The next day Nicole awoke in the back of a pickup belonging to an old man living halfway between the lake and town. She had been dumped there by the boys. She talked the old man into letting her clean up in his house before driving her into town. A little fast talk to her parents and they never suspected anything unusual ever happened that weekend. But she was scared and sore.
Afraid to tell her mother about what had happened, she treated her inflamed tissues herself. She soaked for hours in the bathtub. She used various salves. Finally, later in the week when the healing of the flesh caused itching, she started to rub herself with a powerful antibiotic salve.
The itching, the burning pain and the rubbing combined to give her a second, a third and a fourth orgasm. In her mind, the need to hurt to produce pleasure had been forged. She became an expert in both pleasure and pain. She loved to give it as well as receive. She would seduce younger boys in school, make them whimper in pain, and watch their faces when she left them for someone else.
Her sadistic swath of sexual conquests continued until her senior year in college when she met Jeff. He was more than a match for her. She decided to marry him the night they destroyed his ex-girlfriend.
Jeff left his apartment to pick up his ex-girlfriend on the pretext of getting back together. Nicole waited in his closet naked except for a dog choke collar around her neck and a small whip in her hands. Jeff brought his old girlfriend back to the apartment. A little wine and a little smooth talk and she was in bed with him. In the closet, Nicole used the whip on herself while Jeff slowly seduced the girl. He had regularly tied her to the bed before so the girl let herself be bound again. After she was strapped down, Nicole came out from hiding. Together they abused the girl through the night.
Later in the week the girl killed herself. That summer, Nicole and Jeff married. Nicole loved her marriage. Both shared their pleasure and pain with each other and the occasional innocent they caught. That was until a year or two ago. Jeff became a little bored with his job and it showed up in their bed. Nicole had been ready to leave him until just a few weeks ago when he came back from work rejuvenated. His thirst for pain and pleasure was unquenchable. Nicole planned to bring home a young girlfriend for them to enjoy, but everything started to fall apart. The murders and the investigation shook Jeff’s assurance in himself. Nicole again planned to leave.
Last night, Jeff’s uncle showed up. In amazement, she heard him confess everything to him. After his uncle left, he paced through the night. Nicole fingered herself while she watched her husband’s strength crumble before her eyes. He was completely broken by the time the cops arrived for him that morning.
After Jeff left with the cops, Nicole started to pack. She had barely started when the doorbell rang. Two more cops wanted to talk to her about her husband. One was good looking. The other was ugly. Nicole knew she looked good to men. She paced the room in apparent nervousness in such a way as to accent her curves and sex. When she was sure they both were looking at what she was showing, she walked up to the ugly one and told them everything about her husband. She held the ugly cop’s hands while she talked so he couldn’t get away. As Nicole talked, she shifted her weight from foot to foot. From the corner of her eye, she watched a bead of sweat form on the ugly man’s face as she brushed the inside of her thigh and the tip of her breasts against him. At the same time, she maintained a direct eye contact with the good-looking cop.
After the cops left, Nicole added to her bags the handcuffs she stole from the ugly man. In a slight way, Nicole wanted to stay; both cops showed some potential for fun. Instead, she finished packing. At Jeff’s bank, she withdrew all of their money and from the safety deposit box, she took everything but Jeff’s birth certificate. She left the bank and drove south.
Shermon was dazed as he walked from the police car to his house. He entered the cold empty house. Frank was gone. His uncle was the only person in his life that he ever depended on. When his mother had been killed by her husband those many years ago, he had not felt fear or anger. He had felt a loss. Who would take care of him? Who would make his meals? Who would make sure his clothes were clean? For some reason, the loss of Frank was even worse than the loss of his mother. Back then, Frank had been there when his mother died. Now there was no one. No one!
Where was Nicole? He checked the house. Her things were gone. Outside, her car was gone. She wouldn’t leave him. She couldn’t without money! He checked his watch. He could just make it to the bank before closing.
