by A. R. Torre
No, they had no idea where Annie could be.
No, they hadn’t seen her, not since her birthday party.
No, neither of them had any criminal history.
Last night they were both here, all evening. Both of them can attest to that.
Yes, they will stay in the area and be available for future questions.
No, they can’t imagine who would want to hurt poor Annie.
No, they own only one computer.
The police searched their home thoroughly, then asked to view their computer. Becky led them to the study and to the ancient PC that sat there. They stated that they would need to take it with them, and she agreed, signing a receipt that they provided, saying nothing to them about the laptop that she knew Michael possessed. After that, the police left, and they returned to their cold meal.
It was a meal eaten in silence, forks and knives scraping heavy plates, ice cubes settling into tea. Only a single sentence was uttered.
“I don’t know what you’ve done, Michael, but you are staying here tonight. All night.”
CHAPTER 58
THIS DRIVE SHOULD be difficult for me. The open road, nothing to distract my mind. It’s a twelve-hour stretch of emptiness, which should be dangerous as hell for my inner demons. At home, in my apartment, I struggle with the half hour between my last cam session and sleep—that dead time is when my horrific fantasies grow wings and fly. This long length of time, nothing to distract me, at the time of day when I am at my weakest…it is a perfect storm of disaster. I should be frothing at the mouth, my knife ready in my hand, this truck turning off at every exit until I find a victim. But my mind is behaving, focusing on the photo I had found on Ralph’s hard drive. Annie. She is what’s important, and my mind seems to understand that.
I think about calling Dr. Derek but don’t trust myself. Sometimes words come out before I can contain them. Certain things I can’t share with him. Doctor-patient confidentiality goes only so far, and my meticulous research has let me know exactly where those lines lie. I can share past crimes, but only if the reason is to help treat my current illness. There the rules get all blurry—giving the doctor free rein to decide whether the information I am sharing is helpful in treatment or if he feels it should be reported. But crimes that have not yet occurred? Definite cause for reporting to the authorities. And knowing the staunch moral code Derek seems to live by, I realize that sharing anything above and beyond the bare minimum will get him on the phone to the police. He has the ability to end my secret life, to turn me in. The knock will come, the suits will appear, and they will cart me off. I will not go gently. I will go kicking and screaming, my knife poised and in my hand, ready to cut and spill whatever blood I can. There may be a day when I turn myself in, but this isn’t that day. As I said before, prison is no place for a girl like me.
I call Dr. Brian instead, glancing at the clock as the phone rings. In California it should be seven or eight, too late for him to be at the office, but he may still answer his cell.
“Hello, my sexual demon.” His sly voice makes me smile, the nickname more accurate than he will ever know.
“Hey, yourself. Am I interrupting a hot date?”
He sighs heavily into the receiver. “Unfortunately, no. Lately the well’s been a little dry in that area. You’re the closest thing I’ve had to sex in almost a month.”
“Ouch. That’s sad.”
“Anyway, you don’t pay me the big bucks to bitch about my love life. Whatcha got cooking? Any new and kinky clients?”
I grin. “Let’s see…got an offer of thirty grand for a blow job in Manhattan. What’s your expert opinion? Should I take him up on it?” I slow the truck down, stuck between two semis, jockeying into place as one of them brakes.
“Fuck no,” he says emphatically. “You should pass on his number to me and let me suck it. I’ll make him forget the name Jessica Reilly in about four swallows.”
I laugh, the sound bursting out, and I fight to control myself, my smile so wide that it hurts. “I’ll tell him I’m sending a comparable replacement, see how he reacts. I’m sure he’ll love the idea.”
“If he doesn’t, tell him I’ll knock down the rate. Cut him a discount at twenty-nine thou.”
Monetary offers for sex are something I deal with on a daily basis. I don’t know how many of them are legitimate and how many are just some guy wanting to know what my personal threshold for prostitution is. Thirty thousand is a pretty high offer for just head; oral sex offers normally hover closer to three or four grand.
