by Keri Lake
“I found it hidden in the shower.”
“I knew it! I fucking knew the bastard left something behind!”
“Jonah, I need that back. He’s sending a text. I need to wait for the text!”
“If he sends something, I’ll be—”
The phone dings, and my eyes go wide. I race toward my brother, but before I can swipe the phone out of his hands, he twists away, just like when we were kids and he’d try keeping a toy away from me.
“Goddamn it, Jonah! What is it?”
He hands me the phone and allows me to read the accompanying text.
11pm tonight. Come alone. Duli’s Diner.
“I … I have to go. What if he has Oliver with him? What if he’s willing to make a trade?”
I stare off, realizing what he’s asking, and Jonah swipes the phone from my hand again. As he stands studying it, my head takes me to the scene of driving into Duli’s parking lot, only to find my son’s dead body. I clutch my stomach to hold back the panic bloating inside of me and begging to escape on another round of vomit.
“Who’s he? You know who sent this?” Jonah’s question snaps me out of my disturbing thoughts.
“I’m guessing it’s the one who broke in earlier. The one you were chasing.”
“Who I’m convinced is Voss. And if that is the case, I’ll arrest that son of a bitch on breaking and entering, along with fleeing a police officer. And really, Nola? A trade? You think I’d stand by and let my sister fall into the hands of some psychopath?”
I snap my attention to Jonah, realizing his plan to step in front of me again. To shield me from something he doesn’t need to shield me from. “For Oliver! I’m willing to trade myself for my son!”
“And what if he kills you, huh? What then?”
I’m surprised the question is so hard to answer now, considering it’s the only one I’ve thought about over the last few days. I turn my head, so my brother won’t see the tears gathering in my eyes. “Then Oliver goes with you and Diane. He lives the life he was meant to live.”
“Horseshit. You’re not going anywhere. Remember that little note you thought Harv left on your car? Guess what? One of the victims’ cars was found dumped an hour away from where she was last seen. Know what was on her passenger seat?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “A note. A disgusting little note with a sick and twisted choice, just like yours.”
“You’re just now telling me this?”
“The car was only found this morning. I didn’t want to upset you more. There’s no way in hell I’m letting you near that psychopath.”
“I have to go! He’s expecting me.” I reach out my hand, Jonah’s face blurring behind the moisture in my eyes. “Give me the phone, Jonah.”
“Oliver means everything to me, you know that. But I’m not giving you this phone, and I’m sure as hell not letting you meet up with some asshole who gets off on playing games. I’ll be paying Voss a little visit, so if you happen to know where he is, you better tell me.”
“I don’t know where Voss is. This isn’t Voss!”
“Listen to me. I know … you’re stressed—”
“You don’t know anything, Jonah! You don’t have a child! You don’t know what it feels like to lose the baby you watched over every night. The baby you promised you’d protect with your life. And that’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll protect Oliver with my life! If that means a trade, then that’s what it means, goddamn it!” I push at my brother’s chest, kicking him back a step, and breathe hard to keep from breaking down.
A stillness lingers between the two of us for a moment.
“You’re right. I don’t know that feeling. And I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now. But I do know loss. I know the feeling of watching someone I love sink into irrational thoughts.” He lowers his gaze and shakes the phone in front of me. “I’m going to see if I can get a location on that text. Find out who sent it. If we can find him first, you won’t have to trade anything.”
“And what if you don’t? What if I lose my chance to get my son back?”
“It’s after nine. We’ll get this phone traced before your meeting time. You tell him you’ll be there. If we don’t get a location on him before then, you go to the rendezvous point, but you go with a goddamn cavalry. You’re not doing this alone. Fair?”
“Fair.”
He hands me the phone and I type a message back:
I’ll be there.
* * *
Jonah stands before me, running his hand through his hair, looking more stressed than I’ve ever seen him before. “We got a location. Roughly. Looks like a Wi-Fi connection. It’s not exact, but it’s within a mile of the abandoned silo. Same place Denny …. Where he was found.”
“Then, let’s go.”
“Nola, this could get ugly. We don’t know who this guy is, or what this operation might be. Could be more than one. I’ve got officers heading there now. Just sit tight, okay?”
Everything inside of me tells me to fight my brother on this. To insist that I be the one to retrieve my son. He’s my son, after all.
Instead, I nod, because I have no choice, but my senses tell me this guy is smarter than that. He expects that phone to be traced, because why would he ask for my trust?
But I don’t tell my brother this, because he’s always been the more level-headed. The more logical. I’m the impulsive, irrational one. The one who runs off with a boy, instead of going to college, and gets pregnant at seventeen. I’m the one who lets a man, a stranger, into my home, because I need some fucking Christmas cash. I’m the one who would’ve raced out that door, the second I received that text, without the slightest hesitation, because my son is counting on me to find him.
So, phone in hand, shivering like a goddamn leaf in a hurricane, I’m the one who sits tight, just as he said to. And, like a thousand nightmares coming to life inside my head, the memories of that place where Denny was murdered only add to the terror doing its best to shake the shit out of me. The same terror my son is undoubtedly suffering. I have to remember that.
Minutes pass. I get up and pace.
