Persecution

by C. A. Shives

  And she wanted it. She wanted to die. She wanted to feel the empty blackness of her life ending. If I were dead, she thought, I wouldn’t feel this pain. I wouldn’t be tired and hungry. And I wouldn’t feel this damn mattress spring poking into my leg.

  With one last burst of furious energy, she sat up and grabbed at the metal coil, twisting it so that it would no longer poke through the thin mattress fabric.

  And it snapped off in her hand.

  For a moment, Charlotte was too surprised to react. She simply stared at the piece of metal in her hand—as thick as a pencil and coiled three times. Then she threw back her head and laughed.

  It was the first time she’d felt any real joy since Trout had captured her.

  With renewed energy, Charlotte pressed the metal spring against the hard concrete floor. She knew it would take only a little effort to straighten the coil into a stick.

  And once it was straight, it could be used as a weapon.

  CHAPTER 22

  NOVEMBER 11 - SUNDAY EVENING

  The knock on the door didn't surprise him. He knew that Herne would be back. So when he answered the door, he stood as tall and straight as he could, trying to intimidate the man before him with his sheer size.

  But the man on the other side of the door was not the type to be intimidated.

  "We're not standing on the porch this time," Herne growled. "I'm coming inside."

  "You got a warrant?" Bobby asked.

  "Nope," Herne responded. His steel eyes seemed to bore straight into Bobby's mind. "But you're my number one suspect. And if you don't let me inside your home, things are going to get ugly. Fast."

  Bobby had worked in the criminal justice system. He knew the law. He knew that Herne—especially as a civilian—had no right to enter his home. And he considered refusing.

  But he saw the look in Herne's eyes. It was an expression of dogged determination coupled with just a little bit of insanity.

  This guy's on the edge, Bobby thought.

  He wasn't surprised he was at the top of their list of suspects, but it wasn't something he enjoyed hearing. He knew that showing a little cooperation—like letting Herne inside his home—would go a long way toward maintaining an amicable relationship with the cops.

  So even though he was almost six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than Herne, he stepped aside to allow the man to enter.

  Herne moved through the foyer slowly, as if absorbing the details of Bobby's house via osmosis. Bobby knew what Herne saw. He saw the truth. Cheap, shoddy furniture that had been purchased at a yard sale. Worn carpet that needed replacing. Chipped paint and nicked baseboards. Faded curtains that matched nothing else in the house. It wasn't just the home of a bachelor. It was the den of a man who had ceased to care about appearances.

  Bobby didn't try to guide Herne to a particular spot in the house. He just let the man wander until Herne stopped in the kitchen.

  "Can I get you a drink?" Bobby asked.

  He watched as Herne licked his lips in what appeared to be an unconscious gesture. It was the first sign of weakness Bobby had seen in the man. He had watched cons in the prison do the same thing when they were detoxing. Bobby knew that no matter what Herne might say, he wanted that drink.

  Herne shook his head. "No. I just want answers."

  "I've told you everything I know," Bobby said. "I didn't kill those men. I don't know who killed those men. But I'm not sad they’re dead."

  "You gave lethal injections at the prison, right?"

  Bobby looked away. The memory of it—the inmate’s bugged eyes, blue lips, gray skin—was still burned in his brain. "One or two."

  "Is that something they just let any prison guard do? Or do you have to do something special to get that job?" Herne asked.

  "I don't know why you're asking," Bobby said, "but I guess there's no point in lying. You can find out this information easy enough from someone at the pen. When an inmate is headed for the stainless steel ride, there's a couple of jobs that somebody special has to do. You know, like a doctor or something. But there's one or two things that a regular prison guard like me can do."

  "So who decides which guard is the lucky bastard to get the job?" Herne asked. "Do you guys draw straws or something?"

  "Look, man, I know it sounds morbid or whatever to outsiders, but a lot of guards compete to give the big jab. I mean, it’s something different. Breaks up the doldrums of the day. And it's not like you get a chance to kill a man legally every day. Some of the guys, you know, they get off on it."

