by Paul Seiple
Bill Ash took a cup of coffee from the counter.
"Try not to spill this one, Bill." The girl smiled.
"Can't make no promises. But I'll try. On a cop's salary I can't keep affording to waste these." Bill pointed the cup at the girl.
Art exhaled with enough force to blow a napkin from the table. "She's friends with Michael's partner?"
George smiled. "No, sir. She's his niece."
Seven
Jogging usually helped to chase away the demons. The greenery surrounding the dirt trail hid the evil. The life of a homicide detective was a constant run-in with the plague of society. Being an insomniac who kills people in his dreams made me a symptom of the disease, not the cure. The lack of sleep, the doubt of who I really was, made it hard to trust myself. I made a promise to myself when I quit drinking to live a healthier lifestyle. Giving up soda? Not a problem. Red meat? That's another story. Working out five days a week, I was in pretty good shape — much better than my partner. With my height and Bill's weight, we were probably looked at as a crime fighting Abbott and Costello. Come to think of it, Bill bore an uncanny resemblance to Lou Costello, with a mustache of course.
After a dream, the runs were longer and harder. I pushed myself beyond the point of exhaustion; almost catching death who I hoped had at least a fifty-year head start on me. When I jogged, I was the victim trying to escape the killer. A vicious circle of psychological torment. It doesn't matter how fast you are, you'll never be able to outrun yourself. Many times I'd stop to vomit along the side of the trail. It was as close as I could get to an exorcism for the malevolence that possessed my sleep.
On this morning, a slight mist blanketed the trail, painting the landscape with an ominous film usually reserved for Stephen King novels, but I could see a woman — the killer behind her, laughing as she pleaded for her life. I closed my eyes. She was on her knees in front of me. Her eyes bloodshot from tears, black streaks of mascara smeared across her cheeks. Her face was pale. Her shoulder-length brown hair, flattened by sweat, clung to her forehead. Death was there to collect. I opened my eyes, stopped running, and vomited. Not being able to save them left a burning pit in my stomach. It wouldn't end with Ashley's death. He was just getting started. I threw up again.
"Are you OK?"
Bent over with my hands on my knees and my breakfast splattering the dirt around my feet like a first time artist's stab at impressionism; I didn't have the energy to look up. "Yeah, I should have waited longer after eating," I said between coughs.
"It happens to the best of us, especially when we eat that big of a breakfast. Hungry boy, were we?"
Jogging in place in front of me was a slim brunette. The sun reflected off her pink jumpsuit reminding my eyes, with a dull ache, that they were tired and weak. Maybe a mirage. People dying of thirst usually see an oasis that isn't there. Maybe I was seeing a beautiful woman who wasn't the least bit put off by my deconstructed bacon and eggs. "I guess so." I smiled and wiped my chin hoping she wouldn't fade away.
"I'm Maggie." She stuck out her hand. "Shake with the other hand." She smiled.
"Michael."
I shook her hand. Dizziness connected with the side of my face, like a prizefighter's right jab, causing my knees to buckle. A familiarity haunted me. I knew Maggie. She was the second woman murdered in my dreams. The woman who not five minutes ago, was on her knees in front of me pleading for her life.
"You OK? You look like you might puke again." Maggie put her hand on my shoulder but stepped to the side just out of the line of fire.
I put my hands on my knees and dry-heaved. Contrary to the burning that tickled my throat, there was nothing left to expel. I closed my eyes and saw Maggie's abduction.
She was leaving work. He was propped against a street pole — watching — waiting for her to be at her most vulnerable. When Maggie opened the car door and sat a bag on the back seat, he struck. Pushing her to the seat and shutting the door. Her mouth opened to scream, but there was silence. The next image was Maggie, lifeless, eyes propped open by a glaze of terror. Her brown hair held streaks of crimson and was matted to the side of her face.
I dry heaved again but managed to get a few words out between coughs. "Don't go to work tonight. Call in sick."
"Excuse me?"
"Don't go to work tonight, Maggie. Something bad will happen."
Maggie backed away. "You're delirious. Go see a doctor."
