by Jeff Vrolyks
Obviously the serial killer is an idiot. He didn’t deserve the menacing title bestowed upon him by those salivating journalists—The SacTown Slayer. Ha! He was probably a burger-flipping homo cutting the throats of customers who complained that his food sucked ass. Won’t be long before he’s caught, Trent surmised. Targeting families exclusively in southwest Sacramento was the proof in the pudding. If he had any brains at all he’d mix it up a little and travel. Maybe shoot some people instead of cutting them so the cops wouldn’t dump all their resources into hunting for what is so obviously a serial killer. “For fuck sake, mix it up by killing a few Mexican families—like anyone gives a shit about Mexicans.” If anything, some of the heat on his tail would start chasing false leads as badged men smile at the fantasy of an English speaking America.
Plus there were perks. Being able to kill five times as many people on any given night (five families in the same house; it’s not rocket science, people) is clearly a bonus. Trent had no doubt he’d make an excellent serial killer, but luckily for his would-be victims, he couldn’t care less about people one way or the other. Killing them would be work and a waste of time. He was a purer breed of animal. His message to all: Don’t fuck with me and I won’t fuck with you. Mr. and Mrs. Clark-sucker must not have gotten that message (they should have gotten it—it was stamped in purple on Mae’s body). “It’s okay, Clark-suckers,” Trent said in front of his TV, “think of me as a messenger-boy; I’ll deliver the message in person.”
He’d need to be meticulous in devising a plan. Anything overlooked could and would come back to haunt him. A nosy neighbor, a relative stopping by unannounced, a kid with good vision playing across the street. A double homicide might become three or four slain. Maybe more. Clumsy murders are like home improvement projects: once you begin you’re never really finished.
He kicked his feet up on the coffee table, laced his fingers together behind his head and stared at one of his many pictures of Mae etched in memory. “God you have a cute little ass. I can’t wait.” Couldn’t wait until she was his and only his. Fuck sharing Mae with a couple of self-righteous pricks.
He grabbed the phone and dialed the number from memory. The idea of putting Mae on speed-dial seemed too impersonal. Like cutting corners in his love for her. She deserved the best and he’d deliver it. The sound of Mae’s sweet voice, “Hi Trent,” elevated his spirits like a sniff of Columbia’s best. “Hi, baby. I miss you so much.”
“I miss you more,” she said sincerely. “You sound like you’re in a good mood. I figured you’d—”
“Be pissed about the tracking device? Pissed that I have to wait three years before I can be alone with my girlfriend again? Nah, I’m all aces over here.”
“Wow. I’m jealous. I wish I felt as good about it as you. You’d really wait three years for me? Because we probably won’t have many, if any, chances to… you know, be intimate until then.”
“Things have a way of working themselves out,” he said under his breath. “Sweetheart, I’d wait ten years if I had to.” He shocked himself by the honesty in that sentiment. It wasn’t just an extemporaneous remark, he really would wait ten years for her. Not that he’d need to. He’d only need to mark-off a couple calendar days at the center of this April month. The fifteenth sounded good. April fifteenth was already murder on a lot of people, he’d just give the phrase a more literal definition. Same goes for deadline. He’d be carving a few of those out, he’d bet their necks on it. Death and taxes.
Trent laughed silently. “Mae, would you, hypothetically speaking, run away with me if I wanted you to?”
“Run away? Uh, I’ll tell you how that would go. My parents would call the cops and you’d have a warrant out for your arrest. We’d live as fugitives.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But would you do that for me? Would you leave them to be with me?”
“I wouldn’t. And only because I know we’d be found and you’d go to jail. I couldn’t allow that to happen.”
“I’m speaking hypothetically, Mae. Like what if we moved to Canada and got married? It’s legal there at your age. We couldn’t be separated, I wouldn’t go to jail.”
“I thought you didn’t want to get married.”
“Jesus Christ, Mae. Do you not know what hypothetically means?”
“Yeah, I do. Sorry. I love my parents, as strict as they are, but… well, I love you, too. I think I would.” More confidently: “I would move to Canada with you and get married.”
Trent smiled widely. “I love you too, baby. I’ll let you go, it’s probably about dinner time over there. Honey, do me a favor.”
“Anything.”
“Be careful out there. Don’t walk outside alone, keep the doors locked. I’m watching the news and they’re talking about the serial killer and it scares me to know that he’s killing in your neck of the woods.”
“I know, it’s crazy. You should see how uptight people are around here. My teacher keeps giving us advice on how to protect ourselves if we encounter a stranger who ‘doesn’t feel right.’ My parents are cautious, as we both know a little too well, so don’t worry. They installed new locks on the windows and we have dead-bolts. I’m never alone, either. When I’m not at school, or ‘the mall’, I’m with them.”
“Good. That’s good to hear. I hope your folks have a gun to protect you. Do they?”
