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

by Natasha A. Salnikova

  “Can I say something else?” Anna moved away from Max a little and looked into his eyes.

  “Sure. Anything. I won’t react the way I did, promise.” He decided to hold his temper no matter what. No outbursts even if he was exploding.

  “You write about her with such love. Maybe I got jealous. Okay?”

  “Are you serious?”

  Anna didn’t nod and didn’t answer, but Max decided that she was saying what she felt.

  “You have never been jealous of my fictional characters, and I had a bunch of sex scenes and love talk.”

  “Yes, but … As I already said, it’s more personal. I don’t know. Don’t listen to me. You’re right. I also think that this book will be your best. I just need to get used to your new style, that’s all.”

  “Thank you.” Max kissed Anna’s forehead. “Thank you for always being here and supporting me. You have no idea how grateful I am.”

  Anna smiled, but Max thought her smile wasn’t genuine.

  “Did you forgive me for my outburst?”

  “Of course. You’re a normal person, creative, emotional.” She kissed Max’s lips and rose from the couch. “I’ll go brush my teeth and change into my pajamas. Time to sleep.”

  “Sleep? Too early.”

  “I’m tired. I’ll watch TV for another hour, drink some milk, and bye-bye.”

  Max waited for Anna to leave the room. Everything was going to be fine, he told himself. Everything was fine, but this book, this story, was too much. What was this novel and was it a novel at all? Max covered his face with his hands and Angelica appeared in the darkness. She was thirteen, smiling, hair waving in the wind. She called him. A calling girl, a calling book.

  “This boy just fooled around with her. He harassed her at school. When everyone went home, he tried to kiss her, get under her skirt, but she scratched him and ran away. Bastard. How dared he? That was why Angelica wanted to forget this story. She felt bad. She didn’t want to remember moments like that.”

  “Did you say something?” Anna opened the bathroom door, letting sounds of the running water into the room.

  “No,” Max answered, and the door closed. He jumped from the couch, burst into the kitchen, and fell onto the chair in front of his notebook. She called him again and he wanted to write down everything he had learned.

  His fingers flew over the keyboard, often pressing the wrong keys, but Max wasn’t worried about it. He was aware when his wife peeped into the kitchen and watched him for a few seconds, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t want to; he couldn’t. Angelica needed to tell him something important. She would tell him what had happened to her, but first, she was going to tell him her whole story and he would listen as long as he had to.

  CHAPTER 33

  Max waited for Anna to leave, so he could take a shower, eat breakfast, reread the last page of the novel, and get ready for a trip. He hadn’t planned to drive to Watervliet again. He knew he would return eventually, but hadn’t thought frequent visits were going to be necessary. The dream last night, where Angelica talked to a guy, had changed his mind. This handsome young man reminded him of somebody, but Max couldn’t figure out who it was. He had some ideas, but wasn’t in a hurry to validate them and make a mistake. This guy’s appearance was foggy, and Max couldn’t get a good look at his face. He didn’t know his name, and Angelica was quiet. Probably they hadn’t reached this part of her life together, but his mind rushed ahead.

  Max read over the scene in the classroom that had made him mad yesterday. After finishing it, he went to bed, but couldn’t fall asleep. All Angelica’s feelings—disbelief, embarrassment, fear, anger—shot through him like an electrical charge. This was the boy Kelly had wanted to date, the one they had fought over. He stayed after anatomy class to help Angelica clean the tables. Something she volunteered to do. Angelica was supposed to do it with Kelly number two, but she missed school that day and Kelly number one wasn’t in this class. Angelica didn’t ask the boy to help, but he entered the classroom after the last student left and said he was going to help. Angelica thanked him and told him she was fine, but the boy locked the door. Angelica asked him to leave, squeezing a heap of papers in her hands.

  “Come on,” he said, approaching.

  “I need to finish and get going.”

  “Who’s stopping you? Let’s kiss and you’re free to go.” The boy laughed. It seemed that he didn’t feel too confident.