"I don't need a doctor. Call in sick. Don't go to the hospital." My voice was raspy like a lifelong smoker. My throat, an open sore, drowning in a sea of salt.
"Hospital?"
Meeting Maggie in person triggered more information. There were no holes in the crime any longer. He would take her after her night shift at Memorial. He would murder her less than an hour later after taking pleasure in her begging to be saved.
"You're an RN at Winston Memorial." I cleared my throat and spit bile. "Maggie, please don't go to work tonight."
"How the hell do you know me? Are you stalking me?" Maggie didn't wait for an answer. She ran and didn't look back.
"Don't go to work," I whispered before dry heaving again and falling to my knees.
The rain made it nearly impossible to see anyone leave the employee entrance. I sat in my car waiting. Death would come soon for Maggie. In the dreams, I never saw the hospital, just a dark, rainy night. The nurses' outfit wasn't clear. The dreams were mostly out of focus. Meeting her gave me the slightest hope that I could save her. Save her from myself?
The sound of rain against the rooftop of the Cutlass produced a methodical rhythm similar to a snare drum. I battled heavy eyelids as the rain seduced me with the promise of peaceful sleep. A lie from a good actor that almost had me believing. I was long out of coffee. I didn't have much fight left. I stared into the empty cup trying to will more coffee. My mind drifted to Maggie. Was she married? Did she have children? The only thing I knew for sure was that she would die at the hands of the killer. The apex of the dreams was the murder. As life faded away so did the vision. There was no need to get to know the victim — just a violent one-night-stand. I needed to stay awake just a while longer. Early morning light would soon fight its way through the darkness. I'd have a clear shot of Maggie leaving. Exhaustion hid the fact from me that in the dreams the killer took Maggie before dawn's light.
Something shadowed the glow from a street post causing the empty cup to disappear in darkness. "The door's opening." I dropped the cup on the floorboard which was littered with candy wrappers and a fast food bag. Stakeouts weren't the best places to practice a healthy diet. I grabbed the door handle, ready to fling it open and scream out to Maggie as he appeared from behind the bushes.
All for nothing. It was just a security guard doing an hourly walkthrough.
Eight
"I'm telling you, Jackie, it was so weird. I've never seen this guy before. He knew I worked here?"
"Was he hot?"
"He was creepy." Maggie paused and smiled. "And kinda hot."
"Maybe he was a patient at some point." Jackie smirked. "Or maybe he is a serial killer waiting for you outside right now." The redhead laughed and put away a patient's chart.
"You're such a bitch." Maggie let a smile seep through a stern look. "And to think, nurses are supposed to be comforting."
"My comfort skipped out a few hours ago when the old bastard in 215 kept trying to grab my ass. I'm not positive he has Alzheimer's. He sure as hell can remember my ass. But how could you forget it?" Jackie bent over and pointed to her backside.
"Since you look so easy, maybe he just forgets that you tell him not to touch." Maggie chuckled. "You do tell him not to touch, right?"
"Screw you."
Maggie's laughter grew louder. "I'm kidding. I know what you mean. Last night he tried to show me how his 'little soldier' could still salute the red and white flag, which was what he'd mistaken my uniform for."
Jackie grinned. "And you didn't take him up on it? How unpatriotic of you. Besides, I thought al
l women loved shriveled dick." She filed another chart. "At least that's what I keep telling myself when my boyfriend walks around naked." She turned back to Maggie. "When's the last time you got laid anyway?"
"None of your business. Can we get back to my stalker?"
"Your first problem is you say stalker like that's a bad thing. I like my stalkers. I think of them as minions for the evil queen. You should be flattered."
"Well, I'm not a freak, Jackie."
"And that's your second problem."
Maggie shook her head and placed a clipboard on the nurse's desk.
"Maggie, if you're really worried about it, just leave with me. If someone is waiting for you, they'll be in the employee parking lot."
"Thanks, but how can you protect me. Aren't you like five-foot nothing?"
"I'm tough, but that's irrelevant. I'm parked in the visitors' lot."
"Haven't you gotten in trouble for that before?"
