by Roger Hayden
The fishermen drifted closer as a gentle breeze pushed the boat along the bank. The light slapping of waves against the aluminum surface of the four-seater motorboat added another helpful sound. Phillip waited patiently, listening to the men chat as country music played from the portable radio.
“I’ll tell ya, there ain’t nothing like the Glades in the morning,” the bearded man said, looking beyond the canopy and admiring the blue sky.
“You said it, Jules,” his lanky companion said. “Although it’d be nice to catch something already.”
Jules, the bearded man, looked at his friend, surprised. “Come on now, Ed. This is the spot. You gotta trust me on this.”
“So close to shore?” Ed asked.
Jules nodded. “Damn right.”
They drifted close as Phillip leapt from the shore and right into the boat, howling like a madman. The boat shook as he landed in the middle, horrifying both men. Before they could react, Phillip smashed the bottle against the side of the boat, breaking it in half.
“What the—?” Jules managed to say before Phillip lunged at him, driving the jagged bottle into his throat repeatedly to the sound of gargled, anguished screams.
Ed stood in shock, unable to even process what was happening to his friend. “Oh my God!”
Phillip turned away from Jules and then to Ed as Ed reached for an orange-handled filet knife. Gagging, Jules covered his neck with his hands in a desperate attempt to close the wound and stop the blood, which sprayed from between his fingers and turned his beard red.
Ed took a defensive posture, gripping his knife as Phillip charged forward and tackled him, sending them both to the deck with a resounding thud.
The boat shook. Phillip grabbed Ed’s arm, stopping the blade inches from his side, and then drove the end of the bloody bottle into Ed’s neck and face, jabbing him relentlessly.
Ed screamed out with each successive blow, his face awash in thick, red blood. Phillip stabbed and stabbed until both of Ed’s arms lay at his side, motionless.
The knife dropped to the floor. Both men’s fishing poles had fallen over. The radio floated into a puddle of water under the bench and shorted out. Phillip stood over Ed with the broken bottle still in his hand, panting like a wild dog.
He tossed the bottle into the water and looked around. Ed was dead. He then turned to examine Jules. The bearded man lay with his still hand over his bloody throat and his mouth agape. His eyes were shielded by a pair of lightly tinted aviator sunglasses. Nearly naked, Phillip examined Jules’s build. It was similar to his own.
Phillip leaned down and pulled off Jules’s shirt and pants, leaving a pasty-white corpse in nothing but his underwear. He then lifted Jules up as close to the side of the boat as he could and rolled him into the water, over the side. Next came Ed. Their bodies floated on the surface for a moment and then sank into the blackness.
Phillip sat at the rear and started the motor with a single yank of the cord. He looked around, not seeing a single soul. The air was quiet and still. It was time to move on. Phillip coasted down the channel, headed south where he could regroup. He knew the exact place.
***
By her estimate, Miriam had been kept in captivity for a little over two weeks. The monotony had been hellish. She was trapped with her own thoughts and the fear that she would never escape.
She wished she had done things differently. Wished she had taken Ana and started a new life somewhere with different names—completely anonymous. No more law enforcement work. Some place where Phillip Anderson could never have found her. Instead, she had walked right into his trap.
The chain never left her arm, and she could go no farther than ten feet from the mattress without the insufferable rattling of rusty links against concrete wall. Eventually, she could stand and move despite the throbbing pain and bruising from the beanbag rounds. Phillip fed her once a day—mainly packaged snacks that looked like they came from a gas station—chips, sweets, fiber bars.
For waste, she was given a bucket and nothing else. This, Phillip explained, was how his victims had lived. Jenny Dawson, for instance, had been in captivity for a year before Miriam had rescued her.
Miriam’s bare surroundings inflicted a deepened sense of isolation. She felt her situation hopeless. As the days passed, Phillip had said little to her, as though he had become bored with his own verbal taunts. He was always preoccupied with something—distracted even. Gone were the mind games, insults, and threats. Some days he was like a different person. Then she remembered who she was dealing with. Phillip Anderson had several personalities masked behind his melted face. His moods were largely unpredictable.
