by John Hunt
Sitting in her bedroom, the TV droning on her dresser, wrapped in a fleece blanket, she glanced at the woods and saw the Jackal walking through them approaching her house. She dismissed it although her heart beat faster in her breast. Her mother turned on the vacuum downstairs. Usually someone stayed home with Jen. Her mom and dad rotated the duties, changing their holidays at work and burning through their sick bank to be with her. Could her mom see him? If she looked outside would she see him striding through the trees? She shook her head. Remember Jen, it’s not real. She exhaled, closed her eyes, opened them and still he made his way to her house. She gasped but knew it couldn’t be real. He manoeuvred through the woods, wearing a dark coat, dark jeans, boots and gloves with the Jackal’s head tall and proud on his shoulders. She frowned. Almost every time she imagined him, he wore the mask and boots. Never clothes. Sometimes the Gorilla would show up trailing the Jackal. Sometimes, like now, just the Jackal appeared. He walked through the tree-line and stepped into her backyard with a determined and confident stride. She pulled the alarm chain out from under her shirt. She let it dangle on her chest and rubbed at her stump, pressing her fingers along the hardened skin.
She forced her eyes to take in the TV. Some talk show. She concentrated on their words and the crease in her brow softened. She peered into the backyard. No one stood there. No one walked there. She sighed, staring into the forest and then at the snow in her backyard. Were there footprints in the snow? So what. She had imagined their boots dripping on the floor didn’t she? Sure, she thought, but when they were gone, the floor was dry wasn’t it? If that is true, and she goddamn knew it to be true, then why were there still footprints in the snow? Could mean her delusions were becoming more advanced. Constant practice can do that. Practice makes perfect.
A thump sounded from downstairs, heard over the vacuum. After a few seconds, the vacuum motor died off. Silence from downstairs. Jen clicked off the TV.
“Mom?” Jen said, or thought she did. She scratched at her stump.
A creak sounded. She knew what stair that was. Fourth from the bottom. Mom had been on her dad to fix that for years. Someone was on the stairs. It had to be her mom. Maybe her mom did hear her. Unlikely though. Even if she had spoken she was too soft to hear unless you were in the room with her. Her hand drifted to the alarm around her neck. Her thumb ran along the top of the button.
She cleared her throat and said, “Mom?”
No answer except for another creak, near the top. That step moaned under the weight of her father. The girls and her mother were too light to disturb it. Someone big crept toward her. A dream? A vision? Had she spoken or, like so many other things, did it occur only in her head? No…she had spoken. A vein jumped in her neck. She stared at the open bedroom door, afraid to blink.
The Jackal appeared, framed in her doorway. Light reflected off the eyes deep in the mask giving them an otherworldly glow. A knife dripped blood onto the hardwood floor. She could hear it. More detailed than any previous illusion. The thump from downstairs, the blood on the knife. Did something happen to her mother? This had to be a dream then. She would wake up to find her mother alive and well, covering her in a blanket and telling her everything is fine. The police said it would be very unlikely she would ever see the Jackal again. He wouldn’t risk it, they thought. This couldn’t be real, could it?
His chest heaved under the dark coat. He stepped into the room, his tread heavy with intent. She could smell him. He stank of outside and sweat.
She said, “Are you real?”
“Time to take you home, my sweet Jen.” The voice was muffled, echoey, from behind the mask.
“So you’re real, then.”
She held up the alarm on the chain, making sure he saw it. He lunged for her. She pressed the button.
She whispered, “Cops are coming.”
He said, “Bitch!”
He clutched the chain in her fingers and wrenched it from her. How long would it take them to get here? No way to know unless he waited for them and he was not going to do that. Pressed for time, he couldn’t make a quick escape if he took her with him and the realization quelled the brewing storm behind his eyes. No need to panic. Time to get creative.
He said, “Change of plans, then.”
