Dreams and Reality Set 3: Cannibal Dreams and Butchered Dreams

by Hadena James

  “You two have issues with staying focused. If what you say is true, what does that mean?” Rollins asked.

  “We visit Carl,” I answered. “He’s probably dead, but there is nothing I can do about that now. If he’s not, it will be good. Unfortunately, to get an accurate description of Patterson, we are going to have to peel back the disguise. I’m not sure how much is fake. The eyes. The hair. The limp. Who died yesterday?” I asked.

  “No one and the sheriff’s department is being a pain in the ass,” Rollins said. “Since no one died and we can’t prove it was Patterson, they won’t let us view the crime scene.”

  “If no one died, how do you have a crime scene?”

  “We have a bus,” Malachi jumped in. “A bus with a bullet lodged in a window. The bullet was two seats behind Joe and all the sheriff’s office would tell us was that it was a .22. I think it was James Okafor’s rifle.”

  “Proof that you can’t cannot be good at everything,” I pointed out.

  “True,” Malachi started to say more, but was interrupted by Rollins.

  “This guy is a million years old, how can he always be ahead of us? How’d he know about Joe Clachan being on that transport?” Rollins whined. I hated whining, unless I was doing it, then it was fine.

  “First, he is not a million; he is not even a hundred. Yes, he is old, but I would bet he is in better physical shape than you. Second, a quick search of Casenet will give you a court date, it is not hard to figure out when transports come and go.” I answered.

  “The Curse of the Clachans strikes again,” Malachi gave me a wry smile.

  “There is no such thing,” I told him.

  “That’s what you think, but you’re still alive and so is Patterson. All evidence points to the fact that both of you should be dead. Obviously, you haven’t met the gruesomest thing possible yet.” Malachi’s smile disappeared. “Although, you came close.”

  I shuddered at the very thought of the Brazen Bull. If it hadn’t been for Lucas, I’d be cooked, literally, along with my niece, Cassie. They would have been scraping our flesh off the bronze while someone tried to pry apart my shriveled up internal organs. Death by fire was bad, but death by heat was worse

  “I keep hearing whispers about this stupid curse, what is it?” Rollins asked.

  “From who?” I turned on him, hoping he felt very small.

  “Police officers at CPD, deputies at the sheriff’s department, Malachi, FBI agents, people that have history with the Clachans,” Rollins paused.

  “There is no such thing as curses.” I walked indignantly to the SUV.

  “If there is, the Clachans’ have a seriously bad dose of it,” Malachi told Rollins. “Almost no one dies of old age. Some die really old, but not of old age. One of them even spontaneously combusted at the age of 102.”

  “They did not,” I huffed. “They set themselves on fire, deliberately.”

  “But did they die?” Malachi asked.

  “Well, no,” I admitted.

  “How did they die?” Rollins looked horrified.

  “Trampled by a runaway team of horses,” I answered. “It happens.”

  “It does happen, but not in the 1940’s.” Malachi answered.

  “It’s still not a curse, haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘live by the sword, die by the sword?’ We are a violent lot, it seems only right that we would die violent deaths. Karma is entertained by our suffering.” I said.

  “You believe in karma but not curses?” Rollins asked.

  “Maybe,” I shrugged. “There are a lot of things I might believe in.”

  “Aislinn is a skeptic, not a non-believer. There’s a difference,” Malachi said. “What are the chances that Carl’s alive?”

  “I do not know, I guess that depends on what happened after we left. What do you remember about Virgil’s cane?” I asked.

  “Dark wood, not sure what kind, not something I’ve seen before. Silver handle, but now that you mention it, he used it weird, keeping his fingers over the front of it when he walked.”

  “To hide the Green Man on it,” I offered.

  “To hide something,” Malachi agreed.

  Malachi drove. I sat in the backseat and contemplated his words. He was right, I was a skeptic and not a non-believer. I couldn’t rule out the possibility that demons, wendigos, and Bigfoot were all real. Just as I couldn’t rule out the possibility that curses did indeed exist, just like coincidences.

