by Jen Haeger
***
When I set up the interview, the Rikers official wasn’t thrilled about it, to say the least. More completely pissed off, actually, and after what happened at my last visit, I couldn’t really blame him. I’d had to put the weight of the FBI, a weight I no longer wielded, behind the request to get him to acquiesce, but finally he gave in under the condition she and I be separated by bulletproof glass. A more personal atmosphere would’ve been better for what I had planned, but I had to take what I could get, at this point.
Sweat beads on my forehead as guards, maybe the same ones who’d yanked me from the room when Chester had attacked me, escort me to a different visitation room. This room is more the typical type portrayed on television with a half wall of bulletproof glass divided by partitions into semiprivate visitation cubicles. On each side of the glass is a counter and a telephone so the inmate on one side can communicate with the visitor on the other. I sit in the plastic chair in the cubicle the guards point me to at the far left of the room.
One guard peels away and exits, while the other takes up a station in front of the exit. While I wait for Chester, I wonder if the one guard has stayed only because I’d caused trouble on my last visit. After all, the shatterproof glass would prevent any inmate from getting through to this side of the room.
“Any chance I can get a little privacy here?”
The guard gives me a glare, eye twitching.
I point to the glass. “She can’t get to me, and I have to ask her some sensitive questions.”
He remains aloof.
“Please?”
His jaw tightens, and right before I think he’s going to read me the riot act, he must decide he has better things to do.
“Fine. There’s a panic button next to the phone if you need it. Otherwise, I’ll be back in thirty minutes to collect you. This door will be locked. If you try to open it an alarm will sound. If you finish before your time is up, use the intercom next to the door to call a guard to let you out.”
The guard then uses the intercom himself to call for someone to unlock the door, giving his name and badge number and then punching a code into the keypad. When the door buzzes and the guard opens it to exit, I call out to him.
“Thank you.”
He doesn’t answer me. When he’s gone, the room seems more closed in and menacing. I’ve thought about what I’m going to say to Chester, and changed my mind half a dozen times. Even though I know Chester is behind Ray’s actions, I can’t go through with my plan to catch the WHISP without first calling Chester out and giving her a chance to stop killing. If what the woman at CAW said is true, separating Chester from her WHISP could cause her severe pain and damage her mentally even more than she already is. I can’t have that on my soul, even if she is a cold-blooded killer, but once I’ve warned her, I’ve done my part and whatever happens afterwards is on her.
It isn’t long before Chester, once again in wrist and ankle chains joined in front of her, shambles in accompanied by two guards. Neither is a guard from our previous visit. Once Chester is seated in the chair, one of the guards pushes her close enough to the counter so, even shackled, she can reach the phone while the other stands clear, hand on the Taser at his belt. When she’s in position, both guards take up a position by the door. Chester leans forward and rests her elbows on the counter, then rests her head in her hands in a lazy gesture, though the chains linking her arms and legs must be uncomfortably tight. She stares at me like a cat. No, not a cat, a jaguar. Even in chains on the other side of a glass barrier, I am prey to her.
I keep my gaze focused on her face. This is the first time I’ve seen her since I figured out the truth about Ray, and more than ever I want to avoid looking at her WHISP. Picking up the phone, I try not to look rushed, but I don’t have much time with her and I don’t know if I’ll ever get this opportunity again. Chester glances sidelong at the phone and her mouth spreads into a grin full of malice. She knows she could screw with me simply by not picking up the phone, keep me coming back and going through all this trouble just to have me sit here like an idiot. Fortunately, Chester also likes to talk. She waits only a few more minutes, staring at me with those predatory eyes before finally sighing and reaching for the phone.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Detective. I mean that honestly, I’m not looking forward to another trip to the emergency room.”
“You look fine to me, besides you’re not in a threatening position today.”
“Aren’t I?”
I shake my head. “Not with this glass, not with those guards, not in this place, and not with me.”
Her eyes narrow. “Oh?”
“Cut the act. I know everything. I know you haven’t stopped killing, though I can’t imagine it’s much of a thrill when you can’t be there. When you can’t see it and hear it and get warm arterial blood splattered on your face. Really, I don’t know why you’re bothering.”
Appraising me anew, Chester smiles. “Detective Harbinger, I am so proud of you. I never thought we’d get there with you. Bravo.”
“Why still do it?”
She shrugs. “Habits are difficult to break sometimes.”
“Hmm, maybe it’s not you at all? Maybe Ray’s just going off and doing it on her own now. Is that what you mean? It would make more sense seeing as how now you only get to hear about it secondhand on the news. Must be frustrating.”
“You assume it’s about the thrill. It’s not. It’s about power. It’s about showing you I’ve beat you even though you put me in here. You’re also assuming a…lack of connection.”
I swallow. “You can’t tell me you can see anything or hear anything through Ray.” Oh please God, tell me it isn’t true.
“Obviously not, but there are certain shared,” she shivers with disconcerting pleasure, “impulses.”
Bile splashes up into the back of my throat and I have to swallow hard.
