The Uninvited

by F. P. Dorchak

  “Why were you there in the first place?”

  Banner didn’t respond at first, staring straight ahead.

  “I’d lost a friend to there. For the past six years, last night was to have been poker night. I’ve been walking that stretch on our poker nights since all this happened.”

  “Oh,” Kacey said reaching out to Banner, “I’m sorry.”

  “Shit happens. People die. We move on.”

  “Why tell me this?”

  “I think—somehow—it all has something to do with this story of yours. I was by the retirement center. Too coincidental.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “While I was watching these guys—it lasted several minutes, or felt like it did, anyway—one of them pointed to the retirement home.”

  “Really?”

  “With his pike.”

  “A pike?”

  “A pike.”

  “Okay—weird.”

  “The whole damned thing is weird.”

  “Yeah... why the ghosts, and why point to the retirement home? We already know what happened there. Have any idea how you think they might relate?”

  Banner shook his head. Took another sip of coffee, and found his hands had finally stopped shaking, though now, he was definitely chilled. He sat quietly; drank his coffee. Trying not to be obvious about it, Kacey again felt for the ring she’d found on the Interstate.

  Together...

  It was still there. After a several moments of silence, Banner resumed.

  “How’s your research?”

  “Great... great. Well, okay... not really. I’m having a hard time focusing, to tell the truth.” Kacey leaned across her desk and plopped her face into her hands, groaning.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know!” she blurted. “I’ve been after this job for months, you know?, and I finally get it, and it’s like... I don’t know....”

  Kacey pushed away from her desk.

  “I don’t know if it’s because of the death of the Hockers, the grisliness and details of this whole, freaky, story, but I just can’t seem to get into things. Is it a case of the grass is always greener?” she asked, throwing her hands up into the air. “I don’t know—I guess I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “I’m not a reporter,” Banner began, “but what I know is good reporters report, no matter what. No matter how they feel at the moment. They do their job, period. Like any other professional.”

  Kacey sighed. “Maybe I’m not professional grade. I don’t know—I keep trying to get in to talk with the suspects, but no one’ll give me the time of day—”

  “Has anything weird happened to you?”

  Kacey stared at him.

  “W-why do you ask?”

  “Just a leap, I guess. If something weird happened to me, maybe something’s also happened to you. I mean, after the police, you were first on scene—”

  “I told you... I was listening to scanners and had trouble sleeping, that’s a—”

  “I’m not insinuating anything.”

  “Look,” Kacey began, “I’ve been having... nightmares... okay?”

  Kacey started to say something else, then thought better of it. She stared at him a moment, debating about whether or not to continue.

  “Fair’s fair. I have nightmares about being in a house on a TV sitcom—complete with a disturbing, ghostly laugh track—but with people from this investigation... Fisher, Jack and Hedda... and something about a bath tub...”

  Kacey again paused.

  “Okay, I can’t believe I’m really gonna tell someone this, but, the long and the short of it is that weird, horrible—disgusting—things happen in these dreams—but there’s still a laugh track, along with, I don’t know, an aura of funniness—though it’s very dark and nasty. Very black humor.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “Last night’s dream had Fisher come in and teach a class on how to kill.”

  Banner nodded.

  “And it got really, really... explicit. Sickening. There’s a lot of anger in these dreams—in one scene Hedda disemboweled Jack—while he was alive. In front of all of us.”

  Banner again said nothing.

  “And, dammit, there was something about that bath tub I just can’t seem to remember... I get shivers just thinking about it, but can’t seem to force the memory out—screams? I don’t know....”

  Kacey got to her feet; paced back and forth. “I don’t know... maybe it is this case—some of the imagery is pretty obvious, I know... but I haven’t been able to really dig into anything... and the cops won’t let me see any of the suspects—”

  “I thought you knew someone on the force?”

  Kacey grimaced. “I don’t really know him—them—that well, really.” Kacey flushed. “Actually, I’m more of an annoyance,” she said grimacing. “I’d always tried to get in at crime scenes, so I could write a story to get this job—”

  “You appear to have gotten it, so it should be easier to talk to them, now, right?”

