“Right. I barely got my big toe on the first step when I remembered what the killer was thinking. Well, not remembered exactly. It just sort of played in my head. Like an ad in the middle of a Youtube video. Unwanted, from outside. And what it said was, ‘He was a malignant tumor that had to be excised from the world.’ So I Googled the phrase, just in case it was something. I mean it was so precise. It felt memorized, not organic. Not to me and not to whoever was thinking it.”
“And what did Detective Google say?”
My coffee was done. I took it, added my French V–though it was darn near time for Pumpkin Spice–stirred three times and took a delicious sip. Then I said, "It’s a line from an old horror movie, The Devil’s Lambs, starring Reginald D’Voe.” I sipped some more, savoring the coffee as much as the telling.
Mason frowned, clearly unsure where I was going. “Didn’t he die recently?”
“Two weeks ago.” I tapped my phone to bring up the page I’d saved, and turned it his way. The headline read: “Smalltown Dilmun, New York plans monument to its most famous resident, the late great Reginald D’Voe.”
I’d already read the story, of course. Some in Dilmun wanted to memorialize the actor with a statue depicting his role as The Headless Horseman. There was a sketch of a rearing horse with a cape-wearing body, sans head.
The head was cradled in the crook of the actor's arm, but instead of the sinister sneer and sharply crooked brow the world had come to know and love, this face wore a knowing smile, and was winking. The plan’s opponents said it was undignified and too dark. Supporters said Reggie would’ve loved it. I guessed the jury was still out.
“He was from Dilmun,” Mason said softly.
“And so was Dwayne Clark," I reminded him, though he clearly got it. "And the killer was thinking one of the actor’s lines during the murder.”
Mason nodded slowly “Could be coincidence. Might just be that the killer is from the same town as the victim, and has probably seen a D’Voe flick or two. Maybe that’s all it is.”
“Okay, sure, it could be coincidental," I admitted. "Statistically, most killers live near their victims.”
“Usually with their victims,” he said.
"And people from Dilmun might be more into D'Voe horror flicks than most. But then why do I keep getting it?”
“Maybe it’s just–”
“‘He was a malignant tumor that had to be excised from the world.’ My stuff keeps hitting the Play button on that line. And I don’t get random shit. You know that, Mason. If I’m getting this, then it means something. Jeeze, where have you been the last two years?”
“Okay.” He held up both hands.
Yeah, I’d been sliding into pissed off. I hadn’t asked for this thing, but I had it. It was real and it was a part of me. And if Mason didn’t believe in it one hundred percent, then he didn’t believe in me. And that hurt.
Yes, I was over-sensitive on the issue. The merest hint of him doubting my stuff sent me into an indignant, offended spiral.
“Okay,” he said again. “I didn’t think that far into it. You’re right. If you’re getting this, it’s for a reason. Maybe we’ll find out more at the funeral.”
I lowered my bristles and sipped my coffee. “Did Jeremy mention a problem with one Professor Asshat?”
“Professor Ashton. And yes, we talked about it this afternoon, out on the water. It was a good day.”
“I know it was. I’m glad.” I clinked my coffee mug to his. “So he never gave me the details. What did Professor Asshat do?”
“Gave an assignment to write about a personal trauma in the form of a police report. He told the class to pick the most emotional experience of their lives, and then write it, leaving all emotion out of it.”
“That’s kind of cruel.”
“I think it’s kind of brilliant. Cops have to learn to keep their emotions out of their work.”
“Writing about a trauma reactivates it in your psyche, and therefore, in your life,” I said, quoting one my own tomes, though I'd be pressed to say which one. “He’s had so many traumas. Which one did he pick?”
“He wrote about his mother abducting him and Josh.”
“Oh hell no.”
“The professor accused him of making it up. Gave him a zero.”
I got off the sofa. “Are you fucking kidding me? Hand me my phone. Who does this asshole think he is? Ashton, you said?”
“Jeremy doesn’t want us to do anything,” Mason said. He gave my sweater a tug and I sat back down beside him. “He says he’s a man now and can handle his own shit.”
“But he can’t, though. We both know he can’t. Do you think he’s…okay?”
“I think he’s shaky.”
I closed my eyes. “Why the hell isn’t he living at home and commuting to school? He could ride in with you if he wanted.”
“Because he’s trying to grow up,” he said. “And I think we have to let him.”
I heaved a giant sigh. “Anything else?”
“He wanted to talk about Eric.”
Eric? As in your dead brother, whose sons don’t know he was a serial killer? I asked with my eyes.
“I changed the subject and he let it go, but…I think it’ll come up again.”
I tipped my head back. Our big fat sofa was there to cradle it. “Kids are hard.”
“Yeah they are. That’s all I got.”
“I’m spent.” I reached for the remote and hit the search button. “I think after the boys hit the sack, we should make some popcorn and queue up a classic old horror flick,” I said, as I keyed The Devil’s Lambs into the search bar.
Girl Blue
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New York Times bestselling author Maggie Shayne has published more than 50 novels and 23 novellas. She has written for 7 publishers and 2 soap operas, has racked up 15 Rita Award nominations and actually, finally, won the damn thing in 2005.
Maggie lives in a beautiful, century old, happily haunted farmhouse named “Serenity” in the wildest wilds of Cortland County, NY, with her soul-mate, Lance. They share a pair of English Mastiffs, Dozer & Daisy, and a little English Bulldog, Niblet, and the wise guardian and guru of them all, the feline Glory, who keeps the dogs firmly in their places. Maggie’s a Wiccan high priestess (legal clergy even) and an avid follower of the Law of Attraction.
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