Twisted Reunion

by Tullius, Mark

  Jack liked to think of himself as being levelheaded. He’d cooled down a lot over the past year, and he wasn’t making any rash decisions until that slip was in his hand. He tucked the 9 millimeter in his waistband and headed for the door. A few minutes later, Jack was on the highway, sticking to the speed limit. He needed to keep away from the law at all costs, and he was in no hurry to return to that house. But at least the bastard she’d cheated with was as good as dead. No more worries about Todd’s late night visits to Jack’s bedroom while he was out hustling.

  As he neared his exit, Jack wondered who he’d kill to earn his death sentence. There was no denying that Jack had done some bad things in order to survive, but he’d never crossed that line. If things ever got heated during a robbery and he was left with no choice, he’d do it, but that was the only way.

  He hoped the slip was wrong, even thought about tossing the gun out the window. You can’t shoot with something you don’t have. He could take certain precautions and try to avoid it as long as possible. At least the death penalty verdict was clear. Sometimes the verdicts were vague, like the one Jack’s mother had been dealt.

  Jack exited the highway and headed west. He questioned if it was better to know exactly how he’d die. When Jack was a baby, his mother got her slip with one word: COLD. They all assumed it would occur when she was an old woman, but that didn’t stop her from consuming every imaginable vitamin and keeping away from anyone with the slightest sickness. They’d even moved to California, and she refused to go near the mountains or anywhere with a walk-in freezer. Then after 22 years of paranoia and pills, one night she rolled off her bed, choked on her own phlegm, and died on the floor. Just a common cold. The same sentence his wife Ashlynn received. Ex. Wife.

  Jack pulled the car into the driveway and shut off the engine before he could chicken out and drive away. He hadn’t seen Ashlynn in almost two years. The living room curtain was pulled back, revealing the same tragically gorgeous woman he’d fallen in love with. But now her eyes were so ringed in black, he wondered if she’d been punched.

  There was no denying she’d lived a rough life. It almost made Jack feel sorry for her. Almost. He got out of the car and slammed the door shut. Just the sight of her sickened him.

  She waited on the porch, held open the door. Jack knew she wanted to hug him, but he walked right past her, hands stuffed in his pockets.

  “Oh, Jackie.” She closed the door and followed Jack into the living room. She smelled like an ashtray and three-day-old sweat. “You’re still so handsome.”

  Jack sat down on the sofa, the same worn-down piece of crap they had since they first moved in together. They swore it would only be temporary. He wanted to tell her she looked like shit, but he couldn’t even look at her.

  “I made some sandwiches, Jackie. I know you said you weren’t hungry, but maybe you want one?”

  “I said I wasn’t staying long. You have my papers?”

  She sat down next to him and put her hand on top of his. He jerked away.

  “Won’t you at least look at me? I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m so sorry for what I did.”

  Jack stared straight ahead at the fireplace. “I just want my slip.”

  Sounding both hurt and angry, she said, “You don’t even believe me? You think I don’t regret everything?”

  “I need to see it.”

  “I shouldn’t have told you. It’s better not to know.”

  “Well, you did, so go get it.”

  Ashlynn started coughing, her whole body shaking. He scooted away from her as she gagged, almost threw up. She wiped the spit from her mouth and said, “I’m sorry.”

  Jack made the mistake of looking at her, guilt etched into her thin face. He stood. “Where’s the letter? I’ll get it myself.”

  “The counter by the fridge.”

  Jack moved into the kitchen and read the Selection Service notice. It said he was not drafted, but still qualified to volunteer. Jack folded the letter in half and stuffed it into his back pocket. The other paper, the one he needed to see, was nowhere to be found.

  He shouted, “Where’s the slip?”

  “It should be there.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Just leave it alone. I’ll find it later. Come sit down.”

  Jack stormed into the doorway. “Get it for me now or I’m leaving.”

  “I threw it away. You don’t need to see it, Jackie.”

