by L E Fraser
Roger hadn’t uttered a word since she’d entered. He was shuffling his feet, and, with a soft sigh, he crossed his arms against his chest. His expression was neutral while he studiously watched the girl behind the glass. Sam knew his intense concentration was a ploy to avoid looking at her.
“Detective Alston spoke with Jennifer’s teachers,” she said. “They denied she’s capable of writing the hideous story about kidnap and torture that Brenda found. Her English skills aren’t good enough, they say. She’s fooled them.” She took a breath and wrestled with her emotions.
Roger’s shoulders stiffened but he made no comment, and uncomfortable silence hung between them. Sam couldn’t tell whether Jennifer’s mask of virtue had seduced him as well.
“Jordan’s art teacher produced samples of his work,” she said. “Experts confirm he drew the illustrations. Police identified only his fingerprints on the plastic folder that contained the story. There weren’t enough match points to compare the rest. Too smudged. The conclusion is that Jordan wrote and illustrated the despicable comic.”
Roger’s eyes didn’t move from the scene through the mirror. “Brenda remembers Jordan in the cellar, squabbling with his father,” he said. “She recalls the electricity coming back on, which was why she returned to the basement. There was a figure in rubber boots standing over Graham, but she can’t bring the face into focus. I’ve tried everything.” Regret filled his voice. “I can’t retrieve the memories. They’re gone.”
“Jordanna wasn’t lying,” Sam retorted. “She had no reason to. Jennifer murdered Graham.”
“She claims Jordan did everything.” Roger’s voice was impartial. “She was in the cellar looking for a soccer ball the day of her father’s murder. Her brother came home and accused Brenda of having an affair with me.” He swallowed hard. “Brenda stormed out and Jennifer hid in the closet. Graham slapped Jordan and enraged him. She claims she watched from the closet when her brother engaged the master switch on the fuse box and electrocuted Graham. After he shut off the power, Jordan put on the rubber boots that were at the bottom of the stairs, waded into the sewage, and held down his father’s head until he stopped moving.”
Sam knew that. Police had substantiated there were sight lines from the closet. In her interview, Jennifer had explained she went into the sewage to try to save her father. Her sister found her and misunderstood. Jennifer had been too scared of Jordan to tell Jordanna what she’d witnessed.
When they’d asked about Caitlyn’s murder, Jennifer had become distraught, claiming her sister was jealous of her relationship with her mother. Jordanna had assumed the role of mother, and it infuriated her when Jennifer turned to Caitlyn. Jennifer wouldn’t accuse her sister of murder. At the suggestion, she became hysterical and a doctor had to sedate her.
“She’s lying.” Sam felt so detached that her voice sounded dim to her own ears, as if it originated in a tunnel. “She knows how to manipulate the neuropsychology tests.” A wave of heat engulfed her, and sweat trickled down her back to the waist of her jeans. “She’s lying about everything.”
“Her story is consistent, Sam.” Roger’s tone was supremely condescending. “She has a reasonable explanation for everything. Jennifer hasn’t diverted once from her version of the truth.” He turned to face her and raised his hand to ward off her objection. “I know you believe Jordanna told you the truth, but do the police have any evidence to connect Jennifer to Caitlyn’s murder?”
“No,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “Rachel Harris insists Jennifer was with her at a church event. She’s admitted she went behind Graham’s back and allowed Jennifer to visit with Caitlyn over the past three years. According to Rachel, Jennifer and her mother had a wonderful relationship. Rachel told police Jennifer is a good Christian girl and incapable of violence.”
Sam clenched her fists at her sides. Blood rushed to her face and her heartbeat quickened in response to her anger. “Her friends from bible study signed statements that Jennifer was at the church the night Caitlyn died.”
“So she didn’t kill her,” Roger stated. “She has an alibi. You have to let this go and leave it to the professionals.”
Sam grunted. “The naive church women lied to protect a teenage girl they believe authorities are using as a scapegoat. A child who lost her entire family to violence. A girl who stood helpless and terrified while police gunned down her eighteen-year-old sister.”
