brought their way, but she didn’t know how she would…or if she could.

  CHAPTER 5

  My first murder was thrilling because I had embarked on the career I had chosen for myself, the career of murder.

  —John Christie

  Rene and Harold Lofland

  Sacramento

  March 2012

  Sometimes he hid within fields of tall grass, stayed low behind the wheel of a stolen vehicle, or—as he was doing now—tried to get comfortable amid thick shrubbery. Sharp branches kept biting into his arms.

  As he watched and waited, his thoughts drifted from one thing to another, from the past to the present and on to some of the people he’d met along the way. He liked to think about the people he’d killed and the gravesites he’d visited. He loved to rewatch the videos he’d made. He especially enjoyed reading books about behavioral profiling and stories about other serial killers. He collected famous killer quotes and watched true-crime shows.

  He did get annoyed by the ex-agents who considered themselves experts on profiling a killer. The idea was absurd. These guys talked about facing some of the most notoriously mad criminals. But they sat in a room with murderers who were chained and cuffed while security gua
rds lined up at the door, waiting to pounce if the killer so much as lifted his hand.

  Big deal.

  These so-called profiling experts didn’t have a clue. It was the everyday people like Mr. and Mrs. Lofland, the couple he was watching right now and had been watching for months, who got to truly look into the eyes of madness. They were the ones who saw evil firsthand. Not some pansy-fuck investigator or profiler sitting behind a desk, talking to a guy in cuffs.

  He shook his head at the silliness of it all. Those guys probably made a lot of money from their books. He should know, since he’d bought and read most of them. What a joke.

  One of the reasons the FBI would never catch him was because he knew how to change things up every once in a while. He killed young and old, married and not married. He shot, stabbed, and strangled. And yet, despite the fact that he considered himself a man of many names, the media had managed to label him with just one: the Lovebird Killer. He shrugged. In the beginning, he had killed randomly, but as his skills improved, so did his reasoning for doing what he did. He now chose his victims more carefully. It wasn’t just about choosing couples in relationships, but more about love itself.

  If he couldn’t love and be loved, why should anyone else?

  He’d thought about sending a letter to the media explaining why he did what he did, but the killers who sent clues and letters always got caught. Although the idea of teasing the police force did hold a certain appeal—especially since he enjoyed screwing with people’s minds—he had ultimately decided against it. He dealt with them enough already.

  How, he wondered, would he be described after he was dead? Although he didn’t plan on getting caught, there was no getting around dying since everybody died eventually. Would they perform an autopsy? If so, would the report be straightforward or exceedingly complex? Perhaps he would be reduced to a physical description: five foot ten, 150 pounds of gangly limbs. Big round hollow eyes—blue, the same color as a robin’s egg—and humongous feet. When he was much younger, the girls in school used to dance around him on the playground and call him names like Pick-Up Stick or Skinny Freak or Big Foot. The girls always looked happy when they held hands and skipped in circles around him, which made him happy. He didn’t care what they called him as long as they kept hopping up and down. He liked to watch their newly blossoming bodies forming beneath their shirts. Not too many girls in sixth grade wore bras, which had been a definite plus. Call me any name you want, girls, just keep dancing. That’s what went through his mind. He couldn’t help but wonder, if they’d known how much he enjoyed the show, would they have kept the gig going day after day?