by Dan Wells
“Tell me what Rob Anders was doing right before you threatened to kill him.” “I didn't threaten to kill him.” “You talked about his death in a threatening manner,” said Neblin. “Let's not split hairs.” “We were in the gym at school for the Halloween dance,” I said, “and he was kind of bugging me—teasing me and knocking over my drink and things like that. So then when I was talking to someone, he came up and just really started making fun of me, and I knew the only two ways to get rid of him were to punch him or to scare him. I have a rule about not hurting people, so I scared him.” “You don't have a rule about threatening to kill people?” “It hadn't come up yet,” I said. “I have one now.” “Who were you talking to?” “Why does that matter?” “I'm just curious about whom you were you talking to.” “Some girl.” The monster behind the wall growled, low and rumbling. Dr. Neblin cocked his head. “Does she have a name?” “Brooke,” I said, suddenly uncomfortable. “She's nobody. She's lived on my street for years.” “Is she cute?” “She's a little young for you, Doctor.” “Let me rephrase that,” he said, smiling. “Are you attracted to her?” “I thought we were talking about Rob Anders,” I said. “Just curious,” he said, making a note on his pad. “We're about done for the day anyway. Is there anything else you want to talk about?” “I don't think so.” I stared out the window; cars passed carefully between the buildings, like beetles in a maze. The Five Live News van crept slowly past headed east—out of town. “Looks like he scared them off,” said Neblin, following my gaze. He was probably right. . . wait. That was it. That was the piece I'd been missing. The killer scared them off. “It's not a serial killer,” I said suddenly. “It's not?” asked Neblin. “It's all wrong,” I said, “it can't be. He didn't run away afterward— he displayed the corpse, just like you said, by smearing, that sludge all over him. He wasn't just trying to cover up the news, he was trying to scare them away. Don't you see? He had a reason!” “And you think serial killers don't have reasons.” “They don't,” I said. “Search through every criminal record you've got and you'll never find a serial killer who kills someone just because they're getting too close—most of them go out of their way to get more media coverage, not less. They love it. Half of them write letters to the press.”
“Doesn't fame count as a reason?” ', “It's not the same thing,” I said. “They don't kill because, they want attention, they want attention because they kill. They want people to see what they're doing. Killing is still the roof reason—the basic need the killers are trying to satisfy. And this guy has something else. I don't know what it is, but it's there.” “What about John Wayne Gacy?” asked Neblin. “He killed gay men because he wanted to punish them. That's a reason.” “Very few of the men he killed were actually gay,” I said. “How much about him have you actually read? The gay thing wasn't a reason, it was an excuse—he needed to kill something, and claiming that he was punishing sinners let him feel less guilty about it.” “You're getting a little overexcited, John,” said Neblin. “Maybe we should stop now.” “Serial killers don't have time to kill nosy reporters because they're too busy killing people that fit their victim profile: old men, little kids, blond college students, whatever,” I said. “Why is this one different?” “John,” said Neblin. I could feel myself getting light-headed, like I was hyperventilating. Dr. Neblin was right; it was time to stop. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. There would be time for this later. Still, I felt a buzz of energy, like the sound of rushing water in my ears. This killer was something different, something new. The monster behind the wall sniffed gruffly at the air. It smelled blood. 7 I first noticed the drifter by the movie theater downtown. Clayton gets its fair share of drifters—people passing through looking for work, or food, or a bus fare to the next town over—but this one was different. He wasn't panhandling, and he wasn't talking to people. He was just looking. Watching. Nobody watched people that much, and for that long, except me, and I had serious emotional problems. I decided that anyone who reminded me of myself was worth keeping an eye on—he might be dangerous. My rules wouldn't let me follow him, or even look for him, but 1 saw him a few more times over the next
