by C B Cox
“You know you are. Like I say, I need to know why you’re going to kill me?”
He huffs. Shrugs. “There was a huge police investigation. They interviewed me. I sent them down a rabbit hole; not literally. That would have been dumb, giving up my secret so easily. I spun them a heap of bullshit about seeing Levi talking to some girl. They swallowed it hook, line and sinker. It was fun to watch. My father knew I was involved in some way. However, with no body, no one could prove anything. But he knew all right. That’s when he decided that the only way he could stop me was to sell the island. To rob me of my reason to come back. I couldn’t ruin his reputation any more than it was already. He need never see me again. So I bided my time.”
He steeples his fingers across his lips and rocks back and forth in the chair. He’s reliving another gruesome memory.
“What about your mother? She must have loved you, once?”
I have to keep him talking. Have him realize I’m not a threat.
“Oh yes … mother. She’s spineless,” he says, nonchalantly.
“She never locked you in your room, did she?”
I need to make him realize not everyone in his life is bad. That not everyone is out to get him. If I do, there’s a slim chance I might get out of this alive.
“Not once did she ever stand up for me. Not once! She could’ve stopped him anytime she wanted to. She could’ve made him realize he was being cruel to me. That he was destroying me, inside. The final straw came when he cut off my allowance. I was just a boy. I had to fend for myself in a city miles away from home. Not once did she intervene. They didn’t give a fuck about me. They were too wrapped up in one another and father’s goddamned career, to notice me. The things I did for money to survive would make your pretty little head explode.”
He strains his neck, left, then right. Vertebrae crack. He exhales a long sigh.
“He dominated her. She allowed it. She epitomized weakness. There’s no room inside my head for weakness. I despised her as much as I did him.”
“But why did you return here after their skiing accident, if you hated them so much?”
“Oh, come on, Hope, please try to keep up, honey. They’re still here. They never went away.”
His voice trails off. I’m confused.
“Are they laid to rest here?”
“Christ, you’re more stupid than I thought. There was no skiing accident. I fabricated the whole thing. I killed her first. Made him watch. He begged me to finish him off. I took my time. I faked the accident. Did it real good. It was a masterful piece of deception.”
My parched throat tightens. The valve in my bladder flexes. I concentrate hard not to piss myself. I’m talking to a psychopath. Of that, I have no doubt.
“I’d gotten used to not having the support of my parents. I was doing just peachy in Montana. Working bar. Hustling. Getting by. You know? Until one day, last fall, I had a visit from a fancy New York attorney. My father had him track me down, just to inform me that he had cut me out of his will in favor of – you’re going to like this – none other than Levi fucking Wiley. No way was I going to let that happen. I called him. Apologized for everything. For me being me. Said I wanted to meet up and try and make things right between us, as a family. Told him I wanted to discuss the future and put the past behind me… Us… He took the bait. I killed her first, then him. As I say, I faked the accident. You ought to kill your parents, Hope, there’s no better high.”
It’s like he’s reading a grocery list. There’s zero emotion. I suck a long breath of stagnant air.
“Didn’t anyone question your story?”
He shrugs, blows an exasperated sigh, like he’s bored with my questions.
“Folks around here, they knew my parents loved to ski. It was easy. You’re the only living soul I’ve ever admitted killing them to, Hope. You ought to consider it a privilege.” The menace has returned in his voice. I’m losing him.
“But why me? You have the house and inheritance? Why me?” I hear the tremble in my voice. He picks up on it. I have to hear him say it.
“I would have thought you’d have worked it out by now?” he snorts. “You being an author, and all.”
I tilt my head. Close my eyes. I see where this is going. The island is the problem.
He speaks down his nose in a Hampton’s accent. “Mr. and Mrs. Madison, owners of Tern Island. Rich. Fucking. Cuckoos. You’re the only thing standing between me and my island, and the way things used to be. It’s simple. You simply have to go, darling,” he snarls, jabbing at my ribs with a pointed finger. I shudder and rear back. The chains chafe my wrists. I close my eyes.
