Single White Psycopath Seeks Same

by Jeff Strand

  He was fast. And as he ran, he raised the scimitar above his head.

  We darted around the front of the car. He was only a few steps behind us.

  And then only a couple.

  Then I could hear the swish of the scimitar, and caught a glimpse of the silver blade, flying toward Helen’s neck.

  Chapter 5

  I SLAMMED my hand against Helen’s back and shoved her forward. She fell to the ground as the scimitar blade sailed across where her neck would have been.

  I then tripped over Helen’s arm and landed face-first on the ground as well. Without hesitation, I rolled onto my back and sat up. Helen was frantically scurrying away from the man, who stood over her, scimitar at his side.

  He shoved his foot against her back, pushing her flat onto the ground, and then raised the blade above his head once again. I lunged at him as he brought it down with both hands.

  There was nothing I could do to stop its descent. My only hope was to get between the blade and my wife.

  I squeezed my eyes shut as I felt the warm metal connect with the back of my neck.

  It didn’t break the skin. He’d stopped his swing at the precise moment to avoid chopping off my head. I could almost feel the man staring at me through his mask, and then he lifted the blade out of the way and kicked me in the stomach. I collapsed onto my side, unable to believe that I was still the proud owner of a head.

  The man returned his attention to Helen, now ready to slam the scimitar down like a spear. I dove at her again, and the tip of the blade scraped against my throat but still didn’t draw blood.

  “Get out of the way,” he said. This time he wasn’t using the little-boy voice.

  I grabbed the dull edge of the blade with both hands, keeping it pressed against my neck. For whatever reason, he was going out of his way not to kill me, and I was going to use that to my advantage.

  Helen crawled forward out of immediate danger, and then twisted herself around so she could see what was happening. She gasped as she saw my predicament, which I’m sure looked like I was struggling to keep from getting stabbed rather than trying to hold the weapon in place.

  “Get out of here!” I shouted. “Run!”

  The man gave the blade a sharp tug, but I held on as tightly as I could. Unfortunately, there was just no way to maintain my grip, and with his second tug the blade slipped free.

  His head rocketed back as Helen punched him in the face. It was an unbelievable punch, one that made me vow to stay on her good side for the rest of my natural life. The man stumbled backward a couple of steps but didn’t drop the scimitar.

  “ Now run!” I shouted. “He doesn’t want to hurt me! He’s after you!”

  I couldn’t be absolutely certain that was true, but it seemed like a safe bet. Helen took off running toward the car, while I charged at the man and slammed my elbow into his gut. He let out a groan and doubled over. I brought my fist down between his shoulder blades, knocking him to his knees.

  Then I jumped back as he took a swing with the blade. It wasn’t a very fast swing, but I had to revise my theory about him being unwilling to hurt me. Maybe he wouldn’t sever my head, but perhaps a limb or two was at risk.

  He pointed the blade of the scimitar at me, and then swung it again. I was well out of range, so it was meant to be intimidating rather than lethal. I was intimidated.

  I glanced back at Helen, who opened the driver’s side door and reached inside. The lid of the trunk popped open. That’s exactly why I’d taken the keys in the first place...the trunk held the only thing in the vehicle that could pass for a weapon, besides Captain Hocker’s submarine torpedoes.

  The man got to his feet. I might have been able to knock him back down before he sliced me in half, but I wasn’t certain enough about that to take the chance.

  “Andrew!” shouted Helen. I held up my hand, and she tossed me the tire iron.

  As it sailed through the air, it became obvious that this heavy object was much less likely to gracefully land in my hand than it was to bash in my skull, so at the last instant I stepped back out of the way and let it fall to the ground with a loud clatter.

  The man stood there, his chest heaving as he breathed deeply. About five feet separated us. The tire iron was right in front of me.

  “Is she really worth dying for?” the man asked.

  “She has her moments.”

  Right after I said it I realized that my smart-ass answer to his question was certainly going to reduce the likelihood of future passionate romps in our car, but that’s just the way my stupid mind works.

  He pointed the scimitar at me. “I hope it won’t bother you to end up like your friends at the séance.”

  “It probably will, but thanks for your concern.”

  We stared at each other for a long moment. I was tensed and ready to grab the tire iron, but he looked ready to strike and I wasn’t sure I could beat him.

  “Who are you, anyway?” I finally asked.

  “You can call me the Headhunter.”

  “Not a bad name.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you sure it hasn’t already been taken?”

  The Headhunter shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. It doesn’t matter. Nobody who hears it gets to live long enough to look that up. So are we going do this or what?”

  “I was waiting for you.”

  “No, pick up your weapon. I’ll give you a shot at beating me. I love a good challenge. You’ve got to the count of three to grab it. One...”