  “I’m not gonna kiss you.”

  “You’ve never kissed anyone, have you?

  “I just turned thirteen. And my friend likes you!”

  “I like you. Kelly’s fat.”

  “She’s not. Go away, please.”

  “Cut it out. Come here.”

  Angelica threw the papers at the boy and ran to the other end of the room. He reached her and pressed her to the wall, trying to kiss her lips. Angelica squirmed and threatened to tell everyone. Before she could break away, scratching his face, he had gotten under her pleated skirt and touched her most private part.

  Angelica didn’t finish cleaning, but ran home, sobbing. Fortunately for her, her mother wasn’t home. She threw up and hoped the smell would vanish before her parents came home. The girl climbed into the bathtub to wash away those sweaty hands, the smell of cheap tobacco, the feeling of her helplessness.

  Max closed the file. His breathing was heavy, and his left hand was compressed into a fist. If Max ever found this kid—who by now was probably an overweight, old man—he would beat the crap out of him. He would pay him back for the tears and shame he caused an innocent child. Max felt disgusted, as if all of it had happened to him. It bothered him that Angelica didn’t tell anyone. She avoided any contact with the boy and didn’t look in his direction, but she never said a word. No one had known what he had done, what he was capable of.

  On his way to Watervliet, Max stopped by the store and bought a huge box of chocolates, and then he called Wilma and asked if he could visit her. He had a few questions. She agreed and asked if Kelly had helped him. He answered positively.

  When he arrived at the red brick house, the woman was standing outside, waiting for him. He left the car, approached her, and gave her the box of chocolates.

  “Oh, you didn’t have to! Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Let’s get inside. It’s cold.”

  Max’s heart banged like a jackhammer when he went up the porch stairs and through the doorway. He was ready today.

  He entered the house and smelled freshly baked cookies, like when he visited Anna’s parents. Anna baked cookies twice, burned them to charcoal both times, and gave up.

  In the living room, Max regarded the old, green-checkered furniture, small TV, and shabby coffee table with a crystal vase filled with fake flowers on it. Max wanted to smack himself. He should have brought her a fresh bouquet. There were bookshelves near the couch, stuffed with books, and Max noticed his among the others on the top shelf. On the wall, behind the TV, hung about half a dozen framed photos of the girl he already knew. He felt the familiar dizziness and grabbed a door handle.

  “Is that your daughter?” he asked, just to say something. He knew the answer.

  “Yes,” Wilma said, “my little Angel. Come in and close that door. Mr. Stevenson. Are you feeling well?”

  “Is her room there?” Max pointed to the left.

  “Yes. I keep everything the way it used to be when she was here. I didn’t touch anything.”

  Everything went blurry in front of his eyes. Max went to the chair and sat down on the edge of it without waiting for an invitation.

  “A white bear on a pillow,” he muttered, taking in pink flashes before him.

  “Her favorite toy,” the woman whispered.

  Max noticed that she brought her hand to her lips before he slid to the floor.

  When he regained consciousness, the woman was on her knees near him, already without her coat, holding a glass of water in her hand and crossi
ng herself.

  “Thank God!” she gasped. “I wanted to call an ambulance. What happened to you? It’s good you sat down or you could have hit your head.”

  “I’m fine now. It’s good you didn’t call.”

  Max started to sit up and the woman helped him, putting the glass on the table. First, he sat up, and then rose to his feet. She helped him take off his jacket, and finally, he climbed back into the chair.

  Max studied some pink roses made of plastic as he drank the water.

  “You scared me,” the woman said while Max was recovering. “My heart dropped. Do you do that often?”

  “No.” Max put the glass down on the narrow coffee table with a neat pile of culinary magazines and his book in the middle. Flowers for Dolly. The cover was threadbare, read.

  “You need to go to the doctor. Nothing good about such things. Not good at all.”