He grabbed her chin in his left hand and squeezed, holding her steady. Fear and acceptance rattled inside her frame. Afraid of death yet relieved her damaged self wouldn’t have to struggle any longer. Easier to give in, to quit, than to fight. Better to submit. He raised the knife and she stared into his eyes with bovine placidity. In one swift movement, he swung the knife and buried it deep in the top of her head to sink into the softness of her brain. Blood sprayed out her nose and she sank into darkness with a gurgle.
. . .
The Jackal had to get out of there. He hadn’t expected the alarm and knew how lucky he had been she hadn’t pressed it earlier. He could be in cuffs right now, the Jackal mask ripped off him for all the world to see him, to know him. Luck like this couldn’t last. Still, he had one last thing to do. It came to him with sudden inspiration. It was a struggle to get the knife out of her skull. He wiggled it back and forth and pulled it free, a squirt of blood following it out. He went to work with it. He rushed through it, wanting to move fast, wondering when the cops would get here and if he should even be doing this extra work at all. But he started and when he started something he hated to quit before he was done. He thought he worked fast but it felt like forever before he was finished. Time moved slow under stress. When he eased out the back door, the sirens were still some distance away. He set off through the woods. When the trees enfolded him, he removed the mask. He took off the reversible jacket and turned it inside out so now it was red. Blood red. After putting his gloves inside the mask, he stuffed it inside against his body and zippered up his jacket. He pulled a toque out of another pocket and put it on. Now he was just a dude going for a stroll in the woods. When he came upon the small river he walked in the slow moving water with ice building along the shoreline. He made it to his car without seeing one policeman or police cruiser. He felt pretty good. Although it didn’t work out like he planned, under the circumstances it turned out better than he had any right to expect. And now he knew about the alarms around the necks. He would have to work a way around those. He still wanted a girl in his pen. And Lucy was out there, running free. She wouldn’t be easy to get to. After the mess he left behind there would be a lot more security for the remaining survivors. He would have to expect increased police presence and who knew what personal protection they would employ? Interesting times ahead. He would wait them out. Wait until they lost interest like they did for Jen. And given enough time, they would do it again. Or he could go take Lucy and Olivia now, before the cops got organized. He rejected the thought before it fully formed. He wasn’t ready yet. Not for her. In a very positive frame of mind, he contemplated the mentally rejuvenating effects of murder. He certainly felt better. Hell, he felt magnificent! He drove home listening to an angelic voice sing Ava Maria.
-24-
Part of Olivia’s day included watching the news. One channel, CP24, reported the news all day. They would rerun stories in a smaller window and the rest of the screen would be filled with sports, scores and the weather. A nice drone in the background while she made the rounds of the house, ensuring all windows and doors were locked before settling down on the couch with a steaming tea beside her and the iPad in her lap. The tension she felt upon escaping the pink room was fading with time. Before, she would jump at the house settling or a strong wind rattling the window frames. She would examine the snow around the house, peering through the window to see if any new footprints appeared overnight, certain, at some point, there would be. Olivia used to crouch under windows when she passed them convinced the Jackal hid outside, watching, waiting for
a glimpse before he rushed in and snatched her. She had ground her teeth till her jaw hurt and clenched her muscles until they spasmed from unending fear of the Jackal returning for her. Free in body, prisoner in mind.