  Malachi was a believer. He believed that cattle mutilations were the work of aliens. That demons did possess some people and make them do evil things. Even the notion of curses were easy for him to find reason and logic behind. This made him both an optimist and a pessimist. Believers always seemed to have more answers than non-believers. Even skeptics like myself couldn’t fill in the blanks like he did. It was strange to think of a chess grand-master and scholarly author of papers on quantum mechanics who had come to work for the FBI chasing serial killers and secretly investigating UFO reports, cattle mutilations, and stories of abductions.

  Long ago, I’d learned not to argue with him about these beliefs. Not because they were irrational ramblings that he stuck with contrary to all evidence, but because he could make them sound rational. If I argued too long, he’d convince me and then I’d be stuck as a believer too.

  The drive was quiet, all of us waiting to find out. It struck me as odd that Patterson had not only been here, masquerading as his dead brother, but that many in the family seemed to know that Virgil was alive and well. My research had taught me that Vigil Clachan had made a killing in Las Vegas as a general contractor. The man was worth hundreds of millions. I couldn’t imagine having that much money. I could imagine Patterson using it to fund his murderous exploits.

  Being a serial killer automatically created certain obstacles for law enforcement. Being a serial killer with means complicated those obstacles. To be a serial killer, one was expected to live in a flop house, sullied by blood and gore, along with a plethora of cats and notebooks full of ramblings. This was not the case. I had actually never seen a serial killer living in squalor. I’d heard about them, sure, killers like Robert Berdella from Kansas City had lived the life of a hoarder. Experience told me those stereotypes were dangerous, it was more likely for them to live in single story ranch houses in quiet suburbs.

  However, with Patterson’s money, he could be renting hotel suites and having champagne parties. His wallet was fat enough to bribe delivery men into hand-delivering unlabeled packages containing body parts. I thought of the From Hell letter thought to be the only true Jack the Ripper letter. Hand-delivered packages always spelled gloom and doom.

  Malachi turned into Carl’s driveway. To my surprise, Carl stepped out onto the porch. He had a large cigar in one hand, clippers and lighter in the other.

  Seeing Carl alive meant that either I was wrong or Patterson had no reason to kill him. It would be hard to convince me that I was wrong. Carl was a harmless old man to Patterson. Even if he knew Patterson was Virgil, he was unlikely to comment or question it.

  “Hi Carl,” I waved with my broken hand.

  “Girl, you always was a trouble magnet. What’d you do now?” Carl lit his cigar. I didn’t know him well. I had known his father though and had liked him immensely, so I ignored the hostile tone in his voice.

  “Kidnapped by a junkie, broke my hand beating him up. It could have been worse, I could have lost,” I told the older man as I stepped onto his porch. He offered me a cigar, which I took. I clipped the end. Rollins glared at me as I lit it up. Things were changing with Gertrude out of the picture. My entire family seemed to be breathing a sigh of relief. My presence was no longer a thing to be feared, just dealt with, like an annoying fly that refuses to leave you alone.

  “That would have been worse. Now, what did I do to warrant a second visit from the cousin I haven’t seen in years?”

  “It’s about Virgil. I think he’s Patterson Clachan.”

  “Could be,�
�� Carl seemed to think about it. “But if it is, do you want to mess with it? I know, it’s your job and Patterson is unlikely to kill you directly, but he can make you miserable with that blade of his. Wields it better than a surgeon with a scalpel, he does.”

  “Do you think he’s Patterson?”

  “Dad always told me it was his brother Virgil. I’ve never asked any questions. It isn’t just me either. He’s visited several of us, none of us ask questions.”

  “Because you might not like the answers,” I took a long tug on the cigar. It was rare for me to smoke one, but for the sake of getting information I could manage. Also, it was a good cigar, nothing cheap.

  “Aye,” Carl nodded. “Remember, Patterson does a good job of keeping himself under control, but he isn’t perfect. Asking the wrong question will give you the chance to examine your own internal organs before you die. Or worse.”