My regulars know my limits. Know that any attempt to set up a physical meeting is futile. Except for Paul. Paul holds out hope that we will marry and have babies. He wants to rescue me from this life. He has given me vouchers on three different airlines and begs me to cash them in, to come to him so that he can take care of me. I should just tell him the truth, rip off the Band-Aid with one short explanation of what would occur if I visit. How I would start at his feet with my blade and work my way up. But I don’t want to traumatize the poor guy, to ruin his rose-colored view of the world.
“You still there?”
“Yeah,” I respond. “I’m here.”
“That pedophile ever get back online?”
I lose any trace of the grin that might still be lingering on my face. “Yeah. Two nights ago.”
“He do the same shit?”
I tighten my hands on the steering wheel. “Yeah. We did a role-play.”
He is quiet for a moment. “How much of his fantasy involves pain?”
“Not much. It’s almost all focused on sex.”
“I asked because a lot of people who fantasize about death or administering pain…they often fantasize about children. Not because the children are young, or innocent, but because it is the easiest victim for them to target. Children can’t fight back, children trust. Children are the best chance they have at success.”
“Not all of them.”
“Not all what? Children?”
“No. People who fantasize about pain. They don’t all fantasize about children.”
“Well, shit, no. The only rule is that there is no rule. There is no preset formula for any form of mental anomaly. I was just asking because I was trying to figure out if he is thinking about her because of the violence or the sex. Next time you cam with him, try and move the conversation—”
“There won’t be a next time,” I interrupt him.
“You block him?” I’ve blocked clients before, some at Dr. Brian’s suggestion, some because $6.99 a minute isn’t worth dealing with certain levels of stupid.
“No. But I don’t think he’s going to be getting back on.” It will be difficult for him to once he’s dead.
“Jess…” Brian’s voice is wary. “I know you hate dealing with him, but I worry. If he’s not online…”
We’ve talked about this. A lot. I am Ralph’s outlet. I could be how he releases the pressure of his fantasies, similar to how I envision macabre death rampages when the urge to kill strikes. Brian worries that without me, without Ralph’s ability to air his thoughts, he might turn to action instead. Action that might involve the object of his obsession.
“I know. You’ve told me your thoughts on the matter. I’ve also told you that I might be feeding his obsession, and you agreed.”
“Barely agreed. I said it was a possibility.”
“I don’t want to help him hurt her.”
“We don’t know that’s what you’re doing. It is a much greater possibility that you are helping her.”
I exhale. “It’s a moot point. I don’t think he’s getting back online.”
After that, there isn’t much for us to discuss, and I hang up the phone, my eyes and thoughts returning to the highway blacktop, and I try to find a new way to entertain my brain.
CHAPTER 59
HE SHOULD BE there with her right now. Exploring the fantasies that have bombarded his mind for the past few months. He should be with her, not
stuck in this house, looking at his ugly wife, listening to her drone on about quilting bees and next week’s canned-food drive. He nods in her direction, bringing the cup to his mouth, letting the warmth of coffee and whiskey sear down his throat.
Tonight, when she is asleep and the house is quiet, he will retrieve his laptop and log onto the Internet. The police didn’t find his laptop or his box of souvenirs. Tomorrow morning, he will carry everything out to the truck, will sneak the items to the trailer and leave them there for safekeeping. In a few days, everything will calm down. He will have more freedom, fewer eyes on his actions, the small local police force will be focused on other leads, different possibilities.
Tonight, in lieu of Annie, he will use Jessica. He will use Jessica for one last night, and then tomorrow he will go to Annie.
CHAPTER 60
IT IS HOUR five, and Mike is calling me, for apparently no other reason than that he is bored. It takes me a good three minutes to discover this fact, my questions all leading to a status report of “no new news.” I settle in, content to chat because I’m pretty bored off my ass and my mind is starting to play hopscotch with the idea of vehicular homicide.
