by S. E. Green
Bart Novak has his own version of meaningful truth. He keeps the memory of the person he loved most in this world close, even decades after her death. He found his mother bleeding out. He found her in a car with a belly full of pills. He found her hanging from a tree. He wasn’t able to save her that final time. He lost her and now he’s recreating her suicide attempts year after year after year.
Yes, it’s his own version of meaningful truth.
I watched my mother in the kill room. My real father, too. I saw pictures of them taking delight in mutilating people.
Now I take delight in doing the same, though my victims deserve it.
Is that my own version of meaningful truth? Yes, it must be.
Me and Bart, we both have our skeletons. And everyone knows skeletons hide in closets. Where is your closet, Bart? Where are you hiding your trophies? Where are you hiding your mother’s hair?
I bet I know where.
…
“Hi,” I greet Holleen, the desk clerk, just like I’ve done every time I come here to volunteer at Aveda Retirement.
“Hi!” She grins, eyeing the tin of cookies that I brought. “Whatcha got there?”
“A little present for Mr. Novak.” I glance at her computer. “Mind telling me which room he’s in?”
“Oh, sure. I don’t need to look it up. He’s on the second floor in the studio apartment wing in room 204.”
Opening the tin, I hand her a white chocolate macadamia nut one. “Homemade and for you.” Homemade at the bakery, but I digress.
“Aren’t you sweet?” She holds up a hand. “But no thank you. Once I hit my forties, any bite of sugar or butter goes straight to my butt. And lord knows I don’t need another dimple there.”
Too much information, but okay. I put the cookie back in the tin, and I make my way over to the elevator.
It’s two in the afternoon and according to the schedule I glanced at the last time I was here, Bart is leading a Tai Chi class. I’ve timed this perfectly, factoring in enough time to snoop, leave the cookie tin with a note, and then get “caught” by a returning Bart.
I’m very interested to see his reaction to my invasion of his personal space.
As I make my way to room 204, I give a nod to one resident, stop and say hi to another, wave hello to the nurse.
I round the corner to Bart’s room, already digging in my pocket for my lock picks.
No one is around and it only takes me a few seconds to get inside. I leave the door cracked open, wanting Bart to see it and to know someone is in here before he enters.
His room looks much like a small hotel suite with a queen size bed, a dresser and TV, a desk and chair, a small couch, a bathroom, one single closet, and a tiny kitchenette.
As expected, it’s neat, tidy, and clean with sparse decorations. There’s a framed watercolor painting on each wall—all nature scenes—a waterfall, the woods, a frozen lake. In the bottom corner, Bart has signed each one. Not bad, Bart. He’s a decent artist.
Putting the tin down on the small dark wood desk, I wander over the nightstand and pick up a silver-framed, black and white photo of his mother. Though her lips hold a pleasant curve, her eyes appear sad and the emotion I sense there moves through me.
I set the photo back down and look under Bart’s bed to find one single pair of men’s slippers.
Next, I slide open each drawer in his dresser and find neatly folded underwear, t-shirts, sweat pants, and various other things. I sift through them, but he’s got nothing tucked down hiding.
His desk comes after that where I note a framed degree from an online university, a B.S. in Journalism. Beside that sits a closed laptop.
I open each drawer of his desk to find neatly organized office supplies.
When I turn to head to the closet I spy a wooden cane in the corner and I zero in on the unique walking stick medallions nailed into the cane. I pick the cane up, slowly rotating it, studying the metal decorations.
Son of a bitch, it’s his trophies right here out in the open. One collectible medallion from each city where he’s killed, to include two from right here in Alexandria.
But where would he be keeping his mother’s hair?
A quick search of his closet shows it just like the rest, clean and organized. Perhaps he keeps it in his car. If so, that’ll have to be for another day.
I close his closet, crossing back over to the tin of cookies. A brief glance of my watch shows he should be returning any second. Good. I take a yellow sticky note off his desk and write a quick Thank you for being so welcoming. Homemade macadamia. I hope you like them!
As I smooth the note on the tin, I catch sight of one single throw pillow on his couch. A throw pillow is not unusual, but this one is. Pink and white with lace trim, it looks every bit as old as it is. I recognize this pillow.
I glance back over to the framed photo of his mother where she sits proper and straight on the edge of an antique chair with the same throw pillow wedged in the corner behind her.
Bart kept this pillow for a reason and I don’t waste a second as I pick it up and inspect it. I rotate it slowly, studying the hand-sewn work. I examine the seams finding three sides sewn and one with a zipper.
I open the delicate zipper to the white stuffing inside. I move it around, tunneling my hand down and in, and my fingers snag on plastic. Stepping closer to the window, I open the pillow a bit more and peer down in, and sure enough, it’s long brown human hair encased in airtight plastic.
His mom’s hair.
More secrets out right in the open and not hidden under lock and key. Hiding in plain sight. I’m the one who lurks. Not him.
What kind of son keeps his dead mother’s hair in a pillow?
What kind of daughter keeps her dead mother’s serial killer files?
I zip the pillow up and I’m about to place it back on the couch when the door creaks open.
Here we go.
