Or searching for someone to blame.
Two high school kids found beaten after school.
The car of a high ranking state official torched.
The Pantheon Bursar’s office trashed.
Nobody seems to know who had it coming and who’s just been caught in the crossfire.
And it all happened so gradually, not one of us really noticed.
Jessica stared out across the midnight streets, madly searching for the blue Pontiac. Half-drunk from sleep deprivation, unaware that her own journal entries had slowly changed. Morphed. Sentences losing their way as she gave into Verona’s collective unconscious. No longer caring who Angry Jonny was, just fantasizing about who would be next if she were that unknown vigilante.
I wander back and forth from a job I won’t have for much longer. I read the papers. I see the smirking face of Ethan Prince, Katherine, those privileged, gluttonous customers feeding at the Prescott. I see the deceitful, lying faces of Malik, Chaucer, Eli, all the men who would pretend to be my friends. I think about a father who left too soon to leave any memories, a mother who disappeared, leaving behind nothing but.
I wander, and everywhere I look, I wonder.
With every person who crosses me, I wonder.
What would Angry Jonny do?
She wrote without thinking. Letting the hate take hold. Unaware of what was happening. Never once looking back, never once checking her entries for substance or ineligible ideas.
Motive, means, opportunity. Every time I try and get to the heart of Angry Jonny, figure out his next move… there I am. Taking what I’ve learned and turning it to my own opportunity for retribution. Split between hunting down my guardian angel and the many different ways I could execute his work.
Jessica contemplated the scars on her knuckles. Amazed that they had yet to heal. A constant reminder of how easy, how gratifying it had felt to split Carlton Walsh’s face apart.
Imagine how good it might feel to take out an eye.
Both eyes?
Cut out Katherine’s silver tongue.
Ethan’s sarcastic and power hungry eyes.
If that way lay madness, then Jessica had been on that path longer than she realized.
A dark, reptilian light glowing at the end of the tunnel.
There’s moments I don’t even wonder if I’m capable of it… I sit, writing in this journal, my namesake written across the red cover. I sit, looking out over the slow destruction of my home, watch this city unraveling, and all I can ask myself is who’s it going to be?
Who is it going to be?
The very next day, Jessica got her answer.
Chapter 65: Jessica’s Lucky Number.
Friday night, and the Prescott was packed.
Jessica bounced from table to table, a pinball trapped between bumpers. Taking orders, pouring wine, closing out checks two at a time. Tackling her responsibilities with robotic diligence. Smiling purely through the miracle of muscle memory. Eyes dull, senses sharp. Conversation buzzing in her ears like locusts.
It was eight-thirty when Nora swung by the bar. “You waiting on a drink order?”
“Yeah.” Jessica scooped some ice into a champagne bucket. “Table ten’s doing some bubbly.”
“Let me take care of it for you. You got a one-top just sat down at table thirteen.”
Jessica straightened her tie and crossed the room, narrowly avoiding a busboy collision.
Arrived at table thirteen, only to find her welcoming overtures placed on hold.
Without the contrived hardhat and spotless, blue-collared fatigues, Jessica almost didn’t recognize him. The everyman smile from his web pic replaced with a dour frown. Perfectly manicured hands continuously running through thinning strands of chestnut hair. Pink polo shirt hugging a doughy figure. Gray eyes in a constant state of displeasure as he barked orders into his iPhone, a talk-radio host broadcasting live from the dinner table.
Jerome Keanen, CEO of Daedalus Incorporated.
Mr. Table Thirteen.
The thought brought a wide, wicked grin to Jessica’s face.
Jerome glanced up from his conversation. “Yeah, hold on a second.” He put his lips back to the phone. “Hold on, Kate, I’m about to have dinner…”
“Good evening, sir,” Jessica cooed, hands behind her back. “Welcome to the Prescott, my name –”
“Yeah, I’ll have a Knob Creek. Neat.”
“Certainly, sir. And if –”
Jerome had already returned to his phone, finger tapping impatiently against the white table cloth.
Floating inches above the carpet, Jessica returned to the bar and punched in his order. Delighted to hear that they were out of Knob Creek. She put in a request from the same distillery and delivered it to table thirteen with a graceful bow.
Jerome picked up the hefty serving and had a sip between words.
His eyes bulged, tearing up instantly. Reached for his water with a strained swallow. “Jesus, what is this?”
“We were out of Knob Creek, sir. I had the bar upgrade your drink to a Booker’s, with our compliments.”
“Bookers?” Jerome coughed into the phone. “That’s a hundred and twenty-five proof!”
“My apologies if it’s not to your liking. Booker’s comes from the same distillers as Knob Creek –”
“But it’s a hundred and twenty-five proof. How can you not know that?”
“Again, my apologies. May I get you another drink?”
“No.” Jerome poured some water into his Booker’s with a disgusted shake of his head. “Just get me a bottle of the Burges Merlot. And if you’re out of that particular one, don’t go getting creative, OK?”
“Yes, sir. Burges Merlot.”
Jerome went back to yammering, taking another gulp of his drink.