  “That’s what my wife says.” Max turned to Wilma. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “See? I knew you’d be that way; my husband was the opposite. He always had some deadly illness. He had hundreds of cancers in every body part. My husband always thought he was sick. A little pain and he panicked, rushed to the doctors.”

  “You said was?”

  “He died a year ago. Not cancer, thank God, no suffering. A heart attack, very quick. I think he didn’t understand that he was dying. He came home after his run. He ran like crazy in the last two years and then swam in the lake. So, he came home, all red, happy, energetic. He came in and yelled to ask if I had any food ready. He was always like that. Running on an empty stomach, and then he’d want food as if he were dying from hunger. I came out to meet him, he smiled, and then his eyes grew large, he grabbed his chest, and he dropped right here. Groaned and that was it. The end.”

  “My deepest condolences.”

  “Thank you. We are old, lived enough. I didn’t want to live this long. I didn’t think I would live this long without my Angel. But I wait for her to come back. If not for that, I wouldn’t be here. My heart wouldn’t keep going. So, I thought that you … like my husband … Only you didn’t grab your chest and didn’t groan. You also woke up fast, after a few seconds. I had time to get water and that was it. If you hadn’t, I would have called an ambulance, mark my word.”

  Max listened to the woman and liked her more and more. He would smile, but the conversation wasn’t suitable. She was so different from his mother. Maybe he wouldn’t have become the man he was if not for her. Maybe. If not for his grudge and anger toward her. He had never thought about his father, but he wanted a mother like this woman. Open, kind, caring.

  “I made cookies for you.” The woman smiled and crossed her arms over her chest. “Would you like some?”

  Max saw in her eyes so much hope and desire to please him that he felt uncomfortable. She was lonely and wanted to be needed. And here he was, a bestselling writer. He rocked her life and gave her a reason to wake up in the morning, to be useful even if it was for a short time. She could help and talk about books that her friend didn’t read. She even dressed up. A navy blue dress with a collar connected by a brooch in the shape of a bird.

  “Sure. I’d love some. I haven’t had a homemade cookie in a long time.” Max rubbed his hands together to make his words more credible.

  “Let’s go to the kitchen. How are you? Can you walk?” She was genuinely concerned.

  “Yes, I’m fine. I didn’t have breakfast. Maybe that was the reason.”

  “Oh, you are hungry! Of course you fell. Your wife would scold you too. I understand. You’re a man, a creative man. You probably forget everything.”

  Max laughed. He couldn’t stop himself. He felt great in this house, in the company of this woman.

  He followed her to the kitchen and sat where she pointed. Behind the table covered with a green, flowery tablecloth, with green linen napkins on two sides opposite each other, with a bowl of chocolate chip cookies and a carafe of coffee.

  “Would you like some coffee too?”

  “You shouldn’t have.” Max scratched his head.

  “It’s my pleasure. I don’t often have guests. I enjoy it. You just wash your hands first,” Wilma said, and Max stood obediently. “The bathroom is down the hallway and to the left.”

  While Max washed his hands, examining his face in a low-hanging mirror, he heard a signal, probably an oven timer. When he came back, Wilma was scraping hot cookies from the baking tray onto a plate.

  “You eat first then talk. Okay. Would you like an omelet?”

  “No, no. Sit down, please. I had some oatmeal before heading here, just didn’t remember. The cookies are fine.”

  “Okay. Coffee?”

  “I can do it.”

  “You are my guest.”

  Max nodded and snatched a cookie while Wilma filled two cups with fresh coffee. Max liked the way they communicated, the way she talked to him as if he were a child. He thought it was strange, but he didn’t mind at all.

  They ate in silence except for Max’s compliments about the deliciousness of the cookies and the shy mumble of the woman as an answer. Then she offered to show him Angelica’s room. Max listened to his conscience or to whoever lived there at the moment. He was ready. He was ready to talk to this woman more than to Anna.