“Not so tough now are you, Mrs. Madison?”
“People know I’m here. I’ll be missed. They’ll come looking for me,” I say, with as much confidence as I can muster.
“Stupid woman. You have no cell phone. You can’t phone home. Your clumsiness saved me that little job. Thank you. You’re trapped on Tern Island. I thought you would have cottoned on to the truck earlier. A motor won’t run if it’s missing several spark plugs and the starter motor is part disconnected. That was an easy win.” He laughs a self-satisfied laugh. More jigsaw pieces fall into place. It’s him that I saw throwing stuff into the water from his boat. Spark plugs.
I’ve been so dumb.
“My husband and my attorney, they know I’m here. I’m due to sign papers, today,” I lie, jaw set firm.
“I don’t give a damn. I overheard your husband threatening you that day you two had a fight in the lodge. I’ll tell the cops about it. The ex-husband is always their prime suspect. Let’s think… Maybe, I ought to secure a little blood from you. Hair. Other fluids. Forensic evidence is so very absolute. And so easy to plant. Yeah, I like that. It’s simple.”
“Charles is a wealthy man. He’ll commission the best investigators. They’ll find this place and the tunnels, the catacombs… Your secrets will be discovered. You can’t fight a man as powerful as Charles Madison,” I say, my tone animated.
“But you’re the only other living soul that knows about the tunnels.” He hesitates and scratches his chin. “Hmm, I like that … catacombs… Do you know something, I’ve never thought of them in that way.” He muses on the inadvertent notoriety I’ve afforded to his macabre tunnels. “How will anyone find them when you’re dead? They’ve been a secret for centuries. Your body, they’ll never find it. I’ll say you’d been acting irrationally, paranoid even, since the very first moment you set foot on the island. The Wileys will back me up. Don’t you get it, Hope, none of this is random.”
“Martha won’t believe any of it. She knows me better than anyone. Even better than, Charles,” I say, clutching at straws.
“I wondered how long it would be before you brought that dyke up. She was an unexpected bonus. Turning up like she did, out of the blue, delighted to let the country boy massage her ego. The seduction of older women is a skill I learned quickly in the city,” he says. “Such fun times. So many others…”
He adjusts his crotch. I feel sick.
“She’s waiting for my manuscript. When she doesn’t hear from me soon, she’ll be up here to haul my ass back to New York. Martha is more than a match for you,” I tell him. He laughs so hard I think he might fall off the chair. His booming guffaw echoes around the basement. Dread wells up inside of me. I yank on the chains. It’s futile. My battered eyelid throbs. I taste salt from a single, angry tear.
“Ask yourself, would I let her leave?”
He lets the question hang in the air, leans in and strokes my cheek. I swallow hard. Bite my lip. I don’t want to hear the next part. He smiles. Presses his thumb on my swollen lip and wipes away a smear of blood. Puts his thumb in his mouth. Sucks on his thumb, hungrily.
“She was easy to manipulate with a little chemical assistance. She was putty in my hands. She followed my every instruction to the letter. Of course, I told her exactly what to write. My little charade had you fooled. When I strangled her, she succumbed wit
hout a fight. To be perfectly honest, she was a little disappointing. I did it in Tern Lodge. In your ever so precious, Tern fucking Lodge. They’ll never find her body. She was never here. No one saw her arrive, and they sure as hell never saw her leave,” he sings the words, his mood swings from dark to light.
“No…” I whimper. I’m dehydrated. Even my tears have evaporated. My heart aches. I’m resigned to my fate. The light at the end of the tunnel fades.
“Just so you know, I never meant to hurt your dog.”
“Bella? What did you do to my beautiful, Bella?” I drag myself up. Clench my fists against the chains.