They had already transferred most of their ready cash into Nicole’s account to protect it from a possible seizure by the lawyers of the teachers or the school board. The bank accounts had been emptied. Most of their remaining assets had been in bonds and certificates in their safety deposit box. They had been planning on a quick getaway and had consolidated everything for easy transfer. The only thing remaining in the box was his birth certificate. He read again the words on the document. Jefferson William Jenson
… born 8 lbs. 5 oz…. mother Julie Lynn Jenson … father William Joseph Jones…
Shermon screamed. He threw the empty box against the wall of the bank cubicle. He sat, ranting, on the floor meticulously shredding his birth certificate. That was how the bank security guard found him.
Henry sat in his living room easy chair. The sun was setting through the window. The blood red glow darkened the silent room. Frank, Al, Pike, Jenny, Kawalski, Frank, Al, Pike, Jenny … They had missed the killer. Would they get Billy before another was added to the list? Frank, Al, Pike, Jenny, Kawalski. Henry closed his eyes trying to erase the sight of Frank’s mutilated body, the way his face collapsed in without a jaw. The setting sun came out from behind a tree and a shaft of light hit the lids of Henry’s closed eyes turning everything blood red. In complete exhaustion, Henry fell asleep to the encompassing red glow.
The hands turn over a card.
A naked woman kneels, pouring water from two earthen jars. Her right hand pours the water into a pond while her left pours the water onto the ground. Seven white stars fill the sky of the upside down card. In the center of the card’s blue sky is a large eight-pointed yellow star.
Darkness engulfs the hushed room. The only sound, muted steps leaving.
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CHAPTER 18: The Star reversed
Makinen woke with a start. He had started the night watch as usual but the tension of the previous nights was gone. Everyone knew that Jones had to be hiding. At three, James had come in for a cup of coffee. After drinking half the cup, he had slowly collapsed in stages while sitting on the couch. It took ten minutes from when his eyes first closed until he completed laying in a fetal position on the sofa. Jeffrey placed a blanket over James. He and the rest of the VFW gang finished off the watch.
Lori’s lips changed from a slight pucker to a grin as she backed away from the startled sleeper. She saw Jim’s innocent aspect as he slept and had to bend down to kiss his cheek. The startled man and smiling girl looked at each other, enjoying the momentary intimacy. Their smiles changed to worry as they remembered what was happening to them. What would happen next? Where was Billy Jones?
Henry woke in his easy chair to the red glow of the morning sun. He moved his tired body in stages. Each limb woke in its own time and way. His left leg woke to an ache from a break when he was twelve. His knees crackled and popped as the arthritic joints moved. The back straightened in sequence as each vertebra fought to align with its neighbors. A good five minutes after his eyes opened, he hobbled his aged, crippled body into the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee.
As the aroma of brewing coffee filled the kitchen, Henry fought his boiling anger at the gruesome deaths of his friends and tried to probe for the next actions of Billy Jones.
By the time Henry stepped behind his office desk, he was coolly and calmly in control. It was the aloof control most people associate with Scandinavians. People living in the far North all seem to have a reserve, a control foreign to the passions of the people of the warme
r climates. The control is mistaken as a lack of feelings. The harsh endless cold of northern winters is unforgiving of any mistakes made in passion. The survivors learned to control their emotions. But the emotions are only controlled. Nature knew that in times of distress, passion and emotion could mean survival. The rest of the world only vaguely remembers the passion of the Northern Peoples in the form of a few words and stories left over from the time when the Vikings swept through Europe, North Africa, and Eastern Asia. Now their descendants waited and studied as their passions grew, waiting for the time of release.
At his desk, Henry studied the accumulated paperwork. The tox screens and final forensic reports were in from Billy’s first victims. Henry found no new useful information there. He did find some grim pleasure when he read the revised FBI psychological report. He easily found the patchwork phrasing and sentences the behavioral psychologists used to repair their original report to match Billy Jones’s profile. The one thing that caught his eye was the statement that Billy would run and hide. He would only start his killing again after he established his life in another location.
