by Lane Diamond
Gotta be ready.
He liked the cemetery for the peace and quiet, but also because it was within walking distance of his house. Walking helped him clear his head. He could sit there with only the night sounds as company and concentrate on his life. He was sure that intelligence was the result of determined effort. The more he concentrated, the more he was reassured that he would gain the happiness he'd sought for so long.
It had to happen soon. The Voice had to come. The Reaper couldn't avoid him forever. Surely, it wouldn't avoid him if he continued to do such an excellent job offering up new sacrifices. The Reaper must come and rescue him.
Another day journeyed toward history as darkness deepened in the cemetery. It bothered him that he'd done nothing special that day, for it had reached the point where he felt it necessary to kill almost every day. The Reaper couldn't ignore that. Yet how many more could he kill before the police caught him? He knew they were determined to capture him, that it was only a matter of time.
Maybe he'd get lucky and outsmart them, but he would need the Voice for that. It needed to come soon... or he'd be finished.
Again a nearby sound drew his attention, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he focused on the woman walker.
Why is she out here so late at night, in the dark? Is she crazy?
***
Lindsey was deep in her "zone" and she didn't want to stop, despite her nervousness, which grew with the dark in the cemetery. It was silly to be frightened of people long-since dead and buried, but the Saturday-matinee-spooky feel of it made her uneasy.
If she hadn't been out of town on business for several days, and if she'd watched or listened to the local news recently, she'd know she had good reason to be nervous.
Instead, she admonished herself for being afraid of the dark and of ghosts and ghoulies, like a baby.
This is Algonquin, for crying out loud—Quietsville, USA.
***
Concealed behind the tree, he looked around to see if anyone else remained in the cemetery. It was difficult to tell with certainty in the darkness. Yet he was too frustrated and angry to care, and he was tired. Drained.
He almost wanted the police to catch him.
Nonetheless, he hoped this would be the big night.
***
Lindsey Merkham had heard the approaching sound, and reacted—a second too late.
She cursed herself. Why did you insist on walking in the dark, you idiot?
He'd hit her so hard that she'd blacked out. Now awake, bound and gagged in some kind of shed, she almost wished she were still unconscious. A man hovered nearby and mumbled to himself incoherently. She raised her head and looked around, and noticed for the first time that she was naked. She assumed she would soon be a victim of that most heinous crime, something every woman feared at some point in her life.
Looks like you'll finally have some sex, she thought, and managed to laugh to herself despite the terror that threatened to fracture her mind.
Yet, for all its degradation and psychological damage, far more heinous crimes than rape plagued Algonquin these days. She would learn that soon enough.
Too late.
Chapter 47 – June 16, 1995: Tony Hooper
I stand at the edge of the trees less than a hundred yards from the Norton house. The crescent moon is insufficient to defeat the darkness. Even with my eyes properly adjusted, I strain to see anything of substance.
The temperature is unpleasantly warm in my shinobi shozoku, the black ninja garb. It requires focused determination to ignore it, what Master Komura calls the "skilled mind" of the samurai.
The neighborhood is quiet but for the creekity-creek of crickets and the occasional ruffling of leaves, compliments of a small nocturnal creature.
Shit, I hope it's not a black snake. Six-foot snakes, however harmless, rank low on my list of favorite things.
The houses are older in this neighborhood and slightly more "lived in," as my mom used to say. It's less than a mile from Frank's place—I should call it my place now—and only five blocks from my old house on Cary Road. The street is Mohawk Trail, and where it intersects Pioneer Road, a strip of woodlands runs east to west, separating Pioneer from Geringer Road further up the ridge to the north. Mohawk ends three blocks south at North Harrison Street, which runs parallel to the Fox River.
I've spent little time down here since I was a kid, and it has apparently shrunk from its previous enormity. For kids, everything is huge.
I parked on Geringer and walked down through the woods, most concerned about dogs that may alert to my presence, but none is present at this hour. It's eleven-thirty and only a couple neighborhood lights remain on—sleepy time for a sleepy town.
Except that there's a killer out there who likes to work in the wee hours, and if he—
What the devil is this?
A light appears in a utility shed at the back of the Norton property, and I have no idea how it happened, or who might have entered the shed—or when.
The light goes out and a figure emerges. Though it's impossible to recognize him in the darkness, I can tell by his gait and height that he's a man. That means it's either Mitchell or Tommy, both of whom are almost six feet tall. No other lights appear as the figure enters the back door.
It's as though the man arrived home this moment, though the method by which he did so is a mystery. Perhaps he just took out the garbage.
"Geez, Tony," I admonish myself. "What good is a stakeout if you don't see the bad guy when he comes out? You'd better sharpen up!"
He enters the dark house as though fearful of alerting anyone to his presence. At this late hour, Mrs. Norton is probably asleep, so it may be simple courtesy.
Hmmm, then why does the whole scene bother me?
I would have noticed if he'd emerged from the house. I'm certain of it. That means either he was in the shed the entire time—unlikely, since the lights were out except for that brief instant—or he arrived home and stopped at the shed first. In the latter case, he would have been on foot.
