Killers Among

by S. E. Green

  With Daisy at the forefront of my mind, I make an excuse. “I’m sure it is, but—” I rub my belly— “I’m not feeling very well.”

  His face falls. “Oh. Okay…”

  “Next time,” I say.

  He all but slinks into Aveda, all bummed out. Whatever.

  I grab the first bus I can back to where I parked my Jeep.

  Daisy.

  Daisy. Daisy. Daisy.

  I don’t even want to think of how that would have gone down if I walked from that house to leave Bart Novak dead and bled out in the living room. As it stands now, my brain scrambles for an explanation to tell her.

  I call her. I text her. She doesn’t answer.

  I drive by all the places she might be: home, friends, high school campus, Starbucks… and on a last thought, I go to a park north of McLean where our parents used to take us to play.

  As I pull in to the parking lot, I catch sight of her sitting alone in the middle of a soccer field. I park beside her car, glad to find the place empty and private.

  Pulling out my binoculars, I zero in on her and the cardboard box sitting beside her. She reaches inside, selects a photo, flicks a lighter, and burns it. Next, she pulls out a pink playdough project that she and Mom made when Daisy was a little kid. She places it in the dried grass, picks up a hammer that I just now notice lays beside her, and she bangs it to pieces.

  For several minutes she keeps this up—burning photos, shredding papers, banging objects. I don’t have to be closer to know this is about Mom. I could go to Daisy. Stop her. But I don’t.

  I did the exact same thing.

  So I sit right here in my Jeep, giving her space and at the same time, making sure she’s alright.

  Roughly thirty minutes later, she leaves the remnants right where they are and holding the hammer, she pushes to her feet. She turns toward the parking lot, finally catches sight of me, and pauses.

  Opening my door, I get out.

  As she walks toward me I try to read her face, but it is void of all emotion.

  Still holding the hammer, she comes to a stop right in front of me, and for the first time in my life, I experience a flare of fear with Daisy.

  Her knuckles tighten around the handle. “Did you know Mom snapped one of my cheerleading trophies in half?”

  I frown. “What?”

  “She and I were having an argument and she lost it. She picked up that trophy, snapped it in half, and threw it at me.” My sister points to a tiny scar on her cheek.

  Mom told us that Daisy tripped and banged herself on the corner of the dresser. “Daisy…” I reach for her. “I had no idea.”

  She steps from my reach. “It wasn’t the first time.” My sister barks a laugh. “Remember when I ‘fell’ horseback riding and got a black eye?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “That time she hit me with her briefcase.”

  Oh my God.

  Turning, Daisy paces over to Mom’s car and with a yell, she swings the hammer and crashes it into the hood. “Then there was the time she broke my pinky finger.”

  No.

  With another yell, the hammer makes contact with the left headlight.

  “But not you. Oh, no. You were the favorite.” The hammer crashes into the other headlight.

  My heart sinks. “I didn’t know.”

  Both hands grip the handle and Daisy raises the hammer above her head, this time bringing it down into the windshield. “Of course you didn’t know. No one knew. And plus, who would believe me? Mom was the fucking FBI Director and hero of the universe, and I was just the difficult daughter.”

  “I would have believed you. Dad would have believed you.”

  Gritting her jaw, she paces to the back of the car and she whacks the rear lights. She turns the hammer, sharp end out, and she pummels the tire. Over and over and over again.

  My soul aches for her and I want to go to her, to hug her. But I don’t. She won’t accept it right now.

  She points the hammer at me. “And don’t you dare tell Dad. His heart is already broken enough over Mom.”

  “I won’t,” I assure her. “If he finds out, it’ll be by you, not me.”

  Rounding the car, she starts in on another tire. “I argued with her. I fought with her. I brought it on. But you never did. I thought you were her favorite because you were Seth’s daughter. But I’m Seth’s too!”

  “She had no right to hurt you, Daisy.”

  Breathing heavy, she looks at me. “You have no idea what she was really like. None of you do. You don’t know what she was capable of.”

  Oh, but I do.

