Instinct

by Mattie Dunman

  I’m in the middle of a fight with my father.

  I blink so that his real message is legible.

  Prbly. Y?

  Shockey goes down today, I reply, my fingers tapping the touch screen hard enough to make a clicking sound.

  There is a long moment before he responds.

  What do u have in mind?

  B outside journalism rm at 3:45. Come in if things get nasty. Do ur thing.

  What r u doing? R u in danger?????

  Going 2 get him 2 confess. U r just in case.

  Another long pause ensues and I bite my lip, worrying he won’t agree and I’ll have to come up with some other plan. Finally he replies, and I can practically hear his misgivings.

  Not happy about this. R u sure?

  Am doing this no matter what.

  I’ll b there.

  Smiling grimly, I tuck the phone away, thinking about how I can arrange things to work in my favor. I know that once I start asking him questions, Shockey will answer me, but I’m not sure how long it will take to get a full confession. Given how easily someone as stubborn as Radcliffe caved, I have no doubt my ability will work on a pathetic worm like Shockey. But if he resists, if it takes too long, he might panic and run, and then I’ll never get another chance.

  Proving what he did to Miranda will be next to impossible without his confession. The evidence, if there is any left, is probably too old and circumstantial to be worth anything. But if I can get him on tape admitting to the rape, maybe Cathy will corroborate with her own experience. I can’t see him squirming out of that.

  There is no fear for myself. I trust Cole to intervene if things get physical, though I tend to think Shockey will be too freaked out to come near me. Besides, one look from Cole and Shockey will be on his hands and knees blubbering in terror. He won’t be much of a threat then.

  I look down at my phone again and flip through the programs until I find the voice recorder. I’ve used this application so many times, although never without my interviewee’s consent. It’s considered unethical and in many cases illegal to record someone without their permission.

  Somehow, I really don’t care right now.

  Another thought strikes me and I send a quick text to Mom, telling her that Cole is picking me up. The last thing I need is to have her wandering the hallways looking for me. It’s going to be unpleasant enough explaining everything after the fact.

  The idea swims across my mind that I am putting myself at serious risk, not just by confronting a known rapist, but by using my ability to bring him to the attention of the authorities. Getting all the dirt and then smoothing it out for an article is different from handing over a recording of me pushing for a confession to the police. No doubt they will question why Shockey is willing to admit what he’s done to a high school journalist without any obvious threat, but I can’t worry about that just now. Not if I’m going to get justice for Miranda and Cathy.

  I put my phone away and stare at my empty computer screen, unable to focus on anything but the questions I will ask, planning the best approach for a quick confession. I am so wound up with nervous energy I nearly fall out of my chair when Jake rolls over to me, his stormy blue eyes searching mine anxiously.

  “I’m worried about Cathy,” he says under his breath. I look at him in surprise, realizing for the first time I am hearing him reveal something other than his conflicted feelings about our bizarre relationship.

  “What was that?” I ask, leaning forward without my usual hesitation. His eyes register surprise for a moment but it fades as he glances over toward the corner where Cathy is frantically typing, her head dipped so low her hair brushes the keyboard. Everything about her screams submissive.

  I am painfully reminded of the Miranda of my nightmares, the fragile wisp that faded to nothing under Phillip’s green gaze. I imagine her shoulders must have bowed in the same way; her eyes would have been lowered, ashamed. A fierce protectiveness washes over me and I have to grip down hard to keep myself from rushing out right now to attack Shockey.

  Beside me Jake gasps and I glance down to see I haven’t gripped the chair as I thought, but my hand clasps his, our fingers wrapped together like a promise.

  Quickly I jerk my hand free, but I can see the triumph in Jake’s eyes before he hardens his expression. I wait for him to comment, to push, but he just darts a look at Cathy again and lowers his voice.

  “Something’s wrong. I usually run into her at her locker and we walk to class together, but she wasn’t there. She’s obviously been crying.” He hesitates and then continues, a tint of fury coloring his tone. “Is it just me, or did she seem scared of Shockey?”

