by Simon King
“Autumn Rise Retirement Home, how may I help you?” Sam swallowed hard and began her plan.
“Oh yes, hello. My name is Sandra Tully and I found a credit card belonging to a Helena Jeffries. I was told she works there and I could drop it in for her.”
“Yes, Ma’am, that’s correct. But Helena’s not due back in until seven this evening. If you drop it in, I could make sure the card is safely returned to her.”
“Oh, that’s too kind. Would you do that? OK, I’ll drop it in. Thank you so much.”
Sam cancelled the call, looked at the time and wondered whether it would be worth returning to the room and spending the three hours there instead.
Rather than waste time sitting around, Sam decided that it might be time better served if she followed up on other leads. For one, there were other victims she could look up, even if just to see whether their theory checked out.
As she sat wondering which route to take, Sam did something unexpected, as if caught in a kind of moment. She opened Facebook, more out of curiosity than anything else. In the search bar, she typed the name Mitchell McDutton, hit search and waited for technology to do its thing.
As always, all it took was a mere second or two and before her were several pages of possibilities. She slowly scrolled, trying to place the one she needed. But with nothing jumping out at her, Sam re-entered the name, this time using the shortened name Mitch.
Once she hit search and the results popped up a second time, Sam again began to scroll the endless possibilities. There were simply too many to consider and she didn’t have the time to sort through them individually.
She returned to the very top and stared at the boxes looking back at her and suddenly realized another option. Instead of staying on the results highlighted under “People”, she pressed the option titled “Stories” and watched as new possibilities popped up.
This time, Sam took her time scanning the possibilities and soon found what she was looking.
‘RIP, Bro. Till we meet again’ someone named Hunky Dunky had written and when Sam clicked on the specific Mitch McDutton, found the page of the man who had been Black Death’s third victim. His cover showed him sipping cocktails by a pool, with several other men siting around him.
The comments on the page had all been typed after his death, with many hoping for him to Rest In Peace. But as Sam continued to scroll, one comment stood out, a single one that went against what all the others had said. It was an acronym, one Sam herself had only discovered a few months before.
RIHUSOB
Rot in hell you son of a bitch was what the person had wished Mitch and strangely, had been liked by twelve other people. The name who had left the comment was Hank Fraser, but when Sam clicked on the name, the account that popped up was mostly blocked, courtesy of the privacy settings.
She thought it strange that this single person had left such a comment, liked by a dozen other people and yet ignored by everyone else. It felt as if there was more to it than that and decided it was worth investigating a little more.
While her cell could track old Hank down, Sam knew Mumma’s computer would do a much better job and in a fraction of the time. So, she screenshotted the account page, sent it through to the woman herself, then followed it up with a call.
As always, Mumma answered by the second ring, already scanning the message sent to her.
“Give me a sec, I’m just running the name now. How are you kids going out there? Any luck?”
“Maybe. Have a few things on the go, but I think Tim’s onto a definite possibility.”
“A lot of sites to search though. I have two computers working on it, plus Candice, the new girl.”
“Candice?” Sam asked, unfamiliar with the name.
“Started a couple of days ago. John figured I could use the help. Oh, here you go. And curiously, interesting.” Mumma’s voice faded out as she read her own handiwork.
“What is?” Sam asked, her own intrigue rising.
“Hank Fraser has a son who’s part of a local soccer club Mitchell McDutton worked with. And seven of the people who liked his comment also have children in the very same team.”
“You thinking McDutton was up to no good with their children?” Sam asked, her interest peaked.
“From the looks of this, I’d say there’s a very good chance.”
Hank Fraser lived just a twenty minute drive from where Sam was parked and with a couple of hours before Helena would leave for work, Sam couldn’t think of a better reason to go. If McDutton really was up to shady dealings with children, it made the Black Death connection so much stronger.
She took a final look at Pamela’s home, then headed off to another victim’s victim. With any luck, she would find the link between McDutton and the rest of the victims and back Tim’s theory even more.
As she drove, Sam phoned Tim and shared with him her discovery. He sounded pleased, but distracted and as she spoke, Sam could hear his fingers continuing to tap away on the keyboard.
“That’s awesome. Keep at it and I’ll continue on here,” he finally said, then cancelled the call before Sam had a chance to answer. Just like always, once Tim had something in his sights, his attention was as good as gone.
The Fraser home was set in what appeared to be a good neighborhood, with the kind of streets where children still played out in front yards, with many riding bicycles between friends’ homes.
Sam pulled up in front of the house and admired it for a moment. It was clear from the outside that whomever lived inside, loved the place and took care of it regularly. The grass was freshly mown, the building itself clean and free from any wear and tear. There was a single elm in the front yard and it added that homely touch trees seemed to offer.
The garage, attached to the side of the home, stood open and Sam could see a man she assumed to be Hank Fraser, working on an old classic. She hopped out of her own and slowly headed for the open door.