As part of Olivia’s morning ritual, she still checked the snow outside the house for footprints but she was no longer certain there would be any. Even though she double checked every door and ensured the alarm panel’s green light indicating operation still blinked cheerfully the oppressive air didn’t weigh as heavy. She didn’t feel eyes on her all the time. She no longer twitched when the furnace click-boomed in the basement to push warm air through the vents. With time, she might even become normal. Her hand rose to her ear. Well, as normal as she could ever be. She frowned and resumed her battle on the iPad with Candy Crush, determined to advance. Between listening to the news, playing Candy Crush and sipping on her tea, Olivia looked forward to the move with fear and excitement. After Frank committed to helping them (which still surprised Olivia) they moved ahead with buying the place. The purchase was conditional upon the sale of the house they now lived in but no one considered it an issue. On the weekend, she and her dad were going to clean the place up, splash some paint around and get rid of the clutter to prepare the house for viewing. She wondered what she would do when people came to the house for viewings. Weekend or evening viewings would be best. She didn’t like leaving the house without her dad and she wouldn’t leave the house with anyone else. Not Dale, not Frank, not anyone but her dad. Maybe she didn’t trust Frank and Dale as much as her dad and thought it unfair and might have to work on her trust issues. She thought of Dale often and wondered what type of relationship, if any, they could have with each other. They were two very different people now. They related to each other through shared remembrances and she suspected they were already beginning to drift apart. He didn’t want to bring up what she had been through, which was good because she didn’t want to talk about it. Not to him and not yet and instead, they ended up talking around it.
He would discuss what he had been doing the last five years and since they both knew where she had been during that time, their conversation drifted to movies and music she hadn’t seen or heard. Nothing to relate to with each other. She appreciated his concern, knew it to be genuine, though their conversations soon grew awkward and filled with long pauses. She felt him drawing away from her and found no reason to stop it from happening. The once pleasant intimacy from high school didn’t exist any longer. They were both very different people than they used to be. Alien to each other, to be honest, they were on different planets. He wanted to maintain their friendship. She knew that. He admired her and told her he thought her stronger than he could ever hope to be. Circumstances drew out a strength she didn’t know she had and she wouldn’t wish what she had gone through on anyone. She had strength, sure, but the cost had been too great.
Deep in her own thoughts, her remaining index finger moving the candies about on the screen, it took a moment for the news on the TV to register. When it did, her mouth hung open and she dropped the tea on the carpet. Unconcerned about the tea, her eyes riveted to the TV as though pulled by some inexorable string. What was being reported didn’t make sense. Jen had been murdered? Jen’s mother had been killed? She slipped the knife out of the holster at her side and held it, the way a child would hold a teddy bear for reassurance. When the phone rang she screamed. She pressed the button on the cordless and held the phone to her ear before realizing she could be making a terrible mistake. What if it was him calling? But then he wouldn’t call. He had never spoken to her. Her dad’s voice flooded her ear. He would be home soon. He had heard the news too.
. . .
The detective arrived as Harry and Olivia sat down to dinner. Olivia didn’t want to eat. The idea she may have to eat something never occurred to her. Her dad insisted and made grilled cheese sandwiches and set two glasses of orange juice on the table. Olivia’s hand strayed to the knife at her hip. The tactile hardness of the handle felt cool under her fingers. She twitched and cringed at the sound of wind pulling and pressing against the windows and the vinyl siding of the house. All the progress she had made over the months evaporated in a moment. She had been reduced to the quivering mess she had been when she walked out of the dungeon. The news of the murder rattled her father. He kept wiping at his lip. She could tell he wanted to drink real bad. She wanted to tell him to call someone from AA but that would take him away from her and she didn’t want that. She needed him here and knew it to be selfish but right now she didn’t care. Maybe later, when her insides weren’t pinched so tight. When she had time, she could feel guilty and go to an AA meeting with him. If she could summon the courage to leave the house ever again. And that was a big if. The detective knocked on the door as Harry raised the sandwich to his mouth. Olivia had expected someone from the police hours earlier. Considering she and Lucy were the likely next targets of the maniac, she thought the detective would have been out here trying to quell her rising fears. After the news had aired, two patrol cars arrived and parked out front of her house. Not long after, media vans swung to the curb. One officer, a young female with dark rimmed glasses, knocked on the door to tell them a detective would be out later. She didn’t think later meant hours later, after it got dark.