  I am impressed at his perception, how quickly he connected the dots. As far as I’ve been able to tell, he is usually too preoccupied with himself to discern the feelings of others. But now as anger leaks from his pores like a vapor, it is concern that dominates his expression. It is unnervingly appealing.

  Forcing myself to focus, I give him an appraising look. “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t know…she kind of…shrank when he came in.” Jake shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with being so open. “I could just feel it.”

  Since he is so good at causing fear, he should be familiar with the signs, I think wryly, but I don’t say it out loud. There is a tenuous rapport between us I am unwilling to shatter just now.

  “Could be,” I admit warily, keeping my real thoughts to myself. Although I am pleased to see him thinking of someone else, I am not ready to tell him all my plans just yet. Cole is far more reliable, and I don’t dare jeopardize my chance to ensnare Shockey.

  Back to form, Jake gives me a frustrated glare and tightens his lips. “Whatever. Sorry to have bothered you,” he growls, the flash of black in his eyes unmistakable.

  Even as I congratulate myself for not giving into my momentary desire to confide in him, disappointment is a stone in my chest at the stiffness in his posture, the easy descent into brittle temper. He is so strong and so weak at the same time and a pang of regret stabs through me before I pull away, returning to my computer and the task ahead. After a moment he gives an irritated grunt and moves back to his side of the room, sinking the room into an uneasy silence once more.

  The rest of the period passes slowly, each second inching along with an unbearable pressure and a mounting feeling of doubt. I question my plan over and over, terrified that I am taking the wrong step, that somehow I will make things worse. But each time I move to text Cole to halt the plan, I glance over at Cathy’s desolate form and feel the despair surrounding her in a dark aura.

  I have no choice. I can’t let this happen again.

  I should have stopped him before now. Cathy should never have been hurt.

  I let the guilt add fuel to the fiery core in my chest, converting it into a stronger substance, tempering it with steel and grit until a fierce blade of resolve takes shape, giving me the nerve to ignore my own trepidation and do what must be done.

  When the tone sounds to announce the end of the school day, I remain in my seat, pretending to take my time shutting things down, looking around on the floor for an imaginary pencil, anything that gives me an excuse to linger. Cathy is first out the door, and Jake follows her almost instantaneously. Shane hangs around for a bit, watching me with a blend of amusement and concern, but he finally gives up and leaves. Megan gives me a tentative wave and follows Shane out. I wonder for a moment if I might make a friend there and a blossom of hope sprouts in my mind before I shut it down, knowing I have no right to it until I have fulfilled my promise to Nicole.

  I hear the muffled explosions of students laughing and talking as they exit the main classroom, the distant slam of lockers, the buzz of excited adolescence vibrating in the floors. Finally, it is quiet. I turn on the recorder on my phone and place it out of sight beside the computer, trusting that it will work the way it’s supposed to, that it won’t fail me when it matters most.

  Glancing at the clock on the w
all, I see it is almost three forty-five and I take a deep breath, trying to squelch my writhing stomach, the dizzy swirling in my head.

  The doorknob turns. The squeaking protest of the hinges is like a scream to my suddenly hypersensitive ears. My heart pounds hard against my ribs, the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.

  “I can smell your fear,” Shockey says quietly, tilting his head as though asking me a question. I take a shaky breath and force myself to smile and speak in an even voice.

  “Why was Cathy so upset today?” I ask, putting as much force behind the question as I can. Shockey blinks in surprise and then answers, his lips moving slowly, precisely, as though the words are being carved from his mouth with a scalpel.

  “She didn’t like when I put my hand up her shirt.” He sucks in a breath and gives me a bewildered look, one I have come to recognize so well. My panic begins to subside and I stand, training my eyes on him mercilessly.

  “Why did you do that, Mr. Shockey?”

  “Because I like to touch young girls. I like to hurt them.” He is breathing hard now and backing towards the door. Alarmed, I stalk toward him, pushing him in the opposite direction, toward the wall.

