by Aric Davis
Sushi had been first. He’d refused and Deb had said please, and he’d followed her in. They sat at the counter where a Japanese woman gave them towels and a sushi chef waited for their order. Mike had been trying to figure out the menu when Deb said something to the man in Japanese. He’d nodded and shouted a curt response before setting to work. Troubled, Mike asked, “What just happened?”
“I told him what we wanted.”
“How could you know what I want to eat when I don’t even know yet?”
Two steaming cups of sake appeared before them along with a carafe of the drink. Deb gently lifted her cup and took a sip. “Yum. Try it, it’s good. I told him to make us what he would eat if he were a customer here. It’s a compliment to the chef, and it will guarantee we’ll get good stuff.”
A plate with a sushi roll chopped into eight pieces appeared before him. Mike was trying to figure out his chopsticks, so he didn’t see Deb slide it in front of him. He poked one of the sticks at it. “What’s in there?”
The rolls were dusted in some sort of breading and a small lump of what looked like green play-dough sat next to a little tub of soy sauce on the plate. The woman who’d seated them returned with a pair of small bowls that were filled with lemon water. Mike watched Deb wash her hands and did the same.
“Don’t worry about the chopsticks. Just pick them up and eat.”
Deb placed a small piece of the wasabi on a roll, dunked it briefly in the soy sauce, and popped it in her mouth. Mike took a deep breath, mimicked the motion, and ate.
The green stuff, wasabi, was strong, a deep horseradish that was both spicy and not. The fish—he assumed it was fish—wasn’t tough, but it did have a thickness to it that reminded him of well-prepared rare beef. There was a small taste of avocado, but mostly the flavor was of the presumed fish, fish that tasted nothing like fish at all.
“Do you like it?”
“I think so. What kind of fish is it?”
“Tuna. It’s got a little avocado in it, too.”
Mike ate another roll after sipping at the sake. “It’s good. I can’t believe it. Sushi is good.”
“Well, it can’t be as popular as it’s been for so long just because it’s weird.”
“I suppose not. Is the drink sake?”
“Yes.”
“I definitely like that.”
He refilled his small cup as another plate was passed to them, this with two shrimp, butterflied and laid atop small, ice-cube-sized bricks of rice. Deb nodded at Mike and picked up a shrimp, slid it into her mouth, and tore off the tail as it got to her teeth. Mike mimicked her, chewed, swallowed, and said, “Was that raw shrimp?”
“It’s called sweet shrimp, and yes.”
“I already said it, but I can’t believe I’m enjoying this stuff. That was even better than the tuna.”
The next was a pair of salmon chunks, served nigiri style like the shrimp.
“That was good, but not as good as the first two.”
“You better be careful with the sake. I didn’t bring a wheel-barrow.”
“I can’t help it, it’s good.”
The next three courses were octopus served nigiri style, eel in a roll that was covered in a dark sauce, and then a spicy roll filled with deep-fried soft-shell crab. Mike ate like a man possessed, and Deb didn’t do too bad either.
The other restaurants followed in swift succession. Aware now that he had been missing out for years, the next two weeks were a gastrointestinal grand tour of the best ethnic cuisine the city had to offer. The only menu that Mike balked at was Ethiopian. Some of it was good, but with most of it all he could taste was the spongy injara bread. The Thai he’d liked almost as much as sushi, and his favorite dish that he’d had so far was just a simple red curry, coconut milk with spices and shrimp. On the night of the squid, that was precisely what he was reheating.
Deb admired the new version of the squid drawing.
“I like it.”
“You don’t think I went overboard? He said he wanted the squid weird.”
“I think it’s fine. That thing is mean looking.”
“I know, it’s awesome. I’m actually kind of excited to do it in a couple days. Hopefully he’ll dig it too.”
“It’s unusual for you to get excited to go to work?”
“Everything just seems the same there. Like we’re just little pawns doomed to do the same things over and over again.”
“No way, not me. I love work. I like the little excitements, like when you wonder what you’re going to do if the customer really doesn’t stop bleeding. On the outside you’re telling them everything will be fine, but on the inside you’re just outside of panicking. Doesn’t happen too often, but holy crap, what a rush when it does.”
“You’re serious.”
“Yeah, why?”
“I just can’t imagine not being terrified if someone in my chair wouldn’t stop bleeding. Did you and Becky get any new clues as to what in the hell is going on with Lamar?”
“That well is dry, I told you that. You’re his friend, and you need to get it out of him.”
“That doesn’t seem very friendly.”
“Are you done working? I want to get to bed.”
Mike gave the sketch one more look and set down his pencil. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The girl had blonde hair, perky tits, a taut ass, and a tattoo on her wrist. The tattoo was how he’d first spotted her, weeks before. He’d seen a pretty girl with a bandage on her wrist talking on a cell phone in front of a tattoo shop. And then, maddeningly, he’d lost her.
But now he’d found her again. And no matter what, it was time. He wouldn’t lose her again.
Phil watched her while he pretended to read a book in front of Starbucks. He wanted to mount, fuck, and kill her right here, in front of Starbucks, in front of everyone, but of course he knew that was impossible. Instead, he acted bored and blended in, a sheep, just like all the rest of them, but also a wolf.