“No. They aren’t into guns. But I overheard Dad telling Mom that they should get one, at least for the time being. Mom doesn’t think it’s a good idea because she’s afraid that I’ll find it and kill myself. She didn’t say that, but she sure as heck insinuated it. I guess she has as little faith in the crazy pills as she does in me. I’m a crazy thang, you know?”
“That’s ridiculous. You aren’t crazy.”
“Crazy for you.”
“So what are they using for protection since they don’t own a gun? A bat? Golf club?”
“Who knows. In her argument against a gun, Mom insisted that new locks are good enough.”
That would look beautiful engraved on her headstone, Trent thought. Rebecca Clark – Here lies a woman who insisted that new locks were good enough. Maybe the neighboring gravestone would read, David Clark – That bitch never did listen to me.
“I’m sure they’re good enough. Listen, I know we just saw each other yesterday, but I’m dying to see you, Mae.” He almost said he’d kill to see her; mistakes like that are aggregates of clumsy murder. “If only for a minute, I need to see you. Can I come by your house at midnight? Just for a kiss or two?”
“They’re usually in bed by ten. Could you make it eleven so I don’t have to stay awake half the night? I’d love to see you, too.”
“Sure, eleven is fine. See you then. Love you, bye.”
Trent wasn’t in the mood to drive a total of sixty minutes tonight for a mere couple minutes with Mae, but he looked at it as something he had to do. It was prep for the day after tomorrow. The fifteenth. Mae would relock the window after Trent left, but he had a plan: he’d unlock another window during his visit. He’d have to distract her, but that was simple. The Clark’s wouldn’t check a window that they were certain was locked. If they did, he’d just have to make improvisations. He felt inserting a day between his visit and the double homicide made more sense than offing them ten hours after said visit. He couldn’t risk Mae drawing crazy conclusions, like that he had something to do with it. She wouldn’t, but why leave any room for doubt?
On the way to Sacramento Trent stopped by his mom’s house. She was surprised to see him at such a late hour, but was happy all the same. Trent asked for a favor. He needed to borrow a nighty. Lingerie. She asked why. He said it was a long story. She trailed off into her room offering to brew him a pot of coffee. “No thank you.”
Ms. Blackwood returned with a few satin pieces from the bottom drawer, none of which had been worn in fifteen years, she remarked. He chose the lavender nighty and thanked her. She remembered having a matching robe in her closet. “
Sure, if it’s not too much trouble. Thanks, Mom.” The more the merrier, Trent thought. He’d ask Mae to go to the restroom and change into the nighty; anything additional would buy him that much more time. His mom was embarrassed to admit that she also had garter straps that her second husband had gifted her. “Ring me up, I’ll take ‘em.”
The Chivas Regal-sipping Blackwood assured Trent that returning the old junk wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t like she’d ever wear it again, she added. He thanked her and wished he could spend more time with her, but he was on his way to visit his girlfriend. “Girlfriend? I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”
That ain’t all you don’t know about, he thought. Like, for example, the evening news of the fifteenth would be filmed on location at his girlfriend’s house. And, here’s another example, the history books would always be wrong about how many people the SacTown Slayer (who wasn’t calling him that now?) actually killed. Call it a hunch, but Trent thought that the SacTown Slayer would be given credit for two more slayings than he actually committed. And the burger-flipping faggot would probably embrace culpability for them, too. They’d add to his legacy. Delusions of grandeur is the red-headed step-child of the serial killer.
He kissed his mother’s cheek and departed.
Chapter 29
Trent rapped lightly on the window. A smiling girl came into view, unlocked the window—unlike the previous occasion, it made a hefty sounding thwock!—and slid open. He popped the screen off and hopped in. He kissed her before taking a seat on the bed. She was eyeing the paper bag in his left hand. “I have something for you.” He dumped its contents on the coverlet. Mae grinned sheepishly. “Lingerie. You’ll look amazing in this stuff. I won’t leave until I see you in them.”
“Okay. I’ll put it on.” She unbuttoned her pants.
“No-no-no. Don’t you know anything about lingerie?”
Her expression said that she didn’t.
“You have to put it on in the bathroom and surprise me with it. Brush your hair a little, too. Can’t have you looking like a million bucks while your hair looks like a crow’s nest.”
She stepped to the nearby wall-mounted mirror to check her hair. “It’s not that bad. But okay, I’ll do it. Right now?”
“Right now.”
She kissed him and left the room with a wad of silky fabric and garters, closing the door behind her. Trent removed the light-weight knit gloves from his rear pocket and kicked off his shoes, lest his shoe prints be found by the keen eye of a detective. In socks and gloves he entered the hallway.
There were four more doors in this hallway. One looked like a closet door. The one with a band of light under it would be the bathroom. The two remaining were probably bedrooms. He pressed an ear against one such door, identified a fan humming. He also heard a light snore. That would be the Clark-suckers. He approached the second door, carefully opened it. It was a guest bedroom. He entered. He looked out the window and saw the same side-house walkway that he used to access Mae’s room. It didn’t get any better than this. He unlocked the window more gingerly than Mae had and opened it to be sure it worked as advertised. He then closed the window, leaving it unlocked, and got the hell out of Dodge.