With the pillow behind me, I turn to see Bart standing in the open door, dressed in blue sweatpants from his recent Tai Chi. His thick glasses sit propped on the tip of his nose.
Pushing those glasses up, he slides his flip flops off and places them to the side, looking pointedly at my running shoes. “No shoes allowed.”
I find it odd this is the first thing he says to me. “Oh, sorry.” I nod to the desk and the tin of cookies. “I brought you some homemade treats. Your door was cracked open. I knocked and when no one answered, I came on in. I hope that was okay.”
He knows I’m lying. He knows he didn’t leave his door unlocked.
He steps further into the room. “Of course.”
Hiding in plain sight. But what I have tucked behind my back is his weak spot. Let’s see what happens when it’s exposed. I bring the pillow out from behind. “This is beautiful. I was just admiring the stitch work.”
One second he’s over by the door and the next he’s right in front of me, moving quicker than any old man I’ve ever seen. He yanks the pillow from my hands. “That belonged to my mother. Don’t touch it!”
Holding my hands up, I make sure my eyes take on a look of remorse and fear as I stare into his angry green eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I was just bringing you cookies. I’m sorry.”
His jaw vibrates, his breathing rasps. He closes his eyes and when next he opens them, he’s back to friendly and approachable Bart Novak.
“Forgive me,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I take a step toward the door. “It’s okay. I get it. It belonged to your mom. I get that way with my mom’s stuff, too. Memories.”
He nods as he gently puts the pillow back, taking extra care to situate it just so. “It’s been a long time but it’s very painful for me.”
“I understand. But maybe you should store the pillow in a safe place versus out in the open like this. Aren’t you worried about it getting damaged?”
“No. Mother will always be with me. Everywhere I go.”
I look at the pillow.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever get to that point of wanting my mother near.”
Bart circles his room, his gaze touching on the cane, the photo of his mother, the dresser, the tin of cookies. Don’t worry, I made sure everything is in its place.
He says, “I used to push people away because of my past. I even lost a woman I loved and wanted to marry. But I changed. I realized I needed to open up and now I have an abundance of friends who care deeply for me. They are my family. They saved me.”
His words ring deep and true and I simply stand in his small studio and digest them.
Bart opens the tin and selects a cookie. He takes a bite, smiling. “Delicious.” He walks me over to the door. “Will I see you around?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Good. And, Maggie, please don’t ever step foot in my apartment unless I’m here.” He closes the door in my face and the resounding click of his lock echoes in the hall.
38
From Aveda Retirement I go straight to Tommy’s place. It’s been days since I’ve seen him last and assuming his schedule is the same, he should be home.
I park my Jeep along the curb where I normally do, cross behind the house owned by the young family he rents from, and walk the back path to the front door of his “cottage”. One day I’m sure this place will be occupied by an aging parent of the couple who owns the house, but for now, it belongs to Tommy.
I spy his bike, kickstand down, propped on the concrete slab next to his studio apartment. An unexpected spike of nerves moves through me. I’d like to think I’m indifferent to what people think, but the truth is, I’m not.
Actually, I should rephrase. I’m not indifferent to Tommy, my family, Zach. But my roommate, Sabrina? I don’t know, she’s kind of working on me. The students in my classes? Not my problem. The people at Patch and Paw? Eh, Dr. O’neal is kind of working on me, too. She’s turned a corner in my brain.
Raising my hand, I knock, and my heart surprisingly picks up pace as I wait. There’s shuffling from within and then the door swings wide. There stands Tommy—all tall and blonde and beyond desirable.
I clear my throat. “Hi.”
He inhales. Exhales. “Hi.”
“I want to be with you,” I say, always getting right to the point.
“And I want to let you in,” he responds. “But honestly, I don’t know how.”
Okay, wow. That sounds like more of something I would say.
He breathes out again. “I mean, I’ve never really learned.”
For that matter, neither have I.
“Or rather right as I was learning to be a man, everything happened. My sister was murdered by The Decapitator. My parents closed off. And I was left…grieving.”
Tommy’s older sister was my mother, The Decapitator’s, last victim. Of course, Tommy believes, as does everyone else, that The Decapitator was my uncle on my father’s side. Tommy and I met in a grieving group for family of murdered victims. Imagine our surprise when we realized his sister was murdered by my “uncle”.
“I don’t either,” I say. “When I was just a little girl I saw The Decapitator cut up a victim.” This is a true statement and something only Tommy knows. “That one single event has shaped who I am today. It’s quite a history. And now my mother is dead and the more I dig into her past, the more I realize she isn’t pristine. But I want to change.”
Tommy shifts, propping his shoulder in the door. “Can I ask you a question and require complete honesty?”
“I’ll try, Tommy, I promise.”
“Are you afraid of anything?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“My past. Abandonment. People seeing the real me.”
He nods. “Okay, and what do you think will happen, that you’ll be alone?”
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. “Absolutely. I don’t want to be alone.” I pull in a quiet breath. Wow, it’s true. For all my desire of “me” time, I don’t really want to be alone. I want to have “people”, whatever that means. Family. Friends. Loved ones.
