“We could make this look like some sort of satanic deal,” he said, talking in a quick, panicky rush. “We could cut their hearts out and write some shit on the wall. Cuz, we got to get moving.”
“I need another hour.”
“But—”
“Stop it, Cuz,” Herbie ordered softly.
The way he said it stopped Charlie cold. He knew the look on his cousin’s face and he knew what would happen next if he didn’t stop it.
Herbie rubbed a thumb across the gash on his cheek and grimaced. “You can stay and join me if you want,” he offered, “but not if you’re going to keep acting like this. I don’t need you making me nervous.”
“Why don’t you wake him and get it over with?”
“I said I don’t need you making me nervous!”
Charlie swallowed down what he was going to say and forced his mouth shut. The exasperation was too much. He picked up the padded handcuffs from the floor and shoved them into his pocket. He felt too jittery to stick around. He also knew the more jittery he acted, the more Herbie would stretch things out. “Fine, give me the keys. I’ll meet you by the car in an hour.”
“What do you need the keys for?”
“What do I need the keys for? You got to be kidding. The car’s been sitting in that lot for over three hours. I need to move it before it draws any attention.”
“It can sit another hour.”
“But—”
“I said it can sit another hour.” A petulant smile had twisted Herbie’s lips. “It’s your choice whether I’m here another hour or another twenty-four. It’s all your choice.”
Charlie took a step forward with the intention of snuffing the kid himself, but the look Herbie gave him stopped him. Anyway, he knew it wouldn’t help. It would only make Herbie more determined that they sit there twiddling their thumbs for the next twenty-four hours. That much was obvious. Reluctantly, he headed back upstairs.
“Fine,” he said, “let me know when you’re done.”
* * * * *
Charlie spent the next half hour pacing around the upstairs of the house working himself into a tizzy. The last two years they had been so careful they way they varied the details of each murder, and in fact, making a study of it. They had spent hours reading everything from forensic material to books on police procedural and criminal behavior to make sure there were no patterns to their murders, that there would be nothing the police could tie together, and more importantly, nothing that could bring the FBI in.
And now this. Usually Herbie didn’t throw these type of tantrums—at least not to this extent. All because that piece of shit kid had to cut him. In a way he could understand it, but still Herbie was putting them at risk. It just wasn’t worth it. The more Charlie thought about it, the more infuriated he got. When he heard the screams it was too much for him. Goddamn him, he thought, he couldn’t even gag him first?
He reacted to the screams without really thinking about it—flying down the stairs, his eyes bloodied with rage, his hands squeezing into fists. When he reached the kitchen he froze, not quite comprehending what he was seeing. It wasn’t what he expected. Everything was flipped around from the way it was supposed to be. The kid was on top of Herbie, slashing away at him with a carving knife as if his cousin were a side of beef. And Herbie’s head wasn’t laying quite right, sort of at a ninety-degree angle to his body. Charlie realized his cousin’s head had, for the most part, been cut off from his body.
He heard a noise from behind. Someone was trying to kick down the door. Without thinking, he turned and scampered back upstairs and ended up squeezing into the back of the master bedroom closet, pulling some blankets over him.
Somehow, the police didn’t search the house. If they had, they would have found Charlie Winters cowering in the closet. But they didn’t. They took it for granted that Herbie had acted alone and they didn’t bother searching upstairs, at least not carefully. Later, when the police were gone, Charlie slipped into the night.
He felt like a dead man. Numb and dazed, his world crashing around him. The unfairness of it all was staggering. He and Herbie were meant to be together. Now they weren’t and they never would be again. Charlie Winters couldn’t accept it.
For months afterwards he drifted, not quite sure what to do. There was no pleasure in anything he did. Nothing but a numbness he couldn’t shake. He and Herbie needed each other. They fed off each other. Without his cousin nothing made any sense. The world seemed pointless.
Nine months after his cousin’s death he was stopped by the police for a burned out taillight. He had been traveling through Seattle, driving straight through from Portland. In the back of his trunk was a thirteen-year-old boy he had picked up along the way. Normally, before he had stopped thinking clearly, the boy would’ve been either dead or properly anesthetized. But he had stopped thinking after Herbie’s death. As the officer wrote him up for the taillight, a thumping noise came from inside the trunk. The officer was quicker with the gun and Charlie Winters was arrested, convicted, and sentenced to eighteen years for kidnapping.
His fellow inmates labeled Winters a child molester, reasoning he had kidnapped the boy for purposes other than money. His first week in prison a group of “gorillas” held him down and took turns turning him out. Later, each one of them were found with their throats cut and their testicles hanging from their mouths. The message got out that Charlie Winters was someone to be left alone. It became gospel.
Even still, the next couple of years were a time of utter bleakness for him. Despondent, he lay on his cot and waited as the days blended into nights. Off and on he would think about his cousin and the unfairness of it all. It would stick deep enough in his craw that he’d start to choke on it. That little shit of a kid. He would’ve given anything for an hour alone with that little shit. But there was nothing he could give. Nothing to change that he was trapped within a six-by-nine-foot cage. Nothing to do but wallow in his misery.
