Aberration

by Lisa Regan

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the chestnut-haired flight attendant said sweetly. “There isn’t anything I can do about the heat right now. It will be just a few minutes until we take off.”

  The flight attendant walked away. She froze when the Nasal Male muttered “bitch” under his breath. Wyatt watched her. Her shoulders drew up, knotting with tension, but she continued down the aisle. Quickly, Wyatt unfastened his seatbelt and pushed through the remaining passengers in the aisle. He slipped into the seat beside the Nasal Male.

  “Hey, I’m holding that seat for someone,” Nasal Male protested.

  Wyatt smiled. He took hold of the man’s left index and middle fingers and pulled them backward. The man gasped. Wyatt leaned over and whispered in the man’s ear.

  Just a moment later, Wyatt was back in his own seat, comfortably fastened and ready for take-off. He observed the commotion in the front of the cabin with amusement. Nasal Male’s arms flailed as though he were being swarmed by killer bees as he pushed past other passengers and the rest of the crew to exit the plane.

  Wyatt turned from the spectacle to find the chestnut-haired flight attendant standing right beside him. She leaned over him to push the empty seat beside him into its upright position. He lifted his chin so he could smell her sweat mixed with her perfume. He admired the curve of her breast just an inch or so from his face. She retracted slightly so she could look at his face.

  “What did you say to that man?” she asked.

  Wyatt smiled, the boyish smile he saved for women he needed to charm. “Trade secrets,” he said. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble, but there’s just no kindness in the world anymore.”

  A newly animated emotion sprang up in her brown eyes. “I agree.” She straightened up and squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Her eyes wandered down to the photo he had taken out once more to study. The flight attendant’s face fell, though she quickly covered it up with a smile. “Is that your wife?” she asked.

  Wyatt studied the woman in the photo for a moment before he answered. The woman he’d loved since he was thirteen years old. The woman who infused his life with meaning and purpose. He caught the flight attendant’s eyes once more. “Yes,” he lied. “Yes, she is.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WYATT

  July 7th

  The late afternoon sun was still high in the sky. The July heat was no kinder in Virginia than it had been in Trenton or Ardmore, but Wyatt braved it anyway, hoping for a glimpse of the woman he loved. With two black garbage bags by his side, he secreted himself outside her home, grateful for the shady grove of trees bordering the east side of her house. He’d been using the thicket as cover for years. No one had ever noticed him.

  He waited for her to come home, cradling a cup of coffee between his palms. He sipped it slowly, savoring the bitter taste and waiting anxiously for the caffeine to energize his heavy limbs. He’d been trying all day to clear the fog in his mind. He hadn’t slept well on his trip. What little sleep he had managed to steal was riddled with nightmares of his grandfather. He had long tried to forget those early childhood memories, or at least to convince himself that they no longer held any power, but still, at times they reduced him to a sweaty, trembling heap.

  Wyatt swayed where he stood, like one of the trees beside him moving in the wind. Random images of Sorenson and Henderson flitted through his mind. They were like a bad aftertaste in his mouth. He steered his thoughts toward the love of his life. Soon, she would be home. He’d watch her go inside. Then he’d watch the slow play of light from her windows. Her mini-blinds and gauzy, sage-colored curtains gave nothing away, not even the outline of her form as she passed to and fro, but the long hours spent studying the squares of light were a comfort to Wyatt. He felt like he was with her, like he had entered a state of being inhabited by her. Sometimes, from his place in the trees, he swore he could smell her skin. The very thought of it—of watching her—broke open a warmth inside him. It filled his body, leaving him breathless and tingling.

  He looked down the street in the direction she usually drove in from, but no cars came. A breeze found its way through the trees, stirring the hair, slick with sweat, at the base of his neck. He should have bought iced coffee. His knees and lower back began to ache. He considered sprawling out at the base of a nearby tree but decided against it. He couldn’t risk falling asleep there.

  The sound of a car approaching drew his attention, but it passed by without turning into her driveway. She was likely late coming home from work. She frequently worked long hours. When she hadn’t come home a half hour later, Wyatt decided to pack up. He threw his empty coffee cup into one of the garbage bags he’d brought and cinched it closed. He looked around at the neighboring houses and listened for cars or joggers. When he was certain that he would go unnoticed, he crept into her driveway, to the side of her house where she kept her trash cans and replaced her trash with his own. Tomorrow was trash day. In the morning, she would put her cans out for pickup and be none the wiser. He had never seen her look inside the cans before putting them out. He made sure his trash bags were the same color as hers so that even if she took a glance into the can, nothing would seem amiss.

  At home, Wyatt quickly unpacked the small bag he had carried with him on his latest trip. He was relieved to be home, returned to his own private space, his sanctuary. Even though he had not had many houseguests in the four years he’d lived there, he was very strict about keeping all evidence of his less savory activities hidden. Wyatt had things to hide, and he never knew what occasion might arise which would require him to let someone in on short notice. Wyatt kept his home as normal-looking as anyone else. He’d stolen a couple of rolls of film from the drop-off box at a drug store in a different city and had gone as far as sprinkling photos of strangers throughout his home. He could easily pass off the people in the photos as his family.