  Jack turned to the white trashcan next to the fridge and took off the top.

  Ashlynn yelled, “Don’t go digging in there.” She tried to come after him and started coughing.

  He pushed aside the slimy eggshells and morning newspaper. His heart rate quickened as he rifled through a stack of greasy envelopes and junk mail, but the slip wasn’t there. He dug deeper, reached his hand to the bottom of the bag. His finger caught something sharp and he yanked it back.

  Jack sucked the drop of blood on the tip of his finger and looked into the trashcan. “What the fuck? I thought you were clean!”

  “I haven’t used in years.”

  Jack held up the small syringe. “Then what the hell is this?”

  “It’s my medicine.”

  Jack continued his search. Too low for her to hear, he said, “Is that what you call it now?” His hands were disgusting and there was food all over his arms. He kept searching, cursing himself the whole time. He was an idiot for coming over and having to deal with her. “What color is it? It better be in here. If this is some scheme to get me back in your goddamn life…”

  “It’s white. It should be near the top. I threw it out this morning.”

  Jack took a deep breath and blew it out. He picked up the folded newspaper and shook it. A small scrap of paper fluttered to the faded linoleum. Jack picked it up. She hadn’t lied. His fate was spelled out for him in large, block letters: LETHAL INJECTION.

  The kitchen walls were closing in. He stumbled out of the room and leaned against the wall. He shut his eyes, struggled not to be sick. His chest felt constricted as if he were strapped down. His arm ached where that needle would one day plunge. He was going to die and it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  Her warm hand rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m sorry you had to see that. But you gotta think positive.” She offered a weak smile. “Oh, you’re still bleeding.”

  Jack looked down and saw the red bead on the carpet. She handed him a tissue. “Here you go.” The back of her hand was covered with reddish-purple blotches. Jack looked at her, really looked at her for the first time. Her face was so haggard, her eyes sunken. She was just a shell of the woman he once knew.

  He felt nauseous. “What’s your medicine for?”

  She looked away and shook her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “How bad is it?” he asked.

  It took her a moment to speak. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  Jack felt the skin crawling up his back. “What are you talking about?”

  “The doctor was just giving me a shot. He had cuts on his finger.” She looked at the floor. “They called it a super virus.”

  Jack threw her hands off his shoulder. He ran for the kitchen and stumbled to the sink. He turned on the hot water and held his pricked finger underneath it, squeezed as hard as he could. Ashlynn was crying, saying she was sorry. So fucking sorry.

  No One’s Here

  I’m no one. Been no one since I was old enough to remember. The name on my birth certificate might read Andrew, but I’m never called that. I’m no one. Mother always said so. It kept me safe, and it kept her from lying. No one’s here, baby.

  She had two hiding places for me when she entertained men like Desmond. Sometimes she put me under the bed. Usually she put me in the closet. That’s how I learned to do it to her like a grownup.

  That closet was small and it smelled funny. Not like this one. I’ve been in here for eight hours and could stay eight more if I had to. But I don’t think I will. They go to b
ed early, and they just turned off the TV.

  I won’t make any noise. When I was a kid, sometimes I accidentally rustled dresses or bumped into the door. If Desmond asked what it was, Mother would tell him not to worry, that she needed to feel him inside her. If he tried to get up, she’d swear no one was there. No one was watching. Just keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.

  I’m never remembered. Nobody will miss me when I’m gone. I blend into the crowd, another nameless face. But I like it. I’m no better; no worse. I’m simply here watching. Like the angels.

  Even though people may not know my face, they feel me. When they found Mother, the police knew no one could have crept into Mother’s room while she combed her hair. No one could have done such brutal things to her.

  And if you asked my neighbors who tortures all the strays, I know they’d say no one does that. And, surely, no one in this city is responsible for the horror happening in the school yard.

  The lights are turned off. Now it’s just as dark out there as it is in here. I’ll give them a few minutes to get settled into bed; no need to rush things now. Everything is set. I already searched their bedroom. I found everything I needed.