  “Well, you’d think, but I’ve made calls and’ve been told they’re off limits to everyone but their lawyers—”

  “I can get you in.”

  Kacey stared at Banner as if seeing him for the first time.

  “Of course—you work for those lawyers! The—the....”

  “Prosecutors. I’m on retainer. But, let’s get back to your story.”

  Kacey sat.

  “I have them every night. It’s only been recently that the dreams have turned so dark.”

  “And you’re telling me you haven’t been able to find out anything through your research?”

  “No,” she sighed. “Maybe I’m just new, but nothing short of there’s a lots of crazies out there. There’re probably better than a hundred known cases of serial killers across the world, with unthinkable numbers like Luis Garavito, convicted of killing about 140 people, but thought to have actually killed over 400. And Henry Lee Lucas and Ottis Toole thought to have killed more than two hundred people... uh, Pedro... what’s his name....”

  Kacey shuffled through piles of paper.

  “Alonso Lopez, out of Peru, sorry. He killed over three hundred young girls in Columbia. And of course, there’s Hitler, and more recent events, if you chose to throw those in there. But nowhere did I find anything about a bunch of unrelated people walking in off a street and just start killing people off like this.”

  Banner again paused, mulling over their conversation.

  “You able to go now?”

  “Now? Really? Well, ye-ah.”

  Kacey quickly snatched up her gear, stuffing her tape recorder, press card (she was still amazed she actually had one), and notepads into her handbag.

  “Thanks, I really appreciate this!” Kacey added.

  As she and Banner made their way out of the newsroom, Connie, her editor, spotted her. Connie was talking with a group of business people in expensive suits just outside her office.

  “Kacey!” Connie called out, excitedly waving her over her way. “Come here! I have someone I’d like you to meet!”

  Kacey excused herself from Banner, who marked time by continuing to sip his coffee and reading the office bulletin board. A poster on that board proclaimed “Don’t put the cart before the horse—invest FIRST!”

  “Yes, Connie?” Kacey asked, reshouldering her handbag and smoothing out her appearance. Behind Connie stood several suits, men and women talking excitedly among each other.

  Connie leaned in to her, and said, “we have all kinds of interest generated from your piece, and have NNC right here—behind me—wanting to talk with you. How’s that for a first assignment, huh? Girl, I wish I was in your shoes!”

  Connie smiled, then turned and lightly touched the shoulder of a female executive to whom she then addressed. The woman turned.

  “Kacey,” Connie said, excitedly, “meet Sheila Petrova, NNC producer!”

  Kacey’s world dropped out from under her.

 
; Chapter Fourteen

  1

  Dr. Kimberly Preston and detective Fisher stood before the one-way mirror, observing Evelyn Roberts, in the Sunset Harbor Police Department’s interrogation room. Mrs. Roberts, however, was in a child-like, withdrawn state, sketching on a large sheet of butcher paper without blinking. She drew slightly-better-than-stick-figure people and horses and blood and battle scenes. Tears glistened off an otherwise emotionless face.

  “Whatever’s happened to her,” Preston said, “she really doesn’t want to talk about it. She wasn’t the least bit receptive to hypnosis. On a hunch, I gave her paper and pencil... and here you see—”

  “I thought anyone could be hypnotized,” Fisher said.

  “Yes... and no. In Mrs. Roberts case, she didn’t even talk with me. Not even an ‘hello.’ I tried a couple different methods of trying to break through to her, but nothing worked—until this, which really is a form of hypnosis. Whatever’d happened, she’s so far gone, so in denial, she’s effectively blocked herself off from the world. Reality. Interacting with other people. But... I’ve found that many—when given the opportunity—readily pick up a pen or pencil and doodle. It’s a basic instinct—to communicate. To release what’s pent up inside. You could even say it’s an unconscious drive making itself known.”

