The land of dead flowers: (A serial killer thriller)

by Natasha A. Salnikova

  This time everything was different, not just the genre. This time the storyline of his book was in his heart rather than in his head. He couldn’t explain it to anyone. If before he’d had an idea, he would juggle it a couple of days, bat around characters, possible plot twists, and often the finale. Then he sat down and wrote an outline in a day or two, and after that, he started the actual book. An idea for a book was like a stone in his hand. He didn’t just feel it, he also saw it; he knew it as well as he knew his wife. He worked from nine until three, not thinking about a muse visit.

  The idea for his book was like a bright bird that flickered behind a window. He couldn’t even take a good look at it, but it gripped his whole essence. He didn’t know anything about this book; he didn’t see the characters or a finale. He wasn’t even sure he could write the needed quantity of words. All of this made him uneasy. Not the word count, but the way this book came to him. It was like a mysterious woman, whom he’d seen once riding a subway and he dreamed of seeing her again.

  After taking a shower, putting his jeans, sweater, and jacket on, wrapping a scarf around his neck, and getting into thick-soled boots, Max left the house. The weather was sunny, but wind caught up his hair, blew under his jacket, reminding him to get ready for the king of winter months—His Majesty Frost. Max stuck his hands into his pockets, looked around, and then went to the garage and got into his car, knowing exactly where to go.

  This also bothered him. How did he know where to go? In his head, it was not just an image, but also words, written by an invisible hand upon his consciousness as on a piece of paper. Watervliet? Why? In his fifteen years in New York, since he came here from Florida to study journalism, he had never been there. He had never had friends there; he had never discussed it with anyone. He’d heard something about it in the news and read about it in newspapers. Some church scandal, but he couldn’t recall what it was about. Probably some of those reports deposited on his subconsciousness. Maybe he even read a ghost story that emerged from that town, but forgot about it. Maybe some particular story entered his mind and pushed this forgotten event to the surface like steam from an overheated kettle. It deleted all the details about the town, leaving only the house. The house with four windows that stood on a sunny, extinct street.

  CHAPTER 4

  Max expected to get to Watervliet in three hours, but after two hours of driving, he entered the small city. He knew where he was going when he left New York, but when he reached the unfamiliar landscape of the strange city, he had gotten lost. His subconscious refused to work with him any further, presenting him an opportunity to find whatever he was looking for himself. He thought he would find the house like a dog, using his senses, but it didn’t happen.

  Max passed a street of two-story, Victorian-style houses, some new townhouses, and an empty field. He reached the one-way street with red bricks along it, with cars parked on both sides, and several small shops and restaurants. He spotted a free space between cars and parked there. He left the car, scanned the area around for people, and when he saw none, he entered a small store right in front of him. Perfumania.

  Max approached the counter, ignoring faint smells of different perfumes. A salesgirl with light, wavy hair, appeared to be about seventeen, but her expressive eyes suggested early twenties as she turned to greet him.

  “Are you looking for something special?”

  “Uh … Hi … I’m actually lost. Can you help me to find something?”

  He expected the girl’s smile to die in disappointment, but it didn’t happen. Max had been lucky with helpful girls.

  “Be glad to have me as your wife. I’m trusting and quiet,” Anna said once. “Somebody else would kill someone out of jealousy. Wherever we go, women stare at you as aborigines stare at bright beads.”

  “They just recognize me. It’s the curse of any public figure.”

  “You’re a writer, not an actor. They stare at you because of your sweet muzzle.”

  “Sweet muzzle? I have a sweet muzzle?”

  “Like a Cheshire cat.”

  “Hmm. So, I’m a Cheshire cat.”

  That was what she called him sometimes. Cat. He didn’t mind.

  “What are you looking for?” the girl asked as she picked up one of the bright bottles. A bulky man near Max studied perfumes, almost touching the bottles with his nose. The girl didn’t seem to notice him.