  After unpacking, he took a damp cloth and dusted the surfaces in his living and dining rooms. He was frequently away from home, and the dust accumulated quickly. His job as a freelance software designer allowed him the freedom to travel all over the country. He had made a small fortune selling programs to the government in addition to what he made designing for corporations. The government stuff Wyatt used himself to spy on the woman he loved, as well as his list of targets. Of course, there was only so much one could find out from hacking into peoples’ computers. The rest was good, old-fashioned stake-out work.

  After he finished dusting, he spread a large plastic drop cloth over his kitchen table and began his inventory of her garbage. The woman he loved was fairly predictable. As he did every week, Wyatt separated the empty food containers from the rest of the trash first. She had made things a lot easier on him three years ago when she’d had a garbage disposal installed. Now the messiest thing he had to deal with was coffee grounds and yogurt cups. Sometimes, when she was very busy with work, he found half-eaten fast food.

  There were several pieces of unopened junk mail. Wyatt smiled when he found her shredded bank statement. She always shredded them, but it was easy enough for him to piece them back together.

  He set the strips of paper aside for later and combed through the rest of the trash. She had broken a glass that week. Its sharp edges were packed in newspaper. It was as if, on some level, she knew he would be sifting through this bag and she wanted to protect him from getting cut. There were three pairs of nude-colored nylons crumpled together, ruined by her tendency to catch them on things and cause runners.

  Wyatt found little else of interest. When he was finished, he used new bags to house her garbage, stuffing the original bags in along with the garbage. He kept only the bank statement and the nylons. He placed the tied bags next to his back door. Then he pieced back together her bank statement using Scotch Tape. He sat in his office, leaning back in his leather chair as he studied it. No unusual purchases in the las
t month. Sighing, Wyatt filed the statement with the rest of her bank statements which he’d been collecting for years.

  He checked his list and crossed off Martin Sorenson and Boyd Henderson. It was time to choose another victim. He studied the remaining names on the list. Although the people on the list had been carefully chosen, they were in no particular order. The order was not important. What was important was that she saw how much he loved her—what he was willing to do for her.

  The idea for the list was borne of a chance encounter in an airport bathroom. Back then, Wyatt had been traveling under the alias, Allen West. Allen had a layover at Chicago’s Midway Airport. His connecting flight was delayed over four hours. In a rare lapse of self-control, Allen had downed three pints of Guinness at the only crappy bar still open in his terminal. It didn’t take long for his bladder to protest.

  Allen was standing at the urinal—third one from the door—when he dipped his chin for a quick scan over his shoulder.

  That was when he saw the shoes.

  Black and white saddle shoes dangling—just visible beneath the stall door. The kind Catholic schoolchildren wore. Pristine white socks peeked from the tops of the shoes. The legs were tiny pale stalks, calves round with baby fat. Between them were large black men’s loafers, their tops obscured by pressed gray slacks.

  Allen looked in the other direction, down the row of urinals. Spaced evenly apart two other men were lined up with their pelvises pressed toward the porcelain. One had a leathery face which looked as worn as his faded blue jeans and denim vest. He had on a red tee shirt beneath the vest and a matching bandana swathed around his skull. The other man was young, slick and smartly dressed in pressed khakis and a polo shirt. The older man was blonde, the younger dark-haired.

  One of them cleared his throat. Allen stared at them until they lifted their gazes, one by one, and met his eyes. They didn’t like what they saw.

  A muffled grunt issued from the stall.

  Allen felt the bloodthirsty monster rise from beneath its cover and fight its way from the dark, hidden recesses of his mind. He said, “Don’t you see the shoes?”

  At first, perhaps because Allen’s voice had been a low growl, the two men seemed not to hear him. Louder this time, Allen turned toward them. “Don’t you see the shoes?”

  The younger man quickly zipped his fly and started toward the door. Allen’s arm shot out, barring the young man’s chest. “The shoes,” Allen said. “Don’t you see them?”

  The young man fidgeted as the older man zipped up and came toward them. The kid glanced at the floor of the stall. He turned back toward Allen but didn’t meet his eyes. The older man kept his voice controlled. “Hey buddy, we don’t want any trouble.”

  “No,” Allen said. “Nobody ever wants trouble. Trouble is for other people to deal with.”

  Perhaps the men sensed the ascending fury because they pushed past Allen and scurried out of the bathroom.

  The monster was fully birthed now.

  The stall door bent easily and out flew the man in the gray slacks and shiny black loafers.

  How long had it lasted? Even now Wyatt could not say. Seconds? Minutes? The man lay battered and dead at Allen’s feet. Allen’s knuckles were bloodied and raw. Had he beaten the man to death? Snapped his neck? Between the ragged gasps of his labored breath, Allen heard whimpering behind him.

  The girl had not moved from her perch on the commode except to draw her knees to her chest. Her saddle shoes now rested precariously on the lip of the toilet seat. The oppressive gray of the stall’s metal walls made her seem doll-sized. She watched Allen with large doe eyes.