"Yeah. But fuck em. It's raining."
Her shift ended fifteen minutes ago. All Maggie could think about was her bed — the plush comforter and soft pillows. Heaven. Mentally, she was exhausted. She wanted nothing more than to fall into her bed and have Phil Donahue whisper sweet nothings to her as he lectured someone about what they were doing wrong in their relationship. But she had to wait. Jackie was late as usual. Probably flirting with another nurse.
Maggie paced in the visitors' lounge. She paused between steps to rapidly tap her foot against the linoleum floor. Her body language gave mixed signals that could only mean one of two things — Maggie had to pee or she was irritated. If it was the former, the water pelting against the windows couldn't have helped the situation.
"Been waiting long?" Jackie raced to the door.
"Seriously, Jackie, aren't you here long enough as it is?"
"Give me a break. That new nurse is cute."
Maggie grabbed her bag from a chair and walked through the automatic door without saying a word.
"Shit, I left my keys. I'll be right back."
"Dammit, Jackie. Hurry. I need to get home."
Maggie stood at the edge of patient drop-off, just out of the swaying sheets of rain. The run-off from the tin roof started to hypnotize her. A sudden tap on her shoulder brought her back.
"Jackie, I swear to Go…"
Her voice went silent when she saw him. His face — familiar — but not as pale as she remembered. His eyes were different. They were blue, now, almost black. A sign of the evil that reached inside Maggie and stole her sense of security.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
From the corner of his eye, he saw Jackie walking toward the door. Walking backwards as she flirted with a security guard on his way for an hourly check.
"There will be plenty of time for small talk later," he said, before hitting Maggie on the temple with a crowbar. Not hard enough to kill her, just enough force to ensure that she wouldn't put up a fight. He picked up her limp body, took her behind a brick wall near the dumpsters, and tossed her into the trunk of his car.
Something tickled Maggie's forehead. The sensation trickled down the corner of her eye leaving a trail of wetness. She was bleeding. She couldn't wipe it away. Her wrists were bound with nylon cord. Her vision, blurry from the blow, cleared just enough for her to see his tall shadow.
"Why are you doing this to me?"
He turned. Maggie saw the knife in his hands. She screamed. He screamed with her before his shriek turned into a low, guttural laugh. "Scream all you want. No one will hear you."
Maggie squirmed. She twisted. The nylon cut into her ankles which were attached to a hook. He slid a metal chair across the concrete floor. The screeching drowned out Maggie's plea, now only a whimper.
"Sounds like nails down a chalk board, doesn't it?" He pushed the chair closer to the picnic table and took a seat. "Be careful. Move too much and you might get a splinter or two." He ran the tip of the blade along the sole of her barefoot. For the first time, Maggie felt the wood. She was bound to the table. He carved something into a plank next to her ankle.
"You ever read the Bible?"
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"You mean you don't know?" He jabbed the point of the knife into the wood next to her thigh.
"I don't know you." Maggie sniffled. "This morning was the first time I've ever seen you."
"This morning? You haven't dreamed of me?"
"You're a fucking psycho. I haven't dreamed of you. I'd never seen you until the trail. How the hell do you know me?"
George laughed. "You must have met Michael. I hear he looks a lot like me. But I think I'm cuter. Don't you?" George didn't wait for an answer. "You're the girl of my dreams. You weren't hard to find. The glow is a dead giveaway."
"The glow? What the hell are you talking about? Just let me go." Maggie wiggled. The cord dug deeper into her wrists sending a tingle through her fingers. A splinter of wood pricked her bare ass.
"You don't know, do you?"
"Know what?" Maggie's voice was barely audible from the crying.
"You don't know what you are? Have you read the Bible?"
George pulled the knife from the table and started carving again.
"Yes, I've read the fucking Bible."
George chuckled. "I wonder what God would say if he heard his child speak like that?"