  “As much as I’ve seen over the years, it still amazes me how complex the human mind is. How messed up we can get. I mean, it’s such a thin line, isn’t it, between insanity and reality?”

  Preston nodded. “It is.”

  “It’s so unnerving that this woman, who’d been a wife and mother, a successful realtor, is also a cold-blooded killer.”

  “Until proven guilty, detective?”

  “Until proven guilty,” he said, nodding. But my money’s on her blood-soaked clothing, scars, and bruising—and that when we found her, she was still tightening the knot she’d made around her last victim’s throat. With the belt from a bathrobe.”

  As they left the one-way window, Preston entered the room to better observe Mrs. Roberts and her sketches. As she studied Evelyn, Preston took a closer look at her pictures of horses and warriors. How her rudimentary figures trampled and decapitated their rudimentary enemy. Noticed the copious use of red in her childlike pictorials. As Mrs. Roberts colored in some of her victims, Preston also observed how she kept diverting to another sketch she’d started but not finished in a different corner of the paper. She’d only do a line or two, every so often, but soon began devoting more and more attention to it, until she finally stayed with that part of the drawing, completing it. Preston tilted her head in curiosity. This new figure looked out of place among the horses and people, and, Preston saw, she drew radiating lines from this figure out to several others she’d already drawn on her page. To the victims of the battle scenes. Her lines were incomplete and jagged, some of them actually ripping through the paper from the force she applied to her pencils—breaking lots of lead—but she’d just reach for another pencil and continue. The figure she connected to all these others was an animal. A lion, or, maybe...

  A tiger.

  2

  White as the proverbial sheet, Kacey’s smile faded like water down a drain as she extended her hand zombie-like to Sheila Petrova, who, make no mistake about it, looked just as surprised, though not as upset. Sheila shook Kacey’s hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Miller,” Sheila said, smiling, holding Kacey’s gaze. “Great story you have here.”

  “Why... uh—”

  “Kacey, are you all right?” Connie asked.

  “I’m, uh—”

  “Oh,” Sheila kicked in, “I’m sure she’s just a little overcome by big, bad NNC talking to her. Isn’t that right, Miss Miller?” Sheila released Kacey’s hand.

  Kacey brought her hand to her ashen face; smoothed away strands of hair with nervous fingers.

  Was absolutely sick to her stomach.

  “Yes... I... I-I’m sorry. I’m not used to, um—will you excuse me?”

  “Certainly,” Connie said, amused.

  “Pleasure meeting you, Kacey,” Sheila added, clasping her hands before her and continuing to beam.

  Kacey hastily departed the crowd and blew past Banner—who’d observed everything.

  Kacey flew into the Ladies Room, immediately plunging into a stall, and latched it closed. She plopped down onto the toilet, throwing her hands to her head, and burned her gaze into the floor below before her.

  Oh, my God... this cannot be happening! Of all the

  (lesbian)

  one-nighters I had to have, I had to have one with a top executive of a top news agency?

  Kacey closed her eyes and bent over, moaning.

  This was absolutely insane. Had to be a dream. Her first lesbian fling had to be with some big-wig, hot-shot producer, rather than any other no-name, misunderstood, club-hopping party chick, housewife, or businesswoman?—and she had to come back to haunt her... remind her of their past transgression... after she got the job she’d been lobbying for, for months. After she’d been trying to get her life back in order...

  How was any of this fair?

  Her throat constricted and her thoughts spun so heavily inside her that her head feel like a thumping, unbalanced washing machine.

  Oh, no analogy there.

  Mark and Emily.

  This simply couldn’t be... it all had to be some terrible, horrible nightmare—

  The restroom door opened.

  Kacey sucked in her breath.

  Someone entered the room.

  The woman entered slowly... deliberately... her heels clapping tile floor as she crossed the empty room... and stopped before her stall. Kacey inhaled subtle, musky, perfume.

  Dolce and Gabbana.

  “Kacey?” came the soft, concerned voice.

