by Julia Shupe
And that was the place he had gone last night, that cold dead place where nothing lived.
He glanced at the myriad scratches across his forearms, new wounds he’d layered atop old. It was a cross-stitch pattern made of whites, pinks, and reds. When, he wondered, had he started doing that again? It was an embarrassing remnant from his childhood, a habit he’d soon have to hide from the world. He couldn’t have people asking questions, or paying attention to him. He was a man who excelled at blending in. He had no choice. He wasn’t comfortable around people. He never had been.
Are you sure those wounds are self-inflicted, a voice whispered. All of them? Every single one?
He jumped, twisted and craned his neck, and peered into the back seat of the car. It was empty. There was nothing there, save for some trash and old food. Scanning the debris, he frowned at the smell, his gaze landing on a woman’s headband. It was thin, black, shiny, and plastic, and wedged beneath a seatbelt and cushion. Where the hell had that come from? The sight of it made him feel faint. How long had it been there? To whom did it belong?
Turning to face the windshield again, he pulled down the visor and rubbed his face. He looked like shit, and that was being kind. He was losing it. He had to stop this. He had to pull himself together. He was risking too much. What if a cop found him sleeping in his car? And what if that cop arrested him for DUI? He couldn’t risk that. Not now. It had been too hard to disappear. He was off the grid, now. He had to keep it that way. He had many more secrets to hide this time around.
He peered through the window at a building across the street. The only thing worse than the blackouts was waking up and discovering where he was. For a moment he followed the building’s familiar lines and curves. Why did he always come here, of all places? What was the attraction? Was he trying to torture himself?
It had been a long time since the orphanage closed its doors. Some fancy industrialist had bought the place, converted it into a warehouse then sold it for a profit. Carlton didn’t know who owned it now, but it had clearly fallen to disrepair. He hugged himself as he took it all in, this husk of a building so similar to himself. It was empty and ghosted. Vacant. Forgotten. Someone had to own it, he told himself, but if they did, they didn’t seem to be using it. It was dark and desolate, a broken down thing. It was full of bad memories and whispering voices, full of dreams, and more than a few nightmares.
Though the building had changed, its skeleton was the same. He could see the familiar beast lurking inside its brand new shell. What was it like inside? he wondered. He’d never awakened inside the building. At least there was that. He smirked. He was much too cowardly to take it that far. As usual, he’d awakened outside its walls, ogling the entrance like he would a naked woman. Going inside would be bold and brash, and inevitably invite the wrong voices. Seeing those walls would awaken old spirits, memories he’d worked damn hard to forget.
His gaze followed the front stone path, which curved around the building and was framed by a decaying row of wax myrtle trees. Once those trees had been lush and full, a hedge that had been planted to offer privacy. As boys, he and Smith had often used that hedge for cover. Was his old shirt still buried out back, beneath the long section bordering the veterinary clinic? It had to be, or he would have heard the news. After all, it was soaked in her blood—Tiffany’s blood. He remembered exactly where it was. He’d buried the thing when they finally left her house. Did he have the nerve to dig it up?
That day, he and Smith, after finishing their work, had sprinted from her house to the elementary school, and with hearts pumping, had hid in the shadows. They’d found the old drinking hose and stripped to their underwear, washed the stains from their clothing as best they could. Carlton’s shirt was all but destroyed, which as Smith pointed out, only proved his inexperience. Smith’s, of course, was nearly pristine, with only a fine spray of blood across the shoulder.
Carlton remembered every moment of that day. With jaw clenched, and thoughts spinning wild, he’d cleaned himself up, tried to pull himself together. He’d tried to stay calm, but had felt strangely wired. And the guilt, of course, had crippled him. Smith shouldn’t have pulled that trigger. Going that far wasn’t necessary. Despite what he’d learned, he still believed that. His feelings on that hadn’t changed. The whole damn thing had just gotten out of hand. Maybe if he’d held his ground and stood up to Smith, things might have gone differently.