With a sigh, Tommy reaches out and grasps my wrist, and as he pulls me in he says, “Then you should know I’m with you because I want to get to know the real you. That’s it. It’s that simple. All I want is the truth.”
I step forward into his apartment and he closes the door. “I need space, yes, but I need you, too. Zach coming back is just that. He’s back. I was with him the other night because he went back to that house where The Decapitator held him ready to kill. The same house where my mother was killed.” Or rather I killed her. “I’m glad I went because he needed support. I was there as support.”
Tommy loops his fingers into my front belt loop and pulls me in. “I understand you’re trying to be a good friend. I understand, too, that you need space to be you. I need space, too, as you know. Now that you are privy to my BDAP alter ego. I needed an out, and I found it there.”
I don’t ask him what happened to that pedophile social worker, I honestly could care less. I like Tommy and I totally understand this side of him. I like even more this honesty trend we have going and so I continue to share. “Daisy and I recently discovered Mom was having an ongoing affair with Seth, my real father. We also discovered that Daisy is Seth’s real daughter, too.”
Tommy’s expression shifts, going from all things me and him to my family. “Oh my God, does Victor know?”
“Yes, we all had a talk about it. Daisy was crying. Victor was crushed. It was bad.”
Tommy pulls me in even more and my arms loop around his sides to clasp at his lower back. “And you?” he asks.
I inhale, soaking in his welcoming leather and soap scent. God, I missed him. “It’s a lot. And now there’s even a degraded DNA sample of my mother that has shown up in Alexandria at the scene of a suicide.”
I stop. Holy shit. I didn’t mean to wrangle him into that, too.
“It’s okay,” he assures me as if reading my mind. “Honesty. That’s all I want from you.”
I take another breath, unable to grasp what I’m about to share. “Mom spent her life tracking killers, and there was this one she never caught. He’s connected to a string of suicide style murders that stretch over forty years. I think the degraded DNA sample comes from this. I’m not entirely sure, but she may have seen this killer when she was just a little girl and it shaped her into who she became—the FBI Director who hunted killers. That maniac is still out there.”
His name is Bart Novak and I can get to him.
“Did you talk to Victor about this?”
“No, not yet. He knows about the degraded DNA sample but honestly, I’m not entirely sure about the rest. I’m going off of random notes that I found in one of her files and my own thoughts. I’m not sure she was fully connecting the dots either.”
Tommy strokes a warm finger along the outline of my ear, stopping to caress my lobe. “Probably best to let Victor come to you when he knows more. It sounds like he’s dealing with a lot right now given the information on Daisy’s real father and your mom’s affair.”
“My thoughts exactly.” I step further into his embrace and nuzzle my lips along his throat. Evil genetic ooze crawls in my veins, but somewhere along the way, I became my own. And now I’m figuring out what all of that means.
For now, it means Tommy and Daisy, Justin and Victor. I’m a sister, daughter, girlfriend, friend. Yet there’s a void there that I sense will always be. A void filled only when I embrace that genetic ooze.
Tommy shifts, dipping his lips to fully meet mine. The kiss that follows comes slow and full of promise, not all the fast and furious, raw and gritty we tend to do.
I freefall into it, relishing the slow pace, and I allow myself to be here, right now, with this man.
Undressing each other.
Linking fingers.
Walking naked to the bed.
Making love…
Those are two words I never thought I’d think or say. “Sex” and “intercourse” are more my typ
e of words, but “making love” is the only phrase to describe the tender interaction between us.
Sometimes there are moments that are perfectly still. Almost as if time freezes in a calm and peaceful place. This is one of those moments.
The only downside is that those moments pass too quickly and reality returns.
It always returns.
39
The next morning Sabrina lays sprawled on the bottom bunk furiously typing away on her phone. Her ever-present opera music plays softly in the background, and as I move around the room getting ready for morning classes, it occurs to me that she didn’t snore last night.
Or maybe I was so tired I slept right through it.
With an agitated sigh, she tosses her phone down.
It’s not like me to get involved, but she did cover for Justin and so I say, “What’s wrong?”
With another sigh, she rubs her eyes. “My family. They’re taking over my life.”
First Tommy sounds like me and now Sabrina. “Maybe if you got better ringtones they wouldn’t be so annoying.”
She snorts. “Not likely. I thought moving hundreds of miles away would cut the cord, you know? How do you do it? Your family is right here, and they don’t consume you.” She stops rubbing her eyes and rolls her head to look at me.
“It’s more about activity. Every person in my family is busy with their own thing. We all have interests that don’t involve the family. It keeps us busy.” So busy, in fact, that I lost track of Justin, and Daisy is doing things like calling Mom’s old boyfriends.
Sabrina gives some consideration. “I thought the miles between us would give me space to do what I want, but I spend most days on the phone solving their problems. It’s exactly what I was doing before and why I wanted away so much.”
“Interests.” With a nod, she swings her legs over the bed. “That’s a fabulous idea. I’m going to find things for them to do so they don’t bug me.”
And while Sabrina is wanting to cut the familial cord, I’m wanting to reattach it. Interesting how things change.