  I bent down for the tire iron.

  The Headhunter turned and ran toward the car. Helen screamed. I cursed and snatched up the tire iron by the handle.

  I saw Helen reach into the trunk. The Headhunter was almost upon her when she flung the car jack at him, smashing him in the face. He began to stagger toward me, free hand over his mask, drops of blood falling to the pavement.

  I hurried forward, ready to deliver the final crushing blow, but the Headhunter tripped and fell. He lay on the pavement next to his scimitar and didn’t move.

  My first instinct was to mosey on over there and whack him seventeen or eighteen times with the tire iron, perhaps asking a rhetorical question like “How does that feel, huh? Huh?” while I did so. But I wasn’t entirely convinced that he wouldn’t spring back to life before the first whack, so instead I gave his body a wide berth as I walked over to Helen.

  She threw her arms around me. “Do you know this guy?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “I was hoping you did.”

  Seconds later, a sleek black car with tinted windows pulled around the planetarium and stopped behind my own less-than-sleek automobile. A short, heavyset man in a grey business suit got out of the passenger side and did a speedy waddle toward us. His movements sort of reminded me of those old toys called Weebles, which the commercials proclaimed would wobble but not fall down. When I was a kid I’d bet my next-door neighbor that I could get my Weeble to wobble and then fall down forever, but his mother had come in and canceled the bet before I had a chance to use the hammer.

  “Is he dead?” he asked. “Did you kill him?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted.

  “Oh God...oh God...oh God...” the man whimpered as he Weeble-walked over to where the Headhunter lay, wringing his hands nervously. Keeping a safe distance from the body, he knelt down and peered carefully at him.

  A gentleman who looked exactly like the FBI agents in the movies—black suit, sunglasses at night, stone features, perfect hair—got out of the driver’s side.

  “Why is the cavalry always late?” I asked. “You know, there’s this concept known as the nick of time that you might want to look into.”

  “Please control yourself, sir,” said the gentleman. “I’m Thomas Seer, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He flashed his badge at me.

  “He’s still breathing, I think,” said the heavyset man. “Thank God!”

  “You’re right, it would be a shame for a stand-up citizen like
him to die,” I said. “Think of all the children he has yet to teach the wonders of literacy.”

  “You don’t realize what you’re involved in,” Thomas informed me, politely but firmly, “so I recommend that you keep the unprofessional comments to yourself.”

  I rolled my eyes and put my arm around Helen. Thomas reached inside his suit and removed a pair of handcuffs.

  “Watch yourself, he’s good with that sword,” I said. “And he’s probably faking. I wouldn’t go near him.”

  Thomas motioned for the heavyset man to back away, which he did, and then began to slowly advance upon the Headhunter.

  “I’m really serious,” I said. “At least give him a good blast of pepper spray first!”

  “I have something even more effective.” Thomas took out a revolver and aimed it at the Headhunter.

  “Sir, I have a .44 Magnum pointed at your head,” he announced. “This is the exact same weapon that Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry uses, and while it can’t blow your head clean off as discussed in the first movie, it can unquestionably be fatal. If you are not really unconscious, I very highly recommend you admit to it and spare yourself some unpleasantness.”

  The Headhunter didn’t move.

  Thomas took another step forward. “It’s a trick,” he said. “I’m putting a bullet in his leg.”

  “Okay, okay!” shouted the Headhunter. “Take a pill, for crying out loud! Damn, you people are uptight!” He raised his arms behind his back, allowing Thomas to handcuff him without incident.

  I ASSUMED we were heading over to the police station for yet more fun-filled questioning, but after loading the Headhunter into the back of his car, Thomas asked Helen and I to follow him to his motel.

  “Shouldn’t we go to the police station?” asked Helen, a woman after my own heart.

  “Please, this is very important,” said the heavyset man, almost whimpering. “I really need your help.”

  “Why?” I asked. “We already caught him.”

  “We’ll explain everything when we get there,” Thomas assured us. “And we need to get going.”

  I shrugged at Helen, and we returned to our car.

  WE FOLLOWED them for about six miles to the motel, during which my conversation with Helen focused entirely on how much we both really, really, really needed a vacation.

  Chapter 6

  I SAT NEXT to Helen on one of the twin beds. We both had our feet up on the mattress to keep the possibility of them being overrun by bloodthirsty cockroaches to a minimum. No matter whose standards you used, this was one incredibly lame motel.

  Thomas had taken the unmasked Headhunter (blonde fellow, kinda dopey-looking) into the bathroom and shut the door, but not before I glimpsed a coil of metal wire and what looked like jumper cables resting on the sink. The heavyset man started to pace around the room, sweating profusely, constantly wiping his hands on his pants.