Catching my reaction, Chester’s smile turns condescending. “Still so much for you to learn, Detective.”
“I know more than you think.”
“Oh really? Such as?”
It’s time to put it all out there, throw down the gauntlet and try to lure her into it. “I know you can’t have Ray away from you for more than an hour at best. I know it puts a strain on you when she’s away. I know she can only be sent to places she’s familiar with, places you’ve spent a lot of time, and I know she can only hurt other people with WHISPs.”
Chester raises her thin brows. “Very go—”
“—I also know something you might not. I know what you’re doing is dangerous for you. The connection you have with her. It can hurt you. If Ray gets caught up in a strong magnetic field or her particles are dispersed somehow, not only will it be agonizing for you. It could seriously damage you. Permanently.”
The irritation of me cutting her off fades into suspicion, but it quickly dissolves and Chester rolls her shoulders. “Hasn’t happened yet. I think you’re underestimating what’s possible.”
“Yeah? Why don’t you show me then?”
“I wish I could”—her eyes trace over her shoulder and she sticks a thumb out toward the guards—“but now isn’t the time.”
“Fine, not now. Tomorrow night. At your old apartment.” It’s a clumsy and transparent attempt, but I’m running short on time even assuming the guard doesn’t come back early just to be an ass.
Her eyes glitter. “Now why on earth would I do that, Detective?”
“To prove it to me. To flaunt your power. To have a chance to scare the crap out of me.”
“Then why would you?”
Deliberately, I break eye contact. “Maybe to prove it to myself.” I have to make her believe I’m questioning myself, my sanity, but I can’t lay it on too thick. If she sees through the ruse, she won’t send Ray because she knows I’m faking, and if she thinks I’m really having a breakdown, she might not come just to feed the flames of doubt. Clearing my throat, I straighten and find her eyes agai
n. “Well?”
“I’ll consider it. But if you aren’t sincere in your motives, I’d hate to think of what it might mean to those around you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Chester’s face brightens with malicious glee. “I read a very interesting article in the paper the other day. It was an editorial written by a Janet something? Anyways, she had very strong opinions about you with respect to your son and his WHISP.”
My fingers grip the counter and my mouth goes dry. Janet Williams was the journalist who’d gotten wind of my WHISP phobia and written a scathing article about my bias in the case against Chester. Lincoln didn’t share my last name, and didn’t live with us, but it wouldn’t have been too difficult for a professional journalist to figure out he was my son and he had a WHISP. “My son?”
“Mmm hmm, we worked in the same lab for a short time, but I’m sure you knew that.”
“Are you threatening my son?”
“That’s up to you.”
Words gather in the back of my throat, but before I can speak again, the door behind me opens and the guard comes in.
“Time’s up, Detective.”
On the other side of the glass, Chester shrugs and hangs up the phone.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Just when you thought things couldn’t get weirder in Japan, a new specialty clothing store is selling outfits for WHISPs. The store, roughly translated as ‘Shadow Wear,’ sells specially designed wire frames which hold up clothing so it looks like your WHISP is dressed. The frame can be swung to the side to allow the wearer to sit, and functions best when walking or standing.”
The Daily Show, Comedy Central
It only took calling in a small favor to get me into Chester’s apartment. Fortunately, a snarl of legal issues has kept it empty since Chester was arrested. Some of the furniture is still there, but all of Chester’s possessions have long since been removed. The place has a quiet air of neglect but, for me, also a cloud of horror. I visit each location where we found a piece of evidence: a bloodied shirt stuffed into a plastic bag, a pair of shoes with treads consistent with those found at two of the murder scenes, a clump of hair which turned out to be from Henry Hunt, and a scrap of fabric caught in the band of a broken watch, matched to the shirt of Grant Wilcox.
But there’s no time to dwell in the past, and I’m not here for some kind of spiritual or emotional journey. I take out the video camera and set it up in the corner facing the couch. Then I pull out the item I bought from a less than squeaky clean pawn broker who’d given me information in the past in return for leniency on various transgressions. Never did I think I would be strapping one of these things on my back, but here I am. The device is heavy and its weight awkward despite shoulder straps and a waist strap. Taking a deep breath, I switch on the WHISP generator and listen to it hum and whine.
I’ve also purchased the optional heat shield pad, but the heat the device is generating is already starting to make me sweat. Resisting the urge to glance over my shoulder, I pull out the third item from my bag of tricks, which, in retrospect, should have been the second thing. It’s supposed to be an EMP device, but for obvious reasons, I haven’t tested it yet. I also can’t resist sliding my gun out of its holster and laying it on the cushion next to me, for all the good it will do against a murderous cloud.
The trap is set, but I can’t know whether it can possibly work and if it does, I can’t know whether the EMP will work. If Chester is directing Ray, there’s really no reason to think she’ll decide to send her here, of all the other locations she could guide her. I can only hope no other places she’s spent a lot of time in have a person with a WHISP unwarily crossing paths with Ray while I sit here watching the darkening skies. Since turning on the WHISP generator, and dubbing myself a target, my heart has been racing.
