Tomorrow I Will Kill Again

by Matthew Allred

  Sean, whose inhuman endurance and speed allowed him to hike back to their campsite in one night, had driven the ILX back and abandoned it at the Kenner residence.

  Waiting for Sean’s return, Paul had asked Deeny how it was they could relocate here, away from the trees, if the trees carried so much of their power. Deeny had been slow to answer; clearly he did not have a reply prepared. Eventually he had said that perhaps the necklace made the forest, not the other way around.

  Once this unpleasant conversation was done, Paul and Deeny sat by the tiny campfire, and Paul began to read Deeny’s Adventure to his friend, from the beginning.

  3

  His sister Emma’s house was too nice for Clancy Miller, and he felt out of place.

  All the pillows (of which there were many) were incredibly white or very light pink. Delicately laced afghans and antimacassars (which Miller liked to think of as “people doilies”) were draped over every available seat (of which there were many). Even after bathing he was afraid to touch anything for fear of soiling or damaging or misplacing. Each large room had large windows through which light poured in quantities the inside of Miller’s house had never seen.

  He felt examined and scrutinized, even when Emma was not home, though she almost always was. And although he knew his sister had always loved him, he also knew that she was a grumpy old woman who did not want anyone in her home.

  She was not the kind of elderly person who relished company; in fact, after living alone for the past six years after the divorce of her second husband, she had adapted well to a life of solitude, which she never thought of as loneliness. She had made quite a chunk of change in the two divorces and lived more than comfortably. Unfortunately it was not the kind of comfort that was comfortable to Miller. Emma, having left the Mormon church a couple of years into her first marriage, would not return fully to her kind of comfort until her judgmental, if well-meaning, brother went back home. In his whole lifetime of being a religious nut, she had to admit she had never seen him quite so anxious, not even when his high school sweetheart had been killed. It was a pity he had never been able to move on, that he’d never found anyone else. Or maybe not; she’d been married twice and still suspected she’d never really been in love. Her brother would not explain why he needed to stay there but had seemed adamant in portraying its necessity. Maybe something really was wrong, something he couldn’t talk about yet. Or maybe he was finally just losing it. She had a mental “out-day” for him of January 15th, but knocked a day off every time he scowled at her wine rack.

  Miller would have been embarrassed and dismayed to learn that he had come to this house for no real reason; the house and patch of trees he had feared were now as empty as most empty places, with only the natural amount of life and death cozied in its acre.

  He spent the first few days drinking in as much scripture as he could, searching the pages in the entire Mormon cannon, sitting at a white vanity that was perhaps the most un-Miller-like desk on earth. His favorite stories opened to him for the thousandth time. Over the course of days, Miller lost himself in these stories trying to glean from them whatever strength and understanding he would need.

  In the Bible, Elijah first shamed then incinerated the priests of Baal; Jesus took a coin from the mouth of Peter’s fish so they could pay the temple tax; Paul learned the pain in his side would only serve to glorify him. In the Book of Mormon, Ammon de-armed his master’s enemies one-by-one without fear of death; the glorified, resurrected Christ came down after the destruction of the new world and ministered to the surviving Nephites; the brother of Jared saw first the finger, then the personage of the pre-mortal Christ. In the Doctrine and Covenants, Joseph Smith tried to endure his affliction at Liberty Jail; the Saints learned step by bloody step how the Lord’s kingdom would be established in the last days. In the Pearl of Great Price, Abraham watched as the intelligences helped in the organization of the world, and Moses was transfigured before the Lord.

  Slowly he began to see what he must do. He could hear the whispers of what he believed to be the Spirit of God. He began to plan, but more significantly, he took courage in the courage of those before him. He would be as strong as those who had trodden the way. And though he planned to speak to no one of his findings, he did not believe he would be facing this challenge alone. He would be armed with the combined faith of every prophet and saint that had preceded him.