Each day of captivity she was determined to move around to maintain her strength. With the lack of food and range of movement, Anderson was undoubtedly trying to weaken her and wear her down. His overall plan, however, he had kept hidden.
There had been no meeting with Sarah as promised. He ignored her pleas, refused to listen to her, and did little beyond throwing food in or emptying her bucket. And in that time, the possibility of escape seemed to fade with each passing day.
The thought of Ana, afraid and alone, terrified Miriam. She would do anything to return home to see her daughter once more. Hatred for Anderson swelled in her, reaching a height she would never have thought possible. He was the man responsible for the death of her partner, her ex-husband, and the young victims he claimed as his own. For her, he was proof that evil existed in the world. But hatred wasn’t going to free her. She had to remain calm and devise a plan before it was too late.
As she sat in deep contemplation, the door creaked open and Phillip walked in wearing an Auto Salvage jumpsuit with long sleeves. Had he been back to his old home? His hands were always gloved and his face was the only part of him ever exposed. He strolled into the room, pistol in hand, with a familiar look of indifference, carrying a bowl and setting it on the ground, two feet in front of her.
“Canned beets. I think you’ll like ‘em.” He glanced up at her. “Supplies are gettin’ a little scarce.”
“I need to talk to my daughter,” she said, stepping toward him. The chain clinked and rattled from its base.
He examined her from head to toe. Her clothes were dirty. Her face sunken. Her hair stringy. She looked like nothing more than a hermit.
“Not yet.”
She fell to her knees, nearly broken, linking her hands together. “Please! It’s all I ask. I don’t care. Keep me down here for eternity. One phone call, it’s all I ask.”
Anderson shook his head. “You ask for a lot of things, and you’ll take what I decide to give you.”
Despite feeling as though she had spilled every last tear possible, Miriam’s eyes watered. “What is it, Anderson? You have me locked up for a reason. What happens after you kill me? Who will you have then?”
His mouth twisted upward in a crooked smile. “Plenty of other fish in the sea.”
Miriam lowered her arms, feeling another overwhelming sense of defeat. And just when she thought all hope was lost, Phillip offered her a proposition.
“I’ve been giving it some thought. You’ve shown some real resilience. I admire that. I figured that you could do two weeks in here no problem.”
“Yes. And now I must speak to my daughter. If not…” she paused and wrapped the chain around her own neck. “I’ll end it all right here, and you’ll have nothing.”
Phillip laughed. “That’ll be the day.”
“I’m serious,” she said, tightening the chain. “I’ll do it. Just to end this nightmare once and for all.”
He looked at her, curious. “What about Ana? She’d be devastated.”
“I can’t save her any more than I can save myself.” She pulled the chain with both hands, as tight around her neck as it would go. She began to gasp as her face reddened.
Phillip stepped forward. He looked panicked and unsure. “Okay! I’ll give you the call to your daughter on one condition.”
The chai
n fell away and hung around her neck as her grip loosened. “What is then?” she asked in a strained voice.
“You leave this place with me and never look back.”
Miriam had no response to his insane proposition, but Phillip wasn’t finished.
“I’ll even release the congressman’s daughter.”
“You would?” she asked, wanting more than ever to believe him.
“She’s not much use to me anymore. I only took her to get to you. And now with us running low on food, it’s either release or kill her.”
“I’ll do it,” Miriam said. She couldn’t recognize her own voice or understand why she was so quick to agree, but it seemed the only option. Of course, she had no intention of acting out an idea so absurd. Even he had to realize that.
Phillip looked surprised and a tad skeptical. “That’s nice to hear. But understand that it’s going to take a lot more than words.”