But he hadn’t. He’d caved. He’d been an impotent disciple, only finding strength when it no longer mattered. After cleaning his clothes and donning a clean shirt, he’d rounded on Smith. “That’s it,” he’d seethed, “I’m done. This is the end of us, of what we’re doing, of our entire friendship. You’re on your own. I’m out of here.”
Smith had waved him off, like he was a gnat or annoying mosquito. “I get it, Carl. I killed her. You’re pissed. Trust me, you’ll get over it. Just give it some time.” He handed Carlton an old rag and smirked. “You’re a mess.” He shook his head. “Such an amateur. But seriously, Carl, you’re just in shock. Go home. Get out of here. Rest. Blow off some steam.” He wagged a finger in Carlton’s face. “But you know what I did was the right thing to do. And besides,” he added with a shrug, “we had no other options. We had to self-protect. Take all the time you need, brother, and in a week, meet me behind the hedge. Today was just the beginning for us. In time, you’ll see that. You just need to process everything. And when the dust finally settles, you’ll understand. You’ll be ready again. You’ll come looking for me. Despite how hard you try to fight the truth, this is who you are. Trust me. I know.” When Carlton reached for the ping-tinged rag, Smith seized his arm like a vice. “Know this, my brother: nothing is over. Nothing is done, and nothing’s changed.” Carlton had shot him a glare and wrenched back his hand. “I’ll see you in a week,” Smith repeated, unfazed. “Remember: watch your back. Keep your eyes and ears open. And for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut. Listen to the adults. They’ll be talking about this. You can learn more by listening than talking.”
And that was the one piece of advice Carlton had listened to. He’d listened to the adults, and again, Smith was right. When Tiffany’s death hit the local news stations, it was a tornado that spun through the neighborhood. The police set up camp in front of her house, and the fat orphanage mom locked the children indoors like prisoners. Once the sun would set, they were trapped. The cowbell would ring and the doors would snap closed. And that, Carlton suspected, was the beginning of the end. His act, he concluded, had probably set those wheels in motion. He wasn’t sure when the orphanage finally closed, but he was certain his crime hadn’t helped keep it open.
“Rape,” he’d heard an employee say one morning. “That girl was raped, and then beaten something fierce. They say she was barely recognizable.”
Carlton had listened to their fervent words with interest. It was surreal, he remembered, to listen to them deliberate, to listen to them posit the killer’s identity. The cops, he had learned, were looking for a local sex criminal, someone with a history of this kind of thing, and someone who was twice his age and bearing. A profile was created that was far from the truth. Sketches were produced and posted, but none of them, of course, ever led to an arrest. No one suspected a teenaged boy, and no one, of course, suspected two. As usual, Smith remained a ghost.
Carlton frowned. Over the years he’d often wondered how Smith had reacted to the chaos of those first few weeks. How had he felt when he watched the news? Carlton imagined him a voyeur, sitting on the couch in his beautiful home, a bowl of buttered popcorn in his lap. He envisioned a sly smile slipping across his face. Had he enjoyed the terror he’d created? Had he reveled in the disorder and confusion that had followed? Of course he had. Smith loved that shit. He loved pandemonium and confusion, particularly if he’d created it.
Though Carlton was certain Smith took pleasure in every moment, it was something he never confirmed. Not directly. He never asked Smith in person. He held to his prom
ise, left the relationship behind.
During the long week that followed their crime, Carlton had struggled with his conscience. His mind was divided from his body. The thrill of the memories was tempered by shame. He would dream of the blood and the look in her eyes, and wake with an insatiable stirring in his loins, only to be crippled by remorse for killing her. He’d listened to the news and watched the adults, and wondered when the cops would come calling. And when that first week finally passed, he was startled to discover that his feelings hadn’t changed. Despite the temptation, he was stalwart in his convictions. He was proud of himself. He’d stayed away from Smith. He’d fought that inexorable pull, and won.
He remembered that morning, a week after their crime, standing at the back door, deliberating. Smith was out there, somewhere beyond the hedge. He could envision him lying flat on his belly, staring through gaps in the leaves. He’d probably been waiting for Carlton all morning. Hell—he’d probably been watching him all week. But if Carlton joined him, he’d be making a decision, choosing a path that led to killing, and death. Smith was an addiction he’d have to learn to fight.
