by Rodd Clark
They walked the city sidewalks, slowly headed to the vast twenty blocks comprising Pioneer Square. Christian watched Church bopping ahead, pointing at each and every detail that interested him, and wanting to share every thought that crossed his mind. It was lush and green along all the streets that circled the square. Wrought iron fences and lampposts carried the emerald patina of age; even the bus stops were floating under huge iron overhangs in that same picturesque, bygone era. They certainly did it right for the tourist trade here, thought Christian.
Church was utterly different from what he thought the serial killer would be like when he first took an interest. Although he’d been following the murders, his interest in them had been abstract at the time. Because Church killed using nontraditional methods, the police had been unable to tie the murders together, some were stabbed, some were strangled, a few were shot, and several were beaten to death. Where the police couldn’t see the connection, Christian did. It was all displayed on that whiteboard in his loft, and it had given him the city where he suspected the next victim would be unearthed. The hard part wasn’t in finding where Church would strike next, it was finding Church himself.
The last victim on his whiteboard was Fenton McCoy, middle-aged and a middle-management wannabe. Fenton was as nondescript a victim as one could imagine: a father of three grown children, a deacon at his church, and widowed within the last two years. He had no enemies, was not robbed of his wallet or possessions, and yet was found by police after making a routine stop to investigate an abandoned vehicle parked on the side of the road with the driver’s door still propped open and inviting.
The murder of a middle-aged man without even the thinnest of motives. It had not been robbery, it had been none of the usual suspects, and there had been no affiliation to drugs, gambling, and no sexual twist like a mistress with a nasty temperament or a jealous wife. The murder missed all the marks, and the victim couldn’t have been any more ordinary. His murder had generated little press, but after Christian read the lack of details to the case, he became intrigued. He began his research into unsolved murders in the region that carried the same characteristics. He found more than he would’ve liked.
Fenton McCoy was found by a passing black and white patrol car. He’d been propped face up in the front seat of his car. The only indication of murder was the thin blood trail circling his neck. He had been garroted and drew his last breaths less than a day before his discovery. His tongue was protruding from his mouth, his eyes staring at some unknown distant spot, and the smallest dribble of red squeezed from that dirty gash along his throat.
The police were confounded without a motive and such a nondescript victim profile. They only could pass it off as a murder by unknown assailant, or assailants. It created little press, but to Christian it signified a specific killer. Who garrotes their victims? Its random nature may have caused consternation for authorities but it spoke volumes for Christian, enough so that he would make a request for the police records. Like the tragic code of fate, Christian would stumble onto the killer quite by chance. His investigation into the murders piqued curiosity by the police and, as it turned out, the killer.
Christian never asked Church what it had been that drew him to the writer, but whatever it was began the descent into the maelstrom for both men. The authorities hadn’t found Church. Christian hadn’t identified him, either, but whatever the writer did positioned the men together. When Church reached out to him like a cold hand pulling one to the grave. Christian had been reading recent articles on the murders while he sat at a café staring into the screen of his laptop. Someone brushed past him, he hardly noticed, but the gentleman stopped long enough to invade his personal space and lean over his table, his pale-blue eyes almost beseeching him.
“You’re not going to find your killer by looking at the murders that way,” he’d said with a devilish twinkle and a faint smile partially submerged under a cold exterior.
He caught Christian by surprise, and his close proximity was as unnerving as the stranger was.
“Excuse me?” he said with his concentration broken and his amazement drawn to unwary eyes.
“I know the killer you seek. I thought I might offer some assistance to you, and a bargain to benefit both,” the man said, leaning closer and creating an alarming tension in Christian Maxwell, whose head turned quickly to ensure he wasn’t alone.
The stranger was a big man, dangerous in his size. He had a short-cropped head of full brown hair, full lips, and the hint of well-healed scars to illustrate he’d seen battle before. Christian was shocked by the exchange and words refused to follow his bewilderment, but the stranger’s eyes and his stern but cordial expression pulled him further into the fray.
“I see that you’re interested in the murders. I’ve done some research into you, and I know you have published books before. I presume your interest is due to some literary work you have planned on the gruesome subject. I want to propose writing from the killer’s own words, that is, if you are interested?”
“You know who the killer is?” Christian asked with shaky voice and a hollow timbre of apprehension and fear.
“I do,” the stranger said as he quickly took the chair opposite Christian and sat down without invitation.
“You know me. I don’t know you,” Maxwell offered as he took another glance in all directions, hoping he was close enough to other patrons that the man wouldn’t attack him in public.
“Am I correct that you are researching the murders for a book?” the man asked straightforwardly.
