by Lane Diamond
She sips her drink and expels a soft sigh. "I decided to keep my freedom a little longer. Besides, in my job, with its long hours and extended absences, it would be only a matter of time before he cheated on me too."
The not-so-veiled reference to her first husband doesn't make her sad, exactly, though I find it difficult to read her.
"Why bother? Besides...." She pauses for a gulp of her drink. "This way I can be one of the guys—sleep around a little."
"I suppose you do that often." I think I already know the answer.
She lowers her voice and laces it with irony. "You bet. In fact, the last time was a mere three years ago."
Those clever, teasing eyes sparkle and—
I almost choke on my beer. Three years? How in God's name is that possible?
She might look better at forty-five than she did at twenty-eight, the first time we met. She exudes a certain confidence, a maturity, and shows only a couple lines around those devastating eyes that entice above the rim of her glass. The lilac of her perfume mingles with the coconut of her shampoo in an invisible cloud of delicious splendor. She possesses a certain something, the hard-to-define quality that makes one sexy.
She simply arouses.
In California three years ago, we pursued the same monster: Ronald Allen Stegman, serial killer. When we first crossed paths, Linda thought I might somehow be involved with Stegman. She couldn't understand why I was there.
Then he took her.
To abduct a federal agent was stupidity writ large, even for a sociopath like Stegman. When I found him—when I killed him—he was preparing to slice and dice Linda alive, the better to cook her in his sick stew.
She agreed to my one request as payment for saving her life, and we staged it to look as if she'd killed him after escaping, wiping out any traces of my involvement. She alone knew the truth. It may have advanced her career, or at least have compensated for her abduction, and it kept me out of the proverbial hot water.
When we saw each other at the hotel bar the next evening, we had some drinks and, as Humphrey Bogart might have said in an old movie, one thing led to another. We could barely keep our hands off each other long enough to get up to her room. We devoured one another, each yearning for the contact, the release that might rescue us from the terrible world we'd recently visited. Mutually convenient and anxious to escape our gruesome reality, we dove into a single night of carnal pleasure.
Neither of us had expected anything more, but it may have affected us at a deeper level than we'd anticipated.
I push the point further. "Dare I ask what brings you to sleepy little Algonquin?"
Both her expression and her voice are pure deadpan. "I'm on vacation."
"You're on vacation in Algonquin, Illinois? Let me guess: Newark was closed for repairs, and you couldn't get a room in Toledo."
She shrugs, drains her glass and motions to the bartender for another. Unspoken warnings buzz in my brain as silence lays over this, our third encounter.
The first occurred seventeen years ago, when I was a young man of eighteen desperate to make sense of the ungodly times. Linda was fresh out of the FBI academy with her Ph.D. in criminal psychology, assigned to a team from their Behavioral Science unit at Quantico, where she now runs a team of her own. The second time was in California—the pursuit of Stegman.
And now? That's simple enough. She's here to stop me from killing Mitchell Norton.
Chapter 10 – May 19, 1978: Mitchell Norton
I again spent the afternoon driving around town in search of that fuckin' Tony's invisible car. I thought it was gray or some shade of blue, a big four-door, a late 60's or early 70's model, but after a week of useless searching, I weren't certain of a goddamn thing anymore.
Algonquin was a small town and I should have spotted it by now. Maybe the driver didn't live here. I needed to look in Lake-in-the-Hills, Carpentersville and Dundee, all small enough towns. I'd find that car eventually. Then it would be only a matter of time before I found the blessed angel of my dreams.
My nightmares full of pain and agony, of torture and death, occurred less frequently now that I spent so much time thinking of my vision of beauty in yellow. My headaches weren't nearly as bad as before. Nice to get through the day without taking twenty aspirin, which helped my head but tore the shit outta my stomach. That Diana weren't just the object of my desires; she was like medicine, an angel of mercy.
I still saw her in my mind's eye, and I could see her chariot too. I'd recognize it when I saw it. I had to find it.