The girl across the patio drank the still steaming cup of coffee in just a couple of short gulps, checked the time on a cell phone, and walked to a bike lassoed with chain to a telephone pole. Phil, acting as bored as possible, checked his watch absentmindedly and dog-eared a page in the book. He walked to his truck, an eight-year-old Ford, the kind of vehicle that in Michigan was more than invisible. The girl rode off, headed north, and now it was time to take a risk.
If he followed her immediately, someone was going to remember the tall guy from the coffee shop who drove off like a creep after the bitch with the nice tits left. On the other hand, if Phil got too cute, she’d be gone. He fired up the truck, and when he reached the first intersection, where she had gone straight, he took a left.
Phil had played this game before, but never knowing so little about a victim. He always did research. The last bad death had enlivened him, though; he wanted this bitch, and he didn’t care about the risk. He took a right immediately following the left, spun another right at the next intersection, and then a left at the light back to the main drag. Phil craned his neck, looking for her. Unless she lived right over here or had gone in one of the other shops, she was going to be his. She appeared out of nowhere in front of a van, less than ten car lengths ahead of him. He let the truck keep pace with her, the wheel humming in his hands, nervous energy making his feet bounce off of the gas, brake, and clutch. He felt good for the first time in a long time, stalking this cunt like a hunter on safari. He was going to make up for last time, and any other time that hadn’t been perfect.
She biked for about five miles, never noticing the silver pickup truck behind her, the anonymity of the vehicle helped by Phil’s willingness to slow down or speed up at random intervals, as well as to allow other vehicles to pass in front of him. When she finally held her arm out and turned left into a neighborhood full of old houses turned to apartments, Phil knew the hunt was almost over.
The girl stopped the b
icycle after two more right turns and about another mile of riding. Phil watched her chain the bike to a rack in front of the house—the slot she chose had a number 4 sign over it. He drove around the block, shut off the truck, and grabbed his tool kit from behind the passenger seat.
The kit had a baseball cap—Go Tigers—a pair of benign aviator sunglasses, a bandanna, and a short length of hemp rope with a four-inch-long piece of half-inch-thick dowel rod on either side. He put on the hat and glasses, stuffed the bandanna and homemade garrote in his back pocket, and left the truck.
The walk to the house was calming in a bizarre way. Normally even for someone as used to this as Phil, such a walk would be harrowing, especially in daylight, and most especially to a house where he knew nothing of the interior layout or occupants, save for one. This was different, though. The failure in the last taking had invigorated him to the sport itself and not just the endgame. Truth told, he couldn’t wait to take his measure against the house and its mysteries. He knew with no doubt that he would walk in and accomplish the task at hand, but leaving remained an open question. Could he control her, and the situation? Phil found not caring about success, and just about the conquest, beyond invigorating.
He gave a quick look around and opened the front door. There was no one in sight, and no sounds of occupancy. According to the mailboxes, the building was divided into four apartments, so Phil ignored the bottom floor and went up a bent staircase that was divided by a landing. The house was well kept, dark wood for both the stairs and floors, all maintained even since the days when only a single family would have lived here, and not a pack of borderline-transient college students.
Phil passed a door with a 3 on it and crossed the hall to the wooden door bearing a brass 4. He knocked twice, and when the door started to open, he slammed his considerable weight into it as hard as he was able. As the door flew open, he fell upon her, his right hand cupping her mouth and pinching closed her nostrils, his left controlling her flailing body. With an easy kick, Phil closed the door behind them and set to work. It turned out much better than the last one.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The kid liked the squid, so that little matter was attended to easily enough. What happened later that day was a little more unexpected.
Mike was tattooing a gold koi fish on a customer’s arm when Becky poked her head into the booth and said, “You need to take a break. Doc’s in your office.”
“Is everything alright?”
“I’m not sure.”
“OK.” Mike turned to the customer. “You mind if we take a fifteen-minute break?”
“No problem. I hope everything’s alright with your friend.”
“Thanks. I’ll come fetch you from the lobby once I’m done.”
“Cool.”
Mike stood and stripped off his gloves before washing his hands. He dried them quickly, used the towel to shut off the water, and left the room to head to his office. He could hear Lamar talking as he walked, but he was unable to decipher the words over the stereo. He opened the door to the office and saw Doc.
“What happened?”
Doc said nothing. He was disheveled. Always immaculate, never a hair out of place or an unfastened button, today he looked as though he’d dressed in a wind tunnel. His hair was a mess, and his clothes were in utter disarray. This alone was enough to unnerve Mike, but his eyes were the real story. Normally alight with interest in life and pleasure, today they were a pair of twin dull globes that betrayed his age in a way that they never had before. Doc was older, Mike had always known that, but he had never been the mummy he was today.
“My niece Annie was killed two nights ago.”
Mike sat at the table and said, “I’m so sorry.”
