I think he liked me better than them actually, and considered that act my gift to humanity.
The world was a better place without them and I was an instrument of a higher power that day.
Troy was a mannequin. Prop him in a corner and his facial muscles would still be in the same configuration, his arms and legs unbending, his eyes dry and unblinking. He thought perhaps he spoke to people, but just couldn’t be sure.
The barbaric custom of offering food to people at a wake took on a bizarre light he’d never thought about before. Everyone spoke in hushed voices and the church ladies served sandwiches to the bereaved. There was no graveside service since the medical examiner still had the body, and he wanted all of this done as quickly as possible.
When the funeral was over and his in-laws told him they were going back to Minnetonka, he simply nodded. It would be a relief to not have to pretend he was glad to have them there. Without any children involved, he doubted he would ever see them again. It felt strange because Amy had been very close to them, but without her, they just had nothing between the three of them. No more beach houses in South Carolina for vacation, no more family Christmas gatherings.
He wasn’t positive he’d miss them. They were nice people and he’d gone along with it all because it made Amy happy, but there was every chance neither side would make an effort without her.
“You look like shit.” George was as tactful as usual. “I don’t think anyone expects you to stay until the bitter end. Let me give you a ride home.”
Might not be a bad idea. He wasn’t even positive he could drive. On autopilot maybe, but that wasn’t safe for anyone. “Yeah,” he said remotely. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” George took out his keys. “Let’s get out of here.”
His cousin’s car smelled like stale French fries and breath mints. Troy settled into the passenger seat and clicked the belt into place. It was such a definitive moment. All buckled in so he might possibly survive an accident while leaving his wife’s funeral. There were some very huge ironies in life that couldn’t be missed.
“Tough day.” George started the car and pulled out of the lot. “You got through it. Keep that in mind.”
“Don’t go all life coach on me, or I swear I’ll lose it.” Troy wasn’t all that far off anyway. Losing it was on the horizon, like the rising sun. “At least Palmer didn’t have the gall, or courtesy, to come to that happy gathering. I couldn’t tell you what I might have done.”
“I could.” George kept his gaze focused on the street. “You’d have done what the two of you always have done, and gone off on each other. It’s such a tired story, Troy. You were married to Amy for twenty years and his crappy marriage lasted about ten. He isn’t the winner, and neither are you. Life fuckin’ happens. So does death.”
It wasn’t like he didn’t understand that, he was law enforcement for God’s sake, but murder wasn’t death. It wasn’t the old man going to sleep in his bed and shutting his eyes for the last time, and it wasn’t an insidious virus taking charge and shutting down an immune system to the point it gave up. It was a conscious act of another human being. “Someone decided to kill her. They just got up that morning and Amy was dead. I can’t make sense of it, George.”
“None of us can.”
That was probably true, he pondered as they drove past the mundane scenery of the hardware store and gas station. Bare-branched trees lurked in the background and the sky was steel gray. The very un-cheerful landscape suited his unforgiving mood. Mourning his wife one day was not what he’d anticipated at his wedding.
The divorce he knew was coming he could take. This he couldn’t.
“Not that it would change anything, but I want to ask why.” Troy forced out the wooden words. “She didn’t do anything to anyone except me maybe, still thinking about Palmer after all these years.”
George flipped on a turn signal. “Given your lack of proof that she thought about him for one millisecond, I’m going to give you a pass on that stupid comment since you’ve had an exceptionally hard day. And I’ll tell you why. Killing is like a sexual thrill. It’s about power, it’s forbidden, and it’s the ultimate act of rebellion against an unforgiving society that tries to form rules that just don’t make sense to everyone. No one gives a shit if a cat kills a mouse. We excuse it because it’s in their nature to hunt and we don’t value mice. It’s in the nature of some human beings to hunt, and they scare the ever lovin’ bejesus out of us because we don’t want to be next. If you want an intellectual explanation, I’m going to venture a guess that you really wouldn’t get anything that would satisfy you. She was there and vulnerable.”
Troy couldn’t believe it was that simple. “That can’t be it.”
His cousin thumped his fist on the steering wheel. “It can be. Christ, just listen to me. I doubt it makes sense to him, either. I think if you’d look back through every interview with any serial killer that has been finally caught, you’d get the same response and that is they aren’t quite sure why they did what they did, just the same as I don’t know why anyone wants to sit down and compose a symphony. I’ve never had that urge, have you?”
He grasped the point, but emotionally refused to accept it. “Creating something and destroying something are different.”
“Not to him. Destroying is his creative skill. That’s why he hasn’t been caught yet. Every single time he does this, he risks everything.”
Troy knew on an intellectual basis that was said to be true. That the thrill of killing and getting away with it was like a drug, but he still was doing his best to make sense of something that just…didn’t.
“I have a hard time comprehending how a person can’t feel compassion. Explain it to me, George.” His voice was as weary as he felt. “Amy never hurt anyone.”
