by Judith Price
“Listen to your instincts,” Grams would often say. Grams was right. Relying on her instincts had helped Jill solve countless cases. She was confident and secure about her work. It was part of her upbringing. Jill was raised by her grandparents; both her Grandpapa and Grams were full-blooded Navajo Indian.
Jill had lost her mother to a drunk driver at a young age, and had never known her father. Her grandparents had taken her in and taught her about her native heritage. She spent many nights in the desert maturing into who she was today. They raised her off the reservation, teaching her life skills that could be learned only if you were blessed with the genes of a Navajo Indian.
The Navajo reservation, the largest in North America, had many problems—some of which were why her grandparents left. They chose instead to live in a small three-room trailer just outside of Page, Arizona. Surrounded by rock and desert, they would sit in back of their cozy home around a fire in the cool evenings. Jill loved to listen to Grandpapa tell her stories of his youth. To Jill, he was a warrior. With his strong hands and worn face, he was a man of honor, an elder. He taught her how to use a gun. Safety. Load. Rack. Shoot. She was particularly skilled at shooting cans with a twelve gauge shot gun.
After losing her grandparents, Jill simply wanted to be loved—to be held, cherished, and given all the little things love brings. Which is probably one of the reasons she let Jake take advantage of her several hours ago.
Another flash of light made Jill jump, grab the curtain and impulsively stick her face into view. She startled the peeping creep and his flashlight flipped upwards. All she could make out was a flash of pale white skin before he fell backwards.
Jill whirled around, left her room, ran through the house, into the kitchen where she pulled out a flashlight from the drawer and instinctively grabbed the largest butcher knife from the block. Dressed in yoga pants and a tank top, Jill disarmed the alarm and raced out the door.
Rain plunked on the roof as she leaped off the porch and rounded the corner of her house. When she reached the back corner she abruptly stopped and listened. Nothing. She poked her head around, lifted her flashlight, and shone it towards her window. Below the window she saw an old wooden see-saw that she recognized. It belonged to Bert’s owners. Jill spun around fast, shining the light in all directions. Intuition grabbed her by the throat, forcing her to run back into the house. Her bare feet slapped the wet cobblestone. She pounded up the porch steps, slammed the door behind her and engaged the alarm.
Two
When Matthew was a small boy he wanted nothing more than to be like the other kids. Play ball, make fun of yucky girls—the things that normal six-year-old boys would do. But he knew as far back as he could remember that he was different than the other kids. Something was different. Something was always different.
***
Matthew McGregor
Ten Days Earlier
“No, no, no!” Matthew McGregor’s body lurched forward. Beads of sweat puckered on his forehead. He sat up on the bed looking around trying to shake the fog. His hands trembled, but he couldn’t recall why. He twisted himself and looked at the clock. 7:20 a.m. A soft light yawned through the crack in the curtain. The morning somehow looked dark to him—it was always dark.
Four pill bottles sat on the bed stand, next to the clock, lined up in alphabetical order. Then he remembered. Lithium, to reduce any suicide attempts. Loxapine, to inhibit spontaneous motor activity. Risperidone, altering brain communication through neurotransmitters. Zoloft, for depression. A tall half glass of water stood next to the half empty bottles. He had placed it there like he did faithfully every night before he took his meds—before going to sleep. This was his life. His life in hell.
He blinked at the bottles trying to focus, trying to bring himself to take the pills—to numb his fear. Numb him. There were too many faceless doctors in Matthew’s life. Too many years had passed since he was released from the 'retreat’. Lately, Matthew slowly skipped his meds, weaning himself. After all, he felt better. The doctors had warned him about self-administration. “Too much dopamine can cause psychotic episodes, Matthew, and you know how those can be.”
“Shut up,” he barked at the bottles.
He didn’t care. He was beginning to feel better anyway. He knew that one day he would be whole again. He would begin to feel the urges that moved through him, through his blood like radiation dye in an MRI exam. He knew this day would come and he had prepared for it for a long time. He didn’t care that the doctors had told him over and over again, “As a psychopath, you must understand what you are up against in life. There is no cure, Matthew.” He heard it all too many times. What is wrong with hallucinations? So he got angry sometimes especially when someone was plotting against him. He knew all too well that they were trying to poison him—that bitch in the kitchen. The way she smirked at him when she shoveled the food onto his plate. He knew. He always knew. He sure showed her when he planted that rat poison in her locker. Got her fat-ass fired—when he began puking. He didn’t take much, just enough. It was all he needed to do. He’d do it again. He knew he would.
“No, no, no.” His clenched hands hit his temples over and over and over. Before he could think—gain control, he leaped off the bed, swung his arm, and watched as the pill jars flew off the table. Watched as the glass of water smashed onto the floor.
He stood there naked. His pale chest heaved in and out, hands still clenched. Though slight in stature, Matthew was strong. His red curly hair was tight on his head like a newly coiffed perm. His sinew muscles tensed as he stood looking down at the smashed glass. Water seeped into the carpet that lay on the linoleum floor. He didn’t care—well, not until his rage ended. He’d care then. His obsessive-compulsive disorder would inevitably kick in and he would meticulously mop and mop and mop. The room was painted in a shit-stained-shorts color, as if someone had purposely tried to make the walls look older than they were. Even so, the studio apartment was all that he needed. No one visited and sometimes, but only sometimes, this bothered him. Matthew didn’t care about that right now.