  Her hair was blonde. Long bangs brushed her forehead. Her small lips were swollen, the color of rubies. Allen wanted to touch her, to soothe her, but he knew he could not. He shook his head once quickly, a clipped motion. The girl seemed to understand. She would not tell.

  Later that night, Allen lay in a dark hotel room on a bed that felt like cardboard, a nearly empty bottle of vodka between his legs. The flicker of glowing images from the television captivated him.

  Then came the breaking news.

  “Tonight one of Chicago’s most prominent pastors was found beaten to death in a restroom in Midway Airport after allegedly assaulting an eight-year-old girl. Just after eight p.m. a janitor went into this bathroom to perform his regular duties and found forty-two-year-old Todd Martin lying dead on the bathroom floor. An eight-year-old girl, apparently in shock, sat in a nearby stall where the alleged sexual assault took place. The pastor and the girl had been traveling as a large group with other members of Todd Martin’s congregation. Martin was able to separate the girl from the group during a layover by allegedly telling the girl’s mother he was taking her to get something to eat. He then lured her into the men’s room where the sexual assault took place. As you can see, police have cordoned off the scene and the investigation continues. Police say there were no witnesses to this brutal murder besides the eight-year-old girl who is receiving medical treatment at this time. We’ll have more on this story as it develops. Renee, back to you.”

  No witnesses. Allen flexed the fingers of his right hand. The knuckles were bruised. He thought about the men who had fled the men’s room. They had gotten a good look at him, but they would never come forward. What would they say? They had seen the shoes. The shiny black and white shoes pornographically out of place in a men’s bathroom. Surely they had realized what was going on in the stall just as Allen had. But they would protect their cowardice even if it meant a killer walked free.

  Allen’s slow smile turned to a scowl of disgust. Who was worse? The pastor with his ugly perversion or the cowards who allowed him to molest an innocent child with impunity? Allen could never decide.

  He drank down the last of the vodka in a long, burning gulp. He had killed cowards before in a fit of rage just as blind as that which had overtaken him in the airport bathroom. Then, as now, he felt empty instead of elated. A hollow man.

  But in thinking of the two fleeing men who would never turn him in, the germ of an idea took root in Allen’s mind.

  Like all three men Allen had seen in the bathroom that night, there were people whose evil deeds were lacquered over in a veneer of wholesome goodness. People whose ordinary cruelties were brushed off with puzzlement, a dash of hurt and the standard: “He didn’t mean anything by it” or “that’s just the way he is.”

  Allen hated those people.

  They deserved to suffer. For the things they did and the things they did not do.

  The act of killing had left him empty, but the realization that Allen had punished the man in the stall left him exhilarated. The idea came slowly over the next few weeks, whispering, hissing, and finally shouting inside his head. The woman he loved had suffered even though he’d tried again and again to protect her. At times, she had suffered because of him. Allen could change all that, and he would. He would punish those who had transgressed against her and redeem himself in the process.

  Wyatt selected his next victim from the list and went outside to place her trash in his garbage bins.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  KASSIDY

  July 7th

  When I reached the front stoop, I set down my briefcase and the bag of dog food. I sat down on the step and stared at the flowers as if they might start speaking at any moment. Some muted part of my mind was trying to decide whether to keep them or to throw them directly into the trash.

  I could hear my three dogs on the other side of the door, jostling for position to be the first one pet. They were my home security system. Rocky, a Siberian Husky, Smalls, a hulking German Shepherd and Pugsley, a Pug, as his name implied. My best friend, Linnea, thought that after the Sala attack, I might feel safer with a dog around. She had bought Smalls for me when I moved from Baltimore to Woodbridge, Virginia. I felt guilty leaving him alone
during my long work hours so I adopted companions for him.

  Rocky’s shrill bark interrupted my thoughts. I closed my eyes briefly and took a deep breath. With a single finger, I pushed the pot of hyacinths to the edge of the stoop, clearing the door. I hesitated, tempted to push them off the edge and topple them onto their delicate purple faces. Pugsley yipped. I stood and gathered my briefcase. They would remain on my stoop.

  My three pals waited eagerly on the other side of my front door. I hardly had a chance to set down my things before they rushed at me, sidling along my legs and nudging my hands with cold noses. I bent to pet each of them. The unexpected chime of the doorbell drew them away from me. Rocky growled, prodding the doorknob with her nose. I pulled her back by the collar and opened the door.

  Jory Ralston stood on my doorstep, a half-smile playing at his mouth.

  “Kass,” he said.

  I didn’t speak. I hadn’t seen him in six months.

  He slid past me and knelt to scratch Smalls—who had met him before--behind the ears. Rocky stood beside me, ears pricked, on full alert. She snarled, but Jory was impervious. He rubbed Smalls’ sides, talking nonsense into his ear. Smalls pressed his body against Jory, trying to get as close as he could to Jory’s roving hands.

  Jory turned his face up at me, a full smile this time. “You look good,” he said.

  “You always say that,” I responded flatly.

  He stood up, came closer. Rocky growled louder. I put my hand on her head and she quieted, although her eyes remained locked on Jory. He towered over me, six foot two and all lean muscle. I’d spent as many nights trying to forget those arms as I’d spent in them.