Shame ON You

by John W. Mefford

  “You’d think that Ariel hadn’t seen Mac…I mean, Mackenzie in a month,” Ervin joked. He had an oven mitt on each hand.

  “I know she has fun over here. But I just don’t want her to be an imposition on you and your time with Ariel.”

  “Man, having kids around is the best medicine, I’m telling you.”

  I nodded, acknowledging how much Mackenzie’s role in my life had reshaped my perspective on unconditional love.

  “Hey, I’ve cooked up some lasagna. You’re welcome to stay and have dinner with us.”

  “Smells good, but I have some business to work on with a friend...colleague, person.”

  He chuckled.

  “Yeah, that sounded strange. She’s cool. Just another person in the PI business.”

  “Well, the more, the merrier—if you want to go find her and bring her back.”

  I turned and looked back down the row of buildings. The rain was coming down in sheets. Lightning crackled across the sky. Where the hell was Ivy?

  “Maybe another time. Ivy and I need to talk through a case. Did you actually cook this lasagna yourself?”

  “Ariel didn’t cook it,” he said with a hearty laugh.

  “Well, at my place, we keep it simple. Real simple. Beyond that, it’s takeout. How did you learn how to cook real meals?”

  He turned his mitts upward. “Honestly, I just followed the recipes that Vivica made.”

  Vivica. That was her name…his wife who’d died of cancer a few months back. He and Ariel had done an amazing job of taking the steps to keep moving forward, even though I’d seen him tear up when discussing it a week earlier. And I thought I had problems.

  “I wasn’t a very good cook at first. But I’m getting better. At least Ariel tells me that. It helps my ego.”

  I could have asked him a dozen other questions about his approach to parenting and how he managed without a female role model around. Another time. Maybe when Mother Nature was not unleashing her fury.

  We agreed that I’d walk back and pick up Mackenzie in a couple of hours. I reopened the umbrella and followed the sidewalk path along the carport, heading toward my apartment.

  With the ultimate white noise engulfing my hearing, my mind drifted to the two missing girls, Ally and Chantel. Technically, of course, Ally was no longer on the books. She was probably considered a cold case, although everyone assumed she was dead, even if the Gibsons were still keeping her bedroom looking the same as the day she’d left for college orientation.

  Chantel, though, was the one we’d been hired to find. And as disconcerting as the conversation had been with Jean, our patience ultimately had paid off. Chantel had dropped by to visit her a week ago. She was a complete mess, apparently coming down from a recent acid trip. She needed money—no surprise there—but she also rambled on about her sister. Drug addiction was like a never-ending mental vise grip, not allowing the addict to have a calm thought. Or a rational one. Chantel had not only harped on Ally but also talked about a state hospital, cemeteries, and even ghosts. What were the next steps that Ivy and I needed to take? Did Ivy plan on telling the Gibsons that Jean had seen Chantel recently?

  Yep, plenty for Ivy and me to discuss.

  I plodded through a puddle and felt the chilled water soak my socks. “Nice one, Oz.”

  A blur of movement, and I whipped the umbrella to my left. A man screamed, caroming into the umbrella and launching me off my feet. I landed on my back in the mud and saw the blade of a knife sticking through the umbrella.

  A man jumped on top of me—I now saw a scruffy face under a gray hoodie and eyes that were on fire. Enraged eyes. He pulled the knife back. I could hear his baritone yell; he might have even been saying something specific, but I certainly couldn’t make it out.

  Just as he was about to bring that knife down on me, I bucked up, shoved him off me, and rolled to my right four, five, six times. I stopped with my face in a pool of water. I glanced back just as I saw the wind blow off his hoodie—his hair was shaved to the skin on the sides, short-cropped on the top.

  It was Cobb. And he was closing fast. I tried to get to my feet—my fucked-up hip didn’t help. I churned my legs but kept slipping in the mud. The faster I moved, the more I lost my balance. I fell back to the ground as he lunged for me, knife first. I swung my forearm around, and the knife sliced through my sweatshirt. My arm felt like I’d been branded by a scalding iron.