Doc’s niece was the closest thing he had to a daughter. He doted on the young girl, and she was a frequent topic of conversation at the store. The last time they’d talked of her she’d been accepted to grad school at the University of Michigan. Doc had brought her around a couple of times, and Mike had tattooed a small Japanese character on her wrist. It wasn’t like Doc to share his tattooed friends, or secret lifestyle, with anyone. It just made it worse to have lost one of his few confidants. Annie had been more than a niece.
“What happened?”
“She was murdered.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“The police haven’t told us the specifics, but they think, and I think, that she was killed by that bastard who’s been raping and murdering women. My sister and her husband are just wrecks over it. My sister found her in her apartment. I just can’t imagine.”
“That’s awful. Is there anything I can do?”
“Not just yet. I’d imagine I’ll want to get a memorial piece at some point, but it’s going to be a little bit. I’ve taken a week off of classes to help my sister get the funeral arrangements taken care of. I’m just going to try and be as strong as possible for her.”
“Where’s the funeral going to be?”
“Haven’t figured that out yet.”
Mike thought then of the ashes and the others, but when he made to speak of it, something, some inner voice, held him back and he let Doc finish.
“Probably at some claptrap of the poor girl’s father’s choosing. I suppose it won’t matter too much either way.”
He sighed deeply and stared at the floor.
“In any case, I’ll be missing the next couple of appointments. I wanted to tell you in person, and I just wanted a good excuse to get out of the house. I should be getting back to my sister. I’m sure if you watch the news they’ll have more information soon enough.”
“Well whenever you’re ready, we’ll be here.”
“Thanks for letting me talk, Mike. I’ll be in touch.”
Mike watched him leave. Even his walk had changed. His gait was off, as though he’d suffered a leg or back injury. Mike looked around the room twice, trying to focus his attention back on work, and stood on wobbly legs. He left to tattoo.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Mike watched the news that night with Deb. The fuzzy signal was awash with reporters speculating and smirking. Most of all the focus was that this made seven. Seven young women beaten, raped, and strangled in their homes. They showed the seven faces, focusing on Doc’s niece, of course, over and over again. Also repeatedly mentioned was the apparent utter absence of information or clues. The mouthpiece from the police department had little to say other than that they were dedicating all available manpower to follow their few leads. He did not, nor need to, mention just how thin such threads likely were. Six other times over the last two years, the same thing; surely this wouldn’t be the time they figured it out.
Deb was furious watching it, and she continued to be angry long after Mike had gone back to the kitchen to work on art. Particularly offensive to her was that, somehow or another, one reporter had managed to get Doc’s sister and her husband on the tube for a short interview. They’d said little, of course, but why were they being paraded around for ratings after the death of their child?
The particulars of the crimes were grisly, and the smiling blonde reporter on the NBC affiliate was more than happy to talk about them in detail. What, Mike wondered in the kitchen, happened while you acquired a communications degree that would allow you to smile as you talked about a twenty-three-year-old woman who’d been raped and murdered? He pushed the thought aside as best he was able and tried to focus on the task at hand, an upper arm half-sleeve of Jesus carrying a man. The reference he’d been given had the “Footprints” poem on it, and he’d read it twice before drawing. Mike wasn’t religious, but it was pretty cool to imagine a superghost carrying you when shit got a little too real.
Mike thought about Doc while he worked. His mind had become worn raw with it. For him, Doc had been a good friend and a great client. For Doc to come to him for a mental reprieve was yet another reminder of just how close some artists and customers got to one another. Sure they’d had drinks a couple of times, but for the most
part theirs was a business relationship. Except for Doc, it wasn’t. He came to Mike not just for work, but to unwind; he came to explore himself, and to live. Mike tattooed Doc for money, that was his involvement. As much as he enjoyed the man’s company, it wasn’t the same for him. They had no common ground without Mike’s art and Doc’s wallet, and as smart as Doc was, it was odd to Mike that he didn’t appear to make the same distinction.
At the same time, though, Doc knew about Sid. Doc was more than just another customer. Doc had gotten into a swearing contest with Lamar about how the younger man’s dating habits would lead to nothing but ruin. Lamar had apologized, and not because Mike had told him to, which of course he had. If Lamar had said “bitch” around Doc since then, Mike hadn’t heard it. Doc was a friend to him as well, even if Doc had to keep their friendship a secret because of his job. Mike knew Doc was watching the same TV coverage he could hear right now, and he knew it had to be eating him alive. To hear how they believed the killer stalked the women for days to learn their patterns. To hear how his niece had suffered, and tried so hard not to die that way. There were no new leads to supply her family with the possibility that the death of their loved one would help keep others from meeting the same end. She was dead, and that was it.
Ashes. Ashes. Why had he said nothing to Doc of the ashes? Mike knew, knew without a doubt, that the tattoos he’d done on the three other suffering loved ones had helped them immensely, but he’d still held back from telling Doc. Why? Doc was precisely the kind of person least likely to take offense, and it potentially would have benefited him even more than it had the others who’d gone through it. Doc understood the blade; he lived it. A grouping of needles to him was a means to an end, and the pain that came with it was part of the payment. Mike knew that part of the pact, and so did Doc, which was why that small withholding on his part, that one betrayal, was so huge. It was a thing that hampered Mike in bed that night. He labored next to Deb, a twisting and turning mess of sleeplessness.