  No one needs to watch this. They’re getting undressed. I hear zippers and buttons and pants falling to the floor. I don’t hear anymore talking, just the bed squeak briefly, the covers shuffling. They’re probably curled up in bed, whispering I love you. No one should have that kind of relationship. No one deserves that kind of special bond.

  This damn door didn’t creak like that earlier. I should have oiled it. I don’t think they heard it, though. There’s no noise. He’s probably touching her. Stroking her hair. Her thick brunette hair. Just like the only woman no one ever cried for.

  I wonder what her throat will feel like. How soft her skin is. Skin is so thin. God didn’t think that one through very well. No one could have done a better job.

  This is my favorite part. They can’t hear my footsteps on the carpet, but I know they can feel my presence. They always can. They know someone’s here. I see it in their eyes. Even in the dark, where no one can see.

  She’s whispering that she’s heard something. I’m in the doorway. She’s whispering because she knows someone is with them. The husband’s telling her it’s nothing, no one’s here. He’s just as scared, but he doesn’t want to show it. But he knows someone is coming.

  To Catch a Killer

  Tina hitched up her skirt and smiled at the slowing Cadillac. The driver pulled to the trash-strewn curb and lowered the tinted passenger window. With her long legs, generous breasts, and red hair falling to her tiny waist, Tina looked more like a model than a prostitute. But just so there were no questions, her thigh-high boots, black miniskirt, and clearly visible pink panties told the driver he’d come to the right place.

  Still not used to prancing around in stilettos, Tina took her time and strolled to the Cadillac, aware the driver was watching every twitch of her hips. She pushed up her breasts and stuck her head through the window, hoped this was the guy she’d been searching for, but doubted she’d be so lucky.

  She didn’t need to look at the well-dressed fat man to know this wasn’t her guy. Even with his overpowering cologne, Tina could smell the stench of sickness. It couldn’t be masked by the Caddy’s rich leather. This guy was alone and diseased, but he was no killer.

  “Hi there, pretty lady.” Sweat dripped off his chin and spotted his white button-down. “Care to join me?”

  “Maybe you should try the girls over on 17th.”

  “None of them look like you,” he said. “Come on. We’ll have fun.” He spit something in his palm.

  Tina stepped back as cars drove by. Any one of them could be the guy she was waiting for. “I’m sure we would, but I gotta run.”

  He rolled up his sleeve and revealed the gold Cartier sunk into his fleshy wrist. “I can pay a lot. You don’t want to regret this.”

  “Look, asshole,” Tina said. “I’m a cop. So if you don’t want to end up behind bars, you better haul ass home.”

  The Cadillac sped off. Tina walked back to her corner and sat on the bus bench. Her feet were killing her and she dreaded where this was heading. Every night he didn’t show was another night she had to walk the damp and dreary streets. Another night she had to pretend she was one of the downtrodden, willing to sell herself for a few measly bucks. Another night she was here. Three months she’d been on this detail. She’d begged for the case, but not a day went by she didn’t regret it. She’d looked too long into one of the girl’s eyes at the morgue. She got attached. Her sergeant had told her it was a dead end, but she’d convinced herself she could crack it.

  Chloe, Promise, Shelly, and a handful of other girls walked the opposite side of the street, knowing they didn’t stand a chance of getting picked up next to her. These girls were the real reason Tina wanted to catch the killer. That’s what she told herself, that it wasn’t all a fucking waste. She used to think of these girls as trash, but as she spent more time with them, she began to realize they were no worse than she was, everyone just looking for some fix to feel less shitty.

  Fate had dealt each of these girls a hand they never had a chance of winning. They were destined to be whores, no matter how hard they tried to prevent it. The girls had been raped and molested by parents, uncles, coaches, and teachers. They’d been beaten and abused, made to believe they were completely worthless. The strong ones moved out at an early age to get away from that ugliness, only to quickly learn that the real world was even worse. Strip to make money, do drugs to deal with reality, whore to buy the drugs. Or pay your dues on the force to prove you deserved to be a detective so you can hunt down the type of men who slip pills in your drink, rip your panties, and leave you outside your dorm in the bushes. A vicious cycle that never seemed to end.