  "And you? Did you enjoy it?" Herne asked.

  Bobby shrugged. Had he enjoyed it? Yes. He had enjoyed watching a criminal—a low-life piece of shit who had murdered innocent people—die by his hand. But he wasn’t going to admit that to the man standing in front of him. "I don't know,” Bobby said. “What about you? I've read about you? Do you enjoy killing people?"

  "The people I kill are guilty of crimes," Herne said.

  "Me, too," Bobby responded.

  Herne said nothing for a moment, and Bobby watched as the man licked his lips again. Then he spoke. "Did you have access to sodium thiopental when you administered the lethal injection?" Herne asked.

  "Yeah," Bobby said. "That was one of the drugs they gave the inmate. I mean, they had a doctor actually inject the con, you know? But I guess I could've gotten my hands on it if I really wanted it. Why?"

  Herne said nothing. He appeared distracted by a drawing on the refrigerator.

  Bobby looked at it, too, although he had looked at it a million times. Sometimes it seemed he looked at it a million times a day. It was a crayoned picture of a rainbow and two stick figures—himself and his daughter—holding hands. The edges of the paper were curled and it had started to fade from the sunlight that streamed through the kitchen window. But Bobby hadn't been able to remove it from the refrigerator. Hadn't been able to put it away. His daughter had signed it, "XOXO, Xoe."

  "Kisses and hugs," Herne said suddenly.

  Startled, Bobby looked at the man in his kitchen. Large and looming with a neck like a pitbull, the words seemed harsh when spoken in his gravely voice.

  "Yeah," Bobby said. "Xoe signed all of her pictures to me like that. XOXO. Kisses and hugs. She was a sweet kid." There was no hitch in his voice when he spoke—he'd learn to control that a long time ago—but he still felt a stab of pain every time he thought about the loss of his daughter.

  "Kisses," Herne repeated.

  "Right." Bobby was unsure why Herne kept repeating himself.

  "Kisses." Herne said it again, and Bobby heard the triumph in his voice.

  Herne turned and walked out the door.

  Jesus, he's an abrupt bastard, Bobby thought.

  But deep down, he was just relieved that Herne was no longer standing inside his house.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The back door was unlocked, as Trout knew it would be. He slipped through the kitchen, trying to ignore the tremor in his hand as he pulled his knife from his trench coat. This was his last job. Once he finished this one, he could move onto Charlotte.

  He knew they were getting close. He could almost feel Herne breathing down his neck. Could almost sense the man's body against his back.

  And Trout was getting nervous.

  He didn't want to admit it to himself. Didn't want to acknowledge the panic in his hands or the haze of fear that clouded his judgment.

  Just get in and get this done, Trout thought, and you'll finally be able to finish Charlotte.

  Trout had no problem navigating the house, which was eerily quiet. He had researched Bill's life before attempting this, and he expected his victim to be at home. Bill typically spent Sunday evenings watching TV on the sofa while his wife and daughter visited his in-laws.

  But there was no sound of the television. No sound of life. I may have made a mistake, Trout thought. If so, he knew it was just the beginning. The beginning of a string of mistakes. Trout knew that all killers—even the good ones—eventual
ly started making errors, and that's how they got caught.

  Fighting the urge to flee, Trout slipped into the living room. But what he saw stopped him dead in his tracks. On the sofa was a little girl—maybe three-years-old—napping. Pale red hair fell across her freckled cheeks and full lips. Drawn to her, Trout moved forward.

  She looked so young. So innocent.

  Trout could imagine the life that would follow for her. Mercilessly teased for her beautiful lips and freckles. Maybe the kids on the playground would call her Fish Lips or Spot. Soon she'd grow to hate herself. To hate her appearance. Maybe she'd end up a stripper or a whore, searching for positive attention from men. Or perhaps she'd give up and gain weight, eventually becoming so large that she was mocked in another way for another reason.

  But he couldn't take her life. She wasn't part of his work. She was still innocent. Still unmarked.