Seconds tick. I still pace, biting my nails.
The air feels thicker, warmer than before, but my hands are ice cold.
A tight band squeezes around my chest, and when I stop to imagine my son kept in some abandoned silo, where he watched the murder of his father, that band damn near strangles me.
“Yeah, Jonah, you there?” Grim’s voice finally comes over the two-way.
“What do you got?” Speaking into the mouthpiece, Jonah’s eyes are dead on me.
“Found a phone here. Looks like a burner. Nothing else. We searched the place, and it’s empty. But there’s a message typed on a small scrap of paper, taped to the screen. Looks similar to the one we found in Marnee’s car.”
“What’s it say?” Jonah asks, dropping his gaze from mine, as if to listen carefully.
“Says Game Over.”
Panic ripples down my spine, while cold branches of fear crystalize inside my veins. The phone in my hand buzzes, and I stare down at another message that’s popped up on the screen. Just as before, I click through to the unfamiliar app and open the message there.
I thought I could trust you, Nola. The deal is off. Oliver sends his love.
Cold and numb. That’s all I feel. Paralyzed. I drop the phone, as my mind tries to decipher what all this means. No. No, no, no.
“No.” I shake my head and swipe up the phone again. “Nope.”
I click reply. Please. I’ll come to the diner alone. I promise you.
When I send it, my message pops up as a new message in the app, and I realize I’ve just sent it to myself. Whatever app this is, it’s one he set up.
There’s no reply. Minutes pass. No response.
Rubbing my knuckles across my cheek fails to produce any sense of feeling. My head is dizzy. The air grows thicker. Suffocating.
Jonah reaches across the table, and the
second his fingertips make contact with my arm, I wrench it away from him.
“Don’t you touch me! This is your fault! I should’ve never told you anything!”
“Nola, please. Listen to me ...”
“Get out! Get the fuck out of here!”
“You shouldn’t be alone right now. If you’d prefer, I can send Diane over to stay with you.”
I slam the heels of my hands into my brother’s chest, knocking him toward the door. I can’t look at him. If I look at him, I’ll hate him more than I do right now. “Get out! Get. Out! Get the fuck out of my house!”
Jonah wipes at his eyes and shakes his head. “This isn’t over, Nola. We’re going to catch this guy.”
“You sound like Dad. And guess what?” A mirthless, irrational laugh bursts from my chest. “Nobody caught him. She’s dead, and nobody caught him!”
“You don’t know that. We don’t know that.”
Stepping right up to my brother’s face, I press a finger into his chest. “I do know that.”
“How?”
“Get out of my house, Jonah. I can’t …. I can’t even look at you right now.” The disgust burns inside of me. I know it’s wrong to blame him. I know he wanted to do the responsible thing. The rational thing.
The level-headed thing.
It just happens, the right thing was the wrong answer.
10
The Sandman
The upper level of the pole barn was divided by an open kitchen, with a small, round wooden table, and two rooms meant to be sleeping quarters. The boy sat against the wall, elbows resting atop his knees, his ankle chained to a bar that ran the length of the cramped room. His unease became apparent, the moment The Sandman walked into the room, when he kicked himself back against the wall.
Without a mask, he didn’t scare the boy as much as before, and in some ways, The Sandman had grown somewhat fond of his company in the last week.
“Did you enjoy your breakfast, Oliver?” he said, lifting the empty tray from the floor. He’d prepared chocolate chip pancakes with bacon that had the whole damn pole barn smelling like pork and grease.
Disgusting scents of dirty animal meat.
Oliver gave a rather curt nod and frowned, but didn’t look up at him. That didn’t bother The Sandman, though.
As a boy himself, he’d often chosen not to look at others when answering, but it was never meant to be out of any disrespect.
Crossing the room to the window, The Sandman pushed against the bottom of it, to vent it just a bit and let some of that ungodly smell out. “The flowers are expected to bloom tonight. If you’d like, I’m happy to leave one in your room, so you might see it. It’s quite a spectacular event. The scent is … intoxicating, to say the least.”
The boy glanced to the side, eyeing him, and offered another nod.
“Oh! Before I forget.” Stepping just outside the door, The Sandman gathered a few books and the boy’s glasses, which he’d retrieved from his mother’s house for him. “Thought you’d might like to read some books. You do read, don’t you?”
As The Sandman set the books down beside him, resting his glasses atop the stack of classics, Oliver shrugged.
“I’ll also need you to take care of something for me.” Once again, he stepped outside the room and returned carrying a banker’s box. When he set it down and opened it, soft meowing from inside caught the boy’s attention, and Oliver leaned forward, peering down at the small, black kitten. The Sandman scooped him up and handed him off to the boy, who cradled the kitten in his arms.
When the kitten pawed at his fingers, Oliver chuckled.
“You see? I’m not terribly frightening.” Still, as he reached to pet the kitten, the boy flinched, drawing the small feline closer, as if to protect it.
Eyes narrowed on his, The Sandman studied the boy for a moment. “I understand you stopped talking the night your father died, is that correct?”