  This was Tina’s forty-fifth night on this ten-block strip of hell and she still had not caught a glimpse of the guy. Even though the police were monitoring every strip club, whorehouse, and corner, the maniac continued to strike. Every morning a different girl, or at least parts of her, showed up.

  The killer was confident, and with good reason: over fifty mutilated girls and the department wasn’t even remotely close to busting him. It was almost as if someone on the inside was telling him exactly where Tina was going to be.

  The police had a sketch given by two pros who’d seen the fifth victim, Dominque, get inside a station wagon. Another girl saw victim number 12 climb into a limo. But that was all the police had to go on.

  Tina had no idea what kind of vehicle to look for because the killer always used a different car. He was blatantly daring the department, handing them his DNA in the semen-stained underwear he left behind, always wrapped around the girl’s throat. He thought the police couldn’t catch him, but Tina would prove him wrong, at least that’s what she still told the sergeant.

  A small, blue Toyota pickup stopped on the other side of Colton Street. Tina’s heart rate quickened when she saw Shelly slip into the passenger side. Before the couple closed the deal, Tina crossed the street, prayed the john didn’t pull something out of his pants that Shelly couldn’t handle. She was relieved to see the driver was a pimply teenager, his frustrated virginity stamped on his forehead.

  Tina continued across the street and asked Chloe if she was interested in grabbing them some food. She had just handed Chloe a twenty when a black van rolled through the intersection and pulled to the curb a little way down 21st. The van was a good thirty feet away from Tina when the driver lowered his window for a young black girl. Tina couldn’t remember her name. A strong breeze blew past and told Tina to hurry.

  Under her breath, speaking into the mike hidden between her breasts, Tina said, “I think this is our guy. Charlie, you seeing this?”

  There was no answer in her earpiece. Tina quickened her pace and called out, “Hey there, honey, you’ve got the wrong car.”

  The girl pulled her head out of the window and glared at
Tina. “Get your own date. This one’s mine.”

  Tina didn’t slow. Although the girl was taller and much thicker, Tina wasn’t about to let the girl get in that vehicle. “Let him decide.”

  “Screw you. Get back on your side of the street.”

  “I go where I want.” Tina bumped the girl out of the way, tried not to choke on her rotten peach perfume. She peered into the van and saw a disheveled guy with a cheap comb-over. Nothing like the sketch, but Tina could tell from the smell this was her guy. Forcing what she hoped was a winning smile, she said, “How about it, sugar? Who’s the lucky lady gonna be? Me or Midnight?”

  “Fuck you, bitch,” the black girl said.

  “I’m just trying to let the man decide. Who’s it going to be?”

  He looked right at Tina and said, “Who do you think?”

  Tina whipped open the door and slid inside before the girl knew what had happened. She ignored the ripe scent of death and put her hand on the guy’s grimy jeans, rubbed his thigh. “I’ve got a spot around the corner.”

  He pulled away from the curb. His breath reeked of alcohol when he said, “No, I need to keep driving.”

  The thought of the 9 millimeter inside her purse kept her calm. “It’s your dollar.” She turned around in her seat and looked into the back of the van. Black trash bags were taped over the windows and a black tarp covered a lumpy form on the van’s floor. This had to be him, but nothing about the case said he was a drinker. The killer was too methodical to allow alcohol to blur his judgment.

  “What the hell you think you’re doing?” he shouted as Tina crawled into the back.

  “Looking for a place where I can make you happy. Want to pull over here? Or there’s a spot right after Orange.”

  “You deaf? I said we’re gonna keep driving.”

  “I heard,” Tina said, “I’m just not sure if I’m cool with that. I need to see the money first.”