The police had found Jordanna’s school pin on the lapel of her cheerleader sweater. They hadn’t found her brother’s pin, but they did find a white shirt with a torn collar and bloodstains hidden in the back of his closet. DNA matched the blood to Caitlyn.
They’d found Jordan’s fingerprints on a shovel in Caitlyn’s garage and on the plastic tarp that he’d wrapped her body in before dumping it in the grave. The direct evidence convinced the Attorney General that Jordan Harris murdered Caitlyn Franklyn and Graham Harris. Case closed.
Sam had spent hours trying to convince the authorities that although he disposed of the body, Jordan had not killed his mother. The more insistent she was, the more Detective Alston looked at her with pity. Now he didn’t return her calls.
From the corner of her eye, she felt Roger staring at her. She couldn’t look at him.
“Doctor Weinstein is one of the best child psychiatrists in North America,” he said with confidence. “She has experience working with juvenile sociopaths and psychopaths. Jennifer won’t be able to trick her.”
“She’s doing a fine job, so far.”
Even though Jennifer couldn’t see them, Sam experienced a creepy sensation that the girl knew they were watching.
“Maladaptive patterns of behaviour that impair social functioning originate within the gardens of childhood,” she said. “After their grandmother’s murder, doctors should have been involved. The Harris children could have been stopped.” The bitterness was sour in her mouth.
Roger shrugged. “Without a parent advocating or co-paying, it’s not a surprise that people missed the signs of antisocial disorder. An aging population is crippling the Canadian health care system. You know that. Mental health has taken a backseat because of limited resources.”
A mistake that would continue to prevent the detection of pre-existing psychiatric disorders in children and put society at risk. Sam realized she had the premise for her thesis.
“How are you doing?” Roger asked. “Should I be worried?” His expression betrayed the fact that he was already worried about her psychological well-being.
“No one’s going to stop her.” A hard ball of hate took up residence in her gut. “She’s going to get away with everything.”
Roger sighed and turned back to the glass. “Doctor Weinstein recommended an inpatient program. Jennifer will be confined for at least two more months.”
“What happens then?” Sam asked. The repugnant, singsong verse that never stopped playing in her head for more than an hour at a time began again.
Red rover, red rover, I call Sam on over. See the blood on Sam’s face, as her skin’s carved to lace. See her look of surprise, as she painfully dies. Red rover, red rover, I call Sam on over.
“Brenda sold the farm to a land developer,” Roger was saying. “She’s giving Jennifer her siblings’ proceeds of the sale. There’s a trust that holds the money until Jennifer’s twenty-one. Rachel Harris is the trustee. Brenda wants nothing to do with the girl.”
“Why twenty-one? Shouldn’t she have access at eighteen?” Sam asked, trying to hide her bitterness. The girl would be a millionaire. A murderous, psychopathic millionaire.
“That’s the best Brenda and her lawyers could do. Rachel can release education funds and plans to send Jennifer to a private prep school to prepare for university.” He sighed. “If it’s any consolation, Brenda agrees with you. It’s her hope professionals will identify Jennifer’s mental illness and rule her as a risk to society before she turns eighteen.”
“How likely is that?” she asked. “Psy
chopaths can pass lie detectors and manipulate test results. They’re brilliant, charming chameleons.” Her jaw clenched while she stared through the glass at the monster on the other side. “She’s the best I’ve ever seen.”
Jennifer and the doctor had moved to a round table with art supplies. The teenager was drawing a picture. A large yellow sun on a purple horizon and pink and gold streaks across a navy sky over a still blue lake lined with pretty trees. An innocuous sketch by a stable adolescent. In and of itself, that struck Sam as ominous. Jennifer had lost both of her parents to violence, had witnessed her sister shot, and had seen her brother’s bloody corpse.
“If there’s anything to find, Doctor Weinstein will break through to the truth. Trust me.” Roger’s tone was dismissive. “Let’s go.” He held open the door. “Coming?”
“In a minute,” she said.
