Tomorrow I Will Kill Again

by Matthew Allred

  After about twenty minutes of weighing information and options and turning up nothing but more questions, he decided to head down to Peoa and ask around a bit more about this Paul Kenner. He’d been down to the house, of course, and checked the closest neighbors, who really weren’t that close, but nothing had come up. He had a feeling that someone else might know something, or even that a second visit with some of the people he had already spoken to might be beneficial. There weren’t that many houses in town. If he had to, he’d go door-to-door like one of those missionaries he had never been.

  Also, the closest neighbor to Kenner, a retired mink farmer named Clancy Miller, hadn’t been home. A couple of phone calls Matthews had made earlier in the day revealed Miller had been staying with his sister in Snyderville. Maybe he’d head that way, too. Something churning through his mind—could be the whispering of the Spirit, could be his own intuition, could be nothing more than his habit of thoroughness—told him that wasn’t really such a bad idea.

  6

  Jen had not so much as tried to see Paul—let alone speak to him—for fear of beholding firsthand what he had become. She had seen only Sean and the girl. Sean said her name was Clare Clark. They had removed her gag a day before, but apparently she had nothing to say once her request for heroin was denied. Her pallid features and frequent convulsions invoked Jen’s sympathies, but she did not know how to help. Jen could tell she was hurting. Based on the way she squirmed, Jen could see the main trouble areas were her head and crotch. She didn’t know much about heroin withdrawal, but since there was nothing else to look at as the days passed, she was learning.

  Jen’s only respite from this dismaying scene was Cards, who offered more hope and joy than any optimistic thought could have. The dog would scamper in and shake the snow from herself, gleefully chew off little balls of snow that accumulated on her fur, then hop in Jen’s sleeping bag. Jen didn’t even mind the smell. She tried to focus on the happy dog as much as she could; she had a feeling she owed much of her sanity to Cards.

  The girl didn’t talk, but would sometimes scream in short, violent fits. She had asked for her drug only once, after that her screams were wordless and formless, made of pure desperation.

  Jen stayed like this, watching, eating and drinking sparingly, being allowed to go to the restroom only with the armed guard of Sean—who held the same .380 that had killed Donald Harmon—for two days and nights.

  Then, without warning, came Clare’s worst spasm yet, and Jen could no longer be silent. She hoped it wouldn’t get either of them harmed, but she spoke out to comfort the girl.

  “Honey,” she said, “it’s going to be okay, you’re going to be alright.” Judging by the piecing shrieks that blasted from the girl okay and alright were by no means certain, but Jen didn’t know what she was supposed to say. “Clare, please try to calm down. I know it hurts, but it isn’t going to kill you.”

  Clare continued her fit as if she hadn’t heard. Perhaps she hadn’t.

  “I’m almost positive that heroin withdrawal is not lethal, honey, Clare.”

  Jen actually had no idea if this was true, but saw no reason to say otherwise. However, Jen thought if she were Clare, she would probably wish it would kill her.

  Clare’s back arched savagely, obviously beyond her control, and her eyes bulged almost as much as Sean’s had at Red Lobster. Confined by her restraints, Jen tried to roll over to Clare, to do what, she didn’t know, but she couldn’t stand not helping the girl. A cooler of food obstructed the movement of her torso, and she could only manage to touch her foot to the girl’s head. Small comfort, but at least it was something. Through all this she still wondered if the girl had been sleeping with Paul. The thought would not go away. The girl was about the same height as Jen, but probably twenty-five pounds lighter, thin to the point of emaciation—is that what Paul wished Jen looked like? She felt it was silly of her to worry if her husband had cheated on her, especially considering he had almost certainly killed a man at this point, but she couldn’t help it.

  Prompted by the girl’s pain, and trying desperately to avoid thoughts of unfaithfulness, she screamed, “Could someone please get in here?” She didn’t know if any of the three were near camp. Paul and Deeny often went for long walks, and Sean still worked at her old office. That hadn’t struck her as funny until just then. “Please! She’s having a seizure, I think! Someone needs to untie her. She might seriously hurt herself!”