Carlton remembered that dithering moment and a slow smile crept across his face. In the end, he’d stuck to his guns. He’d turned from the door, and never looked back, and as the years slowly passed, he’d lost track of Smith. He’d erected an impenetrable barrier between them. Smith represented a dark and winding road, a road Carlton didn’t want to travel. And for a time—back then—things were better. His life settled into a comfortable rhythm. He took odd jobs around the orphanage and town, did his best to keep busy and out of trouble. He was failing in school, but he enjoyed manual labor, and he knew there was a future in that.
The years slipped by, as did his youth. His mother never returned, and no families expressed interest in adopting him. When he turned eighteen, he was turned out of the orphanage, set to the curb like an old bag of trash. Not that he minded; he was ready to be alone. But life, he remembered, had been difficult back then. He was practically a vagrant, unskilled, with little hope, so he hitchhiked his way across the country.
Later, in Folsom prison, Dr. Waite had called that journey a pilgrimage. Whether he knew it or not, she had said, he was attempting to distance himself from his mother, a decision he would later regret—bitterly. Because time, he had learned, was a sneaky little bitch. It wove and spun and tricked the unwary. It had a way of bringing you back to the beginning, back to the place you thought you’d left behind.
The thought startled him. He combed his fingers through his unruly hair. He couldn’t dwell on his mother right now, or on Smith. Those circular thoughts would get him drinking again, and it was early enough that he wasn’t late for work.
He was a functioning alcoholic, as they say. Despite his addiction, he was making it through life. His boss knew, of course. The man wasn’t completely daft. But luckily, the work didn’t require a clear mind. As long as Carlton arrived on time, kept to himself, and did what he was told, his boss didn’t care if he was hanging by a thread, or dancing on its end like a leaf in an autumn wind. The end product was all that mattered. Besides, he thought: work was all he had. It kept him sane and grounded. He enjoyed it. Despite the heat, the dirt, and his aching muscles, the work was somewhat rewarding. He was building something up, instead of tearing something down, nurturing life, instead of taking it.
With a backward glance at his childhood asylum, he fired the car’s engine and held his breath. It was a wonder this tin can still managed to start. It coughed to life, smoke pouring from its rear exhaust pipe, and when the cloud reached Carlton, it incited a fit of phlegm-laced coughs. Rolling down the window, he spat onto the pavement.
He was ill, and had been for months. It was time to start taking that seriously, he knew. If he could give up the drink, he could probably heal himself, but that was a chasm he dared not cross. Drinking was the only thing—besides his job—that kept him balanced. It gave him something to do at night, was a shelter from the storm of his thoughts. It was the line between sanity and madness. His daily hangovers kept his mind properly fogged, but as evening approached, those cobwebs would clear, and when they did, the voices would return—with the urges.
And the urges were bad. They demanded to be heard. He could only control them for so long.
Best not think about that, he thought, gritting his teeth. Coffee was what he needed right now. A gallon of strong black bitterness down his throat.
He smiled.
He knew just the place to go and get it.
Chapter 29
“By all accounts, this woman was happy.” I threw my hands into the air.
“Wow,” Gil said. “That was bitchy. Don’t act so damn pissed about it.”
“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean it like that; I just thought we’d find a trail of some kind, some area of her life that seemed off. It’s relative, Gil. There’s a direct correlation. The more unhappy a person is, the likelier she is to put herself in dangerous situations.” I fell back into a chair, exhaustively.
“What did you expect to find, Vanessa? A diary naming her killer? A dissertation of an abusive relationship, filed on her computer, or on microfiche? This isn’t an episode of Castle, Ness. You know things are never that easy.”
“I know.” I smoothed flyaway hair from my face. “But if we did find a diary, I wouldn’t complain. We’ve got bupkis here, Gil. Look at this place. Amanda was Martha-fucking Stewart. Her toilet bowl is cleaner than my kitchen counter tops.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“No. I’m not. It’s lived in—yes—but it’s organized as hell. This is the home of a well-adjusted woman.” I walked to the door and pointed to the lock. “See? Only one lock, the way normal people live. Amanda wasn’t afraid of anyone. She wasn’t suffering from mental illness or irrational fears. She didn’t crouch in dark rooms, or hide behind locked doors. You have to know what that means…”
“Yup. I do.” He ran his finger along the counter. “I know what it means. It means the crime was random.”