  He was not surprised to learn that night on the evening news that Donald Harmon had been murdered in his sleep and that Paul Kenner was the prime suspect. It only meant that his time was even more limited.

  4

  Jen was not gagged, but the girl she shared a tent with was. Jen didn’t recognize her.

  The girl wore an orange pair of (very skinny) skinny jeans that nearly touched her white-and-black checkered slip-on shoes on which she had drawn in Sharpie marker awkward renditions of people Jen assumed were her friends. She breathed only enough to show she was not yet dead. One of the shoe-doodles was flipping Jen the bird with one hand and brandishing a bottle of “ABSYNTH” in the other. She wondered if the girl could not spell or if the word had some other meaning; maybe it was a band-name. The outfit was topped off with one of those hilarious “SL, UT” long-sleeve t-shirts, torn and thin with wear. Jen had first seen such a gem downtown; it made no sense of course, as the city was always abbreviated as SLC. The girl’s long and unkempt blond hair hung over her face in clumps but could not hide the rings under her eyes.

  Jen wondered if Paul had been screwing her, but despite everything that had happened so far, she somehow doubted he was. Maybe she was just a fool.

  Hours passed and nothing happened. Cards came and went, came and went, through the small section of unzippered tent flap.

  Jen could sometimes hear Paul and Sean talking, and she began to realize the pauses must be where the thing, Deeny, contributed to the conversation, but she could not hear him.

  Eventually the zipper shot up sharply and, with a rush of cold air, Sean entered shaking snow from his office jacket. He did not seem to notice or be affected by the cold. He was clearly excited about something, but not quite as if his head were about to float off his shoulders. He looked as cool and collected as ever. She realized that what she had always liked least about him was the I-know-something-you-don’t-know air he exuded, but she’d never really thought about it before then.

  She said, “Where are we?”

  “In the mountains near a lake,” he sat in between her and the ABSYNTH girl. “We’re hiding.”

  “Why?”

  “They killed someone when they found this gal.” He thrust a thumb at the sleeping feminine lump.

  Clare tilted her head toward Sean half-heartedly. Her eyes closed.

  “Who? Who was killed?”

  “No,” Sean said, his face suddenly becoming serious, “don’t ask ‘who was killed?’ Ask me ‘who did they kill.’ That’s a very important distinction right now. Understand that a killing was done by someone you love very much.”

  Jen tried not to let her gaze falter at all. She had to retain any sense of power she could. “Fine,” she said. “Who did they kill?”

  “I don’t know him, sorry.”

  She said nothing for a time. She was fighting the urge to yell, scream, and spit at this man she thought she’d trusted, this man whom she now despised. But she needed to save all the strength she could. When she fought back (and she would), it would not be random and half-hearted. She would plan. She would be meticulous. She would be sure.

  Instead of trying to sit up and bite his face off, she said, “So who are you?”

  “I’m your friend Sean Roberts.”

  “What are you?”

  “I am a little piece of person mixed with Deeny’s power and the power of a green necklace. Does that help you understand?”

  “Of course not.”

  He nodded, “I’m proud of what I am.”

  “Well, goodie for you.”

  “I know you
will find this hard to accept now, but someday soon I think you’ll begin to see you’re not actually in that bad of a situation.”

  Jen stared at him.

  “Your husband is going to become one of the most important people in Earth’s history. You’re Christian, aren’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “Paul will be like your Christ, but a little different.”

  “He said something about becoming a serial killer.”

  “He only says that because he doesn’t know the word for what he will become.”

  “Do you?”

  Sean looked past her at the blank green tent wall, at nothing, and then said, “It is not so much a word as it is a name.” He stood up, crouching slightly under the low tent ceiling. “He will become Mayhem, a new god.”

  She spat out the words, “I hate you,” because she did not know what else to say.

  And in that moment all she could see was her hatred for Sean and his lies. She could not even think about Paul, for that thought was a hole of darkness deeper than her mind could travel without suffocating.