  With another yell, Daisy throws the hammer and it sails through the air to skid across the parking lot. “Everyone thought we were such a perfect family. And just look at us? You know what, I’m glad she’s dead.”

  I am, too.

  Daisy yanks the keys from her coat pocket and tosses them onto the hood. She rounds the Jeep and climbs in. I don’t ask her what she’s doing. I already know. She doesn’t want anything of Mom’s, including her car.

  Opening my driver’s door, I climb back in. “We’ll tell Dad it was stolen.”

  “Fine.” Daisy clips on her seatbelt.

  I crank the engine and slowly drive from the lot. The perfect family. The happy family. The normal family. How can you really know? How can you know if the mom is really loving or just wearing a mask? How can you tell if the sister is really “difficult” or acting out because she’s frightened? How can you really tell anything?

  It’s more like everyone is a bomb waiting to go off. Nothing is perfect. Is it ever?

  “What were you doing at that house?” My sister asks.

  “I’ve been volunteering at a local old folks’ home. I’ve grown close to one of the residents and he agreed to see that house with me.”

  “I should have gone in with you the day you took me there,” Daisy says.

  “It’s okay. I understood.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Sad. I saw the closet where Mom was hiding when they saw Marji’s mother murdered.”

  “Do you think that shaped them into who they became?”

  “One of many things, I’m sure.”

  After Mom’s death, Daisy went through this period where she idolized her. So much so it annoyed me. Looking back on that, I think my sister was doing what she thought was expected. Perhaps she shoved all the bad stuff down in order to be a “good” daughter and sister. I get that.

  Sensing she’ll accept my touch now, I reach over and squeeze her knee. “I love you, Daisy. We’re going to get through this.”

  But she doesn’t answer and instead stares out the window as we drive home.

  50

  After I drop my sister off, I drive back to the dorms. From under my seat, I take out the file of information on the Suicide Killer. A quick glance around the parking lot shows I’m alone. The last thing I need is a student walking by and peering in to see my work.

  I look through photos of the victims and it’s like a damn family portrait.

  All young single mothers and representing the cycle of Bart’s mother.

  How, though, does he come across all these women? How does he get close enough to pull this off?

  I scroll through Mom’s notes again. Lacks insight into how he engages with others. Does not understand concept of boundary. Avoids responsibility for his conduct. Preys on emotional sensitivity. A master at creating scenarios. Pretends to be a good person.

  It describes Bart, for sure. But are these notes based on her memory of seeing him or on her general thoughts? I don’t know. Everything is written as if formally done. Not from a personal perspective.

  The fact is, I know who the killer is. That is an absolute certainty. The question is how does he interact with all these women? How do they trust him enough to let him near?

  The kid has to be the key.

  It takes time to get to know your victim and their patterns. Now that I’ve given
him a new lease on life, I’d say he’s thinking of next November and a new round of kills. But now he lives here in Alexandria in a retirement home. He’s no longer mobile. Which means next year’s victims will likely be within driving distance of Aveda.

  Virginia, Maryland, D.C… A lot of possibilities.

  Given the fact he left his mother’s hair behind, though, in what was supposed to be his final act, things may change now. His ritual may become different. Hell, he may start cycling the kills as soon as a month from now.

  I flip one last time through the folder, wishing Mom would have kept more personal notes, especially on what she witnessed as a child. As much as I want him dead, I’m also curious about the process.

  Closing my eyes, I rest my head on the seatback. Suicide. Murder. When I was with him in that house, he offered the pills to me. He wanted me to take my own life. Going with that, what if he doesn’t actually do the killing? What if he gets the single mother to kill her own self?

  Killing, but not really, because he’s not actually doing the deed. He’s not making it look like suicide because it truly is. The perfect serial killer—somehow he gets the mother to take her own life.

  How, though? What are the words that he says?

  If he threatens to kill the kid, that can’t be enough. I mean, who’s to say he won’t kill the kid anyway after the mom commits suicide? If I were a mom, I would want proof my kid was going to live.

  Proof.

