What Hides Within

by Jason Parent

  He appeared grim but vigorous, in control. Yet it was Kevin who should have been in control, clinging to his knife as though it were his child hanging from a cliff. In his silence, in his stillness, Clive somehow obtained the upper hand. Clive somehow assumed the role of aggressor without displaying any aggression. Even so, Kevin charged.

  “Get help!” Clive had commanded Morgan. His words cut through her paralysis and sent her running downstairs and into the street. She reached for her purse, normally slung over her shoulder, but her hand found only air.

  In the car! It’s gotta be in the car! Then my keys must be… yes! She heard them jingling in her front pocket, pulled them out, and hit the unlock button as she rushed to her car. After opening the door with shaking hands, she foraged through her handbag.

  “Finally!” She found her cell phone and flipped it open. Hold on, Clive!

  She dialed 9-1-1. A soothing voice answered before she could even hear the phone ring.

  “Nine-One-One. What is your emergency?”

  “There’s been a stabbing at… oh fuck! I don’t know the address. It’s on Gilmore Lane in Somerset. Please come quickly.”

  “Can you provide a house number for me?”

  “There’s like three fucking houses on the road! It’ll be the one with the dead guy in it if you don’t fucking hurry!”

  “Ma’am, please calm down.”

  “Calm down? There’s a knife-wielding maniac trying to kill my boyfriend! You want me to calm down?”

  “What color is the house?”

  “White, second one on the left. Please, hurry!”

  “Emergency vehicles are being dispatched. Stay where you are, and they will come to you.”

  “All right. Thank you.”

  Morgan hung up the phone. Her shortness of breath never had the chance to cure itself, her harried phone conversation exhausting her further. Her legs felt wobbly, as though she’d just finished the Boston Marathon. Cold sweat formed oily droplets on her forehead despite the subfreezing temperature outside. Nausea set in, and the world became a carousel around her.

  Clive, she thought, concerned only for him when she should have been thinking of herself. Be okay. As her sight blurred and she collapsed to the ground, she prayed that he was still breathing.

  Detective Reilly wasn’t above exploiting the flashing blue light atop her rickety Ford Gran Torino to avoid stopping for red lights. It looked like a cheap prop from some disco-era porno, particularly on Reilly’s rust-colored Starsky & Hutch-mobile, but it served her well. It even helped her force a route through traffic. But when she made it to the Brightman Street Bridge, the closest connection Fall River had to its tiny suburb neighbor, the police light couldn’t assist her in crossing the open drawbridge.

  What kind of moron would be out on the Taunton River in this cold?

  Peering out her window and over the bridge’s railing, Reilly saw the reason for her delay. A dirty, cumbersome barge pulled by two tugboats plodded its way across the polluted river toward her. The barge carried supplies to the contractors building the new bridge on the other side. The new bridge would be high enough to allow vessels safe passage beneath it without having to open up and stop traffic. She looked forward to the new bridge, which was supposed to have been completed six years ago.

  The delivery truck behind her was nearly on top of her bumper. Reilly left little room to maneuver between herself and the Rabbit in front of her. Even if she had, she couldn’t go anywhere. The lane to her left was a parking lot, blocking her escape. She had no choice but to sit and wait.

  As she counted away the minutes, she heard sirens blaring in the distance. Eventually, the sirens grew louder as their sources drew closer. Two police cars and an ambulance struggled to get through the mirroring parking lot on the opposite side of the bridge. She wondered where they were headed at a rate barely faster than the barge’s. A sick feeling in her gut told her that she might see them again.

  Crazy, she thought, convincing herself everything was okay. It’s probably just a cat stuck in a tree. She ignored her gut, dismissing her uneasiness as an aftereffect of the steak burrito she’d had for lunch.

  Somerset’s too quiet for anything serious to happen. Yuppies arguing over property lines—that’s all it is. Anyway, it’s got nothing to do with me. One thing’s for sure, though. At the rate those officers are moving, they aren’t getting any-where in time to protect and serve anybody.

  CHAPTER 41

  “G

  et help!” Clive’s words sent Morgan stampeding by Kevin. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her escape and was thankful for it.