He shrugs. “Eh, it’s your fault. If only you’d fed her the food from the tub under the sink, she’d have died peacefully in her sleep. But no, you had to interfere. What else could I do? Stupid mutt followed me to the cliffs. I threw her off. I’m getting good at that. There’s a skill to it. Dog gone,” he says, cackling like the madman that he is.
“You bastard. You’re the devil incarnate.”
He jumps up, drags a hunting knife from a leather pouch hung around his waist. It’s huge. The blade has to be at least nine inches long.
He studies the tip. Roaring flames of madness leaping behind his eyes.
Chapter Fifty
He twists the blade. It gleams in the light from the opening. He pirouettes it in his hands. Strokes his thumb along the edge of the blade, drawing blood. A drop of blood splashes onto the concrete floor.
“If only you had scared more easily. Took off when you first felt uncomfortable. Listened to your instincts. It’s not like I didn’t give you enough clues. Enough warnings. For fuck’s sake, you’re so pig-headed. You remind me of my father. You could have saved their lives: Martha and Bella. They’re dead because of you,” he hisses in my ear, presses a bloodied thumb firm against my cheek, makes the shape of a cross positioned at a forty-five degree angle. It feels like a kiss. I pull away. Glower. Snarl like a rat cornered by a cat. He’s scaring the shit out of me, but I won’t let him see that I am. I grit my teeth.
I won’t let him in.
“Now it’s your turn. I’m going to kill you. Kill you real … slow… Punish you for all the trouble you and your fancy, city slicker husband have put me through since you ripped down my shack and destroyed my hunting grounds. Good old Charlie-boy. Did you know, he almost found the tunnel?” It’s a rhetorical question. It doesn’t demand or need, an answer. He sets the cold tip of the blade against the corner of my glued up eye, runs it down my right cheek, under my chin, along my throat and stalls it on my sternum. Applies just enough pressure to draw blood.
Hot blood courses down my face, neck and pools in my cleavage.
Panic rises within me. “Despite what you think, people will look for me? You won’t get away with this,” I hiss.
“I agree they’ll come. Their search will be cursory. And futile. Just like it was last time. As I keep saying, none of this is random. Everybody thinks you’ve lost your mind. The Wileys have seen firsthand your hysterical, erratic behavior. To their eyes, you’re a crazy woman from the city. They’ll think you realized country life wasn’t for you. That you returned to the city. Charles will think that, too. He witnessed the banshee for himself. He’ll be delighted to see the back of you. I’ll tell him and the cops, that you and Martha were drunk the other night. That you kept talking about doing a Thelma and Louise. I’ll say you were getting it on together. Saying how you were through with men. Charles will consider it an affront to his dignity. To his manhood. He’ll want to press the delete button on your very existence. Distance himself from you. Most probably, he’ll want to talk to me about you. I’ll empathize with him. Offer to buy the island. I reckon he’ll jump at the chance. I’ll be able to buy it for a rock-bottom price,” he says, nodding, as if his warped plan is a given.
“It won’t be that easy. There’s too much evidence. My truck is still here. And there’s my stuff at the lodge. Bella’s buried in the garden,” I say.
“I’ll sort everything. I own you, now. You’re my chattel. I have the keys to your life… To everything… The truck. Tern Lodge. The storage shed. Every fucking … thing. I’ll come and go as I please. I’ve the power to erase you, and every trace of your miserable existence, from Tern Island. Just like I did with the others,” he says. He quietens, adds, “With a little persuasion, Charlie-boy might see fit to gift the island to me? I can be very persuasive when I want to be.”
“He’d never do that. Money means too much to him.” My stomach churns. I feel nauseous.
“Unlike you, I’ve been watching the news channels. The last thing Charles Madison needs in his life right now, is a batshit crazy, ex-wife,” he laughs.
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe later, when you can’t bear the pain any longer. You’ll beg me to kill you. Levi is gonna be next when I’ve had my fun with you. Asshole can’t stop himself from putting his nose where it’s not wanted. Always following me around, thinking I don’t know he’s there. He suspects me of course, but he’s too dumb to work it out,” he says, snorting.