“Let’s just say it was a consideration. You know the killer’s name, and you want to connect us together for a book?” he said, piecing the puzzle together in his mind.
“You are sharp. I figured you were—you looked smart.”
“Um . . . thanks, I suppose. I guess the next question is what’s in it for you? I mean let’s say I meet with the killer, we write a book . . . from his or her perspective. What do you get?”
“Not as bright as I figured. You know your killer, you’re enjoying his company at this exact moment, but you knew that really . . . right?”
Frozen with fear, Christian’s hands began to tremble. His only saving grace was that he was in public. If he was sitting across from a killer, at least there were witnesses to whatever would happen next. He thought about raising his voice, bringing other’s attentions to his circumstances with loud boisterous conversation, one that might force others to remember the incident, if later questioned by the police. He thought about standing up and quickly and briskly walking to the door, hoping no one would follow, that he might make it out to the protection of a busy Seattle sidewalk, but he couldn’t move. He had turned to stone in that moment and lost any ability to decide his own fate.
Chapter Eleven
IT WAS LIKE the last remnant of a waking dream, the images in his head of how he first encountered Church and how he appeared to him in that little café. He understood that he’d have to explain how they met somewhere in the manuscript, but he guessed few readers would believe the story. There were ramifications to their meeting, both legal and frightening ones. He could claim he doubted the stranger who’d introduced himself as a killer, written him off as some nutcase claiming credit for murders he hadn’t committed. But at some point the question lingered: Why had he not called the police when he began to suspect Church was the real McCoy?
Christian had a good attorney, but this was not something he could fly by his old friend James and ask, “What are my jeopardies here? What are my responsibilities with this type of scenario?” Of course, he would first need to complete the book. Before ever submitting the final draft to his publisher, he would forward a copy to James for his legal advice, even though he suspected he wouldn’t listen to the obvious answer he already knew as truth.
After their initial meeting Church and Christian had tethered themselves to a common goal He already knew James would tell him not to pursue publication and to avoid risk of retaliation,
to just walk away. But he knew after meeting Church that had become impossible. He would follow this path wherever it took him, he would try to be aware of every danger or implication and consequence, but he was on that path already, and there were few things capable of pulling him astray.
Gabe had stopped to admire a totem pole that sat in the square. There were numerous totems in the area; tourists had become enamored with them, and they had quickly become an iconic image for the Northwest. In truth, the carved poles were not exactly indigenous to the local tribes, and although some of the prominently named poles so characteristically sitting in the square had been there for over a century, the first one had been pilfered from another state and transported to the square under false pretenses.
In 1899, the first totem pole was erected in Pioneer Square. It had been stolen from Alaska by a group of businessmen who claimed to have stumbled onto it in an abandoned village and sawed the totem from the tribal chief’s hut on Tongass Island. Although a legal case was established against the thieves of Kinninook’s pole, it was later dismissed and five hundred dollars was raised and sent to Alaska in reparation. It never reached the tribe, but the totem remained as the first erected in Pioneer Square, setting the false representation of life in the Northwest region, and now there were many.
Gabriel rested his palm on the smoky-black cedar carving, smiling back at Christian as if in invitation to join him. He was beautiful there as he stood in that dewy, crisp afternoon, looking like some lumberjack under the shade of tall trees. The tree line had been converted to the shadowy overhang of concrete and steel and the natural splendor broken by fat tourists with cameras and screaming children holding caramel apples and spilling sodas on clean concrete. But with all the distractions, Christian couldn’t help but see the godlike apparition in front of him and admire him, if only for his beauty.
The air was strong with the moist harbinger of rain. It was getting warmer as the mercury rose. Christian knew there would be a shower soon, something to wet the ground and saturate the fecund growth of lush greenery. Rain came suddenly here, but never unexpectedly; everyone understood the price of that inconvenience was the verdant green overgrowth covering the town. All seemed to accept it, happily.
There was nothing material in watching Church palm the totem with the sun beating down on his face under the shade of yellow copper beech leaves. He was wrapped in something intangible that Christian didn’t understand. There was a vague uncertainty to Church.
All circuits are busy . . . your call will be placed on hold.
His mind played games with him, staring at a killer who was smiling down at a tourist’s young boy, appearing as if he had true kindness on his face. It was the smile of a man who could just as easily murder such a child if he’d only seen him first bathed in that fucked-up, imperceptible glow that he enjoying railing about.