  Sean smiled and said, “For now, that will work.”

  5

  Police Detective Shad Matthews was baffled. Apparently there was a murderer/kidnapper/corpse-desecrator loose in Summit County. There had been at least one murder and two disappearances. The gun had been quickly traced to a writer from Chicago named Paul Kenner, who was now the prime suspect. It was he and his wife that were missing.

  After thumbing through some battered paperbacks in his den, Matthews confirmed the inkling he’d had that he’d actually read one of Kenner’s books a few years back. It was Manpower, a Civil War book recommended to him by his brother, Scott, because of its interesting connection with Mormon pioneer history, something Matthews had been interested in since his youth. Barnabus Young may have been fictional, but his story was the amalgamation of many young Mormon boys at the time who actually had fought in the war for the Union.

  Matthews remembered that he’d found the book strangely touching—and its message of sacrifice, pain, and the upheaval of the nation had stayed with him like a dark shadow for weeks after finishing it. He never read another of Kenner’s books, but he’d always meant to; the book had moved him that profoundly. He found it beyond difficult to reconcile the man who had written that novel with the murderer he was seeking… especially after seeing Harmon’s mutilated body. Thankfully, that wasn’t for him to decide, it was his job to get the man to a jury (assuming he even was the perp) so they could make their decision.

  At 4:30 pm, his desk phone rang. He pawed the receiver with one enormous hand and put the thin, black plastic up to his face. He could never escape the feeling that it could snap in two in his hand if he wasn’t careful.

  “Shad,” a youngish male voice rattled out of the tiny speaker in the earpiece.

  “This is Shad Matthews.”

  “You mean you don’t recognize me?”

  “No. I’m sorry.” The partially open blinds cast long thin slats of light across his well-used desk. Today they reminded him of samurai sword blades.

  The voice said, “What if I told you that Chris Jones is burning in Hell, no matter what you say about our right to judge?”

  A sheepish grin spread onto Matthews’ big, tough face. “Richardson, you dog. How’ve you been?”

  “Oh, I’m doing well, buddy. It’s been too long.”

  “Sure has. But I’m telling you it’s up to God to decide where that punk Jones ends up.”

  He was referring to a drug dealer that had almost cost Matthews his life before Matthews calmed him down with a couple bullets to the brain. That was back near the beginning of his career when Richardson and he were still partners in Salt Lake.

  “You sound as young as ever,” Matthews said. “You still got that baby face?”

  “Still beating the girls off me with a stick if that’s what you’re asking. How’s life in Summit County? You keeping those hicks in line?”

  “I know you think it’s strictly domestic disputes out here, but we got a live one. Two murders, two missing.”

  “Yeah.” A pause. The sound of papers shuffling. “That’s actually why I’m calling. Looks like I maybe have another piece of your puzzle. Salt Lake girl named Clare Clark disappeared a couple weeks back. She was reported December twentieth. That date mean anything to you?”

  Matthews said, “Sure. It’s the day after the day they think Donald Harmon was killed. They found him a couple days after, and their having some trouble pinning down the exact TOD. But that’s not much of a connection if she was down there in Salt Lake.”

  “I got a call from a bartender out here, runs a place called Rio Lounge. Some bar. I’ve been there a few times myself. I like it because they don’t play the music so loud your ears are bleeding by the time you head home. Guy said he remembered seeing Clare on the nineteenth because she sat alone for a long time. Not only that, but she’s something of a regular customer of his. Later he saw this guy Harmon on the news and thought he looked familiar. Realized it was him she ended up drinking with and leaving with. Well, he asked around, seen if anybody who knew Clare had seen her, you know, just people at the bar, and they hadn’t. She disappeared.”