  What type of proof would Bart give? What type of proof would I accept if I was about to kill myself to save my kid?

  My phone buzzes with a text from Tommy: DID YOU FORGET THAT YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND? ;)

  Despite the fact I currently have a folder of the Suicide Killer opened on my lap, I still smile. SORRY, LIFE HAS BEEN BUSY.

  I’D LIKE TO THINK THAT A BENEFIT OF DATING IS THAT I’M NOT ALONE EVERY NIGHT. WHAT ARE YOU DOING RIGHT NOW? I BOUGHT JELL-O…

  Jell-O. Code for fooling around. I GUESS I’M IN THE MOOD FOR DESSERT. BE THERE IN AN HOUR.

  DOOR WILL BE UNLOCKED. COME ON IN.

  I first started dating Tommy with an idea of role-playing. I was a daughter, a sister, a student, a friend, and I added girlfriend to that list. But now it’s so much more.

  Putting my notes away, I head into the dorm. I’ll likely spend the night with Tommy and so I’ll pack a bag and be on my way.

  But when I walk into our room, Zach and Sabrina are spread across her bed, sharing earbuds and listening to music while working on what looks like an art project.

  Well, this is interesting.

  Sabrina plucks her earbud out. “Hey!”

  “Hey back.” I look between them. “I didn’t realize you two were friends.”

  Zach takes his earbud out, too. “We’ve been hanging for a few days now.” He bumps his shoulder against Sabrina. “You’ve got a fun roommate.”

  With a slight blush to her cheeks, Sabrina waves him off. I look between them again—Zach with his boy-next-door scruffy cuteness and Sabrina with her big adorable dimples—and, yeah, I can see this. They’re way beyond cute.

  Sabrina sends me a playful cringe and I nod. All good. I’m totally fine with them hanging and possibly dating if they want. “I’m just going to grab a few things.”

  “You don’t have to leave!” Sabrina climbs off the bed. She picks up what looks like a fighter pilot mask and waves it at me. “I’ve been wearing this for days now and you haven’t noticed.” Her brows lift. “The snoring?”

  “Oh, yeah, I have noticed. Just didn’t realize you were wearing that.”

  “Better?”

  “Yes, much better. Thank you for doing that.”

  “So then don’t leave. Stay.”

  “It’s not that, Tommy asked me over.”

  “Oh!” She grins. “Well, then.”

  Zach’s not even paying us attention as he picks up a photo and slides it into a multi-sectioned frame. He holds it up to show Sabrina. “What do you think?”

  She sighs. “That’s perfect. I love that you put him right in the middle.” She looks at me. “Zach’s helping me organize photos for my mom’s Christmas present.” She points to the photo of the handsome dark-haired man in the middle. “That’s my Uncle Gene, my mom’s younger brother. He died a few years back.”

  “How’d he die?”

  “Um…murdered actually.”

  “Any idea who did it?”

  Zach glances up. “Jesus, Lane. Can’t you even say you’re sorry?”

  God, he’s right. “I’m sorry.”

  Sabrina shakes her head. “It’s okay,” she whispers.

  I’m a horrible friend. I should have never asked her that. Changing the subject would probably be a good thing. “Hey, how’s it going with your family? Any luck on the extracurricular activities?”

  My roommate puts her snore mask back down. “Yes.” Her smile is back, and I’m so glad to see it. “Thanks for that advice.”

  “Sure thing.”

  She takes her seat beside Zach and they continue working. As I pack my overnight bag, I watch them interact, and just hearing their bright voices and soft laughter lightens my soul.

  As I’m putting my toothbrush on top of my bag I find myself doing something very out of character as I say, “Hey, Sabrina, do you like zip lining? Maybe we could do that sometime.”

  She looks up from the art project and her face brightens. “That sounds great!”

  “Cool.” I grab my bag and walk from the room, smiling.

  It’s a real smile, not a fake one.

  51

  The following afternoon I stroll into Aveda and straight up to the front desk where Holleen, the clerk, sits. “Good afternoon.” I sign in.