Shit! What if he's already murdered someone?
I'm anxious to know what answers or clues the shed contains. I'll give him plenty of time to fall asleep and then I'll slip down to investigate. Norton always was a big fan of tools, and now that he butchers people in their own homes, he must take his tools with him. That shed is important.
"Be vigilant, Tony. If you're mistaken about any of this, a murderer may still slip out during the wee hours."
My earlier conversation with Master Komura put me at ease; obtaining positive proof before moving on Norton, before killing him—Why is it hard to say the word?—should relieve my conscience. This one is more difficult than my previous hunts. I've considered the philosophical arguments throughout the years, asked myself more times than I remember: Am I doing the right thing? How is what I do different from what the serial killers do?
I traverse a fine line, what many would call simple rationalization, but those monsters kill the innocent, whereas I kill them. They personify guilt, blights on civilization, monsters from which there is no escape save one. Some might suggest that what I do—ending their horrifying existence—is red-hot vengeance.
Wrong. Their death is justice well served. I'm satisfied if they rot in prison forever, but the system fails far too often.
Case in point: the jury found Mitchell Norton not guilty due to insanity. The system eventually spit him out and put him back on the street. And more people died vicious, unimaginable deaths.
How can I have faith in a system that allows such a thing to happen?
I leave nothing to chance, when I can help it. And I sleep well at night. Mostly. Sometimes.
Yet Mitchell Norton has crawled inside my psyche like no one else before or since. It's personal.
He made it so when he took Alex. He made it more so when he took Diana. Every act he performed in 1978 was as a knife thrust into my heart. He knew it and I knew it, and he took pleasure in it.
S
eventeen years later, he's already encountered Linda at the coffee shop, and he taunted me with words designed to push me into the abyss that has long threatened to swallow me whole. He's murdered two already—at least two—and he wants me to know he has his eye on Linda.
"Well I have my eye on you, Norton, and your time is very near its end."
The neighborhood remains peaceful and quiet. I observe the cars parked on the street—no apparent spies out tonight. It's easier that the police aren't watching, and yet it irritates me as well. I check my watch: 1:45.
I expected to follow a killer and destroy him tonight, but I doubt that will happen now.
Something about the incident at the shed still gnaws at my sensibility. Simple instinct.
A strange thing, instinct: the result of the conscious mind digging around in the subconscious for answers. My hypnosis seventeen years ago taught me that. Since then, I've worked hard with Master Komura to sharpen my instincts, to trust them. We've studied the subconscious mind and learned that, with proper training and practice, one can harness at least some of that power.
I take one more look around the neighborhood to ensure that I remain alone, then exit the woods and proceed toward Norton's shed. The path is unimpeded—no fences, no homes between me and my target. I remain alert to any movement or sound, including my own. I glide over the ground in a mere whisper, no simple feat, and something Master Komura spent seven years teaching me. My shinobi shozoku renders me virtual invisible even in the open—one more shadow cast by trees and houses on this near-moonless night.
The shed is a standard eight-by-twelve, pre-fabricated model, sturdy with a wooden frame and steel panels. The doors are hardly impenetrable, but entering without leaving a trace is the real trick. Given the two heavy padlocks, it will be challenging but not impossible.
I carry a small leather case that contains several picks designed for various types of locks. It's fortunate that these locks are key-operated. Cracking combination locks is a skill I've yet to master, something I should remedy. I find two picks adequate to the task, and work the uppermost lock. It pops with the slightest noise, yet any sound is like a marching band in the still night.
I pause for several seconds. Nothing, so I move on to the second—
I freeze. What is that sound? Is it scratching?
A dog—one I don't want to tangle with, by the sound of it—barks from the back of the Norton house. I reattach the lock and dart to the back of the shed. I drop low and spider-crawl away from the house, careful to keep the shed between that back room and me. Fluorescent lights flicker on both inside and outside the house as I crouch behind a good-sized tree in a neighbor's yard.
An unknown voice calls out, "What's a matter, Scooby? Did you see another rabbit, boy? You gotta learn to leave them poor little critters alone."
The dog barks again and whines, and I expect it to charge around the shed any second. I ready my katana. I don’t want to hurt the dog, but I may have no choice.
The owner, whom I assume is Tommy, holds him back. "Come on, boy, there's nothing out there. Hush now, you hear!"
When the door closes and the lights go off, the neighborhood remains dark and quiet, apparently oblivious to the disturbance. How did I not know they have a dog?
Damn it, Tony, that's basic recon!
Norton continues to corrupt my mind. I've been unusually sloppy on this job, and I need to step back and think things through. That shed still calls to me, but it will have to wait.
I hustle back toward the trees. Perhaps Algonquin will be lucky and there will be no more torture for one night, no more murder.
I wait until three o'clock to be certain, analyzing the earlier incident at the shed over and over.
God, I hope I wasn't too late.
Chapter 48 – May 30, 1978: Mitchell Norton
"We know too much, and are convinced of too little." – T.S. Eliot
~~~~~
Last night I'd burned with uncertainty and anxiety. Diana was practically catatonic. She'd snapped while I worked on Jacque-Baby, unable to take the work up close, unable to adjust to the methods and accept them for what they were: elegant and exquisite.