When Henry saw in technical gobbledygook those words, he knew they were wrong. Billy had moved here because of his family. Jefferson was his son. He had murdered for pleasure but also for some warped sense of family. Jefferson had said that Jenny resembled his mother when she was Jenny’s age. He had killed all the others except Al for some obscure family-related reason. Pike was Jenny’s pimp. Kawalski was a partner with his son. Frank was Billy’s brother-in-law. Al had been in the way. In the way? In the way of what? Did Al see something? Was he in the wrong place? Where was Al before he disappeared?
The school parking lot. Who or what was in the parking lot at the time Al was murdered? What was Billy doing? Henry somehow knew Billy wouldn’t leave until his son was gone. Henry knew the psychologists were wrong again. Billy wasn’t finished here.
Henry reviewed the trophies, the missing body parts, trying to find a link there. He sent police to every place Billy was known to frequent to interview everyone he had talked to. By the end of the day, the Governor had pulled the highway patrol out of the investigation. The neighboring counties had also claimed their deputies. They all thought Billy Jones had left the area. The station almost felt deserted after the bustle of the last few days.
All that were left were a few BCA agents, the county deputies, and the local town police.
Henry talked to Vernon and all the others left on the task force before the end of the day. He told them that no matter what anyone else said, Billy Jones was still out there. Frank Jenson and Al Gallea had been killed when they confronted Billy alone. No one was to go after Billy without backup.
It was six o’clock and there was one final name on the list of Billy Jones’ acquaintances to be interviewed, Pastor Tom Peterson. Vernon was processing paperwork at a desk down the hall and Nancy was still at dispatch.
Henry told them both where he was going and to contact him immediately if anything happened.
Peterson’s wife answered the door.
“Hello. Mrs. Peterson?” A small nod was the reply. “I’m Deputy Sheriff Henry Hakanen. My office called earlier about asking your husband some questions … about one of his parishioners.”
In a small voice, the woman replied, “Oh, yes. I remember the call. My husband has not been feeling well. Do you have to talk to him?”
“I’m sorry, but it is very important that I speak to him.”
She paused to think and with a slight nod she said, “He’s in his office. I’ll take you there.” She turned and walked to the back of the house.
Without looking to see if Henry was following, she continued. “He’s not been feeling well. I’ve talked to the district office. Reverend Sharpton talked to Tom yesterday. The district is making arrangements for Tom to visit a retreat in Arizona for a few months. We’ll be leaving before the end of the week.”
By the time she finished her ramblings, they were standing at a closed door. She looked up at Henry then knocked on the door. “Honey, Deputy Hakanen has stopped by to talk to you.” She turned to Henry and whispered, “Go on in.
I’ll wait for you in the living room.”
Henry entered the darkened room. A small desk lamp at the table was the only illumination. Henry stood in the doorway waiting for his eyesight to adjust to the dark. A voice from a chair in the corner rambled in a strange cadence.
“Mr. Peterson.” After a pause Henry repeated in a slightly louder voice, “Mr. Peterson.”
“Who is that? Did God send you? Have you come to bring judgment on those sinners, Lori Waithe and James Makinen?”
“I’ve come to ask you about one of you parishioners, William Jones.”
“Who?”
“William possibly Billy Jones.”
“Oh, yes, Billy Jones, a true man of God. Deacon Shermon told me how strong a Christian brother Jones is. You know, he tithes every paycheck. I stopped by his home once. He had his bible in the living room. We talked and prayed. He fixed us this beautiful little lunch. We talked about God’s wrath and the coming tribulation. It was joyous … What was it you wanted to talk about?”
“I would like to find out more about what Billy Jones said to you.”
“Oh, yes. Billy Jones, a wonderful man of God. Did you know I felt the hand of God touch me when I prayed for damnation on those sinners, Makinen and Waithe?”