Maggie screamed and jerked, trying to free herself. She didn't care if she lost a limb doing so. Her wrists started to burn. She kept moving. More chips of wood used her flesh as a pin cushion. George stopped carving and placed the point of the knife against Maggie's pale thigh. "Another came forth, a red horse," he said, piercing the skin. She winced. Blood gushed onto the picnic table. George stuck his fingers into the blood, then lifted his hand, and smeared the crimson between his fingertips. "My red horse," he said, laughing. "To him who sat on it was given power to take peace from earth." George held the knife over Maggie's stomach, letting blood drip and pool in her bellybutton. "I'm that power."
"Oh my God. You're insane. I'm going to die."
"Don't think of it that way. I'm sparing you the torture that I will wreak on this world."
George placed both hands on the knife and stood over Maggie.
"No!"
"In your honor, Father, I set this child free."
Nine
I woke to the sound of chirping — an annoying monotone beep. I opened my eyes to a blinding, unrelenting sun beaming through my windshield. My knees, stiff from being in the car so long, ached like those of an eighty-year-old man. Shit. I fell asleep. I missed Maggie. The non-stop chirping was the alarm on my watch, which read 7:30am. I silenced the tone. I was supposed meet Bill at seven to try to round up a suspect in a drug deal gone wrong. I needed to call him. I drove to the Shop-N-Go which was right around the corner from the hospital.
"Where are you, Mike?"
"Home. I took your advice, but I overslept. I'm on my way now."
"There's been a kidnapping at Memorial."
"Kidnapping?"
"A nurse went missing. There's blood outside patient drop-off. Another nurse said something about a stalker. Doesn't look good. You didn't get another letter did you?"
"What? No, I haven't gotten anything else."
"Meet me there," Bill said.
It takes fifteen minutes to get to Memorial from my apartment. Less than five from the Shop-N-GO. And about ten from the precinct. If I beat Bill there, he would know I was lying. I sat in the parking lot listening to the voice in my head telling me, "You can't save any of them."
News vans lined the sidewalk. Crowds gathered outside the yellow tape which looked like a web spun by a drunk spider. Murder wasn't new to Winston Salem. We had about fifteen a year. Mostly domestics and drug cases. Kidnapping — that's a different story. Reporters weaved through the crowd, like an angry swarm of hornets, talking to anyone who looked in the know. Chaos circled the hospital like a funnel cloud. I recognized the irony. A storm was coming.
&nb
sp; I stepped out of the Cutlass and rubbed my slacks, a makeshift ironing job to get rid of the wrinkles. Maybe no one will recognize it's the same suit I wore yesterday. I was tieless. That would be a red flag. I always wore a tie. Something my father taught me long ago about making a professional impression.
"Excuse me, Detective Callahan, do you think the woman is still alive?" the tall blonde bullied her way through the crowd and stuck her microphone in my face, banging it against my chin. "Sorry."
I pushed the microphone away and kept walking. With her long legs, the reporter matched me stride for stride.
"Do you know who she is yet?"
I stopped and turned to her. I saw Maggie Hoover standing in front of me in a pink jumpsuit, smiling and jogging in place. I shook my head just as someone would do who had his bell rung. The image faded like a dying light bulb. I didn't say a word and slid underneath the police tape.
"Over here, Mike."
Julius Armstrong, a take no shit, veteran detective, with shoulders broad enough to play linebacker for the Cowboys, stood next to a redhead nurse and a rail-thin security guard. He motioned at me with his pocket notebook. "Mike, this is Jackie Brand. She says the victim's name is…"
In my mind I cut him off. It's Maggie Hoover.
"Maggie Hoover," Julius said.
"Where's Bill?" I asked.
"He hasn't gotten here yet."
That was strange when I talked to Bill, he gave the impression he was on his way. He should have beat me here. Where was he last night? Should I get a sample of his handwriting? These questions were insane. Bill was my partner. I trusted him with my life. I focused on Jackie. Her eyes were blood red and watery. She was short, but carried herself in a way that gave off a tough woman vibe. She wiped away the smears of mascara.
"So, tell me what happened, Miss Brand?"
"I forgot my keys and told Maggie to wait for me. She complained all night about a man stalking her yesterday. I didn't think anything of it." Jackie fought back another wave of tears. "I shouldn't have left her."