She took a step back, looking disgusted. Phillip seemed to understand what had repulsed her and smiled. “Don’t worry, Miriam. I couldn’t do that if I wanted to. My parts down there are… nonfunctional.” His face suddenly became more serious and stern. “I’m talking about your devotion. You will leave this place with me and submit to my every wish. It’s going to take a while, I understand that. You’re a fighter, but a deal is a deal.”
Miriam thought of charging him, wrapping the chain around his throat, strangling him until his head popped off. But she couldn’t even get within five feet of him.
“Do we have a deal?” he asked, gazing into her eyes with anticipation.
At the moment, she didn’t see any other way. “Yes. It’s a deal.”
Purgatory
After killing the two fishermen, Phillip Anderson steered the stolen boat down the Southern Everglades channel toward Key Largo where he had a private plane with a pilot waiting. With the huge setback of the boat explosions, Phillip knew he was at the eleventh hour, but the pilot had been paid to remain in wait for at least forty-eight hours.
There were problems, however: the fishing boat he had stolen, and murdering both its occupants. He did not have enough fuel to make a trip down as far as the Keys. He would have to find more gas and lots of it or a different boat altogether.
Dressed in Jules’s tropical shirt, cargo shorts, and boonie cap, Phillip saw such a boat not far away—a fancy, twin-engine speed boat, anchored in the water, with a man and a woman sunbathing on the sizable front deck.
He trolled closer to the anchored boat, twice the size of his own, and waved. An attractive blonde in a purple bikini looked up, apparently hearing his rattling motor. She lay on a towel next to her shirtless and sleeping male companion. He slowed and turned off the engine, nearly bumping into the much larger boat with the pointy prow of his aluminum carrier.
“Wonder if you’d have some fuel that you could spare. I drifted a bit off course,” Philip called, trying his best to keep his appearance concealed under the shadow of his canopy.
The woman looked immediately on edge the moment she took off her sunglasses. She tapped her male companion, and he awoke, annoyed.
“What is it, Kate?” he said, rising.
Phillip went into action, knowing he had little time to make a move. With Ed’s fishing knife in hand, he hoisted himself up over the stern of the boat onto the front deck, exposing his hideously burned appearance and rushing toward the couple with rage in his sunken eyes.
The woman screamed. The man scrambled and tried to get up but slipped and fell. Phillip went at him first, tackling him to the slippery deck and stabbing him repeatedly in the chest. The woman was frozen, terrified, and too confused to intervene. As her senses returned, she tried to run, but it was too late. Phillip lunged at her and grabbed her small white ankle with his reddened hand. She fell and hit her head on the deck, knocking herself unconscious. Phillip simply pushed her over the side as she splashed into the water.
He then grabbed the man’s body by both ankles and dragged him to the side, flipping him off the railing and into the water. Catching his breath, Phillip watched the water waves as they slapped against the side of the boat. He then walked into the cabin, studied the controls for a moment, and started the boat.
Phillip reached Key Largo a day later, and found his pilot close to leaving. The last few minutes of their forty-eight-hour agreement had neared. The pilot, a Hispanic man named, Alejandro, was tense and annoyed and ready to call off the entire arrangement.
“Thought you had died!” he said as Phillip approached the small plane, which was already detached from the tie-down block and sitting on the empty runway. Phillip wore a hat, long-sleeve shirt and pants, entering the plane and taking off his sunglasses.
One look at his face sent Alejandro for the exit. Phillip clutched his shoulders and held him in place, glaring into his frightened eyes.
“You will fly me to Palm Dale, and you’ll do it now. Got it?”
Alejandro backed up as far as he could, his dark, curly locks dangling in his face. “But, señor. The deal was Costa Rica. The Caymans. Some place safe.”
“Palm Dale!” Philip shouted. “Do it, or I’ll leave you here and fly the damn plane myself. Then you get nothing. Not a dime!”
Alejandro lowered his head, conceding. “Si, señor.”