  “I’m looking for … houses.”

  “Just houses?” The girl frowned and smirked.

  “Well, I’m looking for a particular house, but it may be difficult to find.” Max recalled his dream. “It is located on a narrow street. Bricks. Not orange, but sort of yellow. Some gray and red. That house is yellow gray. Most houses here are two stories, but all the houses that surround that one are one-story, single family. That area is pretty run-down … Five. There’s a number five on the house.” Max shook his head. “I know it sounds strange, I just hoped …”

  “Why are you looking for it?”

  “It was listed for sale in a newspaper, but I lost it. I know it’s Water…”

  “I see.”

  The girl pulled out a sheet of paper from under the glass counter, then a pen and a hard cover book, black and red. “His Other Life”. Max smiled. She did recognize him and her stare had nothing to do with his “catness”.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, can you …?”

  “Can you wait, please?” The sales girl shut down the other customer so harshly that Max felt uncomfortable and even embarrassed. The girl didn’t share his feelings; instead, she was smiling at him.

  “You wrote it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Oh! I thought it was you, but it would be like, so random. You’re my favorite writer! I get all of your books from the library. Can you sign it for me?”

  “A library book?”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Okay.” Max picked up the pen. “What’s your name?”

  “Lia … Amelia! Sign it to Amelia. Please. So cool! I’ve never been this close to a famous person before. I first thought it wasn’t you. You look so young! And so much better than your pictures.”

  While Max was signing the book, Lia-Amelia touched her hair, twisted a lock around her finger, and checked the buttons on her low-cut shirt. The only customer stopped searching the counter, turning his attention to the writer instead. Later, Amelia, glowing and giggling, hid the book under the counter and drew something like a map on a piece of paper.

  “You know you’re in Troy now, right?”

  “Right,” Max agreed. He didn’t, even though he’d used a navigator to find the city.

  “Okay. I think I know what you’re talking about. I’ve lived here my whole life.” The girl sighed. “You live in Manhattan?”

  Max nodded, hoping to finish the conversation quickly.

  “It must be nice. And you like … want to get a house here?”

  “I need quiet surroundings … to concentrate on my writing.”

  The girl nodded understandingly, biting the tip of her pen. She probably would nod the same if he told her the real reason he was here. Writers were crazy and everyone outside the writer’s circle knew that.

  He didn’t carry the conversation further, so the girl gave up eventually and wrote the directions. On the bottom of the sheet she added her name, phone number, and drew a heart.

  “Call me if you want to look around,” she said as she bit her pen and fluttered her eyelashes.

  “Sure. Thanks for your help.” Max waved before leaving.

  “Miss …”

  “Oh, God! What do you want, sir?”

  Max didn’t dodge looking for his destination; the girl wrote and even drew everything in detail, as if he was a first-grader. He reached the intersection of 12th Street and 6th Avenue in a matter of minutes. The city was small, and Max even checked it in Google search on his cell phone while waiting on a red light, and learned that it had a population of about eleven thousand people. He saw
trees along the street, and it was probably green and beautiful in the summer but now everything was gray, withered, and unfriendly.

  He entered the street that wasn’t deserted as it was in his dream. He saw four older people talking by one of the houses. Two teen girls in bright jackets walked along the road, and across from them, a woman pushed a stroller, talking on her cell phone. They diluted the gloominess of the landscape, but didn’t make it friendlier. Maybe that was why Max remembered his home city of Ocala and his horrible childhood there. Unlike some lucky ones, Anna for example, his childhood wasn’t something he enjoyed remembering.

  “Familiar street,” Max said and shuddered, hearing his own voice. The street really looked familiar, but he had never been here. He must have seen it on some TV episode or in a picture in a newspaper. Nothing supernatural. It was a bird flashed behind a window and a beautiful stranger in one bottle. His mind, using twisted ways, led him to discover secret treasures. It led him to something he wanted, but he had a difficult time to understand it realistically; to grasp it, to reach it. Maybe one push, something thin and fatherly, opened his sixth sense. It showed him the direction, where to point the light to see something hidden in the darkness.

