Autumn's Game

by Mary Stone

  Goren made small talk for a few minutes but finally got to the point. “All right. I can see that you’re adjusting to your situation, more or less. That’s reassuring, but we only have a limited time together today, so let’s talk about launching the insanity defense at your trial. I want to caution you that it may not accomplish what you hope it will and it might not be successful.”

  Justin suppressed a wave of anger. The man had just wasted several possibly useful moments of Justin’s time on small talk, when they could have been discussing his defense.

  “I spoke to a psychologist. A woman named Autumn Trent.”

  “Yes, I received her report,” Goren replied and paged through a folder. “She will be focusing on competency, which can be good and bad. She also said that you were highly agitated and were having nightmares.”

  “Yes.” He gave Goren a hollow-eyed stare. Most of the time, Justin wore different layers of masks, and this time was no different. But he did open up a little, exposing some of his actual exhaustion and frustration with himself. He should have handled things differently. He shouldn’t have been caught.

  Goren reacted visibly. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Autumn…” Damn, he needed to call people by the right names. “Dr. Trent and I discussed a few things. We both agreed that I need to work on my mental health.” Justin worked to look embarrassed. “She said she thought I would end up in an institution no matter what she did or said, Mr. Goren. Is that true?”

  “It’s a hard truth.” Goren tried to sound paternal, but instead only sounded nasal. “And…?”

  “And…” Justin swallowed and started rocking back and forth. The movement actually soothed him as well as made him look unhinged. “I’ve been thinking about what she said. I guess somewhere in the back of my head, I thought that I would have a chance to give back something to the community.” He placed both hands on the sides of his head, glad that these cuffs were long enough to allow him to do so. “I know it sounds stupid. I mean, who ‘gives back to the community?’ I used to think that was just a way to say, ‘I make my living acting more noble than I really am.’”

  Goren narrowed his eyes. “There are those who enjoy helping others.”

  Justin forced himself to look worried. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be insulting. Was that insulting? You’re a public defender. I think you’re actually kind of, I don’t know, not noble. But something good. You can’t be making as much money as you would defending rich kids instead of losers like me.”

  Goren nodded, his double chin turning into a triple chin. “Go on.”

  “I mean, I thought I’d be able to make up for what I did. Like spending the rest of my life working at a soup kitchen or a battered women’s home. But that isn’t going to happen, is it? That’s just a fantasy.”

  “I think you’re definitely working your way through some hard truths,” Goren said carefully. “But yes. You’re likely to end up in an institution for quite some time, if not the rest of your life. You might be young, and you might have spent most of your life under the control of a serial killer, but that might not be enough to convince a jury that you deserve to be free. The sad truth is that most people would rather see a criminal go free than a person with mental health issues.”

  Justin stiffened. “So, you’re saying I shouldn’t enter an insanity plea?”

  “No, Justin. I’m saying that you’ve had a difficult life, and it isn’t likely to get easier soon because of the choices you made in the past, regardless of what you choose now.”

  “It all seems like some kind of nightmare. Like it wasn’t real.”

  “But it wasn’t a nightmare, and there are consequences.” Goren shook his head, trying to sound paternal again, but only succeeding in shaking his jowls.

  Justin opened his internal window onto his true exhaustion and frustration again. He even let his eyes fill with tears. “I thought I would be able to pay back at least a little for what I did. I didn’t realize that I wouldn’t even be able to do that. It sucks, Mr. Goren. It just sucks.”

  “I understand.” Goren sniffed and cleared his throat, as if he had teared up a little and was trying to hide it. So far, aside from the ties, Goren had been a mostly unassailable hard-ass.

  Justin suppressed a feeling of excitement that he didn’t want to show on his face.

  Goren took an ordinary handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and blew his nose. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. I’m glad you talked to Dr. Trent. I think she got through to you where I couldn’t and brought home the reality of the situation to you.”