“Yes. Random.”
I looked around the tidy living room. Amanda was a woman who liked candles and trinkets, and coffee mugs with silly little phrases written on the side. Amanda hung pictures of family and friends with motivational magnets on her refrigerator door. She smiled a lot, and she clearly liked dogs. She read romance novels and fashion magazines, piled high in neat rows beneath her bed.
“Maybe her parents had it cleaned when she first went missing,” Gil suggested.
“Maybe,” I mumbled, running a gloved finger across the bedpost. “Or maybe it was her Fairy God-mother who did it.” I heaved a sigh. “Does it matter? This wasn’t what I expected.”
“Me either,” he said, pulling a chair from Amanda’s desk. Sitting and facing me, he folded his hands. “So let’s run through it again. Shall we? Paint within the lines Amanda drew. What do we have? What’s she telling us?”
I reached into the box we’d brought with us, which we’d filled with what little we found. “Okay. Let’s start from the beginning. When Amanda first went missing, two months ago, detectives turned this place upside down. Apart from the items already logged into evidence, we’ve got receipts from SaveRite, where she did her weekly grocery shopping, from 7-11 where she filled her gas tank—three days before she last was seen, by the way—and a dry-cleaning receipt from Gentle Clean. The last receipt—and the most recent one—is from Walgreens, dated the night we believe she was taken, which was Saturday, December 17th. She didn’t report to work Monday morning, and missed an appointment on Sunday afternoon. We can corroborate that with her friends.”
Gil nodded. “So that’s our time line then. According to her employer, she left work at seven o’clock Friday night. From there, she stopped at SaveRite, and then picked up her dinner at Subway—one sandwich, one drink, which means she wasn’t expecting company.” Glancing at his note pad, he added, “According to a friend named Stephanie McCall, she didn’t
show up for spin class the next morning.”
I felt tense, wiry, full of pent-up energy. Standing up, I paced the room. “That gives us a fourteen-hour window, give or take, which means she was taken between the hours of seven-thirty, Friday night—when she purchased her dinner—and ten o’clock Saturday morning.” I frowned. “Locks on the doors weren’t jammed or picked, and nothing was strewn about the room.” I lifted a brow. “Could she have known her attacker?”
“Maybe. But it doesn’t really fit. Not for serial killings.” He got up and moved for the door. “Or maybe,” he said, placing his hand on the knob, “he knocked on her door, and then forced his way in when she opened it. Maybe he took her captive first then came back later to clean the place up.”
I pursed my lips. “Nope. Wouldn’t have worked. Neighbors didn’t report hearing her scream. How did he get her from her apartment to his car? Did he knock her out and carry her body? Drag her out kicking and screaming? How would he have done that without one of her neighbors noticing?”
“You’re right. He wouldn’t.” Gil shrugged. “It’s a bullshit theory. Maybe it went more like this: she leaves for spin class; he ambushes her in the parking lot. Maybe he tricked her by faking a disability, or by using a pet, or a child.”
“Could be. Or maybe he did know her,” I reasoned. “Maybe it was a new acquaintance, a relationship he was nurturing. Maybe he stalked her, got to know her, got her comfortable, and then set up a chance meeting in the parking lot.” I moved to the kitchen, eying the coffee maker on the counter. “I think that’s the likelier scenario. The simplest answer is usually correct. He stalks her for months, builds a friendly acquaintance, and then meets her outside her apartment one morning. She’d greet him warmly. She’d walk over. Say ‘hello’.” I lifted the pot and peered inside, wincing at the layer of mold at the bottom. “This coffee machine hasn’t been cleaned in months.” Peering into the dishwasher, I added details to my developing theory. “She makes her morning coffee at home, pours a cup, puts the cup in the dishwasher, and leaves the house. After that, she’s nabbed at her car by an acquaintance.”