Nausea replaces an empty sensation. I take a long breath and close my eyes. Perfect black replaces the bloodshot kaleidoscope of colors. Terror replaces calm. I know I’m going to die, tortured by the serial killer Curtis Jackson for the love of his precious island. He’s going to kill again. And this time, the victim will be me. I’ll cease to exist. His problem will blow away on the breeze. In time, I’ll fade from everyone’s memory. No one will mourn my passing. My readers will find new, up-and-coming authors. My publisher will dump me. My posthumous punishment will be to let my novels fade into obscurity. All novels have a shelf life. Mine are no different. My life’s work will end up in charity stores and bins. Just another washed-up author.
I have no parents, siblings, cousins, aunts or uncles to remember that I ever existed.
When Mom and Dad passed, I remember feeling broody. A baby would mean the family tree would continue. I never discussed my fears with Charles. Even then, I knew he wouldn’t give a damn. Children were never on his agenda.
Gossip columnists will print sordid stories about the author who went crazy and ran away, never to be seen again, with her lesbian agent lover. It will make great copy – for a while. They’ll remember me as the romantic novelist who lost her talent for storytelling when the love of her life abandoned her for a younger, prettier version. Sooner rather than later, readers will tire of the story – my story – and the spotlight will move onto someone else.
Hope Madison, an incurable romantic to the death…
Gray dulls to black. The light from the door dims. Chilled, damp air wafts over my face.
This is it.
I open my eyes, ready to stare death in the face. Curtis Jackson’s mouth twists into a sick smirk. He’s enjoying watching my pain. He toys with the knife. Reveling in and savoring the prospect of my imminent demise.
It’s too much to bear. I close my eyes.
A sickening crack ricochets off the walls. I’m captured in a fine mist of hot, wet spray. Hard splinters of material impact my face. I screw my eyes tight and suck a final breath.
Five eternal seconds pass.
Why is there no pain?
My hearing fails me. It’s a blessing.
This is it. I’m about to die…
The clock upstairs strikes the hour. Seven chimes. I count the chimes in a hushed whisper. My shoulders sway in time with the chimes in real time. I’m not imagining it. I really am hearing them. I open my eyes.
I’m confronted by a still captured from a horror movie.
Curtis Jackson is slumped over the chair back with his head hanging limply between splayed legs. I face the crown of his skull. A ragged bloody gash runs diagonally across it. The wound is deep: a horrific melange of brains and blood. It’s inches deep. A triangular filet of bone is impaled deep into his brain. Its lethal edges are sharp and broken. Repulsed, I look away.
Levi stands over the lifeless body
. His expression is impassive. A bloodied axe hangs from his right hand. In silence, he raises the axe high above his head. I glare at him. Beg for mercy.
But it’s too late.
The air around me parts with a whooshing sound. Blue sparks shoot past my right eye. Metal meets metal, reverberates off concrete and brick. The chain around my right ankle suddenly loosens. Levi passes in front of me and repeats the process. My left ankle frees. He halts in front of me and shows me his palm. He rattles the chain, joining my wrists together behind me. Crosses his lips with his index finger.
I nod.
I have to trust him.
He raises the axe and brings it crashing down in the tiny space between my shoulders and the wall. More sparks cascade across the floor. A cacophony of metal on metal displaces the ringing in my ears. My arms fall down by my sides. I fall forward. Levi catches me in his huge clumsy arms and lifts me up to shoulder level. I slump against his chest. He carries me through the opening in the wall and into the light.
Chapter Fifty-One
Shafts of blue neon strobe the ceiling.
I’m wrapped in a wool comforter. Warmth has replaced the ice-cold of my subterranean jail. I’m propped on cushions. The sweet aroma of fresh-baked bread tickles my nostrils.