  Then, he tripped right over me.

  Did he lose the knife? I wasn’t sure whether to make a run for it or try to find the knife.

  My eyes spotted it. I jumped over him, aiming to get the knife. If I had the weapon, I had the power. I’d corral it, call for help, and get this motherfucker to tell us where Chantel was.

  I was in midair, but even with his back to me, he whipped his arm behind him to stop me. It was as though he had eyes in the back of his bony skull. He clipped my ankle just as I was bringing my leg up to land, and my hip buckled again. I screamed in pain as I tumbled to the ground.

  A breath.

  Wait. Where was the knife? I opened my eyes, snagged a glimpse of something shiny two feet to my right. I reached for the knife with my sliced arm. Cobb jumped on my arm, ramming his knees into it, pinning my arm in the mud-soaked grass. Needless to say, I did not get the knife. He laughed as water poured off his head. I could see his teeth, or what was left of them. His mouth looked like black rot. He plucked the knife off the turf and said, “You should have never fucked with Psycho Cobb!”

  He whipped his knife hand downward. I yanked my arm backward—but it didn’t budge. I had no leverage. I began to swing my legs around, but I knew it would be too late.

  A shriek. Then an angel ninja kicked Cobb’s head, causing him to tumble backward and lose his grip on the knife. “Ivy?”

  She’d just flown over me, delivering a jarring hit to Cobb’s skull. She crash-landed into the mud as I lifted to one knee.

  “You okay?” I yelled at her.

  But Cobb wasn’t done. He pushed up and headed toward Ivy. I didn’t know what I could do to stop him. The man was either motivated or high, or maybe both. I took two steps and dove on top of Ivy, covering her just as he started kicking. I felt a shoe in my gut and then another on my head.

  “Get off me,” she said.

  I held her down. That was all I could think to do to keep her safe. Two, three more kicks.

  Then it stopped.

  I flipped to look over my shoulder. He was off to my left. He’d found the knife again.

  I pushed off of Ivy and tried to get to my feet. I needed to take the fight away from Ivy. Then, maybe she could run for help.

  Before I took a single step, a gunshot pierced the air. I jerked my head in the other direction. It was Ervin, the girls just behind him. He was pointing a pistol toward the sky. I turned and saw Cobb scampering away, darting between cars and disappearing into the dark night.

  I leaned over, hands on my knees.

  “Dad, you’re bleeding.” Mackenzie was at my side. She might have been crying; it was hard to tell in the driving rain. “Dad, you can’t die like Mom. Tell me you’re not going to die. Please, please, please don’t leave me!”

  Yep, she was crying. Hysterical almost. I picked her up, held her in my arms, and spoke into her ear. “I will always be here for you, Mackenzie. Dad’s not going anywhere.”

  23

  With his hands tucked inside his cotton robe, the man stood in his living room and gazed out the front bay windows. Another storm was blowing through Austin. He could see the sheets of rain illuminated by the tree lighting he’d had installed when he remodeled his home. The landscaping, like the inside of his home, was meticulous. He would have it no other way. Order and structure were the only way to live a worthy life, his father had told him over and over again.

  He pulled the book that he’d been reading from his armpit and eyed the glossy cover. He couldn’t help himself. He ran his fingers across the raised title: The Psychology of a Kille
r.

  He could hear that little voice inside throw out the most obvious of questions: Of all people, why are you reading a book on the psychology of a killer? Couldn’t you have written the thing yourself?

  He smiled. Indeed, there was irony in that query, but on a much deeper level than most would suspect. He wasn’t stupid. He’d graduated from med school with a perfect grade-point average. He’d authored several white papers on the psychology of people who suffered from a multitude of mental afflictions.

  But what he’d always wanted to do was to take the extra step. To combine his advanced learned information with his instinctive desires. To show the world how someone like him thought at his most primal level—to finally pull back the veneer of normalcy and share his deepest and, some might even say, most twisted, thoughts.