  Justin shrugged. “I don’t know about that. It still doesn’t feel real. I still feel like Grandpa is still telling me what to do. He ruled every moment of my life, you know. What I did. What I wore. Who to kill.” He forced himself to start shaking. “What would happen to me if I didn’t.” He let more tears fall and grabbed his head. “His voice is in my head all the time.” He rocked harder, faster. “It won’t go away.”

  Goren just sat there, waiting for him to regain control of himself. To make it look good, Justin counted to sixty, then did it again, and again, again.

  “Are you okay, son?” Goren asked when Justin began to quieten.

  Goren didn’t act overly sympathetic. He certainly wasn’t as obviously manipulatable as Autumn Trent.

  But Justin wouldn’t have been surprised if he hadn’t affected Victor Goren more strongly than he had affected the sexy psychologist.

  Goren just hid it better.

  Autumn was young and naïve. Messing with her wasn’t a big accomplishment. Getting under Goren’s skin was a bigger challenge, and one that was more likely to produce results. Combine the two, and he might even get somewhere.

  Like into a “secure” psychiatric facility instead of a supermax prison.

  Justin sighed. “Mr. Goren, do you know what I want? To be able to make up for what I did. Somehow. I don’t know if it’s possible, but I’d like to try.”

  Justin knew that one of the keys to getting away with the insanity defense was being able to show remorse for his actions. An insanity plea wasn’t about his current mental state. Insanity was based on his mental state at the time of the crimes.

  Goren nodded. “It’s an admirable ambition.”

  “If I can’t reasonably expect to do that, then I’d like to focus on getting better. I’d like to…” He closed his eyes and put his head down on the table for a moment. His face was hot. “I’d like to try to get better. I’d like for Grandpa’s voice to just go away. I’d like to have him stop riding my ass. I’d like to be free of what he did to me.”

  “We’ll work on making sure you have the opportunity to continue your therapy, either with Dr. Trent or with another therapist. And I’ll try to make sure that you make your way to a psychiatric hospital. But I have to warn you, they aren’t pleasant places, Justin. Neither are prisons. But at least you’ll be around other people who are suffering as you are, even if you can’t have your freedom back.”

  “Thank you.” Justin glanced around the visitor’s room, letting his eyes focus on the distance. “I’d like that. This place feels so hopeless, Mr. Goren. I can only imagine a prison will be worse. I’ve talked to some of the men that have been in prison before, and they say it’s a place without hope and without purpose. I want a purpose, Mr. Goren. That’s the one thing Grandpa gave me that I regret losing, a sense of purpose.” He started rocking again. “Purpose. Purpose. Purpose.”

  Concern flitted over Goren’s expression, but the guard tapped on the door before he could say anything more. It was time for Goren to go, which was good. Justin was starting to get annoyed with the man. Was he wrapped around Justin’s finger or not? One second, he would give off small signs that Justin had reached him; the next, he was a block of wood.

  Goren flipped the pages of the legal notebook closed and stood. Justin stood as well, surprised when his hands stopped abruptly with a metallic clink. He had been so focused on the meeting b
etween them that he’d forgotten he was handcuffed. Now, he let the handcuffs make him awkward as he stood up, so that Goren’s attention would be drawn to them.

  During that second, Justin schooled his face into what he hoped would come across as regret.

  Goren held out a hand for Justin to shake. “I’m glad we’re on the same page,” he repeated. “I will let Dr. Trent know that her efforts were appreciated.”

  “Thank you.” Justin held out both hands and clasped Goren’s in his own, the way a politician would. “She was nice. I hope she decides to come again. And thank you, Mr. Goren. I’m sorry for what I said earlier.”

  Victor Goren frowned. “What did you say earlier that you need to be sorry about?”

  “I said you weren’t exactly noble.”

  Goren barked out a laugh. “I didn’t take it personally, Justin. I knew you were just making a point.”

  “Okay.” Justin bit back a smile at the man’s lie.

  “I’ll prepare the materials I need in order to focus on getting you moved to a secure psychiatric hospital. It’s not freedom, but like you said, it at least has some hope of getting you some help that would be much harder for you to obtain in a prison.”