  Jen waited through the girl’s moans. No one came.

  Then the real thrashing started, as if by saying the word seizure she had called one into the tent. In her panic-addled mind, Jen was certain the girl was going to die. When Jen struggled against her bindings, the thin, plastic ropes bit into her wrists and ankles. She hardly noticed. More than anything at that moment she wanted to help the girl, to protect her. By some miracle, one of her hands slipped out. The endorphin rush following this turn of luck was so strong that it confused Jen at first; now that she was free she didn’t know what to do with herself. But soon she freed her other hand, followed by her feet. Unbound for the first time in what might have been as long as half a week, a wild impulse to run nearly sent Jen packing out the tent flap. But the screeches of agony coming from the other corner of the tent stopped her.

  Had Jen obeyed the impulse to run, and left Clare’s thrashing body behind, things would have turned out differently, but she went to the convulsing young woman and tried to untie her amid an inundation of lashing and kicking. Before she could get to the rope around the girl’s wrists, Clare slammed both balled-up hands into Jen’s nose. There was a burst of pain, and Jen smelled her own blood. She ducked under the next swing and turned the girl onto her back, all while hoping she wasn’t doing more harm than good.

  “Honey, hey, Clare, shhh, shhh,” she said continually, doing more to soothe herself than the girl. Her nose throbbed in bright pain. Eventually she got the girl’s hands free, which made getting the feet untied even more challenging. The girl clawed out at her like a rabid animal intent on nothing but warding off its attacker. It was clear that Clare had not clipped her jagged nails in some time. Thirty seconds passed, perhaps the longest half-minute of Jen’s life. Despite a probably broken nose and a myriad of scratches on her face and arms, Jen was able to free the girl. Her front was wet with her own blood, but it wasn’t gushing like Jen would have expected.

  Tears ran down her cheeks like tiny rivers, mingling with the scant blood from her nose. When the last tie came off, Jen stood and stepped back to watch in silent fascination as the demon Withdrawal had its way with Clare’s lithe, papery body. The seizure lasted almost two minutes.

  Afterwards, Jen was sure the girl had stopped breathing, but by putting her cheek close enough to her mouth, she could feel the slightest whispering of breath. Fortunately or otherwise, the girl was still alive. They were both dressed reasonably warm, and so with no further thought other than wishing Cards could come with them Jen grabbed the girl’s legs and dragged her out of the tent. Hopefully the shock of being in snow would somehow rouse Clare enough that Jen wouldn’t have to drag her all the way back to civilization—but if that’s what was needed, Jen was willing to die trying. She believed anything would be better than being held captive by her own husband, whom she still loved despite everything.

  7

  Emma Miller did not like unexpected visitors, she didn’t like authority figures, and she didn’t much care for men, so when she saw the broad-shouldered, light-haired policemen open the fence gate at the front edge of her property, she scowled, making her average old lady face into something almost darkly comical.

  She’d had the imposing white brick-and-iron fence installed around her property a decade ago specifically to dissuade passersby of any sort from bothering her. But of course it wouldn’t stop a cop; nothing stopped a cop from getting what he wanted. He, first husband had been a power-hungry pig just as this approaching man most certainly was. If all men were basically same, then male cops wer
e twins at heart. The policeman was alone and in plainclothes, but Emma could spot a detective when she had to.

  She set down that month’s Redbook and headed to the door in a huff. The annoyance of having a policeman on the premises was only amplified by her certainty that it involved Clancy in some way. Had he actually been running from the law when he’d come to stay here? This thought was almost interesting enough to light a tiny spark of curiosity in Emma, but she extinguished it with well-practiced prudishness before it even had a chance to flare up.

  She peered through the peephole so she could open the door the moment the man was about to knock. She did so and hoped it unnerved him. “Hello,” she said, smiling. “How can I help you, officer?”