The medical examiner concluded the deaths of Chester’s victims had been due to exsanguination, so theoretically, I would have some time to fight back. Also, I know, or at least think I know, what’s coming, so I’m at an advantage over other victims who may never have understood what was happening to them. Still, I can’t overlook the fact I’m using myself as bait for a serial killer, one whose handiwork has fueled my nightmares for the past year. My fingers trail across the top of the EMP. The slippery metal isn’t nearly as comforting as the cool steel of my gun. And now comes the waiting.
***
My adrenaline long since ebbed, only the burn of the WHISP generator and the ache it’s founding in my back is keeping me from dozing. It’s been close to five hours now and though I’ve drunk sparingly from my water bottle, I’m practically floating. This was probably a dumb idea, but it was the only one I had. Now I’m wondering if this prolonged exposure to the WHISP generator might be dangerous to my health, or worse, might trigger the development of a real WHISP. Then my cell phone rings, nearly causing me to piss myself. As I pull it from my pocket, images of cell phones shoved into carved up throats flood my mind, and violent shivers race up my spine.
It’s Ben. No surprise there. In fact, I feel he showed incredible restraint by not calling until now. I click the ringer off and slip the phone back into my pocket. I was out with Kristina at a bar, and I didn’t hear my phone ring. An easy lie. I’m just relaxing back into the couch when my phone rings again and, jolted, I bite my tongue. When I yank the phone from my pocket, I’m seeing red and tasting blood. I check the settings and find the phone thinks the ringer is off, yet the chimes are still echoing through the vacant apartment. I turn the ringer on and then off again and the ringing stops.
Spooked now, I scan the dim room illuminated solely by my cell phone and by the glow of my faux WHISP. I spot the WHISP in the window and knock the EMP to the floor, grabbing my gun instead through force of habit. This turns out to be a good thing because, a moment later, I grasp that I’m staring at the reflection of my faux WHISP.
“Dammit!” Fear and anger turn to giddiness. “You scared me.”
The reflection of the hologram lowers its hands as I lower my gun. I’m caught in morbid fascination and raise my arms slowly back up into firing position, then back down again, then holster my Glock and swing my arms around in circles. The slightly blue-tinged, cloudy shadow mimes me. I wave at it and as it waves back. The punch-drunk mirth is replaced by revulsion. Striding over to the window, I drop the blinds and find my hands are shaking. The discomfort in my bladder has now turned to pain. It’s a few minutes after three a.m. and I don’t know how much longer I can stay here with this thing on my back. I won’t be able to defend myself if I’m completely exhausted, and if I don’t return home soon or at least call Ben, he might call the precinct.
I pull out the phone and start to text Ben when it rings again, but this time with an unfamiliar ringtone. “What the fuck?”
The screen reads, “Ben Calling,” so I breathe in and answer.
“Sorry, Babe, I’m out with Kristina and we just lost track of time. I didn’t hear the ringer before.”
Angry static hisses and buzzes through the phone’s speaker.
“Ben? Ben can you hear me?”
The beep, beep, beep of a lost call sounds, so I wait a few moments for Ben to call back, but he doesn’t.
“Fuck.”
I begin the text anew, but my phone kicks me out of the texting app before I can finish. I enter the app again and start typing but it kicks me out again. Gripped with annoyance, I turn off the phone intending to turn it back on again. It’s then a sensation of cold, empty wrongness manifests deep in my gut. I’m turning to collect the EMP from the floor when something crashes into the back of my head and sends me sprawling. Bright flashes of color burst like fireworks across the back of my eyes, and the gentle hum of the WHISP generator increases steadily until it’s a deafening whine. Searing heat rages across my back as I struggle up onto my hands and knees. At first, I think the WHISP device has exploded, but then I catch sight of a blurry cloud in front of me. Ray. I lunge forward toward the EMP on the
floor, but Ray charges and I’m being tugged backwards, the straps of the WHISP generator biting into my shoulders.
Falling back, I catch a glimpse of the video camera whizzing toward me. It impacts my skull with an audible crack and white, blinding pain explodes in my head. The whining of the WHISP generator reaches a crescendo then changes to a screech, which peaks and then goes silent. I’m blinking, but I only see blackness overlaid with the after images of colorful sparks. I’m tumbling then, not physically but mentally, vaguely aware of the throbbing in my head, burning of my back, and warmth spreading down my thighs.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“I find bright sunny days and wearing grey or other dark colors minimizes WHISP visibility.”
Blog: Learning to Live With a WHISP
“Sylvy, baby?”
Ben’s voice carries to me over various beeps and whirrs. I’m lying on a hard, cold bed with sheets that scratch at the backs of my bare legs. Blackness gradually dissolves into pale light and the stink of disinfectant invades my nose. In a flood of memory, I know exactly where I am and how I got here.
“The camera…” my voice is hardly a rasp, the inside of my mouth tacky and dry. “Water.”
Someone’s hand squeezes mine, then I feel a straw poking at my parched lips. I take one minute sip after another until my tongue doesn’t feel like beef jerky and I can swallow without pain.
“I’m here, babe.”