Today, he wasn’t having any of it. He was done with those quacks. So what. Just because he had killed his mother when he was twelve. What does that prove—how could they label him as a psychopath after what she had done to him all those years? Bitch. So, he was creative when he killed her. So what! At twelve it was more of a convenience than a well laid-out plan. That ice pick just happened to be sitting there stuck in the ice block in the sink. That’s not what the doctors said, of course. Bullshit. “It spoke to me,” he finally told the doctors. At that point, the doctors labeled him schizophrenic. He had heard other voices but he wasn’t going to tell them about that. Not after they had added more meds—more numbing. He’d overheard them talking—so what if his thoughts were sometimes disorganized? That didn’t mean he was slow or stupid. They were stupid, not him.
So today he’d had enough. Enough of those pills and enough of those quacks and enough of those stupid people always telling him what to do. He knew what was best for him. Besides, today was a special occasion. He had prepared everything. He had spent countless hours constructing his cave—his personal retreat. No one knew of his secret little hideaway—well, no one who would tell, anyway. He had made quite the impression with his employers over the two years he had worked there. He was patient—so much so that even when Matthew began constructing his den, renovating it for this day, no one thought twice of him bringing in his tools, bringing in what he needed. They were nice from the moment he started working there. He was hired through the agency that had promoted ‘rehabilitated’ troubled youth. He wasn’t a youth anymore by this time. But they could not release information on his crimes. It was forever sealed in his juvenile file. They couldn’t tell the potential employers anything about the years he had stayed in the care of the ‘retreat’. This always made Matthew smile. Morons. No one gave him a second glance, even when he struggled to maneuver the large solid pine beam through the cave syst
em on the jimmy-rigged planks. He knew they probably thought he had approval for whatever he was doing. Approval from Mandy the Manager. Matthew giggled at the irony. They trusted him. “Idiots.” But everyone was an idiot to Matthew. After all, he was special—brilliant, actually. He only tolerated them because he sometimes needed them, the idiots that is, to complete his current goal. His big goal.
Today, like everyday, Matthew looked like an everyday Joe. No one noticed him. No one cared when he sat on the same 8:15 train from New Market, Virginia to the employee bus stop on the Lee Hwy circle. He didn’t care, that’s the way he wanted it. But since today was a special day—the big day, he thought he’d jazz himself up a bit. He stood in front of the full-length mirror in his one room apartment.
He wore the same uniform he had worn for the past two years. But today instead of his usual dark brown belt, he chose to wear the one with a dark leopard skin pattern. Not one you could see visibly, of course, but he could—he knew it was there. He pressed his hands against his legs brushing at the invisible creases. He pushed his straight palms down the cotton khaki polyester-blend over and over and over. He felt a tingle in his groin. He hadn’t felt that for a very long time. He knew he was getting closer to his celebration. But he had to keep control. It was too soon for that now.
He lifted the lip gloss from the desk beside the mirror and studied the container before opening and gliding the slick mint flavor carefully over his lips. He didn’t apply it like a schoolgirl would. That would be too messy and that was something he never was. Matthew took particular care in everything he did. Well, as best he could on those goddamn meds.
Standing still in front of the mirror, he fiddled with his tie, trying to get it perfect. He twisted it one way, straightened it, then twisted it the other way. Sweat formed on his upper lip. “Bad, bad, bad.” he hissed at his image. He stood silent as if he heard something. Did he? Wait.
“Mommy.” The voice of a child.
“Shut up, Dory, I’m not your mommy.” Matthew spat. “She’s dead. Go away, you’ll ruin everything.” Matthew snarled again.
Matthew’s face twisted into something unrecognizable when he heard a low female voice, “You’ve been bad, very very bad, and you know what happens to bad boys.” Matthew stiffened and stared hard into the mirror. Fear tightened his chest as he tried to understand and then he remembered.
***
When Matthew was nine he was good in school. He had a lot of friends, too—not good friends, but friends anyway. He would lose most of them when he brought them home and showed them his tricks. He particularly liked to catch one of his goldfish, stab it with a pick, and cook it live with fire from a lighter.
He had lots of goldfish in his glimmering tank. His mother had bought him the tank because he was a good boy. He always did what she asked him to do, especially when she crawled into bed with him when she was lonely. He really was a good boy.
So, at first, when he brought his friends home, they liked catching fish from his tank. Well, for nine-year-olds it was easy. Dip the net in, pull out a fish and put it on the dresser. At first, he would get the “wows” and the “cools” from his audience. But then they would tell him to put the flopping fish back in the tank. It was a sin to watch another creature suffer.
Matthew though, loved to watch the fish flop from side to side. Pretty much all the kids he brought home would cry at this stage of the trick. But Matthew never wanted to miss the finish. He wasn’t going to stop the glorious moment. He couldn’t wait till the gills on the goldfish stopped moving in and out. And just before that happened, he would pluck up the fish in the air with a pick and light it on fire. He would feel his erection; he had felt it before. After all, he was nine.