  The bulk of his concentration, however, remained on Kevin. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Kevin hurled everything he had at him. Yet Clive’s senses were amplified. Every detail, from the mischievous glimmer on the blade, to the mucus draining onto Kevin’s upper lip, to the grey streaks of cobwebs and dust running like dolphins through the waves of his hair—it all came in crystal clear through his sharp, hawkeyed vision.

  The rank odor of Kevin’s unwashed body permeated around him. It was mixed with a smell Clive recognized. Heightened hormone levels released the scent of a wild, untamable beast, the aromatic manifestation of bloodlust. It ignited Clive’s own lust for blood.

  Only air and adversity separated them. Kevin charged and quickly closed the distance.

  Clive gnashed his teeth and stood his ground. He analyzed his surroundings with split-second accuracy. A sofa lay, tousled, to his left. He could duck behind it. A broken picture frame sprinkled the carpet to his right with potential weapons. But Clive zeroed in on a torn-open sofa cushion strewn on the floor between them, a present left by the FBI.

  Despite having limited time to plan, Clive acted with forethought. A brief outline of what could happen flashed through his brain, and he acted it out as if someone else was pulling his strings. Maybe someone—no, something else was. He had no time to second-guess it.

  With Kevin nearly upon him, Clive crouched low. Rolling backward onto his ass, he kicked through the cushion, sending it and his soles smashing into Kevin’s shins, knocking his leg out from under him. He stumbled, his knife hand flailing wildly as he fell.

  Kevin’s free hand tried to break his fall. His right hand carried the knife toward Clive’s head as if by its own volition. Clive gasped, his eyes exploding open. Then he closed them. He didn’t want to see his oncoming death. He brought his knees up to his chest into the false security offered by the fetal position.

  Kevin crashed down onto Clive’s bony knees. The gut shot to his stomach curled Kevin up in pain. He ricocheted off Clive, and the blade dropped from his grip. Its point stuck itself into the sofa. Kevin lay, sore and hurting, between it and Clive.

  When he heard Kevin’s yelp and subsequent wheezing, Clive opened his eyes. Kevin squirmed on the carpet beside him. He was down, windless on his side, slow to recover. Clive seized the opportunity, windmilling his closed fist into Kevin’s frostbitten ear, knocking him off his elbow prop and onto his shoulder. Then Clive scurried around the sofa on hands and knees. Once behind it, he leapt to his feet. Throwing himself over the back of the sofa, he reached for the knife.

  It was gone. Catching a glimpse of Kevin huddled on the floor, he ducked back behind the couch. Shit! he thought, not knowing what to do next, not knowing what had happened to the knife.

  Clive’s punch seemed to have revitalized Kevin. Somehow, he’d grabbed the knife. He tucked it underneath him as he regained his breath. Slowly, he rose to his feet.

  Clive had no choice but to retreat. He knew he couldn’t stay hidden there forever. Behind the sofa, he couldn’t see Kevin on the other side. Only a couch’s width away, it wouldn’t be long before Kevin saw him. He had to move.

  As he stood up, a sharp pain shot through his left bicep. He caught a glimpse of the swiping arm that had already crossed over Kevin’s body—the end of his stroke. His hand still held the blade, but it was covered in blood. Clive’s blood.<
br />
  With the sofa between him and his attacker, Clive stepped back. He clenched his fresh wound, putting pressure on the open vein. Blood stained his palm and dripped through his fingers. The cut was deep, his blood warm. Yet its warmth paled in comparison to the heat of his wrath.

  Great! More fucking stitches! Clive thought, needle and thread his only concern.

  Take this asshole out already, Chester cheered. Her voice was welcome support from a not-so-passive observer.

  “Gladly.”

  Kevin lowered the blade to his side. Blood ran down its length and dripped into little red snowflakes on the carpet. He stood facing Clive in another standoff. Clive wasn’t sure what to try. He’d expected unharmed victory as promised him by a confident spider. Still, he couldn’t back down now.

  Kevin scowled and pointed at him with the blade. “You brought this upon yourself, Clive. It was hard enough without your little games, but you had to keep pushing.”

