by David Beers
“Thou doth protest too much,” Harry said, not looking up.
“You won’t stop will you? Not ever. No matter where I go? I could travel to hell and you’d still have me knifing people down there, wouldn’t you? The Devil himself if it tickled your motherfucking fancy.”
“There is no Devil, John. No God either. Or don’t you realize that yet?”
John dropped his head back on the pillow, trying to refuse the blaspheme. There was a God.
“Then he’s forsaken you,” Harry said.
Maybe so. Probably so.
John knew the one Harry wanted. They’d both seen her a hundred times in the past two days—or at least thought about her that many.
“Fuck you and fuck it,” John said.
He stood from the bed and started dressing, pulling clothes over his sweaty skin. He was dressed in a matter of minutes. He went into the desk drawer and grabbed a small knife. The blade was only about three inches long, but it would do the job. No doubt about it.
Harry looked up from his book.
A smile crept across his fat face.
Yes, he thought. Yes, yes, yes.
More, he thought.
Because there was never enough. No matter how many times, no matter how many places, no matter anything.
Harry stood up and followed John out of the room. He started whistling, though it was hard to do.
Because he couldn’t stop smiling.
Red Rain
Part I
Part III
For anyone who has ever faced addiction, and to those whose lives we harm.
1
Present Day
Harry grinned.
His smile spread wide across his face, revealing cracked, broken, and missing teeth. His gums were nearly the color of licorice, littered with tiny splits in the skin that revealed green, rotting flesh beneath. His top and bottom teeth didn’t touch—in many places because they couldn’t, but also because his smile was just too damn big—and Harry's tongue looked like some fat, swollen slug sitting in his destroyed mouth.
John stood in front of him and Harry could see the sweat dripping down the back of his neck. The Mexican weather was very different from America’s, but Harry couldn’t have given a single fuck if he had a pocket full of them. His fucks were all invested in the scenario about to take place.
John had entered what Harry thought of as the zone.
Which was another way of saying, John now channelled his inner Harry.
The woman hadn’t noticed anything amiss yet—she stood in front of an ancient Coke machine, one that only produced cans, though it looked like it might not even do that anymore. John stood maybe ten feet behind her, just outside the reach of a glowing overhead light, allowing the shadows to shield him.
John was almost ready; Harry could fucking feel it.
John wanted the woman to turn around because he wanted to see her face before she died. That’s what Harry loved so much about John—despite his holier-than-thou attitude all the damn time, he was a sick, sick puppy. He loved this, and all anyone had to do was watch him in action to understand that simple fact. No amount of holy rolling priests or group sessions with a bunch of weirdos would change it.
Come on, Harry thought. Turn around you goddamn bitch. Turn around so we can get to work.
He whispered the words inside his mind, like she might be able hear them if he thought any louder. Hearing Harry right now wouldn’t be good, though he thought John could still handle the situation if it came up.
The woman bent over and reached for the Coke that fell from inside the machine, landing in the cramped bucket at the bottom.
Harry didn’t remember a lot—it was tough going far back into his past, but he had an inkling that they once killed someone as pretty as this woman. He didn’t remember who or when or how, but something stuck out like a buoy in the distance, bobbing up and down in the waves, disappearing sometimes before reaching the surface again.
What the fuck does that matter? Harry thought.
It didn’t. Because this woman was bu-tee-full.
Long brown hair and dark, tanned skin. She wore shorts and while Harry didn’t get the primal urges of most men, he appreciated a nice pair of stems as well as the next dead guy inside a friend’s head.
Oh, yes, oh, yes! She was turning around, slowly, her eyes still on the drink as she opened the can. John didn’t look at her legs, ass, or anything but her neck—zoned in for sure.
“Go,” Harry whispered.
John moved with a speed that Harry helped hone over two decades, something that only came with practice—which Harry was a big fan of.
The woman barely heard him, her face flashing upwards, surprise in her eyes, but as John barreled forward, Harry watched surprise turn to confusion, then fear.
John grabbed her by the mouth with his left hand, clamping it closed so that her screams didn’t venture further than the glow of the light overhead. Not even the shadows would hear this woman die.
Harry stood back, watching the knife hammer down, back up, back down, back up, back down. John didn’t even know Harry was there, or maybe John was Harry? Certainly Harry didn’t know and certainly he didn’t care, either.
Blood shot out the woman’s neck, splattering John’s face and clothes. His hand was soaked, dripping the red liquid back down onto the woman’s white t-shirt. Tiny buds of red, blooming as beautiful as any flower.
Harry felt the burn in John’s arm, knew that lactic acid had spread through it and was trying to slow him down, but John wouldn't slow—not until her heart quit beating. John's muscles could burn worse than being boiled alive, and he'd keep stabbing away.
Yes. Yes, he will, Harry thought.