Fuck a rubber duck, I must find it.
I grabbed some lunch from The Dairy Hut, and sat in my van in the parking lot while I scarfed down my burger and fries. Classical music, which I'd thought was for pussies until recently, soothed me. I observed people walkin' in and out of the fast-food place. I dug people-watching—always had—but I did it now with what the Reaper called "serious intent."
He said I could no longer watch people "without thought or purpose." I must observe their look, their walk, their demeanor. I imagined them as our subjects and wondered what terrible agony they might suffer. The voice commanded it.
They participated in the cruel games of my nightmares, where they endured the demon's cutting and gouging, ripping and burning. The mere thought of that dastardly fucker terrified me, let alone the actual sight of the shit he did.
At least, he used to terrify me. Lately, I'd found it easier, even interesting, to watch the sick fucker.
Like last night.
***
The torrential sweat pours off my brow and the salt from it burns my already bloodshot eyes. The intense heat in this place sucks the breath right out of me and crushes me with fatigue. I finally brave opening my eyes on this nightmare journey, and the terrifying visions of my mind are no longer mere visions.
They're alive.
The demon below me dispenses terror, agony and death. These ain't no kids' games. The reaper insists there is "a particular artistry to torture." He calls himself an "artisan."
Strapped to a table before this artisan is a young man, about twenty, and the Reaper has broken all his fingers and toes and stripped the flesh right off them. Fuck a rubber duck! He cut the kid's ears and nose clean off, and his face is a mush of tissue and gore. His shattered kneecaps, exposed through torn flesh, burst into spider-webbed cracks. He soaks in the gut-wrenching stink of his own filthy fluids—blood, puke, piss and shit.
It's fuckin' fascinating! The artisan carves a patchwork design into the boy's abdomen with a serrated knife. The kid screams with eyes closed in clenched agony. This lasts for several minutes until his eyelids pop open and his face goes blank.
"Look at his face," the Reaper says. "Note his eyes—disillusioned, despairing, dead."
"It's unbelievable," I say.
"Not at all. Why did life abandon him? Were the physical injuries that severe? Was the sheer pain and terror unendurable? Was the price of continued life unattainable?"
I have to think about it for a few seconds. "Maybe death offered the only solution, the only way that fuckin' wimp could escape."
"You're learning."
The kid's face remains suspended in perpetual, agonizing terror. The Reaper looks back and forth between the boy and me, and he flares his wicked, joyful grin. I think he admires his own performance.
Why shouldn't he?
***
I shivered against the memory and wiped sweat from my face. Although unthinkable weeks before, I now considered the possibility of committing those horrible deeds. It was hard to fuckin' believe, but I could become an artisan of torture. My nightmare host might have been the Grim Reaper himself, speaking to me in that voice like a freight train bellowing its warning—the voice of power. It demanded of me something terrible.
I didn't know why he wanted these things, beyond at least the simple pleasure of them, or why he wanted me to do them. Not that it fuckin' mattered. He commanded it. He showed me a new way, gave me a new opportu
nity and new challenges. I'd damn well better succeed at those new tasks as artisan, or he'd subject me to them as victim. After everything I'd seen that monster do to his subjects, there weren't no fuckin' way I was gonna end up on one of those tables. I'd fuck a rubber duck before I'd have let that happen.
I didn't have no choice. It was outta my hands.
My mental fog cleared and I glanced around the parking lot. A woman, probably in her mid-thirties, carried a tray of milkshakes toward her car.
I whispered, "Hoo-wee, baby! You're built like a brick shit-house."
I popped a hard-on and my whole body tingled. "I wonder where she lives."
Nice choice, the Reaper said, but you're not quite ready.
I nodded, accepting his guidance, and tried to chase away another looming headache by cranking up the volume of the radio. Classical music formed a symphony that rattled the windows of my van.
I drove for nowhere in particular, searching for an escape—or an angel of mercy.