  “Are you fucking nuts?” Clive stalled as he tried to come up with a plan. Chester had gotten him into that mess. Why wasn’t she trying to get him out of it? “Well, obviously, you are. Dumb question.”

  “Admit defeat, Clive. You’ve lost. Put your hands behind your back, and I promise I’ll make this quick.”

  “Ha! I don’t think so. How do you expect this to end, Kevin? Death comes in threes, my psychotic friend. I’ve lost Derek, Rachel, and can you guess who’s next? Good thing I bought a new suit. I guess I’ll still attend your funeral. I doubt anyone else will.”

  The corner of Kevin’s mouth curled into a smile. After all, he had the weapon, and Clive’s skin had already begun to pale from the loss of blood.

  “Did you ever consider the fact that you might be the third in Death’s scheme?” he asked. “Maybe you bought that new suit because you were meant to be buried in it.”

  Clive chuckled, feigning confidence. “Afraid not, Kevin. That’s just not how the whole cosmic death thingy works. Death surrounds somebody in threes. It doesn’t take him.”

  “Okay. Whatever, Clive. You die believing in your ill-founded superstitions.”

  Clive knew an end to their conflict drew near. One of them had to die. It was too late for any other result. But for some reason, Kevin was stalling the inevitable.

  “Not that it will make any difference, but would you mind telling me why you put me through all this bullshit?”

  This guy is off the proverbial deep end, Clive. Why listen to him any further? Chester asked. You know what you have to do.

  “I know.”

  “Then enlighten me,” Kevin replied. “Please, I’m all ears.”

  Then do it.

  “I will,” Clive said to his invisible partner then addressed his attacker. “Kevin, you’re confused. I’ll give you one last chance to hand over that knife. If you do, I promise to let you go on your merry way.” Straight to your fucking grave.

  “Stop acting like you have no idea what I’m talking about. It was you. It had to be you. There’s nobody else. Your game is up. You’ve been discovered. You should have just gone to the cops, put me away. The guilt has been so relentless I may have even thanked you for it. Instead, you chose to fuck with my head. But I turned the tables on you. I know I got to you at the mall. How did it feel to know you were being watched, a victim of your own game, becoming the hunted rather than the hunter?”

  Oh, please shut this guy up already, Chester begged. But Clive knew it was one thing to talk about killing someone and another to actually go through with it, especially when that someone had the knife. He needed to wait for his opportunity.

  “Hey, asshole! Listen to yourself. You’re not making any sense.”

  “Fine,” Kevin said. “Be stubborn. It won’t change a thing. If it wasn’t for the explosion, I would have cut you down earlier. Now’s as good a time as any, I suppose.”

  Clive watched as Kevin flexed his grip around the knife’s ivory handle. He inched slowly backward.

  Keep him talking, he told himself. Maybe I won’t have to do anything. Detective Reilly could take his ass out for me. Where the hell is she already? She should’ve been here by now. God, I hope she’s still coming.

  Blood flowed through his fingers as he kept pressure on his arm. He was losing far too much of it. He snapped at Chester. “I was supposed to get through this safely!”

  Have faith. You will.

  “Finally, the truth!” Kevin raised his arms as if exasperated. His smile vanished, his whole face hanging pitifully like a worn sweater from a hanger. His voice went quiet. “I know we weren’t exactly close, Clive. But I always thought we got along. I make no excuses for what I did. Murder is unjustifiable in most circumstances, and what I’ve done cannot be called anything but murder. May God forgive both of us for what we’ve done.”

  “I got news for you. God ain’t watching. Detective Reilly was right about you. My roommate the homicidal maniac! What the fuck, Kevin? How could you do it?”

  Kevin looked away as tears filled his eyes. For a moment, he had no response. The moment didn’t last long.

  “What I did is mine to live with! You should be more concerned about yourself. I knew it was you. I knew you talked to the cops too. You left me no choice, Clive.”

  He’s coming, Chester warned. Attack first. Catch him off guard. Be ready.

  Clive nodded. “You always have a choice, Kevin. For example, if you stay where you are, I’ll choose not to kill you. Free will’s a funny thing.”