She didn't hear the Reaper as I did, or see the demons and the visions of their wicked, joyful craft. How could she understand everything in the absence of those visions?
The Reaper had offered no explanation.
She'd had two opportunities, and still she understood nothing. There must be some way to get through to her.
Maybe I should explain my true feelings for her. She'd be my queen in the Kingdom of Unending Pain. We were the chosen royalty. Maybe she'd find pleasure in that fact, but I had to think it through carefully before speaking to her. I couldn't risk making things worse; she must come to me willingly. I couldn't stand many more days of looking at her and watching her clean up, of seeing her naked body, without making love to her. I needed her and if I didn't have her soon, I'd go insane.
How would I perform my new duties if that happened?
I had to leave the shop today to work at the restaurant. It frustrated the shit outta me, but I still had to make a living. Too bad the Reaper didn't pay. Maybe I'd stop at home afterwards to shower and sleep in my own bed. I was damn tired of sleeping on this hard floor, but still nervous about leaving Diana—even if she was tied up and gagged.
What would she think about during all that time alone? Would she drift further into a state of fear? I hated to consider that possibility now that everything else was on track. I'd learned my lessons well, and the demons were pleased with me. I'd become a master of torture. All that remained was to prepare my queen.
Then I'd claim my kingdom.
She sat with her head down, as she had throughout the night, but she occasionally moved around, returning to reality. She sobbed softly at times.
I'd be kind to her, show her the depth of my love. That should bring her around and make her want to be my queen.
"Diana, do you hear me?" She didn't respond. "Please answer me. Otherwise, I'll have to leave you alone for several hours. Do you hear me?"
She nodded without looking up, and whispered, "Yes."
"I have to work tonight, and then I have some things to take care of at home, so I'll be gone awhile."
She raised her head and looked in my general direction, although she wouldn't make eye contact. At least we were making progress.
"I want to give you the opportunity to get more comfortable. I'll let you go outside, then you can clean up and we'll have something to eat, maybe talk a little before I go. How does that sound?"
She nodded without enthusiasm.
"Speak to me! Do you want to do that?"
"Yes."
"Okay, first I'll untie you and take you outside."
She was listless and had difficulty standing; probably hadn't slept last night.
I looked around to ensure that the coast was clear before leading her outside to the area we used as a latrine, where I'd dug two holes for the purpose. It weren't no bed of roses, but the smell could'a been much worse. I handed her the toilet paper and stepped aside, but not too far. This time, I wanted to watch.
Either she didn't notice or she didn't care.
Back at the shop, she stood like a zombie at the edge of the table while I set out cleaning supplies. I laid two clean blankets on the floor so she could lie more comfortably.
She stripped without prodding and started cleaning herself, going through the motions as if on autopilot.
I walked by her and slid my hand across her smooth, velvety ass. So damn irresistible!
She jerked away. "Please don't. Just let me clean up. You can watch if you want."
She knew I'd watch no matter what she said, and probably figured it wouldn't hurt to offer.
It tore me up, twisted my gut into a million knots, to watch her without touching her. I looked away and strolled to the other side of the table to make us some sandwiches. Sick and tired of eating the same boring crap, I'd pick
up some burgers, fries and shakes tomorrow. That would be a nice treat for Diana.
When she finished and started drying off, she gazed around, searching for some clean clothes. I hadn't set any out because she'd already used the two sets I bought.
"Where are my clothes?"
"I want to talk to you first, Diana. Please sit down on your blankets—they're clean—and we'll have some lunch."
Though nervous about sitting down naked, she did so and covered herself with the top blanket. I gave her a plate with the usual sandwich, pickle and chips on it, and handed her a can of pop. She took a tentative bite at first, but then devoured the rest of it.
"Do you want another sandwich?"
"Yes, please."
Good, she's getting her appetite back. "I won't be back until tomorrow, probably late morning. I'll bring some different food, a nice treat, along with some clean clothes and new supplies."
She ate the second sandwich like she'd already had her fill, but wasn't sure when the next meal might come along. She paid little attention to me, but she heard fine.
"I'm sorry, but I must tie you up and gag you again. I'll try to make you as comfortable as possible."
She sighed and hung her head.
"You gotta understand what we're doing here. You can't see my visions or hear the voice of the Reaper—he's the head demon—'cuz you're not special like me. Not yet. I know that makes it hard to understand, but you gotta be patient.
"The Reaper has plans for us. I can hear his voice. He says the Kingdom of Unending Pain will be mine, and that I may have a queen. You'll be my queen, Diana, and together we'll be royalty. We'll know the beauty, elegance and wonder of agony."
She stared at the floor and said, "Why are you doing this to me? Why won't you leave me alone? Why won't you let me go?"
"You're special. You're my queen. Don't you see? I'm in love with you."
She raised her head this time, a look of disgust on her face. "What? You don't even know me."
Be patient, Mitchell. "I've seen enough to know, and we've talked a little and shared some special things here. I want to take it to the next level. I want us to be together."