few days—sitting in the park watching kids slide down the plowed-up snowbanks in the parking lot, or standing by the gas station, smoking, watching people fill up their tanks. It was like he was evaluating us, checking us all against some list in his head. I half expected the police to come pick him up, but he wasn't doing anything illegal. He was just there. Most people—especially If they didn't read criminal profiling books for fun, like I did—would just pass right over him. He had some kind of or range ability to blend in, even in a pretty small place like Clayton County, and most people just didn't notice him. When the news reported a burglary a few days later, he was the first person I thought of. He was alert, he was analytical, nncl he'd watched our town for long enough to know who was worth following home and robbing. The question was, was he only a burglar, or was he something more? I didn't know how long he'd been in town—if he'd been around for a while, he might well be the Clayton Killer. Rules or no rules, I needed to see what he did next. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, trying to convince myself to jump off. I followed my rules for a reason—they helped keep me from doing things I didn't want to do—but this was a special case, right? If he was dangerous, and if breaking this rule helped stop him—and it was really a pretty minor rule, after all—then it was good. It was a good thing to do. I wrestled with myself for a week, and finally rationalized the idea that it was better, in the long run, to break this one rule and follow the drifter. I might even save somebody's life. The day before Thanksgiving I had no school, and though Ted Rask's body came into the mortuary that morning, Mom refused to let me help, so my day was free. I went downtown and rode around for an hour until I found him, sitting on the bus bench by Allman's hardware store. I went across the street to Friendly Burger and sat in a window booth to watch him. He was the right size to be the Clayton Killer—not huge, but big, and he looked strong enough to take down a guy like Jeb Jolley. His hair was brown and long, about chin length, and he wore it shaggy. It wasn't such a strange look in Clayton County, especially in the winter—it was freezing cold, and long hair helped keep your ears warm. He'd have done better if he had a hat, but then I suppose drifters can't be choosers. His breath came out in short, hazy puffs—-not the long, lazy clouds of the other people on the street. That meant he was breathing rapidly, which meant he was nervous. Was he looking for a victim? The bus came and went, and he didn't get on. He was watching something across the street—across from him, which meant it was on the same side as me. I looked around—the Twain Station bookstore was on the left of the burger joint, and Earl's Hunting Supply Store was on the right. The drifter was looking at the hunting store, which was a little ominous in
itself. The street out front had a couple of cars, one of which '' looked familiar. Who did I know with a white Buick? When Mr. Crowley came out of the hunting store laden with fishing supplies, I knew why the car looked so familiar—it spent most of its time fifty feet from my house. Forcing yourself not to think about people made even simple details like that hard to remember. When the drifter stood up and jogged across the street' toward Mr. Crowley, I knew the situation had become very important, very suddenly. I wanted to hear this. I went outside, knelt down by my bike, and made a show of pretending to unlock the chain. I hadn't even chained it to anything, but it was next to some, pipes and I figured neither Crowley nor the drifter was paying close attention. I was a good thirty feet away from them—if I was lucky, they wouldn't pay any attention to me at all. “Fishing?” said the drifter. He looked like he was about thirty-five or forty, weathered by wind and age. He said something else, but I was too far away to hear it. I turned my head to get a better angle. “Ice fishing,” said Mr. Crowley, holding up a chisel. “Lake froze over a week or two ago, and I figure it's safe to walk on by now.” “You don't say,” said the drifter. “I used to go ice fishing all the time b