  Passing the houses that were opened for everyone to see, he tried to understand once again, what had inspired his imagination. Why this city and not any other? What were the differences between this one and all the other small towns in America? Did he just make it up? Why did he decide that this city was the one? It didn’t look special in any way. What if it was one of those moments when you seemed to know what this was all about, but in reality your mind played chess with you and you didn’t know its next move?

  Max slammed the brakes, and the car behind him barely avoided a crash. The driver skirted Max’s Mercedes, pressing the horn and flipping him the bird. Max forgot about him and the incident in a second. He drove past the house, turned around when there was a chance, came back, and stopped on the side of the road in front of it.

  He just stared at the house, hesitating to leave the car. A low green fence, light brick walls that could look gray or yellow depending on the light, big lawn with short yellow grass, and a path to the house that needed some work. There was an attic window and a chimney. Three windows on one side of the door, one on the other and wooden stairs leading to the porch with two wooden rocking chairs. Max hoped to find a house that would look like the one from his dream, but he didn’t expect to find the same house. He hoped, but didn’t believe it. He certainly didn’t believe he could find it so fast.

  It was here, right in front of him. The house he saw in his dreams was new—this one was a little worn out and the street wasn’t empty or sunny. It was gloomy. A car passed by, honking, dogs barked, people walked. The wind tore branches off naked trees, and tossed smoke that was bursting from a chimney of the house neighboring the one he had looked for. It was the house, no doubt. Anxiety squeezed his heart. He felt it every time he woke up after that dream, and he didn’t like this feeling.

  Finally, Max chose to see it closer. He kept the motor running, and left the car. He stood beside it for a few seconds, then walked across the narrow road with a faded dividing line, and stopped by the green fence. He touched its rough surface, looking at the lawn, the door, and windows with dark curtains. Not a tiny gap in them to see the rooms inside. He looked up, and studied the narrow attic window and the TV dish with two pigeons sitting on it. Max walked along the fence and reached the far side of the house, leading to the back. The fence was higher here and he couldn’t check the backyard. He walked a few feet away, rose on his toes, and saw the roof of some low building behind the fence. It could be storage, a shed, anything. Max hadn’t seen this in his dreams or anything at all behind the house. Could there also be a car or a kids’ tree house? Possibly a swing? No, no swings or tree houses; nothing for kids here. Max hadn’t seen it, but he knew.

  He walked back to the short, green fence. Two boys of about twelve stood by his car. They peeked inside of it and talked. Max wanted to check inside the house, smell its air, something. He lifted his leg to step onto the path, but put it down. He wasn’t ready for that as it turned out. As it turned out, he was scared. In spite of all logical explanations, all of it seemed unrealistic; a little too supernatural for him to move forward with the idea. He needed to accept it, conceptualize, and believe.

  Max turned away from the house and headed for his car, almost falling under the wheels of a passing motorcycle. He jumped away, but the driver didn’t even slow down. The motorcycle was roaring, but Max didn’t hear it, lost in his thoughts. Anna would get mad if he told her that. She warned him many times about the possibility of ending up in the hospital if he daydreamed while crossing the road.

  The boys were gone and Max was glad they were. He didn’t want to answer their possible questions.

  Driving back home, he didn’t notice traffic, weather, anything. All his thoughts were concentrated on the house with the green fence and the plot of his new book. He felt this was going to be his best work to date. Probably the only book he hadn’t made up, but lived through. It was going to be a book about revenge. Revenge that waited years before finding the offender.

  CHAPTER 5

  The November sun was deceitful, like a prostitute promising sincere love. It seemed warm from the window, but didn’t keep him warm for even the first ten minutes on the bench.