  “Did you touch Miranda, too? Did you hurt her?” I demand, amazed at how calm I sound, how perfectly in control.

  He clenches his jaw, as though to trap the damning words inside, but he can’t help himself and he answers, panic leaking into his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do to Miranda, Mr. Shockey?”

  “I…I made her touch me…I…why am I saying this?” His voice trembles wildly and I can hear hysteria creep into his tone.

  “What did you do to Miranda?” I repeat, relentless, knowing I have to get it out of him before he breaks.

  “I raped her, I raped her, I took her in my car and I put my hand over her mouth and promised her if she ever told on me I would come to her house and do it again.”

  The air is filled with the animal sounds of his terror, and he stares wildly at me as though I am a demon sent to torture him. Maybe I am.

  “When did you rape Miranda?” I urge, knowing I have to get as much detail as possible if this is going to hold up.

  “In October, a few weeks before she died…she was walking home from school and I took her in my car to the campsite over the bridge and I raped her. I did it twice and then I left her there.” He is openly weeping now, slowly sinking down to his knees against the wall.

  “Did you kill her?” I ask before it’s too late, knowing I have only moments before he breaks away.

  “No, no I didn’t kill her! Please…” he pleads, extending a hand toward me. I jerk away and despite the disgust roiling through me, satisfaction flares in my chest and I feel as though I can breathe a little easier.

  “You’re going to jail, Shockey. You sick bastard,” I growl and spit on the floor in front of him. He cowers there, everything about him flaccid and worthless, defeated, ruined.

  I take a step back, moving toward my phone, readying myself to flee before he gathers his wits.

  I am too slow.

  He strikes like a snake, without warning, in a flash of violence so intense my head spins, knocking me off balance. His hands are around my neck, vice-like, iron wedges driving into my throat with incredible force. I claw at him, frenzied, black spots dancing around my vision as I struggle for air, knowing with doomed certainty how stupid I’ve been, how my rage made me careless, dismissive of the instinct of every cornered beast to strike out, to maim the thing that has forced it to the edge.

  “Cole,” I gasp, realizing that he should have come in already, but the door remains closed. I kick at Shockey’s legs, his knees, connecting hard enough that he grunts, but he doesn’t let go. Suddenly we are on the floor and his body weighs me down, heavier than I imagined, hips grinding me into the rough carpet as though he can push me through the concrete into the ground. Oblivion is hovering, waiting to drag me under, stealing my fight and I grapple with renewed vigor, ignoring the burning in my throat, the slice of his too-long nails digging into my skin. My knee strikes against his groin, but barely disrupts him, too weak to do any real damage.

  Instead he laughs and removes a hand from my throat to fumble at the buttons of my jeans, forcing a new, deeper punch of terror through me.

  “I’ll kill you, you freaky little bitch,” he growls, the venom of his spit dropping on my face like acid. The world is dark around the edges and I flail uselessly, trying to reach something I can hit him with. I have only seconds left and desperation takes away any rational thought process until I am only a vessel of instinct, a last gasp, a final strike.

  I feel his hardness pressing against me and every nerve revolts, giving me one last surge of strength. Ignoring the protest of my battered neck, I twist with excruciating effort until I can see his snarling face and stab my thumb into his eye, pushing into the pulpy mass, feeling the bile rise in my throat, strangling me. He howls with pain and wrath and jerks his hand away from my pants to pull my thumb away. His grip on my throat loosens slightly and I turn my head to bite down hard on his arm, feeling the pop as his skin breaks, the brackish copper of his blood filling my mouth.

  He releases me long enough to grab my head and slams it hard against the floor, white lights flashing across my vision, stunning me. Sucking in a deep breath, I scream, but the sound is barely more than a harsh rasp. It seems to infuriate him, and he gives an animalistic growl, his eyes no longer resembling anything human.

  He does something to my ribs with his elbow that leaves me wheezing with agony before he strikes my face so hard I hear my neck crack and then his hands are on my throat again and I know this is it. I am already suffocating and my hips buck uselessly beneath his bulk.