His cousin took in an exasperated breath. “It doesn’t matter. I saw someone on the road once swerve to deliberately hit a squirrel. That animal hadn’t done anything either. I was pissed off, but thought to myself, hey, it was just a squirrel. You think all people value human life. And you’re wrong, Troy. Ask six million Jews. Oh, wait, you can’t, they’re dead because a group of people got together and thought it was okay to off them. Wrap your mind around that one. You want your killer to be someone you can recognize as a monster. It just doesn’t work that way. He might have swerved to miss the squirrel.”
Maybe he was right. Troy was simply too wrung out to even try to wrap his mind around anything.
Except how by the end of this hellish day, he knew he was going to have a drink.
* * * *
The bottle was cleverly hidden in a big roasting pan she probably had used only at Thanksgiving or Christmas.
Amy had known her husband would probably never look there. George didn’t imagine he would either. For that matter, he’d never roasted a turkey, but he could make a mean grilled cheese.
But he’d looked there just because he knew Amy, and once they’d had a conversation on the subject. Beyond a shadow of a doubt she should have given up drinking with an alcoholic husband sharing the house, but he was hardly the person to preach on that subject. Besides, it proved that Troy was devoted to giving up the addiction, but if he was going to rethink his resolution, today would be the day.
George could sometimes be a fool, but he wasn’t an idiot. Troy wasn’t going to self-destruct on his watch if he could help it. Jon was probably beyond his reach—Jon could outthink him anyway—but he and his cousin were fairly matched in the brains department and so the minute Troy went to change out of his suit, George started looking through the kitchen and hit gold.
Half-full bottle, and he’d have no trouble at all drinking the rest of it. He took it out to his car, pleased with himself for finding it so quickly, and also pleased that as much of a human landmine Troy might be, he hadn’t torn the house apart quite yet.
It was exactly what he’d do.
When Troy came back, he’d just walked through the door again, and his c
ousin asked sardonically, “Where was it?”
“Kitchen cupboard. Roasting pan.”
Troy leaned a hip on the counter. “Roasting pan. That was smart of her. I don’t suppose you want to invite me over for a drink or anything. Technically, I can ask for it back since it belongs to me.”
“You are more than welcome to come over for a glass of water.”
“Fuck you, George.”
“Troy, I can’t keep you from doing it, but I’m hoping that you’ll think of Amy and not drink. However, if you want to take a plummeting elevator to hell, go for it. Forfeit your job, lose your house, move into Grandma’s house with me and become a paunchy bachelor. It’s a great life.”
Troy dragged a hand over his face. “Do not try and make me feel sorry for you. Not today.”
“Actually I was just being introspective. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m headed home. I brought you back here, so what you do now is up to you.”
Once he was in the car, he called Jon. “I just took Troy home after the funeral. I’ve had better days.”
Jon was quiet for so long he thought the call had dropped, but then he said, “I would have gone, but what was the point? He would have hated me being there, Amy would never have known anyway, and I grieved for that girl I once knew a long time ago. Funerals are for people who have lost something. She’s only been a memory for decades. Speaking of which, Larimer dropped by last night and returned a treasure from our past.”
George considered reaching for the bottle of whiskey and taking a solid swig but he was driving and getting pulled over would ruin what small modicum of a career he had left. “What?”
“I have back that old shovel due to a special delivery. You know, the one I used to kill him and we—in an act that wasn’t intended to be symbolic, but still could be considered that way—used to bury him.”
The tone was not emotional either way, horrified or composed, but that was Jon.
“Huh.” Brilliant response.
“I think I used stronger language.”
“We threw it in the river. There can’t still be fingerprints.”
Jon just gave a muffled laugh. “After all these years? I think you’re safe.”
He wasn’t though. Alicia knew. Jon knew, but he was the one who killed him. But…focus. “How’d he give it to you? Did you see anything?”
“Took out the window of her bedroom, and no, I didn’t see anything. So far, she’s the only one seeing ghosts.”
Not the only one. George was afraid to shut his eyes. If Jon didn’t see them, then he was blind. “Oh, I think your theory is that she certainly isn’t. This place has so many ghosts I’m not even sure you’re real.”
“How astute of you to wonder.”
Oh, great, what the ever-loving-hell did that mean? “Jon, I’d appreciate it if you would not mess with me right now. As I just pointed out, this has not been a stellar afternoon. I’m also fairly sure Troy isn’t just going to fall off the wagon, he’s going leap with both feet.”
“That would be a shame.”
Maybe he meant it, maybe he didn’t. George considered warning him that Troy’s current state of mind was pretty unstable, but then shrugged off the impulse. Jon knew it already. “He worked hard to get it under control. So what are you going to do with the shovel? I mean, you can’t call the sheriff’s department and complain that the guy you killed years ago vandalized personal property with the murder weapon.”
“Good point. Right now it’s in the trunk of my car. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it. Maybe save it in case someone decides to open a Black Lake museum. It could be my donation. They could display it next to Murray’s tombstone.”
And Amy’s whiskey bottle, soon to be empty and available. And the bloody shirt, the bones of the one girl they found out of five all those distant years ago, the old, blurred photos of the drowned children lined up neatly on the bank…
God, he needed to end this conversation.
