by Nolon King
They moved to the side, waiting for their food as Howard stepped up to place his order.
Two True Americans, a large fry, and two large Cokes.
He heard the girls giggling as they filled their drinks at the station, could feel them looking at him, probably making fun of his unhealthy order.
“Oh, my God, could you imagine?” one of them said.
Imagine what? Screwing me?
Bitches.
He got his cups then walked over to the beverage dispenser.
The brunette stood in his way, pretending not to see him as she sipped her soda and talked to her friend.
“Excuse me,” he said.
She looked back and up at him before moving without a word.
The cashier called them to pick up their order. As the girls got their food, Howard filled the first cup with ice and Coke. He put on the lid then set it aside. One Coke for now and another for later. While he filled the second, the girls sat at a table near the front. When the cashier announced his order was up, he slapped a lid on his second drink then grabbed both cups.
On his way to the counter, one of the lids slipped off. He tried to right it, but the cup slipped from his hand. In an instinctive attempt to catch it before it hit the floor and made a mess, Howard also lost his hold on the second cup.
They hit the ground and exploded, spraying soda and ice all over his pants and the floor.
The girls burst into laughter.
“What a fucking loser,” one of them said.
Howard was burning hot, panic swelling inside him. If anything else happened, he was going to lose his shit.
He looked at the cashier behind the counter, who looked annoyed at the mess she would have to clean up.
His face grew hotter. His hands began to tremble. He had to get out. Now.
Howard didn’t even wait for his food. Instead, he rushed through the doors then out to his van, the sound of the girls laughing like the soundtrack to his nightmares playing behind him.
He closed his eyes inside the van. Turned the engine, cranked the AC.
Relax.
Just relax.
Howard wished he had his mask, but he never brought it to work. He only wore it at home or when peeping through windows. He’d have to get calm on his own.
They’d shaken him from the confidence he managed to carry at work, and he hated them for it. If he didn’t calm down, he’d be a stumbling, bumbling mess when he got to his next call.
He counted backward from fifty until he felt a little calmer. Then he opened his eyes and turned on the radio. Voices crackled as the station’s signal got lost in static.
Howard heard a voice, the one he’d known since he was a teenager.
Mister K was the something that had been missing from his life, the something that promised to give him the answers he so desperately needed.
“Hello, Howard.”
Even now, the deep, distorted voice still unnerved him.
With a tremble even evident in his words, he said, “Hello?”
“Why do you let them mock you? Laugh at you?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. If you refuse to command their respect, then you are not worthy of my knowledge.”
“Please,” Howard said, too aware he was groveling and Mister K hated his weakness. “I will command respect.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Next time I’ll say something.”
“Next time? Yes, I suppose you can wait until next time to stand up for yourself and be a man.” Laughter got lost in the static. It sounded like his mother, but that was impossible.
He felt ashamed, insignificant, and small. “It’s too late to do anything about it now.”
Silence. Then the radio resumed the talk show, and Mister K was gone.
Howard had disappointed the entity.
He hated himself even more.
Sitting in the van, he glared at the entrance to Sloppy’s, the girls’ laughter echoing in his mind.
He should have stood up for himself.
Howard watched as the doors opened. The girls came out carrying drinks and chatting as they walked toward a white Ford Fiesta. Of course they didn’t notice him sitting in his van. They were too self-absorbed in themselves and their phones.
They didn’t seem to notice him as he followed their car out of the lot. Nor did they seem to notice him as he pulled up behind them at their gated community.
Of course they didn’t.
After they used their key card to get through security gate, Howard waited long enough so they wouldn’t notice him following but moved fast enough to pass through before the panel swung shut.
He trailed them through the parking lot as they made their way to Building 10 in the back of the complex. When they parked, Howard kept driving, slowly, keeping an eye on them as they got out of their Fiesta then walked to their first-floor apartment. He noted the number for another time.
He would return to command their respect and prove himself worthy.
Chapter 7 - Jasper Parish
Jasper realized something on his third day in the hall — he needed to be around people.
Odd, given he’d been virtually alone ever since Jordyn’s death. He’d felt alone most of his life, except for when had a wife and then a daughter. But even though Jordyn was gone, she had visited him countless times, along with Carissa and his old mentor, Lenny Barnes.
Until prison.
The forced medications kept them away and made him truly alone. He had to pay for his sins, for the deaths of innocents and Spider’s coma. He needed to be punished. But hadn’t thought through this part of his imprisonment.
Now Jordyn, Carissa, and Lenny were gone.
There was some debate as to whether they visited him or were manifestations of his altered personalities. Shrinks thought they were all in his head. Jasper thought something else.
He wasn’t sure if they were ghosts, echoes of energy left behind, or something else he couldn’t understand. But he didn’t think they were in his head. That was a narrow viewpoint. Unexplainable phenomena didn’t mean impossible. His psychic abilities shouldn’t exist, yet he routinely predicted events that nobody could randomly guess. Jasper could win the lottery for Mallory Black and place enough bets to make a nice little nest egg to fund his vigilante activities.
