As I watched him smile and shake hands, I felt like I could forget about the Rabbit Man. I could leave here and never come back. I could return to my long-suffering wife, to my courageous little girl who had somehow managed to put her assault in the past while her father continued to grieve.
Sam laughed at something one of the men said and got back in his cruiser. I watched him drive back to the topside of the Tuttle, watched everyone return to whatever they'd been doing. I felt myself relax.
"You know, if it's anyone here, I'd put money on Telly," Gonzalez said, dragging me right back down.
"Why him?" I snapped.
"I just overheard him bragging once, about all the stuff he'd gotten away with. He said he—"
It was clear he couldn't repeat the actual words Telly had used. "You don't have to say it."
Gonzalez gave a brief smile. "Thanks. He did it to a little girl, and all they got him on was grooming some cop on the 'net posing as an eight-year-old."
Down there among the others, the blond guy, Telly, chucked a stone in the direction the cop car had gone, having since recaptured his bravado. I watched him swagger back to his own car, chewing his gum with his mouth open. He climbed in and slammed the squeaky door behind himself.
"You're gonna kill him, aren't you?"
I thought about the scratches, the rabbits. My mind ran through all the gruesome scenarios I'd dreamed up during our sessions with Dr. Ambrose. "What if I said yes?"
Gonzalez followed my gaze. Telly had his dirty work boots rested on the driver's window. Behind the windshield, the orange ember of his cigarette burned.
"I won't tell," Gonzalez said. "He'll just do it again, the second he gets a chance. You can tell just by looking at him. Heck, I wouldn't be surprised if that's what he does at night, driving off all by himself."
I considered this in silence, knowing the decision had already been made for me.
EXCEPT FOR THOSE times he left camp well after sundown, I didn't let Telly leave my sight again for over a week. He'd recline the driver's seat and nod off as the sun began to sink beyond the skyline, well before anyone else had even considered sleep. Later, when most of us had been out for a few hours, I'd watch him light up a smoke in the dark behind the windshield. Then he'd creep out with the running lights off. A few hours later, he'd pull back into his spot. I'd watch him fire up a butt with his Zippo, lighting a dark smile on his face. The little orange ember of his cigarette would wax and wane. After a few minutes, he'd flick it out the window in a shower of sparks, put his booted feet out the window, and go back to sleep. Once, he'd gone directly to the water and washed his hands. To wash off what, I don't know.
But I can guess.
About a week into this routine, Telly left the car to go down to the water to fish. (We caught a fair bit down in that part of Biscayne Bay. Going hungry was never a worry, though I lost the taste for fish quickly.) I wandered over to the car, curiosity getting the best of me, and peeked in the dusty window. The passenger seat was covered in cassette tapes, mostly metal and hard rock bands: AC/DC, Iron Maiden, Metallica, Slayer. With a collection like that, it wasn't likely he'd have ever listened to George Michael, but I considered it might be a part of his pathology, like maybe he'd been abused to it when he was younger. Or maybe it reminded him of a junior school crush. Parking tickets were scattered on the floor like the bottom of a birdcage.
I spotted what I'd been hoping to find hanging from the rearview mirror. Due to the fine layer of dust on the windshield, I hadn't been able to see it before. A little white rabbit's foot swayed gently on a bathtub chain, a few spots of something dark on its fur. I shaded my eyes against the glass for a closer look, thinking it might just be blood.
"Lookin' for somethin', asshole?"
I stepped away, caught. Telly sauntered back with the fishing pole over his shoulder and no fish. I stammered something about looking for cigarettes, and Telly narrowed his eyes.
"You want a smoke, you coulda just ast." Chewing absently on a wad of pink gum, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a pack of Camels, shifting the pole to his other shoulder. He shook one out and flicked it at me.
I caught it, fumbled it into the dirt. I picked it up and blew on it, then nestled it between my lips. The sweet smell of tobacco filled my nostrils. Marnie and I had quit when we found out she was pregnant. I'd sneaked a few puffs here and there after Nola was born, but after Marnie caught me lighting up the day of the argument, the day Nola ran away, I hadn't smoked since.