His salvation came one day when a guard gave him a book on metaphysics.
He saw the light then.
It wasn’t the light the guard intended him to see, but for Charlie Winters it was as bright as the burning sun.
The ideas from the book—as they were twisted within his mind—summed up everything he and Herbert had known were true but had never quite put into words. Especially about man being god-like. Of course, the concept of every man being god-like was laughable to Winters, but that he and Herbert were was inescapable. As was their reason for being. To punish and inflict pain. For all time. To keep coming back to earth over and over again to spread their suffering. One day he and Herbert would be reunited. The book (again, as it was twisted within in his mind) all but said so. In the meantime, he would have to carry on for both of them and the book showed him how he could do it while in prison. Because you can only lock the body behind bars. If you can learn to leave the body . . .
And all he had was time to learn . . .
It took a year of practice before he succeeded, but Charlie Winters never had any doubts or wavered in his faith. The book had made it all crystal clear to him. When it finally did happen it only lasted for a few seconds before he was sucked back in. It was so fast, he almost didn’t realize it. Most people would’ve talked themselves out of it, blaming it on a hallucination, but Charlie knew it was real, he knew it wasn’t any dream. And he laughed good and hard over it because he had found his way out.
With practice he got to where he could leave his body just about any night. It was like learning to play the piano, things at first that were impossible and clumsy, over time became second nature. Movement became easy. Thought became reality. Think about a place and you were there. Think about a person and you were inches away. Eventually, he got to where he could stay out for hours before being sucked back in.
He spent his time out watching Shannon. There was some satisfaction in observing the relationship between Shannon and his father, knowing that he and Herbert were at the root of i
t. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
He needed to hurt him.
He needed to keep on hurting him. Again and again. For as long as there was breath in that piece of shit.
All he could do, though, was watch so that was all he did. Patiently. Night after night. Waiting for when things would change. Because, in his heart, he knew they would. That it was only a matter of time.
And he was right.
One of his times out he learned how to slip between the physical and dream worlds. It happened accidentally, without him even trying. Once he knew how, it became as easy as breathing. As easy as pulling wings from a fly. Instead of just watching Shannon, he began to visit him in his dreams. Methodically working on him, breaking him down piece by piece. Following his plan to the letter. Because death by itself wouldn’t be enough.
Winters patiently stuck to his plan. Not doing too much at any one time, but little by little nibbling away at Shannon. All the while waiting for his sentence to run out. He refused the early paroles that were offered and bided his time, waiting for when they would have to release him unconditionally. By this time the Correction Office knew what he was and they knew what he would do once he was out, but when his time ran down they had no choice. They had to set him loose.
That was a month before Janice Rowley’s murder.
* * * * *
Thinking about Shannon had brought the bile up into his throat. He spat on the floor and then lay gingerly back among the dirty sheets. The blood seeped from his face as he concentrated on the inside of his eyelids.
Charlie Winters’s breathing became more shallow. His facial muscles relaxed and a lightness softened his features. He had a busy night in front of him. So many people to visit . . .
Chapter 20
When the alarm went off Shannon jumped out of bed and asked Susie if it was okay if he took the first shower.
“I want to get to work early. See if I can make up for the time I lost,” he said, forcing a half smile.
As he stood under the water Susie opened the shower door. Her face was set in a troubled frown.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Still feel a little beat, but sure. Why?”
“Both your pillowcase and the sheets on your side of the bed are soaked through.”
“Maybe I got some virus,” Shannon said. “But I feel better now.”
Shannon turned back to the shower. He could feel Susie standing by the open shower door watching him. In his mind’s eye he could see her frown deepening, becoming more worried, more pained. It seemed a long time before she moved away.
Of course, Shannon wasn’t feeling any better.
That he was still having nightmares worried him. And this specific nightmare . . . Was there any truth to it? Were Phyllis Roberson and the other two women killed by different people? As he tried to sort it out in his mind, an uneasiness spread through him. The more he thought about it, the more twisted his insides became. Like a sheet caught in a hurricane.
As it turned out he didn’t leave any earlier for work. He hung around waiting for Susie. After dropping her off at the Fresh Pond train station, he doubled back to the apartment and called Elaine Horwitz’s office. The receptionist was able to squeeze him in for ten-thirty.
* * * * *
Elaine Horwitz had a pasty, almost sickly look about her. She sat at her desk, fidgeting, unable to look directly at Shannon. Her attitude was detached and vaguely hostile. Shannon apologized for abandoning her at the restaurant. Horwitz seemed taken aback by the apology.
“I had no right going with you,” she mumbled, some red blotching her pale skin.
“You were just trying to help me through a rough time,” Shannon said.
Horwitz’s blush deepened. She fidgeted with her glasses and tried to look at Shannon. Her mouth fluttered briefly, unable to keep its composure. “How are you doing, Bill?”
“Not so good.” He told her about his blackout, his trouble at work, and finally about his dream.