Olivia stood as the detective entered the kitchen. Mid-thirties with an air of competence, he appeared slim and well groomed. His gaze missed nothing and although she sensed compassion in his eyes, there was a bit of steel there too. He wasn’t the one she had met before. No outdated moustache on this guy’s face. She frowned, “Who are you?”
“Detective Constable Davis.”
“What happened to the other guy? The one with the terrible moustache.”
Davis blinked, smiled and said, “I’m the new detective assigned to the case. The other guy is now the file coordinator. And yes, the moustache is terrible. Word is his wife won’t let him shave it. Says it makes his chin look weak, whatever that means.”
She stared at him.
He swallowed and said, “Well, I’m not exactly new. I’ve been working on this for a bit now.”
“You’re new to me.”
“Uh, yeah.”
She folded her arms over her chest and said, “And you’re only introducing yourself to me now?”
“I had a lot of material to review. Video interviews, witness statements, physical evidence…it takes some time to get through.” His hairline beaded with sweat under her scrutiny. He said, “Is it hot in here?”
Olivia said, “I’m quite comfortable.”
Harry said, “Would you like a drink of something detective? Something cold?”
“No. I’m fine. Thank you.”
Olivia’s fear commingled with her irritation. Fear of the Jackal and irritation at not being told of a new investigator. When did this guy get assigned? She thought the police would involve her more considering she had been a prisoner of the freak they were investigating for five years. She didn’t think she deserved to be treated this way, like some lame cast off character in a gruesome thriller. And waiting all afternoon for this guy to walk in all casual and cool as though her life wasn’t at risk? It stunk and it pissed her off.
A sneer curled her lip as she said, “Better have something detective. You’re going to be here awhile. You’re gonna tell me what the fuck is going on and what you intend to do about it. I want to know your theories, if you have any, and I want to know what you’re going to do to keep me safe. I’ve waited all afternoon for you. You’re not going anywhere until I’m satisfied you’ve told me everything. Do we understand each other?”
Even though he was older than her, he deferred to her with the respect he would a demanding teacher in grade school. He nodded and said, “Yes ma’am.” To Harry:”I’ll have some coffee please. If you have it.”
. . .
Harry set coffee before Detective Davis and made tea for Olivia. Davis pulled a camcorder from the bag he brought with him and after fiddling with the tripod for the right height he attached the camera to it. He pulled out a large notebook and taking a sip of coffee and nodding his appreciation to Harry he said, “The reason I brought the camera here is to ask you some follow up questions. Questions that I thought of when reviewing your previous interviews. Before we get to that I’m going to fill you in on the investigation and why it may seem to you the police may have dropped the ball. Before all that though, I’d like to say a few things to you first. Things you may have heard before but I think they are very important, okay?”
Olivia nodded. Harry sat beside her, a glass of water in hand.
“Okay. Good. First, I want you to know none of what happened to you is your fault. None of it.”
Taken aback, Olivia muttered, “I know it.”
“Good. I’m glad. I just want that to be clear. Nothing you said or did or didn’t do caused this to happen to you. Some demented fuck-sticks got it into their head to do horrible things to people for their own benefit. No matter what you think you may have done, no one deserves what happened to you. No one. I find sometimes victims tend to apportion blame onto themselves. I want there to be no confusion here: you did nothing wrong.”
Olivia’s eyes shined and she said, “Thank you.” She understood what Davis meant. Years in the prison she had thought some of the awful things done to her were her fault. If she did what she was told, acted a certain way, maybe they wouldn’t have taken her toes. Maybe she would still have an ear. Deep inside, she believed they would have found a reason to mangle her and torture her because it was in their nature to do it. They got off on it. Believing it didn’t lessen the feeling of being at fault. It didn’t help that the Gorilla told her she was to blame for her own mutilation over and over again. Now, this detective told her what she already knew yet it helped to have someone else reaffirm it, someone who knew she needed to hear it. Maybe, in time she could believe it and assign the blame where it belonged. On the bastards who did this to her.