  The door bangs open, crashing into Shockey’s legs with devastating force. He screams as something in his knee snaps with sickening clarity and then suddenly he is off me, hanging in midair, face nearly purple with visceral hate. I drag myself backward, trying to get away, and then I see him, I see Jake, gripping the back of Shockey’s neck and holding him several feet above the floor with no more effort than clutching a basketball. Shockey’s eyes go wide with awareness and with a savage roar Jake flings him across the room to slam against the desk of computers and crash to the floor. Shockey twitches and frantically tries to get to his feet, but Jake is on him in an instant, pulling him up by his head and then smashing it against the desk with enough force to crack his jaw. Shockey slumps to the floor, bleeding and unconscious.

  I try to get up, but my vision goes hazy and I sink back to my knees, watching with a sense of unreality as Jake raises his fist like a sledgehammer and poises it to come down on Shockey’s limp frame.

  Some part of me waits quietly, knowing that if I do nothing, this blow will kill Shockey and he will never hurt anyone again. He deserves to die. I believe it with my whole being.

  I struggle to my feet and fling my arms around Jake’s waist, pulling him back, ignoring the brutal slash of pain in my side, and he collapses on top of me, knocking preciously bought air out of my lungs.

  “Don’t, Jake,” I whisper. “You’ll kill him. Don’t do it, please, please…” I beg, my voice little more than a whisper. He shrugs off my hold with pathetically little effort and gets to his feet, ignoring me and readying for the strike again.

  “No! Please, Jake, for me, please stop.”

  Jake turns slightly and I nearly scream in terror again, seeing the uncontrolled gale of rage in his glare, his irises wholly black with inhuman fury. My fear must register with him somehow and he blinks, lowering his arm slightly.

  “Please, Jake, you’ve done enough. I need your help, I’m hurt,” I soothe, reaching out for him, wincing as pain wracks every inch of me. For a never-ending moment he vibrates with the force of his battle to regain control, his eyes locked on mine like an anchor, the frail connection between us twining tighter, more potent, until all I can feel is the space separating us like a shivering pane of glass t
hat splinters and falls as he takes one step toward me, then another. I sag, my body shutting down with exhaustion and shock, and he is there, catching me, wrapping me in his arms and covering my face with his kisses, his gentle words, the fluttering tremor of his pulse no more than the brush of a feather across my skin.

  My vision swims and lurches and it is dark, and the pain follows me.

  Chapter 16

  Voices murmur overhead and something warm strokes my face, but the ground beneath me is hard and unforgiving. I blink, my vision coming into focus before everything goes grey and upside down. I collapse to the side and vomit uncontrollably, great heaves that seem to shred my organs and break bones with their intensity. When there is nothing left but the acidic burn on my tongue, someone rolls me back over, lying my aching head on something soft before putting hands on my sides, pushing slightly, testing.

  A tremor races over me and I whimper, hating the sound even as it escapes. Compelling myself to emerge from the safety of my shock-protected mind, I force my eyes open and swallow the nausea that threatens to tear me apart.

  “I almost killed a man,” Jake says, dropping to his knees beside me.

  “Thank god, you’re finally awake. I think you’ve got a concussion or something; you keep passing out.”

  I raise a hand to my head and gently prod the back of my skull, wincing at the tender lump at the base. “Can you help me sit up?” My voice chafes the back of my throat, which is throbbing hotly.

  “I don’t think I’d better. We’re waiting for the EMTs. I think your head is in bad shape,” Jake says, his voice as gentle as I’ve ever heard it. His cloudy blue eyes stare down at me with a murky blend of worry and adoration. Panic itches along my skin, and suddenly I can’t stand to be touched, as though his fingers are sinking through the skin like a hot knife through butter.

  “Too close,” I whisper and after a moment he seems to understand, pulling away slightly so that I don’t feel so penned in. For once, he doesn’t seem irritated with me.

  “Is that better?” he asks solicitously, his eyes steady on mine. I nod and then close my eyes against the pain.