ack in the day. I thought it was a lost art.” “A fellow fisherman?” asked Mr. Crowley, perking up. “Not coo many people around here are into ice fishing—Earl here had to special order the new auger for me. As cold as it is today, and with the wind picking up, I bet there won't even be skaters—I'll have the whole lake to myself.” “Is that so?” asked the drifter. I frowned—there was something in his voice that bothered me. Was he going to rob Crowley's house while he was out fishing? Was he going to follow Crowley to the lake and kill him? “You busy?” asked Mr. Crowley. “It gets awful lonely on that lake by yourself, and I could do with the company. I've got an extra pole.” Crowley, you idiot. Talcing this guy anywhere is a stupid idea. Maybe Crowley has Alzheimers. “That's awfully kind of you,” said the drifter, “though I'd hate to impose.” What was Mr. Crowley thinking? I thought about jumping up to warn him, but I stopped myself. I was probably just imagining things; this guy's probably fine. Though Mr. Crowley was a perfect match for the victim profile—an older white male with a large build. “Don't worry about it,” said Mr. Crowley. “Climb in. You have a hat?” “I'm afraid not.” “Then we'll swing by and get you one on our way out,” said Crowley, "and a bit of extra lunch. A friend to fish with
worth five dollars, easy.“ They climbed into his car and drove away. I almost got u to warn him again, but I knew where they were going—and I knew that they'd delay for a while buying food and a hat. It would be a gamble, but I might be able to make it out there before them and hide. I wanted to see what happened. I made it to the most well-used stretch of lake in just half an hour, where the slope down from the road to the shore was more gradual, and you could walk right out to the edge. There was no sign of Mr. Crowley or his dangerous passenger, or of anybody else for that matter. We'd have the lake to ourselves. I hid my bike in a snow bank on the south side of the clearing, and crouched in a small stand of trees to the north. If Mr. Crowley actually went through with it, this is where he would come. I sat down to wait. The lake was frozen, as Crowley had expected, and dusted with grainy white snow. On the far side, a low hill rose up, tall only by contrast to the flat expanse of the lake. Wind whipped across them both, spirals of air made visible by the snow within it, eddies and swirls and drill-bit tornadoes. I crouched in the shadows and froze as the wind made faces in the sky. Exposure to nature—cold, heat,water—is the most dehumanizing way to die. Violence is passionate and real—the final moments as you struggle for your life, firing a gun or wrestling a mugger or screaming for help, your heart pumps loudly and your body tingles with energy; you are alert and awake and, for that brief moment, more alive than you’ve ever been before. Not so with nature. At the mercy of the elements the opposite happens: your body slows, your thoughts grow sluggish, and you realize just how mechanical you really are. Your body is a machine, full of tubes and valves and motors, electrical signals and hydraulic pumps, and they function properly only within a certain range of conditions. As temperatures drop, your machine breaks down. Cells begin to freeze and shatter; muscles use more energy to do less; blood flows too slowly, and to the wrong places. Your senses fade, your core temperature plummets, and your brain fires random signals that your body is too weak to interpret of follow. In that state you are no longer a human being, you are a malfunction—an engine without oil, grinding itself to pieces in its las futile effort to complete its last meaningless task. I heard a car approach and turn off into the clearing. I turned my head imperceptibly to watch from the corner of my eye, keeping myself hidden in the trees and recognized Crowley’s white Buick. The drifter got out first and stared darkly at the lake, until the other door opened and Crowley coughed. “I haven’t been ice fishing in an age,” said the stranger, glancing back at Mr. Crowley. ”Thanks again for letting me tag along.“ ”Not a problem at all,“ said Mr. Crowley, walking back to the trunk. He handed the stranger a fishing pole and a bucket full of tools, nets, an ice auger, and a pair of folding stools, then closed the trunk. He was carrying a pole of his own, and a small cooler. ”I keep two of everything, just in case,“ he said, smiling. ”There's enough hot chocolate in here to keep us both warm and happy.“ ”That lunch filled me right up,“ said the drifter, ”don't worry about it."