In Mae’s room he removed his gloves, got inside his shoes and sat on the bed, heart thrumming.
A minute later the lingerie-clad Mae ushered into view looking like something out of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. All that were missing were the angel wings, the phony cloud backdrop, and the token black chick standing off to the side bitterly wishing she was Mae. Trent was rarely stunned, but this did it. She was gorgeous, which was yesterday’s news, but holy mother of God and Peter Paul and Mary did she look good in lingerie! Then he nailed it. He knew what gave her this new degree of gorgeousness—which was a dizzying concept in itself—it was her shyness and complete absence of self-confidence. For fuck sake, nobody in their right might should be timid looking like Mae did right now.
She was hesitant to see Trent’s reaction, avoided his eyes. “I’ve never seen your equal, baby.” He stood and pulled her into his chest, rested his cheek on the crown of her head. “Beauty beyond the boundaries of imagination. You don’t need wings to be an angel.”
Had there been any self-doubt in what he’d soon be committing (and there was none) it would have succumbed to the moment. He was doing the right thing, he felt it in his heart. He’d be able to see her whenever he wanted to from then on. There would be no hotel rooms, only Trent’s apartment. No sneaking around, no Mae answering the phone and having to lie to a nosy bitch who had nothing better to do with her life than to make Mae’s a living hell. Even though she’d never know it was Trent who killed her parents, he suspected that deep down she’d thank him for it.
“Mae, I’m still a little nervous about you being unprotected with this killer loose. You said that your parents drive you to and from school, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Seems like they’re always around. That’s a good thing, in a time like this. Do they both work or just your dad?”
“Just Dad.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s the warehouse supervisor at Schwanns, a food distributor.”
“Sounds boring. Does he put in long hours?”
“Not really. At least it doesn’t seem like it because he’s already worked three hours by the time I wake up at seven.”
“Damn, he starts at four? How does anyone wake up that early?”
“I know, it’s insane. He works five minutes away, so at least he can wake up a half-hour before clocking in.”
“I imagine he gets home pretty early, seeing how he starts at four.”
“Yep. Home at one, unless he works overtime. Why the sudden interest in my parents? I thought you hated them.”
“I don’t hate them!” he said indignantly. “I wish they were less strict, but they’re good parents, that’s all that really matters.”
“You said that if they got in a head-on car crash like my last parents, the world would be a better place.”
“I never said that. If I did it was a joke.” Not good, man. Not good. Oh well, love is blind, right? “Well I’d better get going. Got a long drive and busy day tomorrow. Love you, baby.”
Chapter 30
Trent’s window of opportunity was between 1:15 P.M. and 3:00 P.M. on Thursday, tax day. Mae would be home from school shortly after three and he needed to be long gone by then. He had an Art History class from noon to one, Anthropology from one to two, a gap from two to three that he liked to hit Burger King during, and Accounting 101 from three to four. Anthropology was the class on his mind. It was a pretty dead class and the professor was at least a hundred-and-twenty years old—probably received his education from Darwin himself. He always took attendance at the beginning of class and then began his lecture, drawing monkeys fucking frogs for the next fifty minutes. He could sneak out of class after attendance and book it to Sacramento. He’d take care of the Clark-suckers and make it back with time to spare for his accounting class. With only a one hour gap between classes, there would be no way he could drive to Sacramento and kill two people and be back in time for Accounting 101. Anthropology was the key. His confirmed attendance in that class and in Accounting 101 would be his alibi if anyone suspected him.
It would be of paramount importance that he obtain the Clark’s submission immediately upon confronting them. A knife wouldn’t cut it, pardon the pun. They didn’t own a gun—Mae told him as much—but Trent sure as hell did. It was his dead father’s .22 caliber Smith and Wesson. When he found it in his mom’s closet years ago, Trent made it a part of his inheritance. She either didn’t know that he took it or didn’t have the balls to confront him about it. He suspected it was the latter. He had never fired the gun, and the bullets that were in the shoebox with the gun were at least as old as Trent, but that wouldn’t matter. They could be blanks for all he cared. He was only looking for leverage, nothing more. Instant submission. Then put the k
nife to work. But he supposed it was nice having a loaded gun. Plan B, if shit went south.
Shit wouldn’t go south.
Chapter 31
This was a middle class Sacramento neighborhood. The majority of its residents would be dual-income families (save for the Clark’s) and at 1:35 on a Thursday afternoon folks would be at work. Kids at school. Nobody witnessed Trent walking down the street and into the Clark’s front yard. He donned a pair of gloves before clambering over the locked side-gate. The first window was the one. He popped the screen off and set it aside. The window chirped as he slid it open. Instinctively he reached for his .22. He waited a moment before hopping inside. He closed the window behind him to muffle any potential screams. Likely screams. He made a mental note to replace the screen after he was finished here. And unlock the back door. That would be how the SacTown Slayer entered the Clark’s house, of course.