After Roger left, the doctor glanced at the door to the room she shared with Jennifer. She said something and Jennifer nodded, smiling up at the doctor. Dr. Weinstein left the room and Jennifer continued to draw. A moment later, she lifted the coloured pencil from the paper and her head swivelled. She stared at the mirror that separated her and Sam. All the pretence disappeared from her face, leaving nothing but malevolence and evil.
“You can fool them, but you’ll never fool me,” Sam whispered to the glass. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
Epilogue
THEN THERE WAS one. I let my thoughts drift as they did in the past. I remember the feel of my sister’s hands when she braided my hair and hear my brother’s guffawing laughter from the backyard. It doesn’t bother me, the fact they’re gone. They served their purpose.
When I first arrived here, I didn’t believe someone was always watching. I’d treat myself to the special memories and free my fermenting imagination. The rush of anticipation when blood slithers between my fingers and cascades across my wrists. My omniscient power when a victim’s eyes first register fear. The way my heart quickens when life fades. That empty gaze of death confirms we are all just lumps of soulless meat.
Once, Dr. Weinstein caught me reminiscing. She’d entered with stealth to spy. Reliving the pleasant memories had painted my face with angelic joy. She had spoken with suspicion, asking me what was on my mind. I affixed the auspicious, vulnerable mask I wear so well and opened my eyes. With spontaneous ease, they filled with tears and I jutted my lower lip to a trembling pout.
“I was remembering,” I said and started to weep. “I was at the beach with Daddy, Mom, Jordan, and Jordanna. It was such a lovely day.”
I witnessed doubt in her bovine eyes, and so I held out a nugget of progress to appease her. I offered an expression of survivor guilt I knew her archaic therapy methods were endeavouring to coax to the foreground.
“It’s so hard to remember them. I feel so bad that I’m still here.” I sniffled. “What Jordan and Jordanna did was awful but I still love them.” I howled. “I miss my parents so much.”
We talked, and I spoon-fed her responses she wanted to hear. Careful, always careful to play the proper psychological victim until the game shifts and the time is right.
I understand the signs she’s watching for and what she wants. My cognitive understanding of her and her methodology outweighs her comprehension of me. What she fails to grasp is we’re all different. There are many of us among you, but we have unique styles and abilities. Professionals will never learn the key to identifying us, because there isn’t one. We will always be two steps ahead. We are smarter. Our survival instincts are stronger.
Dr. Weinstein left my room that day with a smug expression that made me smile behind her back. It’s almost too easy. I will dole out my recovery in tiny morsels. I will regress to darkness and race back to the light under her skilled guidance. Before I turn eighteen, I will convince her of my recovery. She will write a paper on her brilliant treatment. I will be free.
Dr. Weinstein almost catching me for what I truly am taught me the necessity of diligence. Someone is always watching. They lurk behind the mirrors and hover in shadowy corners. They wait for the mask to slip and for me to show my true face. But I know the tricks to the tests they administer.
Hidden beneath this shell of an average teenage girl, my intellect is superior. I will change my mood at a moment’s notice. I’ll befriend the other girls and flirt with the boys. I will cry from a purported broken heart and exhibit appropriate remorse and emotions. I will ask Dr. Weinstein for news of celebrities and fashion trends. I will test a notch above average but never too high for them to suspect manipulation. I will win the game. I always do.
I can hear kids crying at night. Some scream and rage against the walls. But one boy understands the game. We rarely speak. We exchange clandestine gazes from across the room. We recognize each other and long to be together.
“Someday,” he whispered to me when I passed him in the hallway last night, “we’ll hunt together.”
The End
Acknowledgements
NOTHING WOULD BE possible without the support and skill of my editor, Sadie Scapillato, and my proofreader, Elizabeth West.
Mike Doyle did a fantastic job on the cover, and I owe him a debt of gratitude.
Thanks to US Author Joseph Hirsch for critique partnering and to Paula Henderson for beta-reading.
Fuzzy hugs to my husband and sons for putting up with me. It isn’t easy to live with someone who spends hours researching monsters. If society doesn’t pay attention to mental health, I fear we’re going to see a lot more of them.