Unexplainable, sure, but he refused to believe his relationship with Jordyn was gone. He couldn’t access her in a medicated state and needed to do something about that.
But what?
The guards were assholes when it came to forcing his meds. He might be able to occasionally fool one of them, but there were never more than a couple of days in a row without one of them shoving gloved fingers into his mouth to prove that he’d swallowed them.
The hole wasn’t all that different from his usual pod, save for a few differences. It had its own shower that was turned on for ten minutes every other day. Had only one bunk instead of two. And there was the undiluted loneliness broken only by the two meals that came through a slot in the door and some face time while he was forced to take his pills.
Jasper paced and tried to steer his mind from the void that threatened to swallow him. Instead of dwelling on the pills and what they did to his mind, he focused on his body and every step he took.
But that only worked if he kept moving. And no matter how fit a man was, he couldn’t walk forever.
After just three days, he was desperate for contact. It shouldn’t be so easy to break a man.
You were already broken, dumbass.
The thought was his, but it came in Lenny’s voice.
Jasper looked around the pod, but he saw only the same four fucking walls. The lights would soon die for the night, plunging him into a darkness that felt eternal in the hole, leaving him alone with his thoughts and regrets.
Hell.
He listened, waiting for another message. If he could hear Lenny, maybe Jordyn would be
next. Carissa might finally talk to him again. But how could he convince his jailers to not medicate him? How could he get them to break the rules? What was in it for them?
A buzzing preceded the release of locks.
“Stay on your bunk,” Hernandez said.
Jasper sat and waited.
Hernandez entered for the second night in a row.
“You get transferred to Mac duty?” Jasper asked, making a light attempt at conversation.
He held out a gloved hand with the cup of pills. “Open up, Mac.”
It was the first indication Hernandez was aware of his true identity. Only the warden, and perhaps a few other higher-ups, were supposed to know. But Kenn called him out on being a cop, and Hernandez seemed to know something, as well.
“I need to ask you something.”
“Come on, I got shit to do,” Hernandez said.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yeah, prisoner oh-four-six-seven—”
“You know who I am and what I did. Right?”
“You gonna tell me you’re not guilty or some shit? Or threaten me?” He looked about ten seconds from drawing his baton.
“I’m psychic. You heard that, right?”
Hernandez stared at him, impatiently waiting for Jasper to find his point.
He had to rush through the next part, telling the corrections officer how he was able to know that Jessi Price was in danger, how he knew other men he’d admitted to killing had done what they’d done, even after getting away with their crimes. It was a lot to get through, and Jasper had to rush, thoroughly botching it and coming off like a desperate lunatic.
“So, what’s your point? You want me to treat you special because you killed bad guys? You’re still a killer.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“What do you want? You’re on my last nerve.”
“I can help you.”
Hernandez rolled his eyes. “Open up and take your meds.”
“Let me go a couple days, maybe three, and I guarantee I can help you.”
“Help me with what?”
“I can’t access my abilities while I’m on the meds, so I don’t know yet.”
“I don’t need your help. Now, take your meds. Or I’m gonna make it difficult.”
Jasper swallowed his pills.
Hernandez left, the door buzzed and locked, then the lights went out, casting Jasper into another dark and lonely night.
A regular thought came calling.
Maybe it would have been better if Kenn had just killed me.
Chapter 8 - Mallory Black
Claude Barry leaned back in his huge desk with his gaudy cowboy boots propped up on it like he was the redneck king of Creek County instead of its sheriff. The man was tall with broad shoulders and a long face, big ears and droopy jowls to match his low hanging eyes. The aged spawn of a Bulldog and a human.
Mike was bringing him up to speed on the Alice Shaw case. Mal and Skippy stood silently behind him.
“So, you’re sayin’ we got some Satanist serial killer out there? What the fuck?”
“I don’t know if he’s a Satanist, per se,” Mike said. “I’ve put in a call to a professor from University of Florida to ask him to look at some of the symbols carved into the body. We’re also reviewing security footage from the library, but they only keep back-ups for a week, so I’m not counting on anything. No prints or anything from the book itself.”
“And have you informed the girl’s mother yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Mal, you handle that while the boys go and talk to the people around that church and whatnot,” Barry said.
“Sir, I think I’d be better in the field. Can’t you have Reynolds inform her?”
“No.” Barry brought his feet down and sat up. “The news should come from a woman. Besides, I’m sure you can use the rest, what with the panic attacks. Inform the mother, then take the rest of the day—”
“Are you serious? There’s a potential serial killer out there who contacted me directly. I don’t need to rest, boss. I’m fine.”
“She’s right, sir. Stan can inform Mrs. Shaw. I think Mal’s experience is invaluable here.”