  “He does things that are worse?” I asked.

  “Depends on who you ask. Gertrude believes he’s capable of anything. Nina never did, she always thought he was tempered. I don’t know what that means in relation to Patterson, but I’m not sure which to believe. I imagine the truth lies somewhere between the two stories.”

  “Why would you let Patterson in your house?”

  “Because if you’re wrong, I’ve turned away an uncle. If you’re right, it’s better to stay on Patterson’s good side.”

  “Thanks Carl,” I left him on the porch.

  “You’re not smoking that in the SUV.” Rollins informed me. I raised an eyebrow.

  “You don’t waste a good Cuban, no matter who it offends,” Malachi told him.

  “Cuban cigars are illegal,” Rollins turned on him.

  “So they are,” Malachi nodded. “I dare you to try and arrest her for smoking it. Better yet, go arrest that old man for having one. Considering the life he’s led, he’s allowed a good cigar and a good glass of brandy when he wants.”

  “What makes him so special?” Rollins asked.

  “He’s been killed six times,” I told Rollins. “At least six times. He has the scars to prove it. Carl’s a survivor.”

  “Why has he been killed at least six times?” Rollins asked as I climbed into the SUV with my cigar still lit.

  “Just has,” I shrugged. I wasn’t going to get into the details of Carl’s life. He didn’t need to know that Carl was a former prisoner of war. “So, he thinks it’s possible that Patterson and Virgil are the same person. He just does not ask questions.”

  “Well, the wrong one could result in him being slit from stem to sternum.” Malachi said. “When that’s a possibility, it’s hard to convince yourself to ask the right questions.”

  Twenty-Three

  Despite the time I spent in morgues, with Xavier cutting corpses up, dead people still bothered me. Patterson was managing to fill my monthly quota of bodies. Also, he rarely just killed a person, he liked to mutilate them.

  This one had a tiny difference that made me stare at it. Patterson had cut a hole in the chest, split the ribcage with something and pulled out the heart. My imagination had it still beating in the elderly man’s hands as he nailed it to the table. I wasn’t positive how long a heart beat outside the body, I doubted it was long enough for Patterson to nail it to a table, but that’s what my imagination thought it should do. It was evident that the victim had been alive when Patterson literally ripped the man’s heart from his chest.

  Next to the heart was a video tape with a haunting last name and first initial. My imagination didn’t have to do anything except look at the tape. I knew what was on it. I had seen the camera hidden behind the wall while I’d been Callow’s captive. Either she was being raped and tortured or she was being killed. Neither seemed very pleasant.

  However, what the video tape had to do with the man in the chair, missing his heart, was a mystery. A geeky looking person was doing something on the man’s computer. Another was doing complicated looking things with his home entertainment system. My presence was completely pointless. The only thing I knew was that Patterson Clachan had been here.

  It wasn’t just the restrained dead body with its heart on the table nor was it the cryptic message contained on the horrifying videotape. He had actually written it on the walls, in blood. It didn’t say “Patterson Clachan Was Here.” That would have made me suspicious. It said “A Gift For My Granddaughter.” Whether the gift was the body or the videotape, I hadn’t figured out yet. I was betting it was both.

  Malachi thought the guy in the chair was a trafficker of child porn. I didn’t know much about child porn or trafficking in said materials. It seemed unlikely that this loner, in his run down house, in a not so great neighborhood of Jefferson City, was trafficking in the illegal material. However, that didn’t mean he didn’t, it just meant that I expected people who peddled porn of any type, lived in houses like Hugh Hefner’s. Sometimes I thought I needed to get out more.

  Another geeky-type, this one female, came into the room. She carried a strange looking device. Malachi’s face lit up, as much as it ever could. Whatever this woman was carrying, pleased him. I was positive this was a bad thing.

  She found a clean-ish spot on the kitchen table and began doing things with wires and the magical machine she carried. A screen appeared from thin air. Someone in gloves and a complete vinyl suit, including mask, handed her the VHS tape.