“I was wondering if you wanted to stop by for some crappy pizza and beer. Bring Alicia if you want since she doesn’t seem to be following my advice to stay the hell away from you.”
“That was your advice? I’d be insulted, but come to think of it, I think I told her the same thing.”
“Bring the damn shovel. The three of us can relive old times. Maybe I can make it a wall decoration. It can’t be scarier than some of the old family pictures of my grim-faced relatives my grandmother hung on the walls.”
“You know, George, if that was meant to be funny, it fell more than a little flat.”
He’d apologize, but he wasn’t in the mood. “Is it a date?”
“I’ll ask her. I think she’ll say yes since the cabin isn’t her favorite place and her house isn’t a haven of bliss either at the moment. Want us to pick up the pizza?”
“Sounds like a plan. No mushrooms.”
When he ended the call George thought about the significance of the shovel. A symbol of death or a sign of possible revenge? The jury was out on that one.
Troy wasn’t the only who needed a drink and in tribute, he’d have one from a dead woman’s bottle the minute he walked through his front door.
Chapter 24
The darkness descends for all of us in an inevitable cycle, but for some it spells a quiet end to a day, and for others it means something quite different.
Secrecy. A sense of letting the beast out of the cage with no one looking, a comforting cloak that allows behavior that would bring censure in the bright light of a blazing sun.
Lovers use darkness to hide their sins. Predators embrace it as they hunt for food and the pleasure of the game. The shadows whisper in sibilant voices and gather in groups, sharing their secrets.
I always felt more comfortable once twilight descended, as if the transparency of my soul was now hidden, behind a veil I didn’t have to wear, no longer visible to anyone but me.
I was aware of it constantly.
In introspective moments, I think I was both brutally honest with myself and a cunning liar. I’m convinced the liar won in the end, but there are times I wonder if it didn’t work out the other way. The liar tried to convince me I had a reason for everything I did.
The honest psyche is the one that told me; this is who and what you are, so just accept it.
I did, and all hell broke loose.
Alicia wasn’t positive she’d ever been a part of a more disturbing dialogue.
It started like this: So Larimer brought back the shovel, eh?
That was George.
Someone did. Jon.
Who else? George.
Good question. One I’ve asked myself.
Ghost or man?
Jury out on that one.
This was all really good for her diet. No way she could eat more than one piece of pizza. She shoved aside her plate, planted elbows on the not-so-clean old table and said plainly, “We have two choices here. Is Larimer alive, or isn’t he? I can’t even believe I’m having this conversation, but apparently I am.”
“Isn’t that what we’re debating?” Jon was more relaxed than any of them, as if this slant on sanity was reasonable to him, and she was afraid it was.
She was more than afraid it had been for a long time.
“I’ve seen him.”
George shook his head. “You’ve seen something. It looks like him to you. He represents fear for a very tangible reason, in that he was stalking you. He killed a lot of young women, and you were targeted as his next victim. But you really have to ask yourself if almost anyone frightening would look like him in your mind. It’s called projection.”
Interesting question.
Maybe. Larimer was to her the very stuff of nightmares. “I don’t know.”
“Could be.” George looked speculative before he drained his beer bottle. “Our brains are programmed to associate the night with bad things because of darkness and so forth, but I think it is more that we tend to change as darkness falls. Our mood alters
. We can’t see nearly as well what’s going on around us. It’s visceral and takes over.”
That night she’d clearly seen Jon and Larimer try to kill each other in that Godforsaken barn and she was stuck with it for life.
No taking it back—no going back. Jon had won, or had he?
Contest still on.
George took another piece of the pizza. He’d eaten most of it, but that was fine with her. He munched on. “This is what I think.”
Jon was drinking, of course, his usual scotch, downing it by the glassful. “Dying to know. What?”
“So if there is this ‘entity’, it knows you’re in the mix, it gets it, and maybe Larimer is just an illusion.”
She protested. “He looks real and he seems real.”
“Or is a projection. All those years ago, we all had a very traumatic experience. Larimer was stalking you, Jon killed him, and I helped bury his body. If that isn’t traumatic, you tell me what is. Let’s pile on how he was probably a serial killer. We’re all seeing ghosts. Well, duh? But are they really there or not?”
Alicia eyed him carefully. He was maybe drunk, but not to incapacity. “George, I’ve heard those children laughing. Before that, I hadn’t even heard the story.”
“By the lake? I’m not saying I can explain it all.” He briefly lifted his hands. “I’m just saying that it’s possible the three of us aren’t insane, but maybe influenced.”
Jon was as usual the cool one. “By?”
“Your ‘entity’.” George smiled and raised his beer. “I know I am. Let’s talk about pure evil. I doubt it’s too hard to define. It’s a compulsion to take life. It’s a knife sinking into soft flesh, it’s the warm metallic scent of blood, a high pitched scream of pain and terror. There’s really nothing like it.”
Alicia froze.
What did he just say?
Worse than what he’d just said was the smile on his face, like he was well aware of all of those things from personal experience.
Oh no. Not George. Was it possible…
It couldn’t be.
A Cold, Fine Evil Page 19