  While Richardson spoke, Matthews listened and held his hand up to the slats of light. He let them run across it, imagining they were real blades. Something about this case was all wrong, and not just the fact that a murderer was involved. He thought that working on it he, or someone, was going to get cut. “Her disappearing maybe wouldn’t be so strange. She’s been run up a couple times. Junkie, I think. But he thought it was worth reporting considering she may have gone home that night with a man who wound up dead the next day. I happen to agree with him; it’s worth looking in to.”

  “How sure is he that the guy in his bar was Harmon.”

  “Pretty sure. They sat at the bar for about forty minutes before leaving, and he served them everything they ordered. He saw the picture and said it’s got to be the same guy.”

  “So what are you saying, exactly?”

  “Maybe your live guy is even more lively than you thought.”

  “And why, exactly,” Matthews said with a grimace, “am I just hearing about this now?”

  “Don’t worry,” Richardson said. “Somebody’s already been demoted.”

  After a few more pleasantries and bad jokes Matthews politely ended the call.

  He did his best work here, in his office, pondering. Since his assignment as detective six years ago, he had solved a few stumpers, but he saw this incident as his first real challenge, an opportunity to prove to himself and those further on up the latter of command that he’d deserved that promotion.

  Matthews had never been married and had no children. He was a member of the Mormon church but had spent the first two decades of his adult life completely estranged from any kind of religion. Now in his late forties he saw his advancement and success in his career as a sign that becoming active in church again was the right thing to do. He even believed that it may not be too late for him to settle down with some nice woman who, like him, had not yet had the opportunity to marry. That was the phrase they liked to use in the Church, had not yet had the opportunity to marry. Never mind the fact that he had never made the time for family or women. Never mind the fact that—in his mind at least—he had no one to blame for his loneliness but himself. There were, undoubtedly, many members who had tried and had—in fact—not had the opportunity, but that didn’t describe him. Right now he was married to his job, which, despite truly being in love with detective work, was a distressing thought to him.

  But these diversions were getting in the way of what he needed to do. He lifted his agile, large frame from his desk-chair and crossed the room in two long steps. He turned off the light and twisted the blinds fully closed, shutting out all the swords from his office. This should be a safe place, he thought. The plastic stick that controlled the movements of the blinds felt like nothing
more than a cheap chopstick between his thumb and pointer finger.

  He lit a dirt-scented candle his brother had bought him for his birthday and sat back in his chair, comforted by the creak of the springs in it. He closed his dusty brown eyes, which never looked fully light or dark. His brother Scott had said he’d never understand somebody actively trying to get the smell of dirt indoors, but he knew what Shad liked, and the gift had become something of a yearly tradition. The smell—which really was a lot like dirt—took Matthews far away, to his childhood and beyond, to a place of pure thought. He searched and pondered the case with his mind, and—as was his more recent habit—he prayed for help.

  Worst-case scenario at this point: four dead, including Kenner if he ended this with suicide, and more if any had not yet been discovered. Best case scenario so far: one dead, three missing, but alive and well. Richardson said he would send an email of all the info he had about this Clare Clark person who may be connected, but Matthews couldn’t expect that until the next morning.

  His mind was again drawn to Manpower, the one book of Kenner’s he’d read. He retrieved the book from the shelf and returned to his seat. The black lamp he kept on the edge of the desk was adjustable, so he reached over his closed laptop and turned the knob slowly until there was just enough light to make out the words. He liked to keep the room as dark as possible while pondering a case.

  He ran his fingers over the slightly textured matte finish of the cover. At the top, in formidable block letters, it read MANPOWER. At the bottom was PAUL KENNER, same font, smaller size. The face on the cover—which could have been Barnabus, or the other white protagonist of the book—had been expertly rendered. It showed a sad but engaging mix of young promise and old pain. This, in many ways, was the face of war, wasn’t it? For how often were the soldiers young? In that face he saw Kenner as well, who was, from Matthews’ point of view, still young, especially for an author. If he was the killer, what had driven him to do it? What old pain had he experienced that had turned him so fully from his path of writing excellent, successful novels to that of a wanted murderer?