He’s not ready for me to leave, either. Because even if he won’t admit it, he knows we have to go back home.
Harry was good at certain things.
For his money, no one on the planet could think out a murder better than him. Like, Harry was good at that shit. He didn’t forget anything, not a single detail, but that wasn’t what made him so good (he would dare venture say great). He didn’t just remember the details; he saw everything. Where people would move before John subdued them, how they might try to scream early, so John knew the best way to approach, even how they would fall, and from there which way their blood would leak.
He was Michelangelo looking at the Sistine Chapel.
Areas existed, though, in which Harry wasn’t a master. Long term plans. He was not good at that shit. Much like he couldn’t remember a great deal of the past, things got super hazy when he started considering the future. Normally this wasn’t a problem because Harry was the type of dude that lived in the moment. The future wasn’t promised and the past was dead, so why not live it up while you can, right?
However, it could become a problem.
In fact, Harry thought his long-term planning abilities might already be a big fucking problem.
He and John could stay in Mexico, cutting up ladies outside of motel rooms, but they would eventually get caught. Harry decided he wouldn't mind that, just not down here. Not while he had the opportunity to take John home and do some real damage. Murdering people down here was all fine and dandy, but God, the sweetness that awaited if Harry could convince John to hurt …
Dare he say it?
He dared.
Diane?
Or the boys?
Oh, Jack jumped over a fucking candle stick, that sounded uh-maze-ing!
But that’s where his inability to think past five minutes in front of his face created an issue. Harry made John think whatever he wanted John to think, because John needed to put in work instead of always bitching and making up excuses. Harry knew the cops were looking hard at John and they wouldn’t simply back off because John fled the country. Which meant Harry couldn’t just tell John it was time to head back across the border, because that meant probably getting caught, and getting caught before Harry had his fun wasn’t an option.
&nbs
p; Wasn’t that big of a deal though. Harry didn’t believe in Big Deals. No, things always seemed to work out the way he wanted them to.
2
Present Day
Scott watched his daughter and daughter-in-law.
They both looked like someone threw them in a concentration camp over the past few days. Lined, thinner, and stress-filled. His son-in-law—Mark—wasn’t here yet, but would be within an hour.
The two ladies in front of him were looking for answers, but Scott couldn’t give them any. He would tell them something, but it would be a lie. Scott didn’t know exactly what to do yet, but these two weren't ready for what he had learned.
“Has anyone spoken to him?” Scott said.
Diane shook her head. “Just me. Days ago.”
“I’ve called a few dozen times myself, but it’s going straight to voicemail.”
“His phone's off,” Alicia said.
“And the cops, have they contacted anyone yet?” Scott asked.
Both shook their heads.
“That’s good. They might not know he’s gone. Probably don’t.”
“We should go to the cops, right, Scott? I mean, I know what they said, but they'll be able to help at least some. They’ll be able to help us find him.” The words poured from Diane’s mouth as if she'd held the question in since John first left.
Go to the police?
Scott had been wrestling with the same thought. They could probably help find John, but …
John did it. A cold thought, like frozen stone. The cops might help find John, but then they would probably handcuff him and cart him away with sirens blaring.
Does that mean you’re ready to dig a little deeper, Scott? To see what you refused to all these years? the voice asked, the one that came from a deep well Scott didn’t want to explore.
“I need to think about it a little more,” Scott lied, trying to buy time. “I’m not sure sending the cops after John is in anyone’s best interest right now, not until we understand everything a bit better.”
Alicia caught his eye. “Where were you?”
Scott had avoided the question, somehow, up until this point. Neither Alicia nor Diane had asked, and he didn’t volunteer anything about why his phone had been off.
“Why was your phone going to voicemail?” Alicia said in the silence, a tone in her voice that Scott hadn’t heard before.
“I had something I needed to do.”
“Was it about John?”
He knew she remembered the call right before he left—the one where he asked what happened to Vondi.
Was he going to lie to her? Had he ever before?
“No,” Scott said. “It had nothing to do with John. It was something personal that I needed to take care of.”
Alicia held his eyes for a few more seconds, and what Scott saw broke his heart. Distrust. She didn’t believe him, his baby girl. And what could he do but lie? He had to figure out John first, because if his son could be saved, then Scott had to try.
Scott lay in Diane’s back bedroom. The sun went down an hour ago and everyone was beyond exhausted. Mark came and picked up Alicia—she was sleeping at her house for the first time in days. Scott agreed to stay with Diane; she needed someone to help with the kids, to help with the whole situation, really.
Scott was in a place he didn’t understand. He had always been the leader of the family, but he operated under a guiding principle that things worked out for the best. When you viewed life like that, you also operated under a stance of openness and honesty.