  Maybe you'll escape your fate, he thought as he turned to leave.

  And then he saw her standing in the doorway, wearing only a white robe.

  He hadn't heard the mother enter the room. Hadn't heard her footsteps. He should have known that someone else was in the house. No parent would leave a young child napping alone on the sofa. But he hadn't been thinking. He'd been too surprised to find the girl on the sofa.

  A mistake.

  Another mistake.

  He knew what the mother saw: a figure in black—large and ominous—looming over her sleeping child.

  The only exit to the room was behind the mother.

  Trout started to run. He intended to push the woman aside. To get out of the house as quickly as possible.

  But the mother had other plans.

  She howled, and it was a sound unlike any he had ever heard. Somewhere in the back of his head he imagined the same sound would come from a mother bobcat defending her kittens. Shrill. Screeching. Vicious.

  She leapt toward him, moving so fast he almost didn't have time to react. But he saw the glint of the knife in her hand. That was all he saw. The rest of her was a blur of blond hair and white robe. A flash of skin. And then she was upon him.

  He held up his hands and tried to defend himself, but her knife slashed through his arm.

  He heard the sharp steel tear through his coat and then slice into his flesh. Could feel it ripping through muscle. Her knife wasn't razor sharp like his own. It was a meat carving knife—ubiquitous in every modern kitchen—and the dullness of the blade felt as if she were using her fingernails to tear open his skin.

  Trout grunted. He placed his palm on her face and thrust her away from him. Normally his size and brute strength would be enough to subdue a woman of her size. But she was a mother possessed and he underestimated the muscle he needed to stop her attack.

  She came at him again. Wailing and screaming, knife raised for another strike. This time he punched her in the nose before she could slice him. She crumpled, unconscious, to the ground.

  He knew he should flee. Knew he should run out the door. But for a moment he was frozen, his whole body stiff and tight.

  I'm fucking up, he thought.

  He knew why he was making mistakes. Artemis Herne. The man had gotten into his head and was fucking with his mind. He could almost feel the ex-cop on his back, his gray eyes boring into his soul.

  I've got to stop fucking this shit up, he thought.

  He looked at the woman and the child one last time. Then he left.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The woman sat on the sofa, her white robe pulled tight around her body and tied close with its belt. Her nose had been taped, and bits of dried blood remained on her chin. In her arms she cradled a small child, who remained silent as she stared at the strangers in their house with wide green eyes.

  No one nodded to Herne or acknowledged his presence when he walked into the room. And he didn't bother to introduce himself to the woman. He was running out of time. He knew it. He felt it. He had no time for formalities.

  "Did you see him?" Herne demanded.

  The woman looked up at him, and Herne could see by the steely glint in her blue eyes that this was a woman with an inner strength so powerful it was almost overwhelming. Hell, Herne thought, she almost seems stronger than me.

  "Not his face," the woman replied. "He was wearing a mask."

  Tucker interrupted and spoke to the woman. "This is Artemis Herne. He's a police consultant." Tucker turned to Herne. "This is Gretchen Fuller. Bill Fuller's wife. And their daughter, Melinda."

  The woman hugged the girl closer.

  "What type of mask?" Herne asked.

  "I’m not sure," Gretchen responded. "But I think it was a realistic style mask. The kind that are real looking, like it could actually be a person, and you’ve got to look close to even realize it’s a mask. Like what they use for haunted houses."

  "Could you see his eyes? Do you remember what color they were?" Herne asked.

  She nodded. "Brown. I'll never forget. They were so wide and startled when he saw me standing in the doorway."

  "So what happened?" Herne asked.

  "I was in the kitchen making some lunch. Melinda was on this sofa, taking a nap. I came in to wake her up—we were leaving to visit my parents soon—and saw him standing there in the living room. He was just looking at her."

  "What was he wearing?" Herne asked.

  "Black," Gretchen responded. "Black pants. A long black coat. Maybe black shoes. And gloves. Black gloves."

  "What happened next?"