Most of all, thank you for reading Red Rover, Perdition Games. I appreciate the time you invested. I’m requesting a bit more kindness by asking you to write a review on Amazon and Goodreads to offer your feedback. Good or bad, your opinion is priceless, and I hope you catch me on social media.
Haven’t read Simon Says, Perdition Games yet? Turn the page to read the first chapter.
Thank you,
Lori
www.perditiongames.com
Twitter: @perditiongames
Facebook: perditiongamesseries
SIMON SAYS
Perdition Games
By L.E. Fraser
Reviewers say…
5* The prefect thriller, with a number of ups and downs.
5* This is a must read!
5* …forward moving, fast paced plot…
5* This is not a novel you can predict throughout.
5* Incredible writing and editing.
Prologue
Where will you be when the sun sets in the sky,
when the children’s games are done and all their laughter dies?
When the Pacific Loon finally takes to flight,
which saviour will you bribe to stand guard throughout the night?
The emaciated wolves bay at your door.
Have you travelled far from Babylon, my virgin whore?
Hear their heartbeats through the silence of the woods.
They howl for you, my child, and they wait where you once stood.
L.E. Fraser
* * *
SYLVIA SHOVED THE hem of her sackcloth robe into the twine around her waist. Her heart was racing, and, every time she tried to breathe, there was a stabbing pain in her chest. She ran.
Thorns sliced open the vulnerable skin of her arms, and she swiped her right hand against the sharp twigs to try to protect her face. Blood dripped from the end of the middle finger on her left hand where the detached nail hung to the bed by a string of bloody tissue. Still, she ran.
Without warning, a piercing pain shot through her chest. Her stomach convulsed and bloody vomit spewed from between her cracked lips. She stumbled and choked on the blood that ran down her throat. She stopped running.
From directly behind her, she heard a pitiful whimper and a soft swishing sound, like air escaping from a balloon. The noise of breaking branches was intrusive in the dark forest. She froze and waited in fear, expecting to hear the gleeful shouts of their pursuers.
Af
ter a moment of absolute silence, she whispered through the darkness, “Get up, Mandy, we have to keep moving.”
“I can’t.”
She leaned down and felt around the rough ground until she hit flesh. She ran her fingers along the girl’s forearm, grasped Mandy’s thin wrist and pulled hard. The body barely shifted. “We can’t stay here.”
“I can’t run any further.”
Mandy was making little meowing sounds that broke Sylvia’s heart. If they rested, he’d catch them. They couldn’t give up. They were too close to freedom. She took a deep breath. “The road is at the top of the escarpment, we can make it.”
“I can’t,” Mandy repeated through her tears.
Sylvia sat down hard, and her knee smashed against a boulder. Agony shot across her kneecap, and a spasm seized her calf muscle, forcing her to bite on her tongue to keep from crying out in pain. Shuddering tremors ran down her legs. She curled into a fetal position on the ground beside Mandy and wept in pain and frustration.
She was twenty-eight and had volunteered to be Mandy’s mentor when the sixteen-year-old had arrived at the sanctuary six months earlier. When she made the decision to try to escape, she took her protegé with her. Now, the responsibility weighed heavily on her shoulders.
They’d left just before ten o’clock at night, and she’d struck the sentry with a plank stolen from the lumberyard. Fear had weakened her grip and coated her hands in sweat. The club slipped at the point of impact, and her blow had barely slowed the man’s attack. He’d thrown her to the ground, hurled aside her weapon, and savagely kicked her. He would have killed her, but Mandy had grabbed the makeshift club and bludgeoned the man. Together, the women had dragged him to the side of the shed, but Sylvia couldn’t commit murder. That was her first mistake. They would discover him. Mussani would know what she’d done, and there would be no mercy if he caught them.
“Go on without me,” Mandy whispered.
She dug deep to find the strength to go on and slowly sat up, groaning in pain. “We stay together. It’s our only chance. Get up.” The desperate words echoed loudly through the forest, and she pressed together her split lips. She could see Mandy’s eyes shining with fear.
