The Complete John Wayne Cleaver Series: I Am Not a Serial Killer, Mr. Monster, I Don't Want to Kill You, Devil's Only Friend, Over Your Dead Body, Nothing Left to Lose

by Dan Wells

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked. “You look kind of sick.”

  She was worried about me. Which meant she cared about me. Which meant that I was stupid to get so worked up. It wasn’t the shirt that bothered me, really, it was the change—the shocking difference between my vivid fantasies and the dull, brittle truth. And the new shirt was nice—it was fitted but loose, and complemented her figure without showing too much. I needed to get over it.

  I smiled again and stepped forward. “I’m fine; the shirt’s fine.”

  “The shirt?” She looked puzzled. I thought quickly.

  “My collar was a little itchy earlier,” I said. “It’s fine now. Ready to go?”

  “Yup.” She grabbed a canvas bag from inside the door and stepped out onto the porch. She wore pants now instead of shorts, and her long blond hair was loose and wavy. She looked wonderful, and I allowed my gaze to roll over her appreciatively as she shouldered her bag and closed the door. She was thinner than Marci, less curvy, but more elegant somehow; the difference between the two girls was stark in my mind—Brooke was on a higher plane, elevated and graceful. I followed her to the car.

  “You’re lucky today,” she said, smiling. “Dad said he’d already grilled you once, and you did fine last time, so he didn’t need to do it again.”

  “I did fine?” I asked.

  “Everyone else freaked when they saw the body, but you were the only one brave enough to do anything about it.”

  “That’s because dead bodies aren’t scary,” I said. “When you think about it, dead bodies are the least scary kind of bodies, right? I mean, there’s nothing they can do to you, unless I guess you don’t wash your hands or something.”

  Brooke laughed and stood by her door. I opened it smoothly this time, anticipating it, relishing the forbidden touch of the door handle. She hadn’t ridden in my car since the end of school, but the door still felt special; it had been hers for so long that it could never go back. I got in on my side and pulled out my keys.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “First things first,” she said, holding her finger up in mock reprimand. “You’re not dressed yet.”

  I looked down at myself. “I’m not?” It was exactly what I’d been worried about—and despite all my efforts, I’d still done it wrong. She was much dressier than I was; I must look like a disgusting jerk next to her.

  “Well, John and Brooke are dressed, I guess,” she said with a smile, “but we’re not John and Brooke anymore—we’re tourists.”

  What? That wasn’t what I’d been expecting at all. “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to the exotic town of Clayton,” she said, digging in her bag and pulling out a handful of clothes. She handed me a bright Hawaiian shirt. “Put this on.”

  My expectations for the evening crumbled further—I’d been expecting an activity like fishing, or a trip to the movie theater, but this was completely different. I’d played the evening out in my head a dozen times or more, and it had never gone like this.

  Brooke was pulling more clothes out of the bag—a loud Hawaiian shirt for herself, and a big black camera on a multicolored strap. I didn’t go on a lot of dates; this was my second ever, in fact. I’d never seen kids around town dressed as tourists, though; this couldn’t be a common dating scenario.

  “Do you do any good accents?” Brooke asked.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I do a really stupid Russian accent,” she said, putting on a wide-brimmed sun hat. “I guess that will have to do.”

  I wasn’t sure what to do, but it felt so good to be with Brooke—to look at her, to talk to her. Whatever I had to do to stay with her, it was worth it. I picked up the Hawaiian shirt and looked at it, trying to think of something funny to say.

  “You mean your Russian accent’s stupid,” I asked, “or your accent sounds like a stupid Russian?” Wow, I needed to do a lot better than that.

  “Don’t make fun of accent,” she said thickly, sounding for all the world like a villain in a Bond movie. She must practice a lot. “You are Boris and I am called Natasha. Put on shirt.”

  I watched her pull her Hawaiian shirt on over her clothes. Being with her this way, being able to look with no restrictions, gave the same forbidden thrill I’d gotten from opening her door. She pulled her hair up and out of her oversize costume, and it flowed down her back in golden waves. It was an odd visual dissonance: she was still Brooke, the untouchable fantasy, but she was someone else, too. Someone real and, yes, very touchable.