***
Now at age twenty-four, Matthew stood silent staring at himself in the mirror, waiting, listening. He held his breath. Nothing. Thirty seconds passed and his chest heaved a sigh. He hadn’t heard that voice in a long time―a very long time. Staring at his image in the mirror he held his breath again. Nothing. Matthew frowned. Then, without pause he licked the tips of his fingers and smoothed the sides of his hair.
Pride glowed on his pale face as he admired himself. Today was the day, all right. Everything was ready. It was her turn now.
Three
Jill
The moonbeams cascaded over the top of the evergreen trees, reflecting off the frost before bouncing onto the ground. Jill Oliver pulled her car up the long dirt driveway, too long for the burbs. The old wooden garage lit up from the headlights before she turned off the ignition of her vintage black Mustang and stepped out of the car.
It was almost 10:00 p.m. now. The air hung heavy with a misplaced chill too early to engulf Richmond, Virginia this time of year. Jill grabbed the two flaps of her suit jacket and pulled it closed. She walked on the cobblestone towards the small house. Jill loved this house—it was her refuge. She instantly fell in love with it, the moment she saw the for-sale sign. The porch was the full length of the white house and had wide wooden stairs leading up to the bright red front door.
Winter was coming a little too soon for her liking and she decided that the comfortable shoes, that she’d spent hours picking out, were a bad choice. Sure she had just spent over three hours walking around the remote viewing room. Well, pacing. Today she felt like she had the last several days: something gnarled her gut. Then there was that peeping tom. Creep. She had thought about calling the police last night, but decided against it. After all what would they do? Waste of time. It could be the case gnawing at her, but somehow she wasn’t convinced. Something else pricked at her intuition. Something didn’t feel right.
The warmth from her shoes melted prints in the frost as she ascended the steps. Before she got to the top, she abruptly stopped and listened. She lightly placed her foot back onto the previous step and held her breath. Nothing. Was she losing it? She was about to continue her journey to the front door, and then into the kitchen to the corked bottle of Cab Sav that was calling her, when a sound rustled in the bush next to the step. A ginger cat popped up onto the step and began to rub her leg, then meowed hello.
“Jesus, Elmo,” Jill said as she walked to the front door. Before she unlocked it, she reached down and gave him a finger-tipped scratch on the top of his head. “It’s too cold out here for you tonight. Come on,” she said as she unlocked the door. Once ajar, Elmo, with his tail straight up in the air, pussyfooted in.
Jill slid her hand along the right wall inside, flicked on the lights, turned, and tapped her code on the alarm. But instead of disarming her security system, she enabled it. “Damn,” she looked at the panel. She jammed her fingers on the keypad and disengaged the alarm. She turned fast and scanned the room. She saw nothing unusual in her house―it looked the same. The soft light from the oversized floor lamp lit the pear green walls that highlighted the old white beams. Her black leather sofa took up most of the tiny living area.
Damn, she’d forgotten to arm the alarm before, but this was the second time in one week. Yet, she was sure she did. Especially after last night. That man on the see-saw was all too creepy for Jill.
Details of her remote viewing session invaded her thoughts again. This had to be what was distracting her. Grumbling to herself she threw her keys into the bowl on the stand by the door. The keys clanked as they bounced off the side of the bowl and landed onto the wood surface of the stand. She stopped, reached down with her left hand and plucked up the keys. With her right she picked up the bowl and examined it. She twisted her wrist, turning it over before placing it back down. She had never missed the bowl with her keys before. That bowl had been in the same place for several years and it was a thoughtless ritual to drop her keys into their wooden nest. She looked down at the table and could see that the dust trail proved that it had been moved at least two inches. She thought of Elmo and shrugged.
She walked across the small foyer towards the kitchen archway, but before she reached it she stopped. The hairs on the back of her ne
ck prickled. Was it her paranoia from the remote viewing? She’d always had a sense when something was out of place, something not right. All those years learning from her Grandpapa outside the Navajo reserve in Page, Arizona. He taught her well about meditation—trusting her sixth sense. But there was more, she smelled something. Something out of place. It smelled like … like her cousin’s bedroom. He smelled like that, too, wherever he went. A stale milk smell. Who was she kidding? “Now I smell my cousin?” she ignored her hesitation. She needed that glass of wine to shake off the uneasy feeling the viewing session had given her all night.
She crossed through the archway, reached to her right, and flicked on the light. Pain shot through her body as her rib cage absorbed a hard blow. She bent over in pain and before she could think, her left arm swung up and connected with the soft area of his groin. He gasped in pain, bending over fast when Jill stood, grabbed the top of his head, and kneed him hard, breaking his nose. She whirled around him. She was behind him now. She pushed him hard and when he fell forward, she front-kicked him square between the shoulder blades. His head smashed into the fridge and he dropped to his knees. Jill leaped into the air, adrenaline masking any pain, and with the force of her body weight, jabbed her elbow hard to the back of his neck knocking him to the floor.