"Got a light?"
He threw a Zippo at me, and I caught it deftly. Lit the smoke. Inhaled. The first drag felt like pins jabbing my lungs. After that, the drags were smoother. "Thanks," I said, holding the cigarette between my teeth as I handed the Rabbit Man his lighter.
"No problem." A buzz had him reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. He opened the flip phone and studied the message. "Gotta split," he said. He opened the car door, then squinted at me. "Hey, no hard feelings about that love tap last week. I woulda hit me, too, if they'da been my buddies you was messin' with."
"They're not my buddies. Thanks again for the smoke," I added, walking away.
"Any time, amigo. Just stay the fuck away from my car next time."
I lied and said I would.
IT WAS TWO nights later when I dared approach his car again. He was asleep inside, his boots on the dash. I crept up to the driver door and listened to his slow, deep breathing for a while, maybe too long. I needed to be sure he was sleeping. I wanted to catch him off guard. He looked at peace. Like he'd slept well. It enraged me to see that, when my own sleep was so fitful because of him.
I wondered how many other children he might have abused since the police sent him down here, how many childhoods he'd taken away. How many families he'd destroyed. How many fathers he'd poisoned, the way he poisoned me. I still knew nothing about him, but none of that mattered. I could have called in with Officer Higgins' badge number, got them to run Telly's plates. I could have found a previous address. I could have rented a car—unless Marnie had cancelled my credit cards, which was possible—and followed him the next time he left camp. I didn't do any of these things. I didn't want to know about his life. All I wanted was for it to be him, and for it to end tonight.
I rounded the dirty front of the car to the passenger side. Ever so gently, I pulled up the handle. The door came open an inch with a click that seemed to rebound off the cement pillars and the underside of the bridge. Telly snored and shifted in his sleep. I froze, blood hammering. We were mere feet from each other, but his car was far enough away from the rest of Bookville, a pariah among pariahs, that I thought I'd be safe from potential witnesses. Despite the distance, if he woke up and saw me looming over him, no doubt he'd shout, and my whole stupid reckless plan, the months of research and preparation and time away from the girls, all of it would have been for nothing.
I held my breath.
He didn't wake.
Slowly, I pulled the door open. The amount of times I'd watched him open it to get one thing or another, I knew it wouldn't creak, not like the driver door. I knew the dome light wouldn't come on, either; it had burned out or didn't work. I slipped in cautiously beside him and pulled the door closed.
Telly slept with his seat reclined, his knees curled up to his chest. He breathed deeply, a sure sign he was either asleep or faking it, ready to gut me like he gutted fish with the jagged hunting knife attached to his belt.
His eyes suddenly snapped open and he scrambled up against the door, sucking in a breath with childlike terror before squinting at me coolly. His breath smelled like cinnamon when he said, "What the fuck do you want?"
"Roll up your window."
"Why the fuck should I?" He looked in the direction I indicated: the tip of my father's old buck knife aimed at the faded crotch of his tight jeans. "Jesus, man," he said on exhale and rolled up the window, not taking his eyes off me. "You mind tellin' me what the fuck you're doin' in my car? An
d don't say you're lookin' for a cigarette, amigo, 'cause I know you ain't a smoker."
For a long while, I said nothing. All the time I'd spent dreaming about this moment, it felt like he should know why I was here before I took his life away. It felt like I should make him aware, for Nola's sake if not mine. But everything I started to say seemed wrong. Like I'd be offering him an explanation he surely didn't deserve. Like I'd be allowing him the opportunity for forgiveness when forgiveness had never been an option.
"Take out the tape," I said finally.
"What?"
"The tape. Take out the fucking tape."
"All right, man. Shit." Eyeing me the whole time, Telly reached for the cassette player in the dash. His dirty fingers found the eject button and he pushed it. The tape popped out with a satisfying clunk. Telly fumbled it into his hand, then held it up for me to see. "All right?"
"All right," I said, and thrust the knife at his crotch.