  The voice of insanity.

  Madness.

  Kacey didn’t answer, found herself unable to speak, breathe.

  “Kacey... it’s me, Sheila—I know... I know I’m the last person you ever expected to see, and you certainly have every right to feel the way you do... but I had to see if you were okay. I mean it. I really didn’t expect you to be... well, you... I didn’t. I had no idea... I’m sure neither of us ever expected to see the other again....”

  Sheila paused, and Kacey heard her quietly reposition outside the stall.

  “Look, I honestly came out here to track and investigate the story... I’m sorry, really, really, sorry for what... happened... really, I am. I never meant to take advantage of you....”

  Kacey heard her sigh as she again paused.

  “Well, okay... maybe just a little—but I am sorry for what I did, for what happened. I’m quite embarrassed. I’ve grown a lot since we’d last met. I promise not to make your life a living hell while here, and I will limit my activity around you as much as I can.”

  Kacey remained silent, eyes shut as tightly as possible.

  “Okay, then....”

  Sheila turned to leave, again paused, and returned to the stall.

  “I know it’s trite, but, we really can be friends if you’re interested. I mean this. I still think you’re a wonderful person... and I hope... hope things are finally working out for you.”

  Sheila turned and left.

  Eyes still closed, Kacey rested her forehead on one hand, elbow propped on a knee... and just sat there.

  * * *

  When she finally exited the Ladies Room, Kacey found Banner patiently waiting, leaning against a wall, tapping his now-spent coffee cup against a leg. He stopped tapping with her approach.

  “You okay?” Banner tossed the cup into the trash.

  Kacey smoothed out her clothes. “Sorry about all that. Guess it all just took me by surprise.”

  Kacey glanced around the newsroom then gave him a sidelong glance.

  “They’re in Connie’s office,” he said.

  Kacey nodded, smiling nervously, repositioning an errant strand of hair behind an ear.

 
“She seems like a nice

  (lesbian!)

  “person, that producer,” Banner said, glancing toward Connie’s office. “You still up for this?”

  Kacey’s eyes strayed to the “Don’t put the cart before the horse—INVEST FIRST” poster, and stared at it. Cart. Horse.

  “Let’s get outta here.”

  3

  Fisher and Banner led Kacey through the Sunset Harbor Police Department, to the rear, into the holding cells.

  “I’m sorry about you getting turned away, Miss Miller,” Fisher said, “but I hadn’t been made aware you’d contacted us. I was actually surprised you hadn’t shown your face sooner, to be honest.”

  Kacey grunted. “I’m just glad you’re helping out, now. Thanks, Detective.”

  Fisher raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so it’s ‘detective,’ now?”

  Kacey smiled wanly, and said, “What can I say? I’m growing up.”

  “Well, I think you’ll find Mr. Williams not your normal, run-of-the-mill suspect—if you’ve ever met any before,” he said, looking to her. They stopped just before the detention center entrance.

  “I wouldn’t know the difference, I promise you. This is my first time.”

  “That you know. Take it from me, they come in all shapes and sizes—motives—but this crew... there’s something decidedly creepy about them, this whole damned thing. It’s the most baffling case I’ve ever come across—we even have them undergoing psychiatric analysis—each and every one.”

  “Really?”

  “We have a psychologist assessing them, checking for cult mindsets, insanity, that kind of thing. We should know more later this week.”

  Fisher lead them through the door and to the glassed-in front desk.

  “Please deposit anything that could be used against you as a weapon... knives, mace, nail files... anything similar. Banner, you know the drill.”

  Banner casually deposited his Glock 9mm, a rather large lockblade pocketknife, and a lock-pick kit. Kacey eyed him.

  “You always carry that?”

  “Tools of the trade.”

  Kacey turned to the man on the other side of the glass. “I have nothing so interesting, but this purse and my

  (ring... )

  “keys.” She began to unload her pockets into the slot, but quickly removed the two rings she’d inadvertently deposited in her pile for the officer.