  Morris stood up, walked from one end of the square to the other, so he could forget about the cold and concentrate on his business. He saw many beautiful women today, too many. So many that after five minutes of walking, he became hot. Many faces, motions. He couldn’t see their bodies and it was sad. They covered not only their bodies, but some also covered their hair and even their faces. It was the biggest disadvantage of winter, but he couldn’t take a risk, so there was no point in grumbling.

  Two young women passed him. They had unnaturally white hair, short skirts, and sheer stockings. These two weren’t afraid of the cold; the most important thing was showing their beauty. He didn’t complain. If he saw more women like these, his life would be much easier. Only, these two had been too heavy for his taste. Morris liked them gentle, fragile, like a crystal glass. It was easier to deal with them. He didn’t know what to expect from the ones with long legs and wide shoulders. A woman must be shorter than he was. It was both convenient and nice. He felt like half a man with a taller woman. Tall and big girls were an unnatural cataclysm.

  Another girl, dressed in a short skirt and stockings, walked by him. She was miniature, but unfortunately ugly. A face with delicate features that was pleasant to look at—that was what he needed. Not one he had to drink five bottles of beer before he found it attractive.

  When he saw a new woman with her head uncovered, he squeezed his eyes. Her red hair shone brightly in the sun. Red locks bounced in rhythm with her fast steps. Her breath escaped from her mouth in a vapor. Her high heels resonated on the frozen ground. She held a thick folder under her arm and a bag on her shoulder. She appeared to be in a hurry. She didn’t pay attention to the cold because she was walking so fast: her cheeks were red and her jacket was unbuttoned halfway, showing a baby blue sweater. He noticed everything, absorbed it during those few seconds as she flew past him. Rising from the bench where he’d sat down just two minutes before, he hurried after the girl, and thanked nature for not sending rain his way, as was predicted. He walked faster on the dry asphalt.

  She almost ran and didn’t look back. The ends of her blue scarf waved behind her back, and her hair was shot with all shades of red. Morris felt a flower of love blooming inside his chest, releasing petals from his heart. In moments like this, he became romantic. He could even write poems.

  Morris sped up when the girl approached the road, and before she crossed it, he ran into her, almost knocking her down. The bag fell from her shoulder and she rushed to pick it up.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she demanded.

  “I’m so sorry!” Morris
started shaking off her jacket, then her bag, trying to conceal his face. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine! Don’t touch me!”

  “I’m really sorry.” Morris stroked his hand over the bag one more time. “I was just in a hurry.”

  Before the girl had a chance to take a good look at him, he turned away from her and ran across the road. Everything he needed, he had in his pocket. Her wallet, he had lifted out easily; it was on top.

  Morris smiled and looked back only once, to see the girl entering an office building. He wanted to check what it was, but thought better of it. He sat in the car, turned on the heater, rubbed his cold hands together, opened the blue, fake crocodile skin wallet, and took out the driver’s license. He regarded the photo and humphed in satisfaction.

  “Adorable. Jane Haydon. Twenty-four years old. Beautiful.”

  He was going to send the wallet back without a return address or fingerprints, but with a note that it was found on the street.

  Morris copied her name and address in his notebook, stashed the wallet in a box he’d prepared in advance, and signed it, smiling and thanking his derelict father for teaching his son at least something in his short life. He was a pickpocket and had gone to jail not long after little Morris was born. He got out when his son was ten, and lived with him and his mother for two months, constantly fighting with his wife and teaching his son his professional tricks. He was sure the boy could use them in his life. Without much enthusiasm, Morris learned how to sneak wallets from pockets and cut bags. He didn’t see himself doing it in the future, but obeyed his father. One day his father didn’t come back after leaving the house in the morning to look for a job. Morris wasn’t upset because he hadn’t gotten used to the man, and he was tired of the fights at home. His mother wasn’t upset either, but made a dutiful call to the police. Morris was sure she didn’t want them to find him. He didn’t appear and the police didn’t know what happened to him.