On her way to the bar, Jessica stopped by another table to check on their meal. Not really paying attention to the lukewarm replies through overstuffed cheeks.
No matter.
For the evening of August seventh, the rest of her tables were free to be. Free to bitch, moan, whine, even insult. Free to overindulge, free to under-tip. Free to live in a perfect world where actions had no consequences.
After all, they weren’t the ones on trial.
Whether he knew it or not, Jerome Keanen was being tested.
And Jerome Keanen was off to a very bad start.
***
To believe the American mythology, summer was a time of transition and personal discovery for teenagers. New experiences, new friends. Extraordinary adventures that changed lives and shaped perspective, gently ushering the young towards autumn and adulthood.
It had been months since Jessica had taken a tumble behind the bleachers of Brookside’s commencement ceremony. Dismissed by classmates, threatened by authority figures. Pushed around by superiors, insulted and demeaned by powerful malcontents.
None of that had changed.
But Jessica had.
The night spent waiting on Jason Castle was now a meaningless bookend. She had walked away from that encounter with her mind spinning, soul bruised black and blue.
A meaningless little girl named Jessica Kincaid.
That June bug had long since flown.
And the world had proven itself to be incapable of turning to its better angels.
Jerome Keanen had been rude, dismissive, and arrogant. Unable to deal with the well-intentioned mistake involving his choice of bourbon. Ungrateful for the free drink he had happily inhaled after such bilious reproach. When Jessica arrived with his bottle of Burges Merlot, she took the blame for his disappointment.
“Yeah, I don’t know what you think you brought me.”
His approval of the second bottle, on the other hand, was clearly no thanks to her. He smacked his lips, nodding. “Yeah, can I order now?”
“We have some specials, if you –”
Jerome had pointed to his phone. “I’m trying to have a conversation.
I’ve already decided.”
As the menu had promised, his salad came with red onions. Having failed to read his mind, it was up to Jessica to apologize for his lifelong allergy to raw onions. The porterhouse hadn’t quite managed to straddle the fine line between medium and rare.
“How hard is it to just do your job?”
The answer was that it was nowhere near as hard as it had once been.
It was now bordering on magical. Stuck with a second table thirteen, nearly two months since Jerome’s predecessor. Yet this man’s words passed right through her. His malice unable to take root. It wasn’t just Jessica that had grown. The anger within her had swollen into such an unsustainable level that it had simply collapsed on itself. eagerly feeding off Jerome’s toxic energy, down to a poisoned singularity from which there was no escape.
Dark enlightenment that filled her with a mindless sense of supremacy.
Deviously assuring her that none of it mattered.
That everything was going to be just fine.
***
Jerome Keanen had Jessica charge his meal to room 323.
She was hardly surprised to find him registered under the name John Galt.
As with most cell junkies, Jerome Keanen had inadvertently supplied Jessica – along with any number of neighboring tables – with a wealth of knowledge. Most of it superfluous. All of it loud and overbearing. But within that roaring cyclone, Jessica had isolated several points of valuable information.
She brought him his receipt, pen tucked into the bill holder.
All set to administer the final portion of his test.
“And I hope you’ll be coming back to dine with us,” Jessica said.
“Yeah, hang on.” Jerome drained his Cognac, scribbled the tip and rose unsteadily from the table. “I’m going to need a wakeup call for nine-fifteen tomorrow morning. That’s a.m. Not the other one, OK?”
It certainly wasn’t Jessica’s job, but she was more than happy to oblige.
She watched him shuffle from the room.
Opened the bill holder with a curious smile. “Let’s see how our bright little man did on the math section.”
She took a look at the tip, and made some calculations of her own.
Nodded, and tucked it into her apron.
Somewhere between six and seven percent.
Six-point-five from a man who bought and sold buildings like hotels on Boardwalk. A man who altered lives of distant strangers on the turn of a healthy profit. A man who not only made it his business to take, but wasn’t even content with all that he had.
Jessica was satisfied.
She worked her tables late into the night.
Closed out, tipped out.
Clocked out.
Didn’t bother changing into her streets. She left the dining room and crossed the lobby, stopping halfway through to allow a group of midnight revelers stumble their way to the elevators. Approached the front desk, and rang the bell.
Alec was working the graveyard, grinding out that tuition.
He approached her with a caffeinated wink. “What’s up, Jessica?“
“Is room 213 free on the thirteenth?” Jessica smiled. “That’s next Thursday?”
“Let me just…” Clickity-clack, and he smiled right back. “Yes it is.”
“I’d like to reserve it for that evening.”
“Sure. Who’s it for?”
“Why, that would be me.”
Alec raised an impressed eyebrow. “Treating yourself?”
“What can tell you?” Jessica’s smile grew even wider. “I had a good night.”
She reached into her pocket and counted out her tips from the past three nights.
Paying for her room in cash.
Reserved for the evening of August thirteen.
Jessica’s lucky number.
Chapter 66: No Line on the Horizon.
Jessica did not know exactly how room 213 would serve her purpose.
She knew why, and for the time being, it was all that mattered.