  He was obviously taken aback by both her opening of the door at such a moment as well as her assurance that he was a policeman, despite his civvies. He stood looking down at her for a moment with his mouth open like an imbecile. She held up her head with a look of utter patience and respectability. She found the innocent, helpful face useful for when another hammer-whack was needed; she could further unnerve the man by dropping the façade at an unexpected moment.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Are you Emma Miller?”

  “Yes I am.”

  “Sister of Clancy Miller?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m a detective with Summit County. I understand your brother is staying with you. I’d like to ask him a few questions. Would that be alright?”

  “You’d have to ask him, but you’re certainly welcome to come inside. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?”

  He stepped in to the large living room and seemed unsure of where to put himself. “No, thank you,” he said, looking about.

  “You can just sit anywhere you like.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” He lowered himself onto the white loveseat with care, taking up most of it.

  “I’ll go get Clancy.” She scuttled out of the room, looking very much the part of an old woman. In both high school and college, Emma had enjoyed a few theatrical roles, and it felt good to be acting again.

  †

  Miller sat on the full-sized couch, and his sister was perched on the piano bench, trying not to look put out. Matthews had offered to switch her seats, but she had politely declined. He didn’t know what to make of her, but the important person in this equation was Miller himself, so thankfully Matthews didn’t have to give the woman—who frankly kind of freaked him out—much thought.

  “Mr. Miller, I understand you are Paul Kenner’s neighbor, is that right?”

  Miller looked at him with eyes that seemed to express an intellect much sharper than his manner and dress would suggest. “That’s right,” Miller said. “He’s gone missing, hasn’t he? Saw it on the news. Him and his wife.”

  “Yes,” Matthews said, mentally scanning the man. He looked exactly like the old mink farmer he was. Plaid shirt, thick jeans. Matthews could easily picture him in the typical beige overalls of the profession, but something about the man piqued Matthews’ keen detective eye. It had been a good idea to come this way after all.

  “How well would you say you know Mr. Kenner?”

  Miller said, “I’ve talked to him maybe five or six times. I see when they drive away and when they come home. They go right past my place. That’s about it. So, not very well, I suppose.”

  “Do you know anything about what might have led up to this? Any unusual behavior?”

  “Hard to say… a man like that isn’t very ‘usual,’ is he?”

  Matthews said, “A man like what?”

  “A writer. That’s what he does for a living, isn’t it? Writes books. Most people don’t do that or anything like it, and fewer still can buy a mansion because of what they write. Most people just work regular, wouldn’t you say?”

  “So what are you implying, exactly?”

  In a movement that was almost clandestine, Miller flicked his eyes in his sister’s direction. But then the wrinkled face returned to Matthews’ gaze as if nothing had happened. For a moment Matthews wondered if he had imagined it.

  The old man said, “You asked me if he’d shown any unusual behavior. From where I’m sitting, just about everything about him, everything he does, is strange. Stays cooped-up in that house of his all day, like us retired folk, but too young to be. I think that’s strange. Walks around the tree patch by his house just about everyday. I think that’s strange, too. Not much to see out there once you’ve taken a few laps, but he never seemed to bore of it.”

  “Clancy,” Emma said, “you’re talking in circles. Now do you know something about this disappearance or don’t you? If you don’t, just say so, so this fine young man can get on his way.”

  Matthews had not thought of himself as a young man in almost twenty-five years. He understood Miller’s sister wasn’t really talking to Miller, she was talking to him, Matthews. She was telling him to leave. Again Miller’s eyes flicked purposefully toward his sister.

  “She’s right,” Miller said in a strained tone, “there’s nothing more to say.” Then he added, as if accidentally, “…Right now, anyhow.”

  Matthews stood. “Sorry to have bothered you then. Let me know if you do think of something.” He handed Miller a card with his number on it. “I guess I’ll just head over to the Ruby Tuesday I saw when I headed into town. Usually takes me a while to eat, so I like to go someplace like that where they don’t rush you, you know?”