  “Oh, hey, Maggie. I hear you helped Mr. Novak cut down the Christmas trees.”

  “That I did.” I lay the pen aside. “He’s really something, isn’t he? He’s got a big heart. Always giving back.”

  “Yes, that he does.” Holleen grins. “He keeps busy, that’s for sure.”

  I lean up against the desk. “Oh, yeah? Other than around here, what else does he do?”

  “Oh goodness, a little bit of everything. There’s not a day he’s idle. In fact, he just recently signed up to volunteer with one of those Mommy and Me clubs.” She laughs. “Can you imagine?”

  A day not idle. Volunteer. Mommy and Me.

  Her words click things into place. He picks organizations to worm himself into, like Mommy and Me. Groups that will put him around women with children. The cycle starts every year right after his November kills. He gets to know his next victims, carefully selecting them, earning their trust. And then the following year he carries out his kills.

  Son of a bitch. That’s how he cements himself into the victim’s life. “Lot on his plate, that man. When does he do that?”

  “Oh, in a few hours he’ll leave.”

  I push off the desk. “So where is Mr. Novak? Love to say hi.”

  The phone rings, and holding her finger up to me, Holleen answers it.

  “I’m right here.” Bart walks across the lobby, dressed in his thick flannel as if ready to go outside. “I was just about to begin decorating those trees.”

  “Your tradition,” I remind him.

  “So is others helping, but apparently everyone around here is too busy.”

  “Well, I’m glad to.”

  “I see someone recognizes the importance of tradition.” His glares at Holleen, still on the phone.

  He has quite the thumb on the staff around this place. I step into his line of sight. “So where are they?”

  “Just outside. I spent time yesterday setting them up.”

  “Great.” I motion him on. “Lead the way.”

  I follow him across the lobby toward the automatic door that leads out to the back patio.

  “Oh, Mr. Novak!” Holleen hangs up the phone as she points to a poinsettia sitting near her computer. “Thank you for the lovely decoration.”

  To her, he
grunts. To me, he mumbles, “I’m glad someone thinks to show gratitude for the things I do around here.”

  The sensor opens the sliding glass door, and he steps out to the patio. I glance back at Holleen. From her wary expression, she heard what he said. But this isn’t the first time he’s spoken to her in this tone. Why does she allow it?

  “Perhaps when we’re done decorating, you can help me with a puzzle I’ve been puzzling over.” He laughs. “Get it?”

  “Yeah. Or play cards. I saw canasta on the schedule for later.” I have no clue how to play canasta, but whatever.

  “No, I only do puzzles in the winter. I’ve always only done puzzles in the winter. It’s tradition. Just like the three trees. If everyone did whatever they wanted, there would be no sense of order. It’s important to have order. It’s important not to ignore tradition.”

  Like killing every November on the anniversary of your mother’s suicide?

  He stops walking and I nearly bump into his back. He turns to me as if an idea just came. “What are you thankful for, Maggie?”

  Um, okay. “I’m…thankful for health and life.”

  Bart smiles a little. “What else?”

  “For this volunteer job that has introduced me to so many wonderful people.”

  His smile falters. “What else?”

  Jesus Christ, what is going on? “For animals. I love animals.”

  His smile drops away. “That’s it?”

  “Yes…?”

  His eyes narrow.

  “And you, of course. I’m most thankful for my new-found friendship with you.”

  A smile creeps back into his face. “And I you.”

  What the hell?

  He turns away, stepping around outdoor furniture. “Hey!” Bart screams, and I jerk to attention.

  He races across the patio in the direction of the three trees and it takes me a second to register what is going on. There’s a medium sized white dog with his leg lifted as he piddles on the lower branches of one of the trees.

  “You stupid dog!” Bart yells, rearing back and sinking the toe of his old man tennis shoe into the dog’s ribs.

  Oh, he goddamn did not do that.

  With a yelp and a whine, the dog rolls across the brick flooring and his little back hits a wall. I fly across the patio right as Bart gives chase, kicking the dog again.