“We were talking about Billy Jones.”
“I felt God’s hand touch me. The power threw me across the sanctuary. I woke with the red vision of God’s judgment in my eyes. Hallelujah! Praise Jesus! Thank you, Lord, for your blessed vision! Would you bow your head in prayer with me? Thank you, Lord … Thank you, Jesus…”
Henry looked at the kneeling man and backed out of the darkened room.
In the living room, Henry asked his wife, “What happened to him?”
“It started when the congregation walked out on him during his Sunday sermon some weeks ago. Then a few days ago, he came back from praying at the church with a dazed look on his face. He’s been talking about God’s judgment since then. He’s spent most of the last two days shut up in his office. He won’t come out and he won’t let me turn on the lights or open the curtains. He just sits in there praying for judgment and damnation.” She then quietly started to sob. Quick intakes of breath were followed by a nearly inaudible moan.
Henry touched her shaking shoulders whispering, “I’m sorry. Would you want me to call someone for you?”
The penitent head shook ‘no.’ Henry let his hands rest on her shoulders for a minute, then left the stricken home.
The room seems to be bathed in greater darkness when the lamp turns on. The single spot of illumination fails to hold the blackness at bay.
Mysterious shadows from the light accent the tendons and veins of the hands, making them into talons that scratch at the deck of cards, turning over the next.
On the foreground of the card, a man and a woman are chained. A large figure is perched on the post they are bound to. Curling goat horns come from the large figure’s head and bat wings sprout from his back. A pentagram is etched on the creature’s forehead. His right hand is raised in greeting and his left hand carries a lighted torch. A closer look at the two in front discerns that a set of horns issue from their red hair and tails come from behind their backs.
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CHAPTER 19: The Devil
Billy slowly rocked back and forth in the chair and waited. He felt a slight breeze from the window he had forced open in the back of the apartment.
He liked this room. It had the close, dark feel of an animal’s den. His left hand went into his pants pocket and pulled out the small piece of jaw. He caressed the bone lovingly. Finally, he put the trophy back and removed his keys from his other pocket. He jingled the keys in time with his rocking but finally his playful hands reached for his talisman at the end of the key chain. There the hands stroked the polished white three-inch long piece
of bone. When questioned by his drinking buddies, he told them it was a portion of rib bone from the first deer he had ever shot. He rubbed the bone against his cheek and lips remembering when he first got it.
It was after he killed the driver of the wrecked car. An uneasiness came over him. He couldn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. Finally, he loaded a case of beer in his pickup and drove. He found himself in Sioux Bluff. He had always known where Julie had died. This was the first time he had an urge to see her grave. He drove to the cemetery. There he walked past the stones, reading the names, one by one. Then he saw it, Julie Jenson Shermon. He sat by the graveside through the afternoon drinking beer.
A man drove up with a backhoe. He dug a grave at the far corner of the cemetery. Another man arrived in a pickup. Together the two men spread green astro turf over the mound of fresh dirt. They pulled the backhoe to a small shed at the back of the cemetery and left in the pickup as the sun went down past the far hills.
Billy drank two more beers as night brought silence to the small town.
The craving came over him to see Julie again. Billy staggered to the backhoe.
The keys were gone but he had hot wired tractors before. He jolted his way through the cemetery, missing most of the large headstones, rolling over the smaller ones. He tore a small pinhole in the hydraulic line crossing over a headstone. A thin spray of oil came from the hose every time he used the hydraulics. The oil landed on the hot manifold of the tractor, filling the still air with fumes. Within a half-hour after getting to Julie’s grave, the shovel on the backhoe bit through the rotted wood on her coffin. Going back to his pickup for a lantern and a beer, he sat for hours on the edge of her broken coffin, his feet resting on her corpse. The weak light of the lantern flickered across her rotted flesh, making the corpse seem to breathe.
S. A. Gorden Page 13