“So, you got a boyfriend?” He talks while typing, the clatter of keys indicating an impressive wpm rate.
I hesitate, unsure of the correct answer, not sure if Jeremy and my awkward courtship classifies as any type of relationship. I always tell clients I am single. We are all single, all four thousand of us on the site. Beautiful, sexual, single ladies. But there is no need to lie to Mike. I think it’s safe to say we are past that.
He takes my silence as hesitation. “You know I can hack into your phone records, right? Look at who you call at least once a day? Or if any purchases were made on your credit card on February fourteenth?”
“I have clients I talk to at least once a day.”
“Damn. Those jokers must be loaded.”
“Or lonely,” I muse.
“Or lonely. Good point. So, do you?”
“I don’t think so. There’s this guy…but we are a long way from being in a relationship.”
“You guys fucking yet?”
I laugh. “No. Definitely not. We haven’t even been on a date.”
“He a client?”
“No. I met him outside of work. I do have a normal life, you know.” The lie slides off my lips easily, but it should. I say the same lie over and over, hundreds of times a week. If I can’t convince my clients of that, how can I expect them to believe that I find their five-inch cock a gift from God?
“You ever date a client?” He is smiling, I can hear it in his voice.
“No. And no, I don’t plan to start with you.”
“Ouch! And here I am, giving you an all-nighter.”
“Oh, so it’s a gift. Thank God, I thought I was paying you some exorbitant fee.” I grin, my eyes noticing a passing billboard, a juicy Big Mac decorating its surface. Umm… My mouth waters. I would kill for a Big Mac and a strawberry milkshake, complemented by a large side of salty, crispy fries. My stomach picks that moment to protest, churning its way through some of my earlier feast. Probably the pork rinds; those were unnaturally chewy.
“Got any crazy cam stories to tell me? I bet you get some freaks on that site.”
“Actually, most of the guys are pretty normal. There is this one guy who freaks me out…” I let my voice trail off, hooking him easily and without effort.
The typing stops. “Really? What’s he into?”
“I shouldn’t say.”
“Come on, Jess. Share.”
I lower my voice seductively. “As soon as he takes me private, he makes me change, he only likes seeing me one way.”
“What’s that?”
I sigh. “It’s really sick. I don’t want to tell you. You’ll think he’s too weird.”
His voice was suddenly close to the mike, the words slightly scratchy. “No, I won’t. Really. What’s he into?”
I pause dramatically. “Catholic schoolgirls. He makes me wear the plaid skirt, white tights, and everything.”
There is silence for a minute before he gets it. “That’s bullshit, Jess. Total bullshit. You got me all excited, thinking that you were gonna share something good.”
I drop my voice to a dramatic whisper. “I am the keeper of all secrets. I don’t share your secret fantasies with others and I protect those that confide in me.”
He snorts. “Well, that’s boring.”
I grin. “Boring isn’t always a bad thing. Trust me.”
He is silent for a moment. “Jess, when you get there…what’s your plan?”
It’s the second time he has asked me this, and our brand-new buddy status isn’t enough to bring him into my world. “To save her.”
“That’s all well and good if she is alone, but what if he is there?” The concern in his voice is touching, if misguided.
“Let me worry about that. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m just worried that if…if you’re not fine, how am I going to get paid?”
The laughter bubbles out, the line delivered perfectly, lightening our conversation’s mood by about five shades. “I’ll make sure my estate covers your cheap ass,” I shoot back. “Now let me get back to driving.”
“Fine. Drive safe. I’ll call you if anything changes.”
I hang up with a smile and realize, with a start, that it was the first personal phone conversation I’ve had in three years, Dr. Brian and Dr. Derek conversations excluded.
I cut off all contact with my grandparents when I moved into the apartment. At community college, I called them weekly, then monthly, then bimonthly, before I realized that it was a waste of effort. Their lives had died with my family. My calls were a drop into a bucket of darkness, the words unheard and immediately forgotten.
So many lives were affected that day by my mother’s actions. I can only hope that I never have such a devastating effect on the world.