“Mr Fraser?” she called out as she neared. The man peaked out from under the hood, staring at her with a warm smile.
“One and only,” he offered, wiping his hands on an old rag.
“Sir, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
“Sure. About what?”
He appeared friendly, taking a couple of steps toward her as he eyed the stranger curiously.
“About Mitchell McDutton, Sir.” His demeanor changed instantly, the dark cloud rolling across his brow like a full-blown storm. The warm smile disappeared, replaced by a chiseled frown that could cut pinecones in half.
“Who’s asking?”
Sam almost reached for her purse, the instinctual habit hard to break. But just before she did, it occurred to her that if there had indeed been an advertisement to murder an offender, then asking as an authority figure wouldn’t help. So, Sam decided to approach this from a new angle.
“I’m asking more for myself than anything. My little brother used to be coached by Mr McDutton a few years ago. Johnny loved running and Mitchell promised to get him to a professional level.”
She neared the man still eyeing her suspiciously, continuing to build the story in her mind seconds before she said it out loud.
“I…,” she began, trying to convey a sense of grief.
“It’s OK, please.”
“Johnny took his own life recently. He phoned me that night and told me how McDutton had ‘forced’ himself on him on several occasions, each time threatening to kill me if he told.”
“Oh my God,” Hank said. “I’m so sorry.”
“I checked out his Facebook page and that’s where I saw your comment. I have friend who works…I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t tell you. I don’t want Mary to lose her job.”
“Perfectly understandable. That piece of shit got exactly what he deserved.”
“I couldn’t help but-“
“Hank? Is everything OK?”
Sam turned and saw a woman standing on the stoop, watching them from afar.
“Come on inside. My wife will fix us a nice cup of tea.”
Hank and Skyler Fraser listened as Sam retold the story, this time adding her own fear and suspicions. They held their beverages close, their eyes fixed as the tale unfolded. When she was done, Sam added a few forced tears, doing her best to sound as genuine as she could.
Skyler rose from her own seat and sat next to Sam, rubbing her shoulder as the tears flowed.
“He was always so gentle and this monster stole him away.” It took her a few moments to get herself back under control, Hank watching with fire blazing in his eyes.
“That piece of shit hurt plenty of boys and girls. He coached the local soccer team, including our daughter and several others from the neighborhood. It seems he didn’t care who he hurt, nor which gender they were.”
Sam wiped her eyes, then leaned in a little, trying to lower her voice enough to convey a sense of secrecy.
“Mr Fraser, I-“
“Hank, please.” Sam nodded.
“Hank, I need closure. I need to know that what happened to that monster wasn’t just some random accident. I need to know that he was made to pay for what happened to Johnny.”
Hank looked at his wife, exchanged a kind of telepathic thought with her and nodded slowly.
“He died for his crimes.”
“I only ask because one of my workmates told me about this murderer called Black Death.” She paused for effect, leaned in closer and lowered her voice even further. “They said that she was killing those who hurt others, kind of like a vigilante. I can only imagine that a lot of parents would be looking for that type of closure.”
“Yes, they would,” Hank whispered.
“Do you think that’s what happened? Do you think someone told her about McDutton and she took care of him?”
Again, the Frasers looked at each other as if trying to decide whether to reveal a secret. It was Skyler that next spoke.
“He met Black Death and she made him pay for his crimes. Of that you can be sure.”
“But how can you be so sure?” Sam asked. “How do we know it wasn’t just some crazy hooker he got mixed up with?”
“It wasn’t any hooker. He was killed by Black Death. Of that you can be sure,” Skyler repeated and this time, Sam threw the bait.
“What if there was another person who needed to meet her? Someone beating up a defenseless woman. Do you think there’s a way of contacting her so this person has a chance?”
“End the pain dot onion,” Sam said triumphantly as she walked back into their hotel room. Tim had migrated across to the bed and was still typing away as he lay on his stomach.
“Huh?” he asked, looking up from the screen.
“Hank Fraser said one of the other parents had posted a message on that board and she noticed it. End the pain dot onion.”
“Hank who?”
Sam quickly filled him in as she snatched the laptop away and set it up on the table. She took off her coat, hung it on the back of the chair and sat, almost in a single motion.
“I’m impressed,” he finally offered once the story had been conveyed. “And on the dark web.” He slapped himself in the head. “Of course we weren’t going to find her. Not if she’s sticking to those sorts of sites.” Sam nodded, and began activating the necessary software to access the site.
“And now we know how to find her,” she said triumphantly. “One step closer.”
7
End the Pain was a message board that allowed not only individual posts, but also conversations between unlinked parties through sub-level chatrooms. Sam scrolled through countless pages of posts left by people, all appearing to suffer from the same issue: domestic violence.
There were plenty of stories to go around, with countless victims and those watching from afar. Whilst many spoke of the horror they witnessed, only a few mentioned the killer Sam was hunting.