Chapter 11 – May 20, 1978: Tony Hooper
"Dance beneath the dangling limbs that reach to you in whither,
But move with purpose and with quickness, daring not to dither.
Let not him lay his hands upon your spindly arms or legs,
Or it will be for life and breath that you soon come to beg.
On the summer eve, in short and sleeve,
Lay not your head upon a pillow,
Of grass beneath his drooping reach, or bitter lessons he will teach,
Of crossing Old Man Willow."
Old Man Willow verse, conceived by Tony Hooper for the neighborhood kids
~~~~~
Alex spun and put on his best move. "He drives the lane. No, he fakes and turns outside and goes up with the fifteen-foot jumper, and he...."
"Misses off the front of the rim," I finished. "You know, you may want to keep yourself within that ten- to twelve-foot range. Anything more is too far for you."
"But I've been practicing, Tony. I'm getting better."
"The problem is your strength. You struggle to get the basketball to the hoop from that distance, and you shoot right from the shoulder. Hoopster, anyone can block that shot."
The little guy's face was almost too much to bear. Only ten, he insisted on acting eighteen.
"Tell you what, Hoopster, why don't we get you started on a weight-lifting program? We need to build your upper body strength, perhaps your legs so you can get more air beneath you."
"No kidding? Dad thinks I'm still too young for that stuff."
"I'll speak to him and make sure he knows we won't get carried away—just some basic stuff. He'll be okay with it."
"Cool!"
We resumed our basketball contest, if you could call it that—the mismatch was severe. Nonetheless, I enjoyed shooting hoops with Alex, and I enjoyed coaching him even more. He handled the ball quite well, having learned to dribble with both hands.
He borrowed one of the shots from my own repertoire as he planted his right foot, spun first left and then right, and put up a fade-away jumper from twelve feet. Swish! His priceless ear-to-ear smile made me laugh. I couldn't tell which of us was more proud of his athletic development.
I'd sure miss him when I left for college.
Saturday morning meant no school, but I had to flip burgers and make sundaes at The Dairy Hut for a few hours, from four o'clock to eight o'clock. It didn't pay a heck of a lot but it was conveniently close. I could ride my bike if I wanted, and I made enough to keep my Bonnie on the road with a full gas tank.
With gas breaking forty cents per gallon, that was getting tougher. Dad provided the other necessities—shoes, clothes, food and medicine—but he insisted that if I had a car, I must maintain it myself, unless I was willing to leave it in the garage.
No chance! The Bonnie gave me freedom, the means by which I escaped the grind.
Dad rarely objected, or said much of anything, for that matter. Alex, on the other hand, preferred I pay more attention to him. I enjoyed spending time with the Hoopster, but all good things in moderation. I needed to get away and do my own thing occasionally. He could be a load, more work than fun, and the responsibility sometimes irritated me. He was innocent enough—only ten years old. The real source of my irritation, Dad, should have done more with Alex.
Still, when the Hoopster dragged me down, a simple escape offered the easiest way to refresh.
Diana served as my island, my paradise. It hardly mattered where we went or what we did, so long as I was with her. We hooked up with other friends to enjoy movies, restaurants, bowling, arcades, shooting darts or pool—simple activities. Some kids, cleverly turning a Star Wars phrase, claimed we'd gone over to the "Dork Side." Fine. We tried to stay away from the drug culture that seemed so prevalent.
My circle of friends—real friends—remained a relatively small one. I'd have been lost without Diana.
I left Alex to practice shooting on his own, which he could do for hours without pause, to shower and prepare for work.
***
I could relax and watch the Chicago Cubs game on TV for a couple hours before I had to leave. It sounded as though someone had beaten me to the punch.
"Bill Buckner lines a shot into the gap in right-center," Alex announced from the living room floor. "It rolls to the wall and he cruises into second with a stand-up double."
He enjoyed doing the play-by-play during the game, often with the TV volume off. He cracked me up, but he was getting pretty darn good at it.