He quietly went back to the cockpit as Phillip turned to look out the windows in search of anyone approaching. The abandoned runway had been chosen due to its seclusion, but once they got in the air, there was always a chance that the authorities wouldn’t be far behind.
Phillip didn’t care. He had to go back. There was too much unfinished business. Fleeing was no longer the goal. He wanted to return with a vengeance and find a way to leave a trail of new victims, particularly Miriam. He knew that she was wearing a vest when he shot her. Only the next time, she wouldn’t be so lucky.
The plane taxied down the runway, building up speed, then took off over the Atlantic with the Florida coastline in view, looking serene and beautiful, as though nothing bad could happen in such a place. Phillip sat in the passenger seat, with a notebook and pen, scribbling and plotting his next moves. Alejandro remained quiet at the controls, still startled by Phillip’s appearance.
Palm Dale was two hundred miles away, but once they arrived, Phillip was confident that there were enough open fields where they could land and not draw too much attention to themselves. He supposed that for Alejandro, the sooner he got Phillip out of his plane, the better.
Walter Anderson lay across his couch surrounded by empty liquor bottles. His cushy three-bedroom house, located along a rural dirt road, was vacant except for him. His wife had packed her things and left, taking his two boys with her, without so much as a word about when they would return. The entire investigation of his family had been too much for her.
She had said the words, “It’s over,” with a level of finality that sent him reeling.
She had gone to stay at her mother’s house in Tampa. She wouldn’t answer his calls, and threatened to call the police if he came within a hundred miles of the house.
It had been three months since the collapse of the family business. Three months since the death of his brother, Gary, by an angry mob, three months since the disappearance and presumed death of his brother, Phillip, and two months since the death of his parents, Judith and Boone.
Over time, he had taken to drinking heavily. In the midst of his stupor, amid the clutter of his unkempt home, a knock came at the door, startling him. His head jerked up from the sofa’s pillow, and he felt a moment of elation that struck him like a bolt of lightning. Maybe it was Emily returning with the boys. He stumbled to the door, setting his bottle on the floor.
The knocking was loud and incessant. Walter opened the door, smoothing the gray mess of hair on his head, and tugging down his stained T-shirt. He was surprised and disappointed to see a man standing there, dressed in a black suit with matching black fedora and dark sunglasses completely concealing his eyes. Almost immediately, Wal
ter noticed something off about the man, but couldn’t pinpoint it in his drunken state.
“Walter, it’s me, Phillip,” the man at the door said.
Walter froze in place, speechless.
The man continued. “Your brother?”
Phillip wasted no time, pushing his way into the house. Walter followed in deep confusion as the intruder paced around the living room, looking at the empty bottles and clothes strewn around the room. He put his gloved hands on his hips and turned to Walter, shaking his head.
“Well… this place looks like shit.”
Walter wondered where he had put his pistol. He had held it to his head only hours before, but couldn’t remember what he had done with it. “What do you want? I thought you was dead,” he said in a haggard voice.
“I was,” Phillip responded. “For a brief while.” He then took his hat and sunglasses off, exposing a burnt, disfigured face and head with eyelids seemingly missing from above his piercing blue eyes.
“Jesus. What happened to you?” Walter asked, shocked.
“Boat explosion,” Phillip said. “And something tells me that you might have had a little hand in it.”
“The fuck you talking about?” Walter snapped. His baggy T-shirt and blue jeans were covered in stains and cigarette ash. Gray facial hair sprouted from his jowls and chin, and he looked like he hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in ages.
“You see, Joe was your friend,” Phillip said. “And he tried to kill me. He said it was revenge for Dustin.” Phillip stopped and leaned closer toward Walter. “Now who on earth gave him that idea?”
Walter stared back, balling his fist and breathing heavily. For a moment, nothing was said between the brothers. Then Phillip pulled a pistol with a silencer from his jacket and pointed it at Walter. “I think it was for you.”