Lying in the dark room, on his back, looking up at the ceiling, Scott realized that perhaps everything wouldn’t be alright. That, indeed, things might end very, very badly for him and everyone in his family. Somehow, Lori’s death hadn’t convinced him the world wasn’t always his friend, but he was finally coming around to what everyone else in his family took for granted. The world wasn’t a friendly place; it might actually be working to destroy everything good.
Scott hadn’t lied to his family before. He might not always have given all the information at once, but he always told the truth. Until today.
And now he had to solve it all. By himself.
Anger rose like a black headed serpent from some deep well. Why in God’s name would Lori hide something like this from him? Why would she run around her whole life making up stories about her mother and acting as if John was normal? NORMAL? His son was a …
Serial killer.
But don’t put all the blame on Lori, Scotty boy. Don’t you dare. Because didn’t she try to bring something up once in bed? Try to tell you that she thought something might be wrong with John? And what did you do? You put on your rose-colored glasses and dismissed the whole thing as nonsense. Didn’t you push it to the side as nothing?
Maybe. He wouldn’t lie here and deny that, but had she said—‘my mother killed a bunch of people and I think John is going to as well’? No, not even close.
There’s more, Scott … you just don’t want to hear it, the other voice said.
Scott turned on his side and looked at the dark wall.
He lay there for a few seconds before reaching beneath his pillow. He pulled out the journal, which he kept close all the time now.
What are you going to do with it, old man? You’ve read the whole thing.
True, but no one else was going to get hold of it. Not now and not ever.
Why not just burn it? Shred it? Why keep it under your pillow?
Scott didn’t need to provide an answer. He knew why. Because he hadn’t answered Lori yet.
Lori,
I almost want to write, ‘It’s Scott,’ but who else would write in this thing? You left it for me, didn’t you?
This is going to be short.
I just want you to know a few things. I love and miss you.
But, fuck you.
I’m going to handle what you refused to.
-Scott
3
Present Day
Things had … evolved for John.
John saw it and yet … didn’t.
The day after murdering the beautiful brunette, he awoke with the greatest hard-on since he was sixteen-years-old. His eyes were caked with sleep; he couldn’t remember when he last slept so well. Not in a long, long time.
Who can you find today?
John looked over to see where Harry was, as clearly he had asked the question.
Yet, he didn’t see Harry.
Don’t worry about it. Figure that out later. Who can you find today?
The question leapt up like a whack-a-mole at Chuck E Cheese’s.
John didn’t ask those questions, though. Harry did. He must be in the bathroom.
John got out of bed, his head groggy. He didn’t notice the small drops of blood freckling his hands. He opened the bathroom door expecting to see Harry on the throne, but saw only the dingy yellow light revealing a dirty and broken bathroom.
IT’S OKAY. DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT. WHO ELSE IS OUT THERE?
John closed his eyes tight and shook his head, trying to cast away the forceful thought.
Why? What’s the big deal?
And really, it wasn’t that big of a deal. None of it. Harry wasn’t here, but so what? He’d always wanted Harry gone and—
You’ve always wanted to do this, anyway.
John walked out of the bathroom and back to the main room. He looked at his pants discarded on the floor, though he had no recollection of taking them off.
There’s blood on them, he thought.
So? he wondered. Who’s going to know? Go outside and take a look around.
John looked at the pants for a few more seconds and then decided going outside wasn’t such a bad idea. He went to the clothes lying in the corner and grabbed a pair of jeans he had picked up at a local market. He threw on a t-shirt, not noticing the bloody one balled up underneath the sink.
He walked outside into the Mexican sunshine, immediately feeling the heat on his face and ar
ms. He really should have bought shorts instead of jeans, but he hadn’t been thinking clearly at the shop. He was now, though. Shorts would be a necessity if he stayed down here.
John walked over to the Coke machine, pulling a dollar out from his wallet. He remembered being here last night, though he didn’t remember much after … the work he put in. The place smelled of bleach, which made sense. John didn’t care to look around and see what else had been done. He wanted a Coke and then he wanted to check out the scenery.
Yeah, see who else is out here. Just do a little checking.
4
A Portrait of a Young Man
John saw clearly for the first time since Harry first arrived.
He was experiencing England as it should be experienced, with fresh eyes and a full heart. He experienced it as someone in love, too. And perhaps that made all the difference.
A festival fell on Saturday this year, and while John didn’t know a single thing about it, Cindy wanted him to go. He was, truth be told, pretty excited.
John stood in his dorm room in front of the mirror looking at his hair. He didn’t spend much time studying it when going out with Cindy anymore. Even though he wanted to look good for her, he knew she was here for the long haul. They still hadn’t done it, and John was starting to wonder what the long haul actually meant. He would go back to the States when he finished school and didn’t know how that would play out. Neither of them had brought it up yet, probably because neither wanted to think about it too deeply.
But John wanted to keep this, whatever they were building. He didn’t want to lose her and when she showed up at his door two months ago, demanding they stay together—he understood her feelings for him as well.