  Another spell of dizziness visited Max when they walked from the living room to the small room. He expected to pass out, but this time he didn’t faint. He looked about the room with light walls. The picture of a ballerina girl in a pink tutu hung over a twin bed. A pink comforter covered the bed, pinkish-white drapes hung over the window, and near it stood a small desk and a simple chair. A pile of notebooks on the desk, a handful of pens and pencils, and no computer. Two framed pictures of Angelica on both sides. A navy uniform neatly hung on the back of the chair. A white, stuffed bear on the bed by the pillow. Everything, exactly the way he saw it. Max couldn’t remember where he saw it. In his dream? Of course, where else? He just didn’t remember that dream. He couldn’t possibly remember everything he dreamed. It settled on the core of his subconsciousness to remind about itself at the right moment.

  “Every Saturday, I clean in here and wash the uniform once a month. Angel will not need it anymore, of course, but I want her to know that I have been waiting for her. I have all her clothes in the closet. My friends told me to give them away, but I couldn’t. I bought new things as she grew, on her birthdays and Christmas. She’s older than you are now, and she won’t wear most of those things. I just wanted to buy them, you know? It felt as if I did something for her and she was here.”

  Max saw the woman was trying hard not to cry. He wanted to hug her, comfort her. It was a strange feeling for a person he barely knew, but it grew like a sprout through concrete. He usually needed time to trust, to love. He didn’t fall in love with Anna at first sight. It took more than three months. Here, it wasn’t love, or not the kind of love he had for his wife, but something different, something he couldn’t explain.

  “Wilma,” Max started, “I want to tell you something. You probably won’t believe me. You’ll probably think I’m up to something bad. But I am not. It’s all true.”

  “You sit, then.” The woman pointed to the bed, and Max sat down and ran his hands over the smooth surface of the blanket. The woman sat down near him, squeezing the kitchen towel in her hands, as if she knew what he was about to say.

  He didn’t know where to start. He didn’t want to scare her.

  “Some people think that writers,” Max said and chuckled nervously, “that most creative people are more sensitive to the world. To things you can’t explain rationally.”

  Wilma smoothed her gray hair with her trembling hand, and then grabbed the towel again as if it was a life preserver. She must have felt it too, because Max knew that she would believe him and it scared him. He was ready for doubt and even for her to demand that he leave this house and never come back again.

  “I have never believed in things like this. I
believed that creativity is born inside a person. It’s some chemical response, neurons fire in the brain. Then, strange things started happening to me. Some time ago, I started dreaming about the same things every night,” Max said, and stopped. Should he tell her everything? He could take away everything that had helped her to stay alive. Her hope. If Angelica contacted him, it meant she was dead. Would it bring her closer? Did he believe it? He could cut her life short. The life of this amazing woman.

  “Please, don’t stop,” Wilma begged.

  “Okay. I’m nervous. I think you won’t like it.”

  “Tell me, please.”

  “Okay. First, it had been only a house. It started when I saw a picture of your neighbor in the paper.”

  “My neighbor?” The woman was so confused that she even stopped torturing the towel.

  “You said he’s an architect.”

  “Morris? Yes. He became an architect. Morris did.”

  “I saw his house in my dreams.”

  “He told me that you stopped by his house.”

  “I did.”

  Max told the story of how he came to Watervliet the first time, and found Morris’s street by accident.

  “That is so interesting,” Wilma whispered as she covered her mouth with her palm. “It’s like in a movie. Or a book.”

  “Yes.” Max smiled. “Then I started to see a girl in my dreams. The same girl, again and again. I saw her and her mother.” Max glanced at the tables with photos. On one of them, Wilma was a young, beautiful woman, just as she appeared in his dreams. Now, he recognized only her eyes from that picture. “I saw that woman.”

  When Max looked at Wilma she was a statue. Her body and face had turned to stone. Her eyes were blurry, her mouth half-opened.

  “As I said, it’s not easy to believe.”

  The woman blinked and took a deep breath.

  “You’re saying that you had a dream about me and my daughter, Angelica, before you met me?”