Faces in the Night

by Thomas Conuel

  “Well maybe if they thought more about sex and less about ghosts those ancients would have been better off,” Blake said.

  “Is that a hint?” Katherine asked mildly surprised. Blake seemed to be reviving his interest in her rather quickly and somewhat unexpectedly. It bothered her more than she admitted that there intimate life together had collapsed so completely in the past several years.

  When she married him 15 years ago, she knew she was a taking a chance. He was not the conventional “good bet” that most of her friends from Boston University had settled for. Sue, who loved to go skinny dipping and once slept with two guys at once, married a lawyer who specialized in corporate takeover law; Betty, who slept with just about any guy who bought her a drink, married a real estate developer with his own firm, a peevish voice, and a BMW. And then there was Katrina, who married a guy 20 years older with two kids and two ex-wives, but a family inheritance and a career as a state senator in New Jersey. Who could say what was a good bet these days?

  Katherine though had taken a chance. Blake was a real long shot, which was what she liked best about him—and also that he was good in bed and infatuated with her. There was the drinking, the anger, the blaming of all life vicissitudes on his journey through Vietnam. But, she liked to tell herself, she had the gift of looking behind the resume and the big smiles and seeing the real person--the man who the young guy would become. And for a long time, she was happy with her choice and sure of her decision.

  Blake was going to turn out all right. They were going to live long and happy lives, travel the world together, be best friends who loved each other’s bodies, and always have something interesting to say to each other.

  But then, oh maybe 5-6 years ago, she had found herself looking over at Blake and thinking, “Time to get it together buddy. Life isn’t forever and we’ve only got a certain amount of time here. A real job is a good thing. Maybe we should have kids. You can’t be a victim forever.”

  And then sometime after that—she began to utter those words to Blake. Somebody had to make him put his life together. His self-confidence, always fragile, shriveled. He stopped trying to make love to her weekly and took on a whining, hang dog look when trying to get her interested in sex. It was a look that women hated. Just ask any of her female callers on the radio show.

  Blake and she had lost it somehow back then, and damn but it wasn’t that easy to just wish it all back. Now she turned back to Blake and looked at him with interest.

  “Tell you what. I’m going to go out for my run and when I come back, maybe we should take a bath together and try some of that Spanish brandy you bought.

  “You’re full of good ideas,” Blake said. “I’ll do the dishes. You have a good run.”

  * * *

  Chapter 66

  His greatest triumph?

  Hard to say, really.

  Barbara the nurse in the snowbank? That was a great one.

  And he still loved to think about the waitress at the phone booth and her bad timing and surprised expression as he flashed the trusty Buck knife in her face. Also a great one.

  But his last seemed best. The newspapers were still covering it a year after it happened. His last real strike before the entity sent him on this new assignment. A way, he now realized, for the entity to get him into top condition for the assignment of his life.

  He was standing in his office, locking the tall metal file cabinet where town records were kept, when the entity came for him. He had been looking at the headline in this morning’s “Gazette” which summed it up pretty well: “Case of Missing Coed Still Baffles University Authorities”—and a smaller headline under that: “Lisa Cunningham Disappeared While on Late Night Jog.”

  He had been cruising that night, feeling the usual restlessness that came when the entity possessed him. He was close to home, driving the side streets in and around the University campus--breaking his own rule about never looking too close to home. And then, there she was, running gracefully along the road’s edge near a small woods. New white jogging shoes with orange stripes, crisp white tee shirt, and light-colored shorts. She was being careful to dress so that drivers could see her at night. Even carried one of those small cigar-shaped high-beam flashlights.

  Every strike was different; every possession of the victim varied in some ways. The housewife in the red bikini, for example. That has been his only strike in broad daylight. And usually he made the initial contact himself, getting up close and showing the Buck knife. Sometimes he took the victim for a ride to enjoy his possession—the waitress at the phone booth and Barbara the nurse had both been treated to long rides with him before he dispatched them. But Lisa the jogger was the first he nabbed with his truck.

  He didn’t like to strike close to home, but for her he made an exception. The entity simply guided him. He drove by her that night and pulled off the road. In a moment she appeared and jogged by his truck, being careful to give him a wide berth and jog out into the road.

  Very cautious.

  He waited two or three minutes and then pulled his truck back onto the road. She was perhaps 100 yards down the road—a fast, crisp runner. He drove right up to her and then as she looked over her shoulder to check the vehicle behind her, he swerved into her, catching her left leg with his truck’s bumper and sending her tumbling in a forward flip into the grass.

  She lay there by the side of the road like a wounded deer, thrashing and wide-eyed. “You hit me,” she screamed in pain. “My leg’s broken.” He was upon her before she could say more. He had flipped her roughly over as she screamed and bound her hands and then her legs with duct tape. She screamed in great pain as he taped her broken leg to her good leg. And then she had begun to spit up blood and wheeze. Something was the matter with her chest. He held a big roll of gray duct tape in his hand. He unrolled the tape and wound it tightly around her mouth circling her entire head three or four times. And then it was into the pickup truck with her. And once again he had been lucky. No traffic to interfere with his abduction.