  Just stick to the rules.

  “You know,” I said, “you’re really kind of strange once people get to know you.”

  Brooke arched an eyebrow melodramatically. “You don’t like plan?”

  “Are you kidding?” I asked, pulling the tourist shirt on over my own. It gave me the dizzying sensation of being somebody else, as if I’d stepped outside of John Cleaver altogether. I was Boris now, and Boris didn’t have any of the problems John did. “I think this sounds awesome.”

  “Good,” she said, putting on a pair of gaudy plastic sunglasses. “Travel brochure say good things about Clayton. We start with local cuisine: Friendly Burger.”

  “You sure you want to eat at Friendly Burger?” I asked. “There’s nicer places to go.”

  “You do not know this,” she said sternly, wagging her finger. “Boris has never been to Clayton.”

  I sat back and stared at her—she was really going to play this role, and be strict about the ridiculous rules of her scenario. Well, little did she know, I was an expert at ridiculous rules.

  “If I’ve never been here,” I said, “then I don’t know where anything is.”

  Brooke smiled triumphantly and pulled a sheaf of papers from her bag.

  “Is okay,” she said, “I download maps from Internet.”

  I laughed and started the car, and she started reading me driving directions. We followed them to the letter, feigning complete ignorance about the town, and arrived at Friendly Burger only slightly later than we would have otherwise. As soon as we parked Brooke jumped out and grabbed a woman on the street, pressing a camera into her hands.

  “My friend and I visit from out of town,” she said, her Bond villain accent as thick as ever. “You take picture?” The woman stared at her in shock, then nodded her head uncertainly. Brooke and I stood in front of the weather-beaten Friendly Burger sign, pointing at it stupidly, and the woman took a picture. Brooke thanked her, took back the camera, and did the same inside with other people, getting pictures of us by the counter, the menu, and even the rickety old model train that ran around the borders of the ceiling. I watched her flow easily from one conversation to another, leaving each person confused but cheerful. Finally she ordered two ‘cheesy burgers with fries from France,’ and we sat down to eat. I bit into the burger, feeling the flesh in my teeth, and smiled.

  “I like this place,” she said, biting a fry in half. “Is good American food. Make us fat, like Americans.”

  The muscles in her neck moved slightly as she chewed, in and out, in and out, rippling sensuously beneath her skin.

  “What’s next?” I asked.

  “We go other places,” she said. “Places tourists would go if they came here. County Courthouse. Shoe Museum.”

  “Ooh, a Shoe Museum,” I said, grinning at the idea. The shoe museum was pretty much just some crazy guy’s house, which he’d filled with shelf after shelf of shoes and other shoe-related junk he’d accumulated throughout his life. One of those classic “American Heartland” kind of places that survived on kitsch value alone. It was a laughingstock among the local kids, but it was the only real tourist location in Clayton, and going with Brooke might actually be fun. I imagined her breathlessly taking pictures of the shoe displays, pretending to be amazed at everything she saw, and I smiled.

  “We are tourists,” she said innocently. “Billboard on highway says visit shoe museum, we visit shoe museum.”

  “Awesome,” I
said. “Or whatever we say in Russia when we mean awesome. Sputnik.”

  She laughed. “Sputnik?”

  “It’s Russian for ‘awesome,’ ” I said. “The name of the satellite was an accident, really: they built it, looked at it, and said ‘Sputnik!’ The name stuck. They’ve been embarrassed about it ever since.”

  Brooke laughed again, then shook her head. “You mean we’ve been embarrassed about it ever since,” she said. “We are, after all, native-born Russians.” She fell back into her accent. “This is first time out of country.”

  I smiled. It was fun to think of myself as someone else—it was liberating, as if all my baggage, all my fears, all my tension had disappeared. There were no worries.

  There were no consequences.