Telly's eyes opened wider than I'd thought humanly possible, like something you'd see on a Saturday morning cartoon. He made to cry out, but I pressed a hand over his mouth, his mustache prickling against my palm, his tongue flicking out, probably involuntarily, as I mashed his head against the doorjamb.
Relishing the agonized terror in his eyes, I missed the sight of his hand scrabbling for the knife at his hip. He had it pulled out and pain tore up my chest before I could react. Smashing his head back against the door, I thrust my elbow against his wrist, pushing it back. I shoved my knee down hard against his legs, yanking on the knife in his groin. It came free with a jet of blood that splashed my wrist, his jeans already dark with it.
The wet blade gleamed in the arc lights as I pulled it back to strike again, and I shoved it straight into his throat, to the hilt. The monster's tongue flicked against my palm as his life spurted out from the hole in his neck, soaking my shirt. His legs kicked weakly, like a dying insect's. A gout of blood poured from the hole as he gagged. His fingers relaxed, dropping his knife. The life left his eyes.
I sat there a moment longer, watching his body leak blood, listening for his breath. I couldn't believe he was dead, that it was finally over and I could leave this godforsaken place and return to my family.
His cell phone buzzed.
I wondered who would be texting so late. I couldn't imagine it being a booty call, although I supposed like Walker he could have had a thing for women and men as well as children.
I told myself it was over. But the cell phone buzzed again, and I couldn't resist opening the glovebox, from which I'd located the sound on the second buzz.
Two items fell from the glovebox on a landslide of junk paper and Big Red chewing gum wrappers: Telly's crappy flip phone, and a heavy black revolver.
I picked up the phone, giving the gun a wary look, as if it was a dangerous animal.
Two new messages awaited, both from Unknown Number.
The second message was an address. I knew the area. Somewhere in Coconut Grove, where the rich folk live.
The first message said:ARE U IN?
Was I in? Hell, I didn't even know what I was in for—but I'd already come this far.
What if Telly had an accomplice? I thought. Someone with the resources to keep him from falling under the scrutiny of the Miami-Dade P.D. Someone rich enough to live in Coconut Grove.
I had to find out.
I scrolled through prior messages phone, looking at his responses. They were curt replies, mostly written in text-speak. No wonder, with the ancient buttons on the thing. Heart hammering, I thumbed the buttons, clicking ponderously through numbers and letters to type out: B THERE IN 1 HR
I wasn't sure how soon they'd be expecting him, but I wanted to give myself enough time to get cleaned up first.
The phone buzzed again in my hand.
MAKE IT TWO, BACK DOOR'S OPEN
Even better, I thought.
Telly's body slid another few inches toward the floor. In the dim light beyond the space he'd left, I spotted Gonzalez huddled against a pillar, watching us with wide eyes. I wondered how long he'd been standing there. Long enough, I guessed.
His eyes met mine, and he nodded. Somehow, I managed to nod back.
I dragged Telly's lifeless body out of the seat and climbed over him, then sat him up in the passenger seat. Reaching over him, I half-expected him to snap awake and grab me around the throat. Of course he didn't. And when I yanked on the seat adjuster, he dropped back along with the seat.
I flicked the dome light to its off position, and started the engine. The Impala purred like a panther. The running lights already off, I backed up, and drove out up the embankment, leaving behind Bookville for good.
As I drove west on I95, the rabbit's foot jingled on its chain from the mirror. In all the commotion, I'd forgotten about it. I tore it down to get a better look. The dark stains were no doubt blood. Whether it was old blood or new I couldn't tell, not when I'd just smeared Telly's blood onto its dirty off-white fur.
I tucked the totem into my pocket and looked at myself in the rearview. A few streaks of blood had spattered my face, and I wiped them off with the back of my hand. I didn't plan to go home looking like I did, anyway.
At my old 24-hour gym, I parked the car at the far corner of the lot, under a broken streetlamp. There was a blanket in the backseat, which I threw over Telly's body. When I got out, it felt like I'd given my whole body a workout, every muscle aching.