  He knew he wasn’t in a class by himself. There were others out there, but maybe they didn’t quite fit in. Maybe they’d experienced a trauma as a child that sent their mental faculties into an endless spiral. Maybe they hid it from everyone around them.

  Just like he’d done.

  He knew he was tactile and drew great satisfaction from touching the things that held special meaning to him. He loved all book covers that had some type of raised print. Sometimes, he’d go to a bookstore and spend hours touching the front cover of every book he could find. He’d close his eyes and guess the title without looking. Like reading in Braille. But that was just a sideshow. He just loved touching something that couldn’t hit back.

  A quick memory swept through him. He recalled holding his mother’s hairbrush and strumming his thumb across the stiff prongs. After years of keeping those thoughts buried deep inside, he knew it was his way of soothing himself. He had to find some way to quiet his rage. After all, what kind of mother forces her son to live in a covered ditch in the back yard for days on end? And for what? For breaking her rules about touching her precious china?

  He could feel his pulse pepper the side of his neck. He practiced his breathing exercise and, after a couple minutes, put a finger to his wrist. His heart rate was back to sixty-four.

  He refocused his thoughts, compartmentalizing the ones that mattered. He’d become a master at this exercise. He centered on one word that was always a breath away.

  Buried.

  Strange as it might seem, the object of his hatred was also the object of his fascination. And that connection to his line of work…well, it kind of fit like a glove.

  Or would it be more appropriate to say “fit like a body bag”?

  He smiled, set his book down, and went into the kitchen. He could hear the grunts and groans of the girl from the small room under the staircase.

  “All in due time, dear. Patience is a virtue,” he said as he swung open a beveled-glass door and pulled a crystal glass from the cabinet. At the bar, he poured himself a snifter of brandy. He put his nose to the rim, picked up an aroma of old wood. His mouth watered, and his senses knew the sweet, nutty taste was forthcoming.

  He tipped his head back and let the brandy swirl in his mouth, soaking it in his gums, like mouthwash.

  His idle thoughts began to play tricks on him. He saw flashes of his mother holding a blade shovel, yelling at him from the top of the hole she’d dug.

  He blinked, and then clicked the bottle against his glass and quickly poured himself another drink. He downed it in one gulp, gasping when he was done. Are you losing control of yourself?

  He could feel his warm breath against his wrist. The same breath that had heated up his small space with the earth surrounding him. It had felt as though he was suffocating from his own breathing pattern.

  He gasped again but caught himself before his emotions ran amuck. He quickly poured another drink, this one filled to the rim. He brought it to his mouth, his hand trembling. The brandy spilled down his chin, onto his robe and pajamas, but he didn’t care. It reached his lips, and he sucked it down like it was the last few ounces of liquid left on the planet.

  He put a hand on the counter. He could feel his memories invade his mind like he’d just put his face in a mound of fire ants.

  “Stop it. Stop. It!” he yelled. He could hear the echo of the last word.

  And then silence. A few breaths. He found a towel, mopped up the mess on the counter, and dabbed his wet robe and pajamas.

  Are you finally back in control? Or is some demon lurking just out of sight, ready to hijack your thoughts? Be careful there…you might find that other part of you wanting to share your life with the world. Unfiltered.

  A pounding jarred him from his trance. He turned and stared at the door to the room under the stairs. The hinges were rattling.

  “How would she—” He stopped short, walked over to the door, and put his hands up against it.

  Four more whacks. The girl was kicking the door. She must have escaped from her cage. How? He rushed upstairs, grabbed his medical bag, and brought it downstairs. In mere seconds, he prepared a needle full of the purest form of heroin on the market and put it in his pocket. He went into the closet, lifted a plank off the floor, and grabbed his Taser.

  Back at the door to the room, he waited until there was a pause in the kicks. A couple more light thuds. She was getting tired. He waited a few seconds and then punched in the code. The door swung open.