  The woman nodded; the confused look on her face said she had no idea why Matthews had explained where he would be eating, and that was good.

  Miller said, “Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  “Not a problem, Mr. Miller, you just be sure to call me if anything comes up.” Matthews walked out, got in his car, and drove to the restaurant to wait.

  8

  Earlier that same morning Deeny had come back from his soul-searching trek, and Sean, Paul, and he walked along the far end of the frozen lake in the thin light of early morning and discussed a new vision Deeny had apparently had. Paul was the only one among them who had to worry about wearing anything like a jacket or a hat. Today Deeny was dressed in all black, matching his eyes. Sean wore a typical work outfit, which looked decidedly eccentric amidst the dead-of-winter scene of the lake.

  Deeny said, “Do you know where a town called Oakley is? I believe it is near the town you live in.”

  “Yes,” Paul said. “I’ve been there twice. It’s a lot bigger than Peoa, but it still isn’t big.”

  Sean said nothing; he seemed more than content to listen and kick up snow with his loafered feet as he walked. Paul wished Sean would stop idly kicking because the wind sometimes caught snatches of powder and sprayed it in his face, but he said nothing.

  “I think a man lives there, a man named Kyle Weaver. He delivers food to stores. It seems twenty years ago this Foodist and his brother were both…” Deeny did not like saying the word ‘love,’ but for the benefit of Paul’s understanding he forced himself to, “in love with the same woman. This led to a late night fight, with no one around but the two men. I am not sure in exactly what manner he did so, but this Foodist killed his brother. His brother had disappeared many times before, leaving town without a moment’s notice, and it was simply assumed that he had done so again. The Foodist was never brought to justice. He now lives in Oakley believing he never will be.”

  As if Paul did not understand the implications of this, Sean said, “That’s where you come in, Paul. You’re going to kill him.”

  Deeny said, “He is fifty-eight and lives alone in a two-story home, surrounded by…” Deeny searched the Writer’s mind for the right words, “trailers in Oakley’s only… trailer park. My vision revealed nothing more, but that should be enough.”

  Sean said, “I think Deeny has enough power left to start a car. I can steal one and drive you there. Wonderful thing is, I don’t leave fingerprints or anything like it. I know that’s a concern of yours. I can drive you, and you can kill him.” Se
an was practically bursting with excitement. Paul wished their plans did not have to involve Sean in any way, but killers can’t be choosers.

  “The main problem,” Deeny was saying, “is that you will be completely free from my help in any form. I will be completely drained by that point. If you fail… it is finished. I will return to the necklace, Sean will cease to be, and you will be confined for the rest of your life for the murder of Donald Harmon.”

  “I might go to Death Row,” Paul said.

  Deeny shook his head. “What a waste that would be.”

  For a time they walked in the profound silence of snow. They changed course so they were heading back toward camp. The early morning light continued to increase as the sun rose from behind a mountain ridge. The wind also grew stronger, as it did every morning around this time.

  “But,” Sean said, “if you succeed, which should be a very easy and simple thing, Deeny’s power will be restored. He will be re-energized. Not to the height we hope to one day achieve, but enough that you two can embark—truly embark—on your journey of destruction properly.”

  They were now approaching camp, and its tents could be seen even through the flurry of white. “What do you get out of this?” Paul asked, still not understanding the purpose of the man’s continued presence. Shouldn’t he have disappeared once Jen no longer needed distracting?

  Sean looked hurt and confused. He stopped walking, and the snow piled on his eyebrows. He said, “And anyway, you’ll be doing this for Jen. We need protection. All of us. Deeny’s power can give us that.” He looked up, surveying camp. “Speaking of Jen.” He pointed at the women’s tent, where the wind pulled madly at the flap that had somehow come undone.

  “Oh no,” Paul said and ran ahead of his walking companions.

  †