  I ate a fry and leaned forward. “So who are Boris and Natasha?” I asked. “How do we know each other?”

  She looked back, meeting my eyes, studying me through her cheap plastic sunglasses.

  “We grew up in same small town outside of Moscow,” she said. “Claytonograd.”

  “So we’ve known each other our whole lives.”

  “Most of our lives, yes,” she said. “We are old friends.”

  “We must be pretty good friends if we’re on a trip together,” I said. “I mean, Boris doesn’t go to America with just anybody.”

  A tiny smile touched the corner of her lips. “Neither does Natasha.”

  I wanted to reach out to her—to touch her, to feel her skin under my fingers. I’d never allowed myself even to think about touching her, though that had never stopped the dreams, night after night, of her body on the embalming table. I washed and brushed her hair; I cleaned her pale, precious skin; I massaged her rigor mortis-stiffened muscles until they were loose and warm in my hands. There were other dreams, darker dreams, but I pushed them from my mind now just as I always had before. I would not think about violence. 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13.

  “I think,” I said, “that this trip to America is going really well. Thanks for inviting me.”

  “Thanks for coming.”

  The entire world seemed coiled and tight, focused on this moment. I wanted—I needed—to touch her hand. I would never have dared before, because of the thoughts it brought, but that was the old John. That was the John who wasn’t even allowed to look at her—for him, touching was completely illicit. But not for Boris. Boris could look. Boris had no rules; he had no fear. There was no danger in touching a hand—it was just a hand, a thing on the end of her arm. Her hand had touched the table, the bench, the food—why couldn’t it touch me? I reached out, steady and even, and put my hand on hers. Her fingers were smooth and soft, just as they were in my dreams. I held it a moment, feeling the texture of her skin, the lines of her knuckles, the sharp crystals of salt from her fries. She squeezed back, trembling and thrilling and alive.

  She smiled. “Sputnik.”

  We stared at each other, stared into each other, feeling a hum through our fingers that made the entire world brighter—the colors deeper, the edges crisper, the sounds rich and resonant. We ate our food one-handed, grinning like idiots, neither acknowledging our clasped hands nor daring to let go. There was a connection between us, vibrant and charged and . . .

  . . . Something wasn’t right.

  I pushed the thought away, but once my mind became aware of it the feeling was impossible to ignore. As wonderful as this was, there was something . . . missing. Something that should have been there but wasn’t, like a dark hole in a beautiful jigsaw puzzle. Was it my expectations again, angry that they had only been met halfway? But no. I had imagined this moment, or one like it, a hundred times—a thousand times—and there was nothing missing. I felt excited; I was in control of myself and of the situation; Brooke was beautiful and just as eager as I was. What could possibly be missing?

  But something was missing, and it ate at me like a canker.

  I looked around the room, searching for something amiss. There was no one I knew—no one laughing or crying or yelling at me. I saw the TV droning in the corner; I saw the drink machine dripping slowly, drop by drop; I saw the napkins and the straws and the plastic knives, stark white in their dispensers.

  And then I knew what it was.

  My eyes fixed on the plastic knives and I knew, like a bolt of lightning through my mind, that the connection I felt to Brooke was just a shadow of the earth-shaking connection I had felt once before, in the kitchen of my house, holding a knife while my mother cowered in terror. We hadn’t been two people then, we’d been one, united in body and mind by an overwhelming emotion: fear. We had moved together, felt together, and together we thought two sides of the same thought. It had been a pure, unbridled rush of emotion, the kind of connection that sociopaths were never supposed to have, but I had felt it all, and it had been more real and more powerful than anything I’d ever experienced.

  This should have been the same—it should have been even better—but it wasn’t. And that was the hole. In all my dreams of Brooke we had felt that same intense connection, and now that the moment was finally here the connection was not. Why not? Had I done something wrong? Had Brooke? I looked at her now and saw her staring back, no longer cheerful but concerned. The lapse of emotion made me flare with anger, enraged that she would break the already-tenuous link, but I calmed myself. She was just sensing the same hole that I had. But now that I knew what was missing, I could plan for it next time—I could force it out like a knot from a tangle of hair.