  A quick kick to his crotch. He folded like a cheap chair. An endless shockwave of dull, nauseating pain rippled through his abdomen. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

  She was on the move, and that got his attention. From his fetal position, he saw her crawling on her knees. He could see blood rimming her ankles and wrists. Somehow, she’d managed to break loose from the zip-ties, but the gag, soaked by saliva and sweat, was still pressed across her mouth like a horse’s bridle.

  He willed himself to sit up—his energy had been zapped by a good seventy percent. Maybe more. He scooted to a chair, used it as leverage to push himself to a standing position, as wobbly as it was. He glanced over his shoulder—she’d just made it to the front door.

  “No, no, no!” he cried out. He stumbled from the chair to the kitchen bar. From there, he fell against the fridge.

  Stunned, he watched as she unlatched the second deadbolt. She turned and looked at him. Her face wasn’t full of fear, like it had been since the day she’d gotten into his car. She was no longer timid or uncertain of her purpose. She had a focus that he’d rarely seen in his patients…a determination to overcome any obstacle, including him.

  “No, don’t leave,” he said, moving against the framed threshold of the formal living room. “I order you to stay, you piece of filth.” A burst of adrenaline launched him across the room.

  She squealed, frantically trying to turn the doorknob lock. She didn’t know that the lock would sometimes not turn. You had to fidget with it.

  He closed the space quickly, extending his arms. A smile crossed his face. Once he had his hands on her, it would be over. Even at his reduced level of energy, she was no match for his force. And once in his grips, he’d have to teach her a lesson. Not the final one—not burying her alive in the cemetery with all the other rejects—but a new urge that he’d been saving for his whole life. He would finally lose his virginity, at the age of forty-six. And he would enjoy every second of it.

  Those thoughts of ecstasy and control propelled him. He was so close he could smell her sweat, see a new wave of panic in her rigid body movement, hear her squeal like a pig being prepared for slaughter.

  He chuckled as he made his final lunge. But at the last possible second, he tripped over the entry rug—a handmade relic he’d bought on his trip to the Middle East. When he hit the floor, the jolt of pain through his groin could be felt behind his eyeballs.

  Somehow, his brain was still able to function. He saw her standing there. He reached out an arm, wrapped a hand around her ankle. Then he wedged a fingernail into her bloody cut. She wailed, kicked her feet. He tried to hold on, but her leg was coated with not just blood but also a slick sheen of sweat. He hea
rd a click, and then she moved to the left, breaking free from his grip. The door swung open, smacking him in the head. She stumbled down the stairs, and he watched the glow of her white body fade into black.

  24

  After the assault, which ended with Ervin firing his weapon to scare off Cobb, I called Brook. She immediately came over and brought a legion of uniforms with her, who canvassed the area, looking for Cobb. The cloak of night and the driving rain made visibility nearly impossible, and after two hours, they gave up. She insisted on two cops staying in the parking lot until morning, just to make sure we were all safe.

  I didn’t fight it. In fact, I appreciated her caring. But more than anyone, I was grateful for Ervin. If he hadn’t shown up, someone might have been seriously injured. Or possibly been killed. I owed him everything.

  Mackenzie refused to leave my side all night. She was right there even as Ivy dressed the wound on my arm. My rain-soaked sweatshirt was a deep crimson up and down an entire sleeve, making it seem like the wound was much worse than it was. The cut was long, about twelve inches up my forearm, but not very deep. Mackenzie didn’t close her eyes or turn away or run into the other room. She held my other hand and made sure Ivy was thorough in cleaning out the wound—that stung like a thousand bee stings—and then watched as Ivy added Neosporin and wrapped the arm with a roll of bandage.

  Mackenzie fell asleep on my lap in the living room as Ivy, Brook, and I discussed Cobb’s assault, specifically how he could have come to know about me. Brook and Ivy both refused to sit. They paced, somehow managing not to run into each other.

  “I didn’t know I was on Cobb’s Christmas card list,” I said.

  “Now’s not the time for jokes, Oz,” Ivy said, her hand to her chin. She was staring at the carpet, as if it held all the world’s secrets.

  I glanced at Brook. “Ivy doesn’t get our brand of sarcasm. It’s just my way of coping.”