Barry glared at Mike. He didn’t like Mal talking back to him, and certainly didn’t like a second deputy questioning him, especially in front of a younger deputy.
“This isn’t up for debate. I’ve made my decision.”
“Yes, sir,” Mike said, turning to leave.
Mal wasn’t sure what she expected her partner to say, but she was pissed that he didn’t make more of an effort to bring her on board. Skippy nodded at Barry then followed Mike out.
Mal turned to follow then stopped short of the door. She closed it and turned around.
Barry looked up at her, surprise raising his eyebrows. “Yes, Miss Black?”
“What’s your problem with me?”
Denial, feigned shock at the accusation, or for Barry to laugh it off — Mal wasn’t sure what she expected, but whatever it was, she wasn’t prepared for what he did instead.
“I don’t much like you, Miss Black,” he said, meeting her gaze with a cold stare. “Not only were you a traitor going behind my back when I hired you to campaign for Bell, you disgraced this department with your hysterics, drunken behavior, and unending sense of entitlement. The only reason you still have a job is because Mike vouched for you and promised to keep you on a short leash. But you’re skating on very thin ice, young lady. And I suggest you simmer down and learn your place, or I’ll bounce your ass out of here so fast you won’t even know what hit you. And before you get any bright ideas of going to the media or trying to oust me, know this. I’ve enough dirt to bury you twice.”
Mal stared back at him, dumbstruck. Not at his candor. She knew Barry hated her. She was stunned that Mike had agreed to keep her “in check.”
Was that a lie to sow dissension between Mal and her partner, or was Barry telling the truth? She thought back on how he’d backed down, and about how he’d been different with her lately, taking the lead in investigations and interrogations when he’d always been more laid back, letting whoever had the ball take the lead.
Is he keeping me in check?
She also wondered what “dirt” Barry might have. Had he been having her followed? Did Cameron Ford find something?
Does someone know I killed Dodd?
Do they know of my conversations with Jasper?
Both seemed unlikely. That knowledge would’ve come out and been used against her already.
Unless they’re saving it for blackmail, get me to play ball on something big.
Her chest tightened. Pulse raced as the walls closed in around her.
Fuck, not now, not now!
Barry took Mal’s silence as his cue to dismiss her. “I’ve got work to do if there’s nothing else. Maybe you ought to tell that poor girl’s parents before the news, don’t ya’ think?”
Mal left without another word. The panic attack was making her feel weak, like she’d allowed him to win. She wanted to blow up at him, tell him to come at her or back the fuck off, but she’d flown off the handle far too many times in the past and was working to be less volatile. To prove she was better.
Who knew what would happen if she exploded while having a panic attack?
She went to the restroom, dug into her jacket for the Xanax, then swallowed one dry, hating that her first response to stress was to take yet another pill. From painkillers to Xanax, Mal was an addict.
Not that she was taking enough to get high. Mal wasn’t even sure she’d like the Xanax high, and she wasn’t dumb enough to mix it with other shit. God only knew what would happen then. Plus, she was committed to staying sober.
Mal left the station in silence. Got in her car and pounded the wheel with her fists. Just once, not a full-on assault this time. She backed out then headed to the hospital to deliver a round of terrible news. With any luck, McKenna Shaw would be out of her coma and mayb
e would have something to help them find her sister’s killer.
But Mal wasn’t feeling hopeful.
The Xanax would kick in soon. Then she would feel even less.
Mal was too late.
By the time she arrived at the hospital, news had already broken that Alice’s body had been discovered and crucified. The story was picked up from the local CBS affiliate by national media outlets and was everywhere immediately. Mal wanted to find out who the hell had leaked the news, but it was pointless now.
Sheila was in a full meltdown by the time Mal found her.
“What did he do to my daughter?” Sheila wailed as she approached the waiting room.
There were about twelve other people in the waiting room, including a family of five with three young kids. All of them watching.
“Why don’t we take a walk?” Mal suggested.
“No! Tell me what happened. Did they really …”
Sheila couldn’t finish, stopping to sob in her arms instead.
Mal was numbed by the pill, but even so, she still felt a terrible aching for the woman. She’d delivered this news before, but Mal had also been the recipient — your daughter’s body has been found.
It never got any easier.
“Come.” Mal led Sheila from the waiting room then down the hall toward a quiet second-story walkway between two buildings.
She delivered the details, leaving out the more gruesome ones and hoping no one would leak any crime scene photos. No mother should have to see their kid dead on blogs or message boards or LiveLyfe.
Mal allowed her to cryand answered all of Sheila’s questions she could before steering the conversation toward her own. “Any news on McKenna yet?”
“No.” Sheila blew her nose and stared out the window.
“Is there anyone you can think of who might have done this to Alice?”
“Who would do this?” Sheila looked back at Mal, perplexed and shaking her head. “No. I can’t think of anyone so sick and twisted.”