  Holding hands wasn’t enough, it seemed. I needed more.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Brooke, her voice flat. “I can’t believe it.”

  Was she talking about me? But no, she wasn’t looking at me at all—it was the TV. Everyone in the restaurant was staring at the TV, silent and pale as corpses.

  I turned to watch, already guessing what I would see.

  “Police say the body is far more disfigured than the first three,” the reporter said, “but it was bound in a similar way. The police have not released any further details at this time, but they do urge everyone in the area to report any leads or information that they may have. You, the people of Clayton County, are the only ones who can stop this killer.”

  14

  “We’re two for two,” said Brooke, standing on her porch. Two dates, and a dead body found during each of them. “Thanks again for coming, though. You want to risk a third?” She smiled sickly.

  “Sure,” I said, trying not to think of her body floating in the lake. “It’s just a coincidence.”

  “It’s a pretty terrible one,” she said. We stood silent for a moment. “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  She unlocked her door and went in, bag of tourist paraphernalia in tow, and I walked back to my car unsteadily. Another victim. Another message from the killer. What was he saying with this one? I needed to know more.

  Forman had been on the scene—I’d seen him on TV. He would know more, but could I convince him to tell me? He’d asked for my help before; he might accept it now, in return for information. Even just hanging around the police station I could probably glean something. There was one way to find out, and I had to find out. I felt like my mind was eating me alive.

  I climbed in my car and turned it around, heading back into town. Forman was probably still at the scene, but he would have to come back to the station with reports to file and evidence to register. I could wait all night.

  From the outside the police station was dim and lonely, though I noticed with interest that Forman’s office was lit. The front was lit as well, and I could see Stephanie the receptionist inside, juggling phones with a tired, harried look on her face. I went in and waited for a break in her calls, but she quickly made eye contact and pointed toward Forman’s office. I hesitated, not sure what she meant, then she pointed again, mouthing “go in.” I waved a silent thanks and walked to Forman’s office; the door was unlatched, and I pushed it open.

  “Hello?” Form
an looked up from his desk, his face just as lined and harried as Stephanie’s. His notepad was full of intense doodles, dark and pressed deep into the paper. Mom did the same thing when she didn’t have an outlet for her stress. I figured the new body must have really bothered him.

  “John,” he said tensely. “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?” I countered. “Are you done with the crime scene already?”

  “No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “The whole department’s still over there; probably be there all night. Did you need me for something?”

  “Um, yeah,” I said, “I just didn’t expect to find you here.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  I looked at him oddly; this was not the way Agent Forman usually acted.

  “I need you to tell me about the body,” I said, sitting down.

  “Why?” he asked, furrowing his brow, “and why would I tell you? You’re not a cop.” He was still agitated, but as he spoke I could see the panic melt tangibly away: he sat up straighter, he looked more stern, and his voice seemed deeper. Within seconds he was sharp and assertive. “Maybe you can help,” he said, leaning back and eyeing me carefully. He seemed calmer now. Clearer. “Think about something for me; it will help us both stay sharp. Why did the Clayton Killer kill?”

  “You think this is the Clayton Killer?” I asked. “Nothing matches.”

  “Not at all,” said Forman, looking down at his paper, “but I do think they’re related. So tell me: why did the Clayton Killer kill?”

  This was easy, freshman-level profiling. “How detailed do you want me to get?” I asked. “On the basic level, serial killers kill because they have a need, and killing fills that need.”

  “Okay,” said Forman, still staring at his paper. “What did the Clayton Killer need?”

  “Why are you asking me this?”

  “To keep us sharp,” he said, “I already told you that.”

  “Why ‘us?’ ” I asked. “Why do you keep saying ‘keep us sharp?’ ”

  “Don’t you want to be?” He turned to look at the window, as if peering straight through the slats of his blinds. “You’re a very smart young man,” he said. “You can figure this out.”