  He had driven around the campus with her like that for an hour—his trophy. She lay moaning on the floor of the pickup with her broken leg and some internal injuries—bleeding through her nose, the blood seeping down onto the duct tape that encircled her mouth.

  All those college boys in their fraternities—sitting on the porch talking, so sure of themselves, bullshitting, drinking beer, being cool--big deal. He had gone not just one up on them, but way beyond them. He possessed another human being—and a pretty, desirable one at that. One of their own best prizes.

  He had driven slowly by one fraternity house, a big gray poorly painted house, where some of the brothers were lounging with their dates on this warm night. He locked eyes with some of them. He almost felt like unrolling the window and sneering out at them: “I have something of yours; something very valuable.” He didn’t, but just cruising by with lovely Lisa bound and gagged on the floor of his pickup truck made him feel wonderful—gave him a feeling of payback for the humiliations he had suffered at their hands years ago while in college. Well, not these college boys—but ones just like them.

  He had never had sex with any of his victims—sex just wasn’t a part of his life. But for a moment, with Lisa, he thought he might try. He had driven out to Quabbin and parked near his favorite gate off Old Enfield Road. But when he dragged Lisa out of the truck and into the woods she had begun to scream through her gag and then choke and then convulsed and then died—right there in the dark woods.

  He had buried her and her body had never been found. She had been his last victim. Though now the entity wanted more from him. The people he needed now to dispose of were a tougher lot than any of his previous conquests. He needed to get up close, check them, and then strike.

  Know your enemy.

  * * *

  PART XIII: The Night Stalker

  Chapter 67

  He closed the heavy wooden door to his office behind him and stepped out into the cool air of early
evening. Here in Belton it was always 5 degrees, sometimes even 10 degrees, cooler than in Amherst, 10 miles away. Amherst was in a valley, the floor really of the region called the Pioneer Valley. In the summer, it was often unbearably humid. Belton, on the other hand, sat right on the edge of Quabbin Reservoir, and the vast waters of the reservoir and the acres of trees generated cooling breezes.

  He was lucky to have picked Belton to settle in, he thought. A small town was so much easier to blend into than a city, if you only knew how. True, in a city you could lose yourself in the crowds, the bustle, and the sheer diversity of the place. You were an outsider that nobody noticed because noticing was hard in a crowd. But when and if city people did notice you, they went on high alert. Cities generated nervousness. In a small town, you escaped notice another way. You could fit yourself in, join the local routines, attend Town Meeting, complain about the Planning Board, become one of the people that everybody knew and relied on while the other part of you stayed hidden--invisible inside yourself.

  He had parked his red Ford pickup truck behind the Town Hall, where all the town employees parked. He unlocked the cab of the pickup with his key. He had never liked those fancy electronic gizmos that everybody else carried that allowed you to unlock your car as you walked across the parking lot with the push of a button and a few electronic beeps.

  He stood for a moment before climbing into his pickup truck--breathing quickly and gulping air; his whole body tensed and his mind focused. The entity was with him, had been for several minutes starting back there in his office in the town hall.

  The entity had come for him quickly and was now showing him something, scenes from last year when he had grabbed and snatched lovely Lisa while she was out jogging.

  For a moment he replayed the scene in all its details--his drive around Amherst, his encounter with Lisa; her jogging by him that evening.

  Jogging. The entity was showing him the jogging.

  He slid into his truck, relishing as always the little surge of satisfaction and safety he felt when he climbed into the cab and put his mundane work day behind him. He put the key into the ignition and started the truck. Carefully he backed out of his parking space and turned onto Main Street heading for Amherst. The entity was with him now--urging him on toward Amherst. He found himself thinking again of Lisa the jogger.

  At the light at the intersection of Routes 202 and 9 he hesitated for a moment. Quabbin Reservoir was over there to his right, and the temptation was to turn right, drive two miles, and swing by the main gate of the reservoir for a quick glance at the waters. He always found that soothing. But a quick pulse of urgency jolted him from that idea. He was needed in Amherst.

  He turned left at the light and accelerated toward Amherst. Tomorrow was the summer solstice, and he had a pretty good idea what the entity required of him for tomorrow. He took his right hand off the steering wheel and patted his jacket pocket. It was there. One thing for sure he was not going to lose or misplace it. The entity would need it tomorrow.

  ===============================================================

  Katherine paused for a moment in the spare bedroom she and Blake shared at Hudson Richardson’s house in Amherst. Something bothered her, a slight disturbance from the ordinary, like a mosquito buzzing nearby that you couldn’t quite swat. She stood there, wearing only her cotton underpants and holding in her hand her sports bra that she wore for jogging. It was the missing cross. That bothered her more than she cared to admit.

  OK, it was only an old cross that some teenager had chipped off an old gravestone. A coincidence that it had vanished today. But why turn this into a major issue. She was looking for problems—imagining ways for things to go wrong.

  OK. That was true of her. But still. An old stone cross vanishes the day before the summer solstice--the one day in the year that for centuries has generated myths and legends of worlds beyond our own and beyond time. And before that—the bones of a dead soldier vanish. Too much was happening here. Or maybe, nothing was happening.