  I turned away. I’d seen Callow. He hadn’t done anything to me, except feed me crappy food, but I was the exception.

  Screams suddenly muffled the shuffling noises in the house. Screams from a little girl. My body turned even though my brain told it not to. On the screen was a girl, roughly eight years old, with blond hair and big brown eyes. Her skin was fair, where it was visible. Blood pooled on her stomach and her chest heaved and fell too fast.

  My brain finally regained control and I turned from the scene. I didn’t need to watch a snuff film. I didn’t need to know what would have happened if I hadn’t killed Callow and gotten away.

  “Aislinn,” Malachi’s voice was soft, but demanding. I turned back around. The guy from the chair, minus twenty years of age, was in front of the camera. Kari was dead, blood escaped from her mouth in a tiny trickle that looked like red drool. Her eyes were glazed over, filled with a vacant, lifeless stare. Callow also appeared on the tape. He was spattered with her blood, wiping at it with a handkerchief. At that moment, if I could have resurrected him and killed him again, I would have. The hate raged inside me. If I was a monster, Callow was something worse. Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of anything worse at the moment.

  “Turn it off,” I told Malachi. Malachi went to hit the button and the scene changed. A different girl sat in front of the camera. Her hair wasn’t blond, but a light brown. Her skin was darker, her eyes were the color of roasted coffee. I stared at the eight year old version of myself. Beside me was a plate of meatloaf. In my hand was a spoon. My little fingers were wrapped around it, not tight, but like I was securing the weakened spot where the spoon met the handle.

  My memory didn’t remember me doing that. Callow stuck his head in the alcove. His hand came into view of the camera and for the first time, I saw that he held a knife. It had been hidden by his body. This snuff film was about to get much worse.

  The video suddenly turned off. The look on my face had been serene. It wasn’t just calm, it was collected. I had known exactly what I was about to do and it showed on my face. I had always imagined it had been screwed up into a scowl or a frown of determination. To see that it wasn’t, made me pause.

  “Where’s the rest of the tape?” Rollins asked.

  “Not made,” I told him, looking at the dead man in the chair. I hadn’t seen him at the house that night. Obviously, he’d been there though. Obviously, he had been preparing the tape for my death or worse and when I killed Callow instead of the other way around, he’d panicked. It explained why the video camera was empty when they found it. It also explained the heart on the table. Patterson
had ripped out his heart for me. There was something to be said for that.

  “Did you know?” Malachi asked.

  “I never saw a second person,” I told him. “I swear, I never saw a second person. I would have remembered.”

  “You looked young,” Rollins’ voice dropped an octave, sympathy creeping in with the realization that I was the eight year old on the tape. His mind was now imagining all the bad things he thought Callow had done to me.

  “I was eight,” I admitted. “I never saw the knife either. If I had seen it, I probably would have used it on him after stabbing him in the eye with the spoon.”

  “You stabbed him in the eye with the spoon?” Rollins asked.

  “This is an old story. Yes, I was abducted by a pedophilic serial killer at the tender age of eight. The night he brought me meatloaf, I used the spoon handle to stab him. It went into his eye, breaking off when it reached the back of the orbital socket. While he flailed around, I grabbed his head and began beating it against the floor of the room he held me in. I did that until he stopped moving, then I ran outside the house, screaming my head off until the neighbors all came running.” I told him.

  “Wow,” Rollins looked unsure of what else to say.

  “I lived four houses down from the killer. Aislinn lived two streets over. He was a nice guy, always supporting the school fundraisers of the neighborhood kids, right up until Aislinn killed him and escaped. He even helped search for her.” Malachi said the last with disgust. “Now we know why this guy was killed, but how did Patterson get ahold of the tape in the first place?”

  “I think I know,” I looked at the wall. In smaller letters, it said “Garage Sale, Orlando, Florida, 1342 Woodgarden Rd.”

  “Well?” Rollins asked with more patience than he had shown toward me before. I hated sympathy.

  “When you have to put your favorite old person in a home, you do what with their stuff?” I asked.