  Kevin laughed. He took a step forward, then another. His third step placed him atop the sofa. There, he paused, his eyes twinkling madly as they looked at Clive. He swung his leg over the back of the couch.

  Clive watched Kevin’s approach like an antelope caught in the lion’s gaze. His options were limited, as was his range of movement. Every sense he had screamed that his window to act was closing. He needed to attack before Kevin could draw blood again.

  As Kevin’s thigh crossed over the back of the couch, Clive dove forward. Like a linebacker punishing a receiver for catching a ball thrown over the middle, he tackled Kevin. The two crashed down near where they had lain only moments prior. Kevin groaned as Clive’s full weight crushed him into the floor, dazing him. Ruins of glass embedded themselves in Clive’s forearm and Kevin’s back.

  Clive climbed atop Kevin and knelt on his shoulders, pinning him to the floor. Then he began the onslaught. Wailing away on Kevin’s face with his fists until both face and knuckles were blood soaked, Clive couldn’t stop himself. With each brutal swing, he could feel energy well up inside him, compelling another.

  Kevin’s eyes closed. In one last effort, he crooked his elbow and drove the knife into Clive’s side. Clive squealed, more so when Kevin twisted the blade. It ended Clive’s pummeling, but it didn’t get him off Kevin, whose hand fell limp from the weapon.

  Anguish brought tears to Clive’s eyes. He clutched at the knife’s handle, knowing he shouldn’t remove it, but needing it out of him. It slowly gave way from his innards, excruciatingly moving out of its flesh-made cradle. With a burst of dark blood, the knife came free. He held it in his open hands, his blood pouring out faster.

  Use it, a friendly voice ordered.

  Chester was right. An eye for an eye—wasn’t that her way of restoring the natural order? An eye for an eye, Clive thought.

  Wrapping all ten fingers together around the knife’s grip, he raised the blade high over his head. Kevin was too out of it to defend himself, likely unaware of his peril. He lay motionless beneath Clive, who slammed the blade down hard.

  When it entered his chest, Kevin lurched awake. For a fleeting moment, Clive saw his victim’s face, alight with life. Something wickedly sinister resided inside Clive, a part of him that thrived on Kevin’s suffering. A part of him he couldn’t blame on Chester.

  His condition, however, was ghastly. He let go of the knife and crawled off Kevin. On his knees beside his former roommate, he convulsed and vomited. All the while, he clutched
at his side.

  Nearby, Kevin fared much worse. Clive looked over to see blood seeping out of Kevin’s mouth. The blade had pierced his lung. Soon, he would drown in his own blood. It rose in his throat, coughed out as he tried to speak.

  “I didn’t mean… to do it,” Kevin said.

  Clive could barely make out what Kevin was saying over his own lurching. He knew it was over, and he had won. At that moment, though, he didn’t feel like a winner. Assuming he survived his wounds, Clive planned to have a heated discussion with Chester later about their relative definitions of “safely.”

  Kevin continued, evidently needing to confess. Clive couldn’t give a damn.

  “When I took her, my intentions were… corrupt. But I never touched her. I tried to make things right. I took her to the woods… to let her go. I threatened her with the knife to scare her into silence.”

  Kevin no longer seemed troubled by his wounds. His tears seemed to come from somewhere much deeper. “She screamed and struggled then stumbled. The knife… oh God, she was just a little girl.”

  The sick fuck kills children too. Chester lacked any pity. Clive seconded her notion. He didn’t quite understand what Kevin was telling him, but by the sound of things, Kevin’s crimes were unforgivable. His intentions were irrelevant. His actions spoke for themselves.

  Clive tilted his head toward Kevin, wiping the saliva from his mouth. He felt nothing but disgust, both for Kevin and for his own condition.

  As sirens blared outside, Kevin’s sobbing grew fainter. His cough lessened. The gurgling of blood in his throat and out the hole in his chest stopped.

  Shuffling feet sprinted up the apartment stairs. Clive cringed as each one creaked on the seventh step. Like a twisted lullaby, the repetitive creak rocked him into any uneasy slumber, his blood loss catching up to him quickly. He lay down next to his puddle of bile, his clothes bloodied and clinging to his skin, and rested his head on the carpet.