She sat quietly, taking it all in. “This person you dreamed about—you’re sure it’s the same man who murdered your mother?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you must’ve seen pictures of him at some point,” Horwitz thought out loud, “or maybe it’s simply the image you’ve imagined him to be. It sounds like an anxiety dream, similar to when a college student dreams about having to take an exam for a class he’s never attended.” She ran a finger along her lip, pausing. Then she smiled slightly. “That’s all there is to it, Bill,” she added. “You’re anxious about the psychological evaluation you’ve been ordered to undergo. There’s nothing sinister underlying it.”
Her appearance shifted subtly, becoming more confident, more self-assured. “Tell me about your blackout,” she asked, meeting Shannon’s eyes.
He shook his head. “I can’t remember any of it. All I know is I was gone for five days and when I came out of it I was lying in a basement in Roxbury.”
“When exactly did you black out?”
“It was the day after we went out to dinner.”
Elaine Horwitz nodded knowingly. “That’s why you didn’t make it to our session.”
Shannon didn’t bother to correct her. Their appointment had been for three o’clock. He remembered later that day, sometime past six o’clock, he had been sitting at the Black Rose pouring bourbon into himself. It was after that he disappeared.
“I’d like to have you hypnotized,” Horwitz said.
Shannon found himself nodding. It was something he wanted, too. Elaine Horwitz would find out the truth about how he had been tortured, but that didn’t matter. He could live with it. What he couldn’t live with was not knowing what he had done while he was gone. He needed to know if there was anything behind that dream. He asked her when they could do it.
* * * * *
Mark Bennett sat in front of Shannon, his tight, curly hair damp, his lips forming a bland, pleasant smile. He led Shannon through a series of exercises, eventually sending Shannon down an imaginary spiral staircase. When Shannon reached the bottom, Bennett had him place a hand in front of his face and open his eyes.
“Concentrate on a spot where your fingers and hand join.” He paused, giving Shannon some time to follow his instructions. “Have you found that spot?”
Shannon murmured affirmatively.
“Strings are now attached to your fingers,” Bennett told him. “They’re pulling them apart. You can’t fight it.”
Shannon’s fingers splayed outward, his hand tensing as he struggled to keep them together.
“You can drop your hand and relax. The strings are gone.”
Bennett turned sideways to Horwitz. “Okay,” he murmured under his breath, “let’s see what we can dig up.”
He addressed Shannon in a soft monotone, asking him if he could remember the last place he was on February seventh. Shannon told him it was a bar in Cambridge, the Black Rose.
Bennett placed Shannon back at the bar. He had Shannon describe the inside of it in detail.
“Is anyone sitting next to you?”
“There’s a heavy blond on my left. The seat on my right’s empty.”
“How many drinks have you had?”
“Nine.” Shannon counted them slowly. His speech became slurred. His facial muscles tightened, forming the sullen look of a man who’s been drinking hard.
“What time is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you wearing a watch?”
“No.”
“Is there a clock on the wall?”
“No, but the blond next to me’s got a watch.”
“Can you see it?”
“Yeah, let me look . . . it’s six-thirty.”
Horwitz made a noise. She indicated to Bennett to ignore her. “Sorry,” she murmured, “just realized I have to bill one of my patients for a cancellation.”
Bennett turned back to Shannon and asked him to move forward by ten minutes. “Do you kn
ow where you are?” he asked.
“Yes,” Shannon answered, his speech no longer slurred, “I’m in a basement.”
“Where?”
“In Roxbury.”
“That doesn’t make sense . . .” Bennett started, confused. Horwitz figured it out. She told him Shannon was leaping forward to when he came out of his blackout. Bennett moved Shannon backwards, minute by minute, until he was out of the basement and back at the bar. He tried it again, and Shannon again skipped from the bar to Roxbury. The time that existed between those two moments passed by without any awareness, as if it never existed to Shannon. Bennett narrowed down the moment when Shannon blacked out to six-thirty-six. He tried some more to crack into Shannon’s blackout and then gave up. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he told Horwitz.
“Okay,” he sighed as he rubbed a hand across his face. “Let’s go back to when you were thirteen. You’ve just come home after playing street hockey with your friends. This is the day your mother has been murdered. You’re at the front door. What do you see?”
Shannon sat silently, his brow furrowed, thin lines of concentration spreading out from the corners of his eyes. “The front door’s not locked,” he said in a thin, nervous voice. “And all the lights are out. It’s not right. Mom never leaves the door unlocked when she’s not home.”
“What happens next?”
“I open the door and walk in. I’m in the family room.”
“What do you see?”
“It’s a mess. There are grocery bags on the floor. Food all over the place. A carton of milk has spilt out. The carpet’s wet . . . Something bad’s happening . . . I can hear it.”
“What do you hear?”
Shannon didn’t answer.
“What do you hear?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try to explain it.”
“It’s just a noise.”
“Where are you now?”
“In the kitchen.”
Bad Thoughts Page 15