When he didn’t answer right away, and instead went on petting the kitten, The Sandman lurched forward, grabbed the kitten’s tail, and squeezed. The feline screeched and bit into the boy’s fingers, and clawed, as it squirmed to get loose.
Oliver dropped the kitten just enough for The Sandman to lift the animal up into the air by its tail, where it screamed and clawed more, curling over itself to get to his fingers. Slapping his hands over his ears, the boy screwed his eyes shut. “S-s-s-stop!”
And just like that, The Sandman dropped the kitten into the box, a smile stretching across his face. “He speaks.”
Chest rising and falling, Oliver opened his eyes again, cutting loose the tears gathered there, and the glower he shot back carried all the hatred The Sandman believed was bottled inside the boy. A kindred hatred he knew all too well.
“I could’ve killed you that night, Oliver. But I didn’t. It wasn’t your time. But perhaps you remember what I said to you?”
Swiping tears away, the boy’s hand visibly trembled, before he set it back down into his lap and nodded.
“Not a word, or you’ll be next,” The Sandman reminded him, reaching down to pet the kitten. “You’ve done well to stay quiet, Oliver. I appreciate your … dedication to my request. I had no idea you’d be so willing to turn mute as a result.”
“I w-w-w-want to … g-g-g-go home.”
“This is your home. And soon, it will be your mother’s, as well.” The Sandman lifted the kitten out of the box, setting a kiss to the top of its head. “I don’t wish to be cruel, so don’t disrespect me again. Clear?”
He promptly nodded, accepting the kitten from the older man, and coddled it, just as before.
“Good. I’ll be working this evening. Be sure to remain quiet up here.”
At another nod, The Sandman pushed up from his crouch and patted Oliver on the head, before heading for the exit. “I’ll bring the flower in later. You mustn’t touch it, though. It’s very important to my work.”
“I w-w-w-won’t touch it.”
* * *
Decked out in a short skirt that showed off long, slender legs, the brunette made her way to the center of the dance floor, where she allowed another man to grind against her. Disgusting. All that sweat and skin rubbing against each other, dirtying her body with all kinds of human matter. The Sandman sipped his drink from the straw, puckering at the bitters in his Sazerac cocktail.
He didn’t care for alcohol, in general, except when it served as an excuse to watch his subjects. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been watching the brunette for very long, only a few days. Part of him said it wasn’t the right time, as he knew so little about her. The other part of him understood he didn’t have much time to squeeze another practice run in before Nola.
He’d gleaned what he could from her Instagram account—she was a twenty-six-year-old, working on her Master’s degree in psychology. Her father was a sought-after plastic surgeon, her mother an apparent long-time client, who also maintained a very active social media. She liked to post pictures of herself in bikinis and tight clothing, always accentuating her upper body. A little attention-seeking whore, just like the rest of them.
As she made her way from the dance floor, he noticed a slight hobble to her step. Perhaps the high boots she wore had begun to ache her feet. She fell against the bar beside him, resting her elbows on the countertop, and whistled for the bartender, who held up a finger, signaling for her to wait.
“Cool shirt,” she said, and the Sandman looked up from his drink to see her smiling back at him. After a quick glance at his shirt, which read ‘God is Dead’, he returned his attention to her.
“Nietzsche. Let me guess. First year philosophy student.”
“It’s that obvious?” The Sandman lied.
“Philosophy has only interpreted the world, the point is to change it.”
Impressive. He’d have expected more on the Kardashian philosophy, or some utter bullshit girls her age seemed romanced into believing. “Spoken like a true Marxist.”
“Not even. And at l
east you don’t strike me as pretentious.” She chuckled and, at the presence of the bartender, twisted away from him. “Manhattan.”
“A rather pretentious drink, if I do say.”
Her eyes narrowed on his, lip cocked to the side. “That looks an awful lot like a Sazerac.”
“You know your drinks. I’m impressed.” It was a shame, really. Perhaps, in another life, he’d have taken the girl out, and they’d have talked philosophy and courted each other like normal human beings.
Few women had given him so much attention before.
“Had a short stint as a bartender my junior year.” Perhaps she could see the dubious look in his eyes, knew the likelihood of her doing anything beyond scheduling her own massages after finals week seemed a bit farfetched. “My father didn’t appreciate me dropping out of med school, so I took it upon myself to continually impress him by working in a bar.”
Rubbing his hands in his lap, The Sandman tuned his attention to the dampness of his skin, where he’d begun to sweat. He needed to end the conversation with the girl, before he got too deep. Before he found reason not to pursue her. And yet, he found her charming in a way that betrayed what she posted on social media.
“And … what is it you’re pursuing? Let me guess, art?” He feigned a laugh that mirrored hers, and she shook her head. He’d grown quite adept at blending in, mimicking their emotions.
“Close. Psychology. I’d like to get into criminal psychology. I’ve always been somewhat fascinated by serial killers and mass murderers.”
Perhaps a match made in heaven.
“And, um … what is it you wish to know?”
“Are you saying you’re a serial killer?”
“We’ve already established I’m a pretentious philosophy major with a hard-on for existential nihilism. You tell me.”
She quickly turned to the side, catching the dribbles that leaked from her mouth as she took a sip of her drink, before unleashing a burst of laughter.