“Out here we're partners,” said Crowley, “what's mine is yours, and yours is mine.” He grinned. “What's yours is mine,” said the stranger, and I felt the sense of danger rise. What was Mr. Crowley doing? Picking up a drifter like this could be deadly, even if you didn't bring them out alone into the middle of nowhere—even if there wasn't a psycho killer on the loose. I looked at the drifter's hands for any evidence of claw-like weapons, but they were normal. Maybe he wasn't the killer after all. Either way, I was dying of curiosity—if he was the killer, I wanted to see how he did it. I frowned then, wondering at myself. Was I really more interested in watching the killer than in saving Crowley's life? I knew I shouldn't be—if I were a normal, empathetic person, I'd jump up and save Crowley's life. But I wasn't. So I watched. Mr. Crowley began walking carefully down the slope to the shore, and the stranger followed closely. I shrank back into my shelter of trees, quietly, trying to stay as small and as hidden as possible. “Wait up a minute,“ said the stranger, ”that coffee is finally catching up to me. I need to take a leak.“ He set down his bucket and balanced the pole carefully across it. ”Won't be a minute.“ He fled back up the slope and I cringed, terrified that he would come to my trees to pee, but he went to the other stand on the far side of the car. My bike was right there. Surely he would see it. The man delayed just long enough in choosing a good spot that I started to get suspicious. I glanced at Crowley, and guessed that he was suspicious, too. Nervous lines creased his face, and he glanced back out at the ice as if it were a giant clock, and he was late for something. He coughed painfully. I expected any minute for the drifter to see my bike and call out, or to pull a chain saw out of the trees and leap down the bank with a howl, but nothing happened. He found a spot he liked, stood still, and after a long pause, zipped up and turned around. He must have been practically tripping over my bike. Why didn't he say anything? Maybe he'd seen it, and knew I was here, and was biding his time carefully until he could kill Crowley and me together. ”I gotta say again that this is awfully nice of you,“ said the drifter. ”I'm mighty indebted to you, sir, and I don't Icnow how I can ever repay you.“ He laughed. ”Nicest thing I have is this hat, and you're the one who bought it.“ ”We'll think of something,“ said Crowley, and took off his glove to scratch the stubble of his beard. ”If nothing else, I'll just claim credit for all the good fish.“ He smiled broadly, then coughed again. ”That cough sounds like it's getting worse,“ said the stranger, ”Just a little problem with my lungs,“ said Crowley, turning back to the frozen lake. ”It'll clear up soon." He took a step onto the ice, probing it with one foot. ,.
The drifter reached the bottom of the slope, and stood for n moment by his bucket of tools. He reached down to pick it up, then stopped, glanced quickly back at the road, and reached his hand into his coat. When he pulled it back out he had a knife— not a switchblade or a hunting knife, just a long kitchen knife covered with dirt and rust. It looked like he'd stolen it from a junkyard. “I'm thinking we ought to head out that way,” said Crowley, pointing northeast. “Wind's just as bad everywhere, but that's the deepest part of the lake, and not too far from the head of the river. We'll get a little more current underneath us, and that makes for better fishing.” The drifter stepped forward, his right hand tight around the knife and his left hand out to the side for balance. He was just an arm's length from Crowley's back; another step and he could strike a killing blow. Crowley scratched his chin again. “I'd like to thank you for coming out here with me.” Cough. “We'll make a good team, you and I.” The drifter took a step closer. “You have no family,” said Crowley, “and I can barely breathe.” Cough. “Between the two of us, I figure we make just about one whole person.” Wait—what? The drifter paused, as perplexed as I was, and in that split second Crowley turned aro
und and lashed out with his ungloved hand—longer now, somehow, and darker, his fingernails lengthening impossibly into sharp ivory claws. The first swipe knocked the knife from the startled man's hand, spinning it straight past my stand of trees, and the second backhanded the stranger across the face, knocking him down into the cushion of snow. The drifter struggled to his feet, but Crowley dropped his cooler and pole and leapt on the man, roaring like a beast. Another claw tore its way out of Crowley's other glove, shredding it as it grew, and both claws raked across the stranger's upraised arm, slicing flesh from bone. The man was hidden from my view now, deep in the snow, but I heard him cry out—a formless cry of pain and shock. Crowley roared back with a mouth full of gleaming, needlelike teeth. Two vicious strikes later, and all was silent. Mr. Crowley crouched over the body in a cloud of steam, his arms too long, and his unearthly talons bright with blood. His head had grown bulbous and dark, his ears were pointed like blades. His jaw was unnaturally low, and bristled with teeth. He panted heavily, and as I watched he slowly coalesced back into the form I knew—his arms and hands shortened, his claws shrank back to become regular fingernails, and his head deflated and reformed. A moment later, it was plain old Mr. Crowley again, as normal as could be. If not for the blood stains on his clothes, no one would have ever guessed what he had bell come, or what he had done. He coughed and pulled the tattered glove from his left hand, dropping it wearily on the ground. I sat in shock, my face bitten by the wind and my legs warm