The Cubs fell behind early—again. By the end of the third inning, my thoughts already drifted toward more pleasant diversions; Diana and I were going out tonight after I finished work.
She so occupied my mind these days, hard to imagine how I got anything done at all. Her face always grabbed me first, and when she smiled.... I'd get close and her scent would hit me next: perfume, shampoo, soap, breath. She always smelled so damned good. The feel of her skin, the caress of her fingers, and the taste of her mouth came next.
At that point, I must fight off thoughts of leaving for college and focus only on her. We'd draw close, closer, until I could think of nothing else, and I must—
Whoa, I'd better think of something else. Fast! This is no time to ignite the firestorm.
The phone startled me from my daydream. Perfect timing.
Frank Willow offered his best New York mob lingo, a silly attempt at humor, yet somehow hilarious coming from such an unlikely source. "Heyyy, Tony, howzya doowin?"
"Super, Frank, the Hoopster and I were watching the Cub game. Who knew we were such masochists?"
He laughed in his easy-going, Grandpa Everyman way. "Perhaps I can save you from the self-immolation."
Hah! I don't even have to look that one up. Frank loved to challenge my vocabulary.
"If you can tear yourself away to help an old man, I need some help getting an air conditioner out of my car and into the living room window."
"I have to leave for work in a little over an hour but, if that's enough time, I'd be happy to help you out."
"It won't take long at all, and I'd be most grateful."
I hung up and tried to convince Alex to come along, hinting that Frank probably had some treats for him.
"I want to watch the rest of the game."
"Geez, Hoopster, I don't feel good about leaving you here by yourself."
"Come on! Gimme a break, will ya? Besides, Dad will be home any minute. Good grief!"
It made me uneasy, but Dad was due home soon. I instructed Mr. Ten-going-on-Eighteen to stay put until he arrived.
He waved his hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. See ya later, Gator. Tell Old Man Willow I said, 'Boo!'"
It was our little joke regarding all the ridiculous rumors about Frank.
Chapter 12 – June 7, 1995: Mitchell Norton
"Mankind is safer when men seek pleasure than when they seek the power and the glory." – Geoffrey Gorer
~~~~~
I'm out at last, sweet
freedom seventeen years in the making. I can't believe it took so fuckin' long. I'll never recapture that lost time. Someone owes me for that.
One of my most abiding memories is of the several shrinks I saw.
I occupied the last ten years with endless apologies, acts of contrition and outright acting. That was a difficult game, but I had to tell them what they wanted to hear. What I truly felt was irrelevant. No big deal. They all operated from the same playbook, the same set of expectations, the same set of practiced responses and resolutions. The fuckheads made it easy.
They also started from the assumption that I was stupid. Condescending pricks! I was never dumb, just uneducated. In the end, I had seventeen years to do little else but read—hundreds and hundreds of books. It changed me, though I saw little reason to share that fact with the fuckin' shrinks—at least not every detail.
It all started because of a little tumor, a small growth in my neocortex, the outer layer of the brain that houses the intellect and the imagination. Yeah, right. I couldn't help thinking at the time that there must be more to it.
Still can't.
Last night, my first back in the old house, frustrated the shit outta me. I enjoyed my reunion with Mom and Tommy, with some conversation and a couple drinks, but later, when I needed to sleep, anxiety attacked in full force.
My life must begin anew, but where to start? Is it too soon to worry about my future? I've much to consider, and there will be prying eyes, no doubt—those fuckin' protestors at my release! Who are they to judge me, to condemn me? They know nothing, the simple fuckheads.
For hours, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and, despite my unwillingness, remembered those extraordinary days.
***
May 20, 1978
I cruised around town, searching for the car that had carried my newfound angel.
I yelled to no one, "Jackpot!"
It pulled into a driveway off Cary Road, and I immediately recognized the driver, that fuckin' Tony. I wasn't paying much attention, absentmindedly going through the motions, when it leapt into view. I spun around and parked on a little dirt trek that was barely a road, across and down the street from the house where my archenemy lived.