As she sat at her desk, blinds offering a splintered view of her final weeks at Camelot, Jessica explored the nameless creation within her. Effortlessly roller-skating along the event horizon. Observing quietly while rays of light plunged downwards into its depths. Left hand amusing itself with inkwell spirals across her red notebook. Taking her time, never doubting where this would all end.
She had spent all summer wrestling Angry Jonny. Gradually gaining access to his mind, each time going a little deeper. Like stepping into a cold, winter ocean. And now she had finally let go; submerged beneath the waves, eyes closed to find herself entirely acclimated. No land, no shore. Not even an ocean, just the embryonic silence preparing her for another life.
Just her and Angry Jonny. She knew his thoughts, his schemes. Savvy to his stealthy deceptions, sleights of hand that had kept him free from capture. The genie was out of the bottle, walking out there among those who both worshiped and despised him, while Verona slowly tore itself apart.
Immersed in those dark waters, Jessica had even come to understand why.
Why Angry Jonny even existed.
Why, without realizing, Jessica had scrawled out Jerome Keanen’s room number. Why she had written down her own room number along with the date of her reservation. Why she found herself methodically listing increments of time in consecutive, fifteen-minute blocks.
There was so much she had come to learn, that why was almost a secondary thought.
The how would be revealed to her soon enough.
For the time being, Jessica had a plan.
And the first step was to set the stage for the capture of Angry Jonny.
Jessica’s arm brushed against her laptop’s touchpad. Waking from its sleep, the screen shone painfully in her eyes.
There on the desktop, her mother grinned at her with overjoyed eyes.
Jessica calmly clicked around and removed the picture from the background.
Replaced it with a simple, solid black.
“Much better,” Jessica said, grasping her pen with a firm grip.
She drew a line in the page before her, stepped over it with nimble ease, and set about the task of building a better mousetrap.
PART SEVEN
August 10 – August 13
Chapter 67: Halfway to Doomsday.
The call was made at high noon on Monday, August eleventh.
Sooner than Jessica had expected. A good sign; if nothing else, it was evidence that a lasting partnership had indeed been struck between her and the lead detectives. It also meant no more dressing up for their benefit. A pair of jeans and a white tank top, that would do nicely.
Dinah had been showing signs of recovering from her massive bender. Rock bottom, nowhere to go but up. Sitting at the living room table, circling the anorexic help wanted section while calling to set up various interviews.
Jessica waved from the doorway.
Dinah waved back, proudly pointing to a glass of iced tea.
It seemed she had taken the final step from depression to acceptance.
For the time being, Jessica pleased to have evolved from denial to anger.
She drove Eli’s car to the police station and parked around the corner. Through the metal detector, joshing with the security guard, who didn’t need to be told twice who she was coming to see.
Both detectives were cloistered in Donahue’s cubicle.
Randal was on the phone, having it out with some unfortunate soul.
Playing the bad cop for once, just full of surprises. He slammed the receiver down, tough veneer peeling away as he greeted Jessica with his deviously naïve smile.
“So there’s another letter, now?” Jessica asked, graciously helping herself to a seat.
“Arrived at the Observer this morning,” Donahue confirmed. “We stopped by to talk to Ethan Prince, get the original. It’s going online at the end of the day, hitting the front page tomorrow.”
&nb
sp; “Did you happen to catch the size of Ethan’s erection beneath his pants?”
“Trick question. Man’s got no dick.”
“For the duration of this sentence, I am officially in love with you.”
Randal crossed behind Jessica, patting her back. “Didn’t see you at Al Holder’s funeral.”
“Didn’t want to distract.” Jessica felt a momentary emotion cross her heart. Something she was able to recognize as sadness before it was swallowed whole. “Press is still drooling over the first Angry Jonny letter.”
“And here’s the latest one…” Donahue passed her a Xeroxed copy. “We’re still checking the original, though there don’t seem to be any prints. Same with the envelope.”
Jessica focused on the words.
Same style as the others. Jagged words capitalized in a Microsoft paint file.
MY FINAL ACT, MY LOVE.
JOHN OF ENGLAND, IN A LOOKING GLASS DARKLY,
I WILL GET HIM WHERE HE LIVES:
BEFORE THE ELDERBUSH,
PAST A WEST BROADWAY AREA.
WHEN THE MAKER
OF A MODERN UTOPIA DIES,
I WILL BE THERE:
HALFWAY TO DOOMSDAY
“They say the final act is where everything is revealed,” Donahue commented. “From the looks of this little sonnet, Shakespeare must have been the single greatest serial killer in human history.”
“Not your best,” Jessica commented, taking each line one step at a time.
“So far, nothing’s all we got.”
“Except we’re pretty sure this one’s dedicated to you,” Randal said. “My final act, my love.”
“I suppose you heard we’re only charging Scott Stoppard with the fourth attack,” Donahue said. “Turns out he was performing a bit of a human sacrifice. Gets his revenge on the man that drove him into debt, then his wife gets the reward money from us and Castle’s grieving wife.”
“Mm…” Jessica murmured, light years ahead of them.
Angry Jonny Page 38