CHAPTER 61
ANNIE
IT IS DARK, no lights on in the small room where she sits. Not pitch black, though: the slow fall of night allows her eyes to adjust, to see the basic footholds of her prison. She tugs at the ropes that hold her, the rough thread painful against her delicate skin.
There is a scratch against the door, a scratch that reminds her of every monster that ever hid in her closet, every scary branch that ever knocked at her window. Then the scratch comes again, and she can hear breath, a snort, a blow. The monster has claws. The monster has teeth. The monster is real.
She whimpers, covering her ears with her hands and closing her eyes tight. There she stays, for a long time, until the monster moves away and she feels brave enough to open her eyes.
I killed a cat once. It’s funny how that bothered me more than anything else. I had serious guilt after that incident, scrubbing my hands furiously even though no trace of blood remained. I buried its body, spending almost an hour on the hole, wanting to be sure to dig deep enough that no scavengers would smell and come for its body. I cried when I laid it in the hole, lines of ants already present on its open eyes, their blood thirst greater than my own.
That was during my misdirection phase—when I was trying to channel my need in some direction other than murder. When I tried to placate it in a way that didn’t involve human flesh. After the cat, I stayed away from animals. I hate cats, hated them even more back then. To think that I had all that mental anguish over killing one was ridiculous. I was pissed at myself, my level of self-hatred hitting an all-time high, frustration at my psychological limitations crippling me.
It was such a waste. Not just the cat, but my entire life back then—the year I spent between my grandparents’ house and here. Twelve months of fighting my impulses, a year of building memories and expectations that I would never be able to revisit. You can’t miss what you’ve never known. All that year did was give me a whole lot to miss. The higher you build up that personal expectation level, the further the fall. And that f
irst week of being locked in 6E? I fell a hell of a long way.
The first week was painful, my built-in impulses accustomed to answering the door when someone knocked, going outside to get the mail, hitting the sidewalk when the view outside promised a gorgeous day. At that time, I didn’t have boxed food yet, I had gone to the grocery store the day I moved in, packing every square inch of my car with dry and canned goods. I sat at the window and watched my car in the lot, wondering how long it would last before the tires rotted away or it was towed. It lasted three weeks, and its disappearance came in the form of a crowbar and two thugs. I heard the alarm sound, paused my cam, and watched from the window as my car came to life and drove away. I was jealous of my car in that instance, jealous of its ability to leave its prison, to ride to a new life, even if that new life involved disfigurement and death. I spent most of that first week staring at my door and convincing myself that I wasn’t strong enough. Not strong enough to resist the pull of outside life, not strong enough to control my urges, not strong enough to live off delivered meals and apartment 6E’s stale air.
But I was strong enough. I made it through the misery, until misery became normality. I find it ironic that when I finally became okay with the life I created inside 6E—that is when I ended up leaving it. Driving on this road, hours and hundreds of miles now separating me and the sanctuary I created.
My eyes find the clock as a road sign goes by, welcoming me to Alabama: 10:50 p.m. My chest constricts, the familiarity of the situation suddenly hitting me hard. Me, driving late at night, on a road not far from where I am now.
I have been in this situation before.
CHAPTER 62
Four years earlier
10:50 p.m.
After an hour of driving from country roads to suburban streets, I parked two houses down from ours, in front of a neighbor’s house, and cut the engine. Keys in hand, I got out and closed the car door softly. I wore workout shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. Our street was well developed, the lots spread far apart, stately homes separated by paved drives and detached garages. I walked quickly down the sidewalk, past the dark homes of our neighbors, and turned down our driveway, headed for the exterior door of our garage. I glanced up at our house, seeing lights on. I frowned. Mom was a stickler about Trent and Summer going to sleep by nine. Everyone should be upstairs, asleep or getting into bed. I crouched over, jogged softly down the sidewalk that ran by our back door, and turned the knob to the garage, opening the door and then slipping into the dark space.