  She sighed and pulled the sports bra over her head and shoulders. She reached into an open drawer and pulled out knee length, cotton running shorts. She pulled on her shorts and then a striped tee shirt, a pair of thick white ankle socks and finally her trusty Brooks Road Runners with flashing orange stripes on a white and tan shoe.

  Downstairs, she glanced into the kitchen where Blake was washing a final pan and carefully rinsing it under a stream of hot water from the faucet. There were days when the mundane details of living through a few hours seemed rich and tangible and worth keeping like a finely shaped and colored pebble discovered on a beach among thousands of other plain gray stones.

  “I’m off. Maybe only run a couple miles tonight. Leave some energy for our bath together.”

  “Yup. Don’t forget that. A bath with you and the summer solstice will probably be the highlight of my week.”

  Katherine stepped outside. Hudson Richardson’s house sat back from the street 60 or 70 feet with a large old oak tree in the front yard. She stepped off the wooden porch and paused to stretch--swinging her right arm, held stiff and straight down to touch her left foot; and then repeating the motion with her left arm and right foot. The first stretch and touch was a bit difficult; the second less so, and then as she loosened up she began to easily swing her hand down to touch her toes. She did this for a minute and then put her feet together and slowly stretched her feet as wide apart as they would go so that she was standing with legs splayed wide apart. Now she swung her arms down to touch the opposite toe as before. Next a few quick squat thrusts to the ground and back up again. She was ready. Her muscles loose and her body ready to move.

  Katherine walked out to the sidewalk and then with a deep breath began her two-mile run, a routine and exercise she had come to depend upon to relax and focus her. At the end of the street she looked for traffic and crossed over onto a big tree-lined sidewalk that followed the road for a mile to the university campus. That would be perfect for her run--a mile to UMass and a mile back.

  * * *

  Chapter 68

  He drove fast along Route 9 to Amherst, knocking two minutes off the usual 15 minute-trip. The entity was fully with him now, almost it seemed steering the pickup truck as he came up to the stop light near South Amherst Road. A pause of several seconds while he waited for the light to change and then straight through a mile up to the center of town with the Amherst College campus on his left. He turned right on Boltwood Ave, drove by the Lord Jeffery Inn on his right, swung left by the police station and waited an interminable time at the main intersection in town where buzzers rang to inform the blind that it was okay to cross the street. And then a right turn in the center and down past the old Barselotti’s tavern. Next, a sharp right onto a side street near the post office. Pierce Street. He hadn’t been here before. Rows of neat two-story houses side by side in close proximity. He didn’t know this street, where it ended or intersected another street, but it didn’t matter. The entity was guiding him now.

  Slowly down Pierce Street; cars parked in front of houses narrowing the street passage and necessitating some careful steering of the pickup.

  And then—bingo!

  On his left, just finishing up some exercises on the front lawn, the pretty wife of the Vietnam Vet. Blonde hair pulled back and tied in a ponytail, plain running shorts, nice striped top, fancy running shoes that showed she was serious about this. And now he knew what the entity required; knew why the entity kept reminding him of how he had captured Lisa the jogger.

  He’d had a shot at the Vet’s wife before. Had gone all that way to Ohio and failed. The entity had been beyond furious. Every failure on his part meant the entity had to spend precious energy of his own. Energy that he needed to hoard for his one moment when he would require every single bit of his power to navigate his return. He now understood all this. Tonight would be different. He would succeed.

  He drove by her without staring or stopping. Important not to
get her suspicious. In the rear view mirror he could see her start off down the street in the opposite direction jogging at a slow warm-up pace. He tapped the brakes and watched. At the end of Pierce Street, she swung up onto the sidewalk and turned right and moved out of sight. She was heading along North Pleasant Street toward the University of Massachusetts campus. No problem.

  He continued along Pierce Street until it intersected with West Street and then turned left. A half mile along West Street it intersected with North Pleasant. He pulled over to the right onto some grass 20 yards in front of a stop light and took out a map, pretending to be studying it.

  Sure enough, in about 30 seconds there she was, maybe 50 yards away, heading toward him on his left along North Pleasant Street running on the sidewalk in full stride. He reached down into the cup holder carved into the thick red plastic console that separated the two front seats in his pickup truck and without looking found his Buck knife, folded closed under a sun glasses case he kept over it. Without taking his eyes off her, he palmed the Buck knife into his left hand and with the thumb of his right hand, pulled the 6-inch folding blade out and clicked it into place. He hefted the knife and transferred it to his right hand, taking his eyes off his jogger for a just a moment to admire the fine wooden handle and bright, heavy steel of his knife.

  He had bought the Buck knife almost 20 years ago from a catalog after reading some review in an outdoor magazine that said it was one of the finest and most reliable knives ever made for camping and wilderness hiking. He’d never used it for either, but it was sure handy for some other things too. With his free left hand, he rested his fingers on the door handle so that he could open the door and jump from his truck in an instant--though he wasn’t yet sure that was the best way to do this job.