  "I ran at him. I didn't know why he was there. I didn't know what he was doing. I thought he had hurt Melinda. I thought he had…"

  Her voice trailed off and Herne watched as she gritted her teeth. She knitted her brows together, as if willing herself to choke down her fear and horror and pain, and then she started speaking again.

  "I thought he had hurt my baby. Have you ever been so mad that you couldn't even see?"

  Herne thought about the time he had beaten a man almost to death in a haze of fury. Yes, he thought. I understand the blinding effect of rage.

  He said nothing. He just nodded in response.

  "Well, that's how it was. In that moment I didn't notice how big he was or how scary he looked. I was just… pissed. I still had a kitchen knife in my hand. So I ran at him and tried to cut him."

  "Did you?"

  "I think so," she said. "It felt like I did. Maybe his arm. After that, though, it's all a blur. He was so much stronger than me. He must have punched me. The next thing I remember, my daughter was standing over me."

  Herne looked at Tucker and raised his eyebrow. Tucker shook his head in response. So the girl hadn't been molested, Herne thought.

  "Can you remember anything else about the man?" Herne asked.

  "He was holding a knife," Gretchen said. "It was long and thin. It looked like the same knife my husband used to take on fishing trips."

  Herne thanked her and left the house, pausing on the front porch. Johnson stood on the sidewalk with his arms crossed over his beefy chest, shaking his head at Lori Sims and her cameraman. A few moments later, Tucker joined Herne on the porch.

  "Our killer is getting sloppy," Herne commented.

  "The Fullers didn't follow their usual routine today," Tucker said. "Normally Bill is home alone at this time while the wife and kid visit her parents. But things got shifted around. Bill had a job interview with a home improvement store in Carlisle, and her parents weren't going to be available until later tonight."

  "Killer X wasn't expecting a change in schedule," Herne said.

  "Doesn't seem like it. He didn't hurt the little girl. And based on Gretchen's story, he only wanted to escape once he realized his mistake. He obviously came here looking for Bill."

  "Another Hayes Construction man," Herne said. "I'm convinced that Johnny at the diner was meant to throw us off the trail."

  "No shit," Tucker said. "It's got to be Bobby Flynn. He has a hell of a bone to pick with the guys on that construction team."

  Herne shook
his head. "Impossible. I was talking with Bobby when this went down today."

  "Shit." Tucker spat off the side of the porch. "Then we got no suspects."

  "We have one," Herne said. "Eric Barber."

  "The guy who took the heat when the Flynn girl was killed? I thought you talked to him already."

  "I did," Herne said. "But I never fully eliminated him as a suspect. And I’ve been thinking about the X that the killer carves on his victims. Maybe it’s a sign for a kiss.”

  “A kiss?” Tucker asked.

  “Yeah,” Herne said. “Like how little girls sign off their notes with an XO for kisses and hugs. Maybe the killer is telling his victims to kiss their asses good-bye.”

  Tucker shrugged. "Seems like a long shot to me.”

  “Well, it’s the best I’ve got right now,” Herne said. “And Barber is our best suspect. So let’s go have another chat with him."

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Eric Barber lived in an older section of Hurricane. The beautifully built homes crumbled with neglect, the paint faded on the ornate front doors. The wood columns on the front porches were pitted and decaying from age. Most of the houses had been converted so they contained two or three apartments, and Barber’s was on the first floor of one of the smallest homes.

  His eyes narrowed when he opened the door and saw them standing on the stoop. "I ain't got nothing else to say to you, unless you plan on arresting me for something I didn't do," he said.

  Tucker opened his arms in a placating gesture. "We're not here to cause you any trouble, Eric. We just want to ask you a few questions."

  "I've already answered his questions," Barber said, nodding to Herne. "I've told him everything I know."

  "Come on," Tucker said with a smile. "Would it hurt you to talk to us for a few minutes?"

  "I got nothing to say," Barber said.

  Herne stepped forward and leaned his upper body toward the man in front of them. "We've got some more questions," Herne said. "And we want answers. You can give them to us nicely, or I can beat them out of you."