  “Thank you. That’s what I want. I really appreciate it.”

  Goren pumped Justin’s hand one more time. A guard escorted him out of the visitor’s room and back to the public area. The other guards escorted Justin back to his cell and locked him in.

  “Hold out your arms.”

  The guard unlocked the handcuffs.

  “Thanks,” he told the guard while stretching his wrists.

  The guard made a soft snort. “That’s not a word I get to hear often.”

  “Just don’t beat me.” Justin made himself as small as possible, twisting his face into a picture of fear.

  The guard frowned. “Who said anything about a beating?”

  Smiling to himself, Justin shuffled away, doing his very best impression of a whipped puppy. “I’m sorry. I’ll be good.” Ducking his head, he curled up on his bunk and popped his thumb directly into his mouth.

  The guard mumbled, “Whatever,” before slamming the door shut.

  Justin turned toward the wall. He was satisfied with his meeting with his lawyer.

  The time he had spent with Autumn Trent hadn’t been a waste, after all. He had convinced her that he was troubled. And she had told Goren. She might have been the reason that Goren seemed to be wavering between sympathy and coldness. He might be behaving unpredictably, but in a good way. Autumn might be useless overall, but she might also serve as a lever that he could use to move his attorney.

  He had no doubt he’d figure that out.

  He had to.

  9

  I locked Gina Webster up, good and tight.

  Nobody could get out of the knots I tied, and she wouldn’t either. A gag in her mouth would shut her up. I wasn’t too worried.

  After I’d taken care of her, I pulled the truck out of the busted old shed it was hidden in and got on the road to town to run some errands before heading to my second mission. I’d almost considered not tying her up, but I couldn’t trust her yet. I fed her good first, so she should be fine, even if I got delayed.

  I didn’t think that would be the case, but I’d already learned that not everything went as planned.

  When I’d offered her breakfast this morning, her attitude had been disturbing. She had thrown her water mug on the floor so hard that the handle broke off. Luckily, the thick mug hadn’t broken, but I took it away from her anyway. I was worried she might do something foolish while I was gone.

  As I drove, the words Helen Mathers had spoken came back to me. They made sense. I was in charge of someone else’s care and well-being. Even though that person was a grown woman, it didn’t change the fact that she was dependent on me.

  I was worried about her, but I also had a mission to fulfill.

  This second job was something I had planned at the last minute, after learning about the situation just before I took care of the Websters. But as soon as I heard about it, I knew I had to add it to my list. And it couldn’t wait.

  When I got to town, I made myself seen, smiling and waving at everyone I met. When they told me about the murders, I did a good job of looking shocked. The whole town could talk about nothing else. There was tons of speculation about who the bad guy could be, but not a single person looked at me funny.

  After running my errands, I stopped at a store to refill the SUV with gas. An old friend of mine from the youth program at the community center pulled up alongside me at the gas station. As we pumped our fuel, he asked me if I’d heard about the murders, and we talked about them for a little while.

  I’d been surprised when he gave my ride a disgusted once-over. “You should stop putting stickers all over your damned SUV,” Travis said just as my pump clicked and I pulled the handle out. “It destroys the resale value and makes you look like a redneck.”

  Something deep inside me roared to life, and I had to force myself to remain calm. Shooting gas into the bastard’s face and then setting him alight might be satisfying to watch, but this was a public place with cameras everywhere. I had to be smart. Careful. I had to focus on my mission and ignore the assholes of the world.

  Besides, people commented on my vehicle’s decorations all the time. I had over a dozen decals, things like Zombie Outbreak Response Team and the logos of bands I liked. “I ain’t gonna sell it. I’m gonna drive it until it falls apart underneath me.”

  “Your loss.”

  His fuel pump clicked too, and I was glad when he pulled away.

  With a tank full of gas, I killed some time at a movie I barely watched. My nerves were getting to me. I couldn’t help but worry about what Gina might be doing right then. And I was also playing over what the asshole at the gas pumps had said.