I staggered to the brightly lit gym. The doors slid open for me.
The attendant, a young kid with clear, tanned skin, gave me a funny look. When I got into the showers, I understood why. I hadn't been into the city for a week, hadn't shaved, hadn't slept. My shirt was gouged open at the chest, matted to my skin with blood. I looked like a man who'd gotten lost in the jungle, fought a wild animal, and narrowly escaped with his life. I left the showers clean and shaven, my wound—Telly's blade had cut my left nipple in half—washed and dressed with paper towels, surprised that the kid wiping down the equipment hadn't called the cops. Far enough away from the mess I'd left under the Tuttle, I had no worries they would finger me for the crime even if the kid called in my appearance and had them pull the security video. For all they knew, I'd taken time off work to deal with the aftermath of what had happened to Nola.
Back at the Impala, I rooted through a duffel bag of clean-smelling clothes in the trunk. Telly was about my size, and always seemed to be dressed in a t-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. I assumed on some of his excursions he'd been to use a laundromat, but I suppose his friend in the Grove could have easily gotten them washed for him.
I found black jeans a t-shirt and as worn Miami Heat cap, and put them on in the dark below the burnt-out streetlamp. The jeans were snug and a little short, but the t-shirt fit well enough. Though they were clean, they felt slimy on my skin and scalp. To be wearing the clothes of the man who'd assaulted my little girl… but it was a necessary evil.
Walk a mile in a man's shoes, I thought. When I got back in the car, I gave Telly's pale, dead face a long hard look.
This was somebody's son. Someone had given birth to this monster. Had raised it.
Not wanting to give him another moment of my time, I started the car, and headed toward the Grove. He was fertilizer now. Worm food.
The streets out here were bright even in the dead of night. Palms in front of multimillion-dollar homes swayed in a breeze from the bay. I read house numbers on pillars and porticos and wrought iron arches until finally I found the house.
I parked the Impala on the next block, left it there, and headed back on foot.
The whole neighborhood felt eerily quiet, aside from the gentle swish of the tide, and the palm fronds above. I imagined the people who lived here, in their Xanax-induced slumbers, some maybe burning the midnight oil to keep the creditors at bay. Was it possible a predator lived among them? I was certain there were tax-evaders. Philanderers. Pill addicts. Spouse abusers. Investment swindlers. Perpetrators of criminal negligence
—even potential vehicular homicides.
I wondered how many sex offenders had once lived on my own street.
The house stood silent before me, the moon casting a diamond glint trail on the bay beyond. A security camera watched over the gate, the stone wall around the perimeter lined with bushes. Spotlights lit the glass house's exterior, but inside the only room that appeared lit was the kitchen.
As I headed along a red clay path toward the beach in the darkness below the wall, the sound of the ocean grew louder. My feet more sore than they'd been the day I'd walked home, I longed to take off my shoes and walk in the sand. But more pressing business was at hand.
The gun felt heavy against my spine, tucked into the back of Telly's jeans.
On the beach, I crept close to the wall, looking for a point of egress, certain the owner had access to the docks dotting a strip of white sand. Finally, I reached a small gate where the wall dipped down on either side. No camera in sight. The gate locked, I climbed over the wall and jumped down on the other side, praying they didn't have dogs.
The water beat against the shore, almost as loud as my heart thrumming in my ears.
The house, a series of stacked white stucco-and-glass rectangles, stood quiet and stark against the moonlit sky. I could see a camera above the back door, and I slowed my approach, pulling the peak of the Heat cap down to hide my face. I rounded the pool, spotting children's pool toys floating in the blue-green water, lit from below. Stepped over a damp towel left bunched on the concrete, and a small pair of sopping wet board shorts with little flamingos printed on them left halfway to the door, as if they'd been cast off on the way to the house.
I stood under the camera, and jiggled the handle. No luck.
Out of options, short of smashing one of the window walls and announcing the presence of an intruder, I thumbed the doorbell.
As I waited for a response, I felt sick creeping into my throat, and swallowed it down, hard.
Where the Monsters Live Page 3