Watching Church with a throng of happy tourists circling him, captured in a moveable crowd, he thought how nice it would be to see the man in separate surroundings, maybe a forest setting, away from the trappings of civilized society and the prying eyes of judgment. He couldn’t help but wonder how a weekend at a cabin in the woods might be like in Church’s company. Waking up next to him on a down-filled mattress in an antique bed sounded intoxicating, so close to physical nature that you might be able to pull the leaves from the ground if not for the large-paned windows beside the bed to prevent it. Strange, he thought, how heady he’d become in his presence, and so quickly, considering he was very much a stranger. Add to that he was a man who’d confessed to murder . . . extraordinary how that hadn’t figured into his equation?
Church could be the punctuation to every sentence, finality with the monumental change that alters the very meaning of every paragraph. He must have proved an awful finality for a lot of people who had been unwillingly forced under his command. He could be a fucking nightmare for some, and the same boyish thing bounding excitedly ahead, just as much as he could be the sensual beast with wet desires in a downtown hotel.
Why did Church choose him to write his story? Why didn’t he have any fear of the outcome should the book ever see the light of day? He started to hear the ground rumble with marching feet somewhere over the horizon. Something was coming his way that he wanted to push far from his mind. Something Church may be planning but not yet speaking about.
Did his killer have some exit strategy in mind, wondered Christian? Would he turn himself in and leave the writer behind to pick up the pieces? He could visualize himself sitting in a room with FBI interrogators, someplace small and confining, stale and repellant—men in suits with sour faces who would ask him intimate questions about Church and make accusatory conclusions about the depth of their relationship.
Maybe Church was intending on taking himself out, but to Christian he didn’t seem the type. If Church allowed that outcome, he would choose “suicide by cop”; there would be a hail of bullets and some shocking picture worthy of the five o’clock news. Church was too full of his false bravado to ever think he could be taken out easily or quietly.
“I don’t know where you disappeared to, but wherever it is, I would’ve liked to have been invited along.” Christian was pulled from his thoughts by Church’s simple words and his sexy, crooked smile.
“Sorry . . . kinda got lost for a minute. And besides, I’m sure you wouldn’t have liked to tag along. My daydreams can get . . . somewhat dark.”
“Consider who you’re with, my buddy.” His smirking chortle couldn’t be contained; it happened even when he amused himself. There was an energy filling his eyes and bursting out that seemed to beckon to his fellow traveler.
“The next tour isn’t scheduled for another hour and a half. We could walk around the plaza with all these lovely overweight folks from the square states and wait in line behind their screaming kids, or we could step off and find the nearest bar with a nasty and disreputable clientele . . . your call?”
“I must say, writer boy, I like the way your mind works.”
The two men broke from the herd they’d been pulled along with then headed across the street to find an acceptable sports bar or pub, a place where they could sequester themselves from the milling crowds and loud noises. Church claimed he didn’t do well amid the large unwashed masses, but he’d seemed to be enjoying his time with Idaho strangers and their homespun vernacular. Christian had observed the killer’s grin as he helped a tiny boy up the steps and leaned in for casual conversation with the boy’s father—no doubt an insurance salesman who lived in a state where you could drive twenty minutes along long stretches of road between white farmhouses with large yellow sunflowers planted in the lawn.
Church had seemed cordial and earthy, starting up conversations with strangers in line. Highly contrasting the picture of a killer Christian had already created in his head. He was astonished with how many faces the man kept hidden under his belt. He might never get used to the personalities Church could pull from his cape and flash as his own. But for the moment only he knew what the man was capable of, knew how deadly a charming smile could be.
Finding a pub called the Owl N’ Crow, the two men grabbed a patio table and waited for a waitress. Church was in his element here as well, a handsome face in a rustic Irish pub. There weren’t many places he wouldn’t fit into, Christian suspected. Being a killer and a man on the fringe of society, he must have learned how to blend, how to manipulate his surroundings. Christian could never do that. He couldn’t shed his own skin to fuse into the moment; had he had that ability, he might have used it in school. He could’ve been a popular man about campus.
Church’s hands stretched across the dark oak table. Fingers splayed millimeters away from Christian’s own, as if they begged to touch Christian but couldn’t escape the guarded apprehension of public displays of affection. Church wasn’t gay, so he wasn’t comfortable with his sexual desires like Christian seemed to be, even though he himself was a burgeoning queer. Both men were a wealth of personal issues.
When a pretty redheaded waitress showed up, she smiled too overtly and appeared too genuinely interested in Gabe. They both ordered a tall draft of imported beer and a plate of wings. As they drank their ales, Gabe took the opportunity to find out more about the writer he’d chosen to pen his story.
“What makes the subtle plot points of the young Christian Maxwell’s life? We’ve done the nasty, but you mentioned earlier you’d never been with a man. Ever come close to it?”