  It was actually kind of funny. People didn’t notice much. The decals all over my SUV were magnetic, not permanent. When I took care of the Websters, I had taken them off. Washed the SUV before I went to the Webster’s too, so nobody could see the clean spots in the dirt. Sure enough, nobody recognized the SUV without them. The windows were all tinted dark, so you couldn’t easily see who was driving. I even had a pair of decals made up to put over my license plates, to make them hard to read.

  After leaving the Webster’s, I’d left my ski mask on until I got out of their neighborhood. I pulled over, took off my ski mask, and put the regular decals back on.

  It had worked like a charm.

  As had the white safety coverall suit I had worn. The gloves. The shoes that were a size too big. I hadn’t left anything to chance. No hair, no DNA or fingerprints. No nothing. Sorry, officer, I wear a size ten, not an eleven.

  When the movie let out, I headed back to my vehicle and double-checked the back. I also carried a big tool chest in the rear, along with a couple paint cans and some brushes. Sorry, officer, I needed the coveralls because I’m planning to paint a few of my rooms.

  Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. I looked at my watch. In exactly five minutes, the lights would automatically go on in my place. The TV would go on too. According to my neighbors, I was home. I’d even left my cell phone there so my movements couldn’t be tracked.

  Sorry, officer, I went to a movie and then straight home where I vegged on the couch to binge watch my new favorite show. Why, yes, officer, I couldn’t believe I’d left my phone home either. It’s usually glued to my palm.

  I had everything I needed, and it was time. I drove over to the Langford’s house.

  It was a big risk going there. The Websters had lived near the edge of town, but the Langfords lived in an older neighborhood near downtown, where the houses were set closer together and people knew each other better. The trees grew thicker there, though, and the Langfords had a couple of big fat evergreens that mostly blocked the front porch from view.

  In my gut, I knew that everything would be just fine, but even so, my
heart was racing so hard I could hear its pounding in my ears. I felt like everyone had their eyes on me.

  No, not everyone. Just God. And I knew he was nodding in approval. The thought bolstered me, giving me strength. My purpose was ordained from the heavens.

  After parking a few blocks away, I folded my hands in front of me. I prayed for guidance and the grace to free Bryan Langford from the lies and tyranny of his self-centered parents.

  “Lord, give me strength to fight the war that is currently tearing our world apart. Give me the power to do what needs to be done to right these terrible wrongs. Guide my hand as I slay the evil doers, opening the door for peace and salvation for those they should have protected.”

  Tears streamed down my face, more evidence of how heartfelt my mission was. My chest heaved and sweat popped out on my forehead under the weight of my calling.

  “In Your name, I will free Bryan Langford, and I ask that You pass to him Your grace and knowledge. Hold him in Your arms as he comes to understand the purpose. Thank you, Lord, for choosing me to uphold Your word. I will not fail You. Amen.”

  Bolstered by the prayer and the influx of power God had infused into me, I grabbed my gear and headed to the Langford’s home. It was fancier than the Webster’s and had been built much earlier, a two-story home from the 1940s with cedar shingle siding and cream-colored trim. The house had some real character to it. However, the house looked tired, worn out. It clearly hadn’t been kept up as of late. Just as the marriage had not.

  In the shadows, I prepared myself, donning all the protective gear I’d brought with me. The sun had long since set, and the sky was heavy with storm clouds. No stars, no moonlight. The lights were on inside, but the porch was dim. Andy and Marla Langford used to have a porch light they kept lit all the time. It was a mark of how bad things were for them that they hadn’t replaced the bulb in the whole six months it was out.

  The couple’s son, Bryan, had been a member of Marcus Webster’s youth program. I had talked to him several times at the community center and had hung out with him a few times in his parents’ basement. He told me he had abused alcohol from the very young age of thirteen. He said his parents were not to blame for his problems, but it was obvious they were. If they had been a true family to him, he never would have turned to alcohol.