“They see her as a kind of hero,” Sam whispered as she read. “Like a vigilante out to save the city.”
“I guess in a way she is.”
“But these victims, they can’t all deserve to be murdered. Tim, there’s fathers here, mothers, suffering from illnesses that are treatable.”
“Tell that to the ones at the other end of the fist. Doubt you’ll find a lot of sympathy.” Sam read on, horrified by some of the comments. There were some talking about Black Death directly, calling for her to out herself so they could thank her personally. Then there were others calling for her to end the brutality and hand herself in.
The victims were as varied as the day was long. Children, women, even babies in some posts. And while there were a few scattered female abusers, the majority were men. It was painful to read, but the more she did, the more Sam wondered about the morality of their own mission.
“Do you think we are like this?”
“What?” Tim asked, surprised by her question.
“Do you think people would look at us like they do this woman? Would they think we’re wrong for doing what we do?”
“People will always fall on both sides of the fence. That’s the reason why we’re out here doing what we do. Remember, it was through John’s own suffering that we ended up here. The system so many people put their faith in, failed. And it fails a lot. We do what we do because we longer believe the system can do what its supposed to.”
“An eye for an eye?” Tim nodded without hesitation.
“An eye for an eye. If we prove that they murdered, then we take them out, no questions asked.”
“But isn’t that what she’s doing?”
Sitting cross-legged on her bed on the other side of the city, Grace Shaw sipped her soup as she scanned the message boards, feeling the anger burning deep inside. So many victims, too many to help, even for her. Their tormentors were people that had no care, no fear, no moral compass to bring them back to the light.
She slowly scrolled through posts, stopping occasionally to read one, then continued on as the story rang too close to home. She was always searching for the next, deciding early on that the weak needed protecting from those who preyed on them, the kind of protection she failed to give her sister.
Even after all these years, the anger still burned strong inside her, with only one way to tame the flames. She needed to help, to end the lives of those who would willingly beat the defenseless. It was her time to rise and show the world that this type of violence would need to be paid for, paid any way necessary.
She looked at the box of cards sitting on her dresser, cards that held the price for preying on women and children. They would never fully understand all the reasons behind her acts, but those cards should have been enough to tell them why.
Her eyes fell on a message from a woman calling herself MuffinMaker. ‘Original’, she thought to herself as she read the post.
Why won’t she just leave? My sister has been married to this asshole for almost ten years and he’s beaten her up so many times. She’s lost two pregnancies because of him and still, she won’t leave.
Grace looked at the message, read it a second time, then scrolled down to the comments. There were the usual responses, mostly from those asking why she just doesn’t run. But Grace knew that for some, running wasn’t an option, the fear and terror keeping the victims firmly within the clutches of their attackers.
But her eyes fell on one comment in particular, one that seemed to speak to her above all the others.
She’ll leave when he’s dead, or she is, the person had written and right there was what Grace understood to be the cold, hard truth. For many of these victims, death was their only escape, whichever one it took.
Grace clicked on the original poster, copied the code that accompanied the name and forwarded it to Clive, the unknown hacker who identified the people behind the posts. Within a few short hours, she would have all the information she needed to right another person’s life.
Waking up early had become part of her normal day, and as Grace flicked off the alarm, picked up the
cell and checked her messages. Just as she knew it would, Clive’s message had landed just a couple of hours after she sent the request. Whoever he was, or she for that matter, they knew their job well.
After getting herself ready for work, Grace opened the file and began to read the details of Clara Buchanan and her sister, Nancy Prescott. It was Clara that had posted several messages about her sister’s abusive husband, a man capable of beating his pregnant wife so hard, to cause her to miscarry their unborn baby, not once, but twice. The second time, Nancy had been six months pregnant and he had beaten her so severely, she not only suffered a miscarriage, but also required a full hysterectomy, courtesy of the baseball bat he had used to rape her after a substantial drinking session with his buddies.
As Grace read the articles Clive had included, she wept openly, allowing her anger to leak from her like an open wound. It helped, in more ways than one. By allowing the rage to escape her, Grace found that she could keep her emotions in check for long enough once she was in the company of her target.
The medical reports were the worst, Grace feeling numb as she read the injuries over and over again, feeling her tears soak the shirt she was wearing. But that was just the tip of the file Clive had sent. There were also police reports, social media posts from friends and family, as well as the death notices for the unborn child.
There was a link in one of the articles and when Grace clicked on it, found herself watching reporters trying to question Nancy’s husband as he left court, acquitted of manslaughter due to mental health issues.
As she continued reading, she could already see herself standing above the man that brutalized Nancy Prescott and end him just as she had all the others. This one needed ending as soon as possible and Grace knew just where. This one would be easy.
Norman Prescott had always had it easy. He was what you might have called a spoiled child. His father, Raymond, had worked hard his entire life, raising Norman as a single parent after losing his wife during childbirth.