  “So...what’s the story?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m just a little frantic, that’s all.” He took a deep breath. “My name is Craig Burgin, and I desperately need your help.”

  “You’ve said that.”

  From inside the bathroom, there was a cry of pain that was quickly muffled.

  “What’s he doing in there?” Helen demanded.

  “He’s getting information.”

  “Does his FBI training manual include torture techniques?” I asked.

  Craig smiled nervously. “He’s not FBI. He’s this private investigator who’s helping me find my wife.”

  “Private investigator from where? What exactly is going on here?” I got off the bed and stood up, hoping my legs wouldn’t be devoured.

  “Just let me explain, okay? Please?”

  There were some more muffled cries of pain from the bathroom, and then a dull thump .

  “Forget this,” I said. “We’re outta here.”

  “No, no, I’m going to tell you everything.” He took another deep breath, and then exhaled slowly. “About ten months ago, my wife Charlotte was kidnapped. No ransom note, no demands, no nothing. Some drops of blood on my kitchen floor were the only evidence anything had happened. The police got involved, the FBI, the IRS, we offered this huge reward for any information, and we found nothing.”

  “The IRS?” I asked.

  “Sorry, no, not the IRS. Another one. Just let me talk, okay?”

  He wiped his nose off on his sleeve. “One month to the day after she vanished, I got this videotape in the mail. It was a two-minute video of my wife, taken against this white backdrop. She was tied up and gagged...covered with cuts and bruises. There was this message on the backdrop that said ‘She’s still alive, but you can’t have her.’“

  Craig’s voice cracked, and it took him a few moments to regain his composure. “Obviously we studied every second of the tape, but there wasn’t anything to go on besides the postmark, which was from Los Angeles. The next month, I got another tape, this one with a Pittsburgh postmark. There she was, tied and gagged, her bruises and cuts healed. She had this copy of USA Today on her lap to prove it had been taken the week before. Same message on the backdrop.”

  I sat back down on the bed. Helen scooted close to me.

  “It’s gone on like this for almost a year now. Every month I get this video, every month Charlotte’s got this newspaper, but every couple months they add to the message on the backdrop.”

  I waited expectantly, but he just went on pacing and didn’t continue. “What did they add?” I asked.

  “It was meant to be funny, I guess,” said Craig, shaking his head. “After the first two months the message said ‘She’s still alive, but you can’t have her. Nyahh, nyahh!’ Two months after that they added ‘Neener, neener!’ Then ‘Nanny nanny boo boo!’”

  I stared at him. What kind of kidnappers were these?

  “Money, I could understand,” said Craig. “But turning it into this joke...that’s just, it’s just evil.”

  There were some more muffled shrieks from the bathroom, these much louder than the ones before. They faded out quickly, and I swore I could hear faint sobbing.

  “Sounds like evil is being punished,” I noted.

  Craig shook his head. “It wasn’t the Headhunter. He was strictly after you.”

  “Oh, well, that’s reassuring.”

  “It’s the truth. Let me back up. Three months ago, I got this call from Thomas, who I didn’t know at the time. He said he had information that might help me find my wife. I didn’t hesitate to meet him, of course, and he explained how he’d been helping this other client search for her missing sister. Her sister was heavily into drugs, and she was scared she might even be dealing, so she never called the police. Sadly, Thomas only managed to find her head.”

  The bathroom door opened. Thomas stepped out and closed the door behind him. “Have you explained everything yet?” he asked.

  “Not yet, I’m getting there.”

  “No, wait,” I said. “Before you get back into the story, I want to know what’s going on in there.”

  “Actually, I don’t suspect you do,” Thomas informed me. “And even if I’m wrong, I’m certain your wife doesn’t. I can’t imagine that either of you have any great love for the man in the bathtub.”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean I approve of him being tortured!”

  “Tell me something, Andrew. When that maniac abducted your children last year, would you have approved of a little torture if that helped you find them?”

  “This is different.”

  “Certainly, it’s not your family.”

  “No, it’s not that, it’s...forget it, I’m not getting into a discussion of sadism ethics here. Craig, continue.”

  Craig closed his eyes, clearly trying to get back into his train of thought, and then began speaking again. “Anyway, the story gets fairly involved, Thomas can fill you in on a lot of the details, but he ended up breaking into the Headhunter’s car.”

  “This was in Manhattan,”
Thomas said.

  “Yes, Manhattan. He only had a minute or so to search, but he found this letter. It was typewritten—”

  “Not typewritten, printed out on a computer,” Thomas corrected. “There was no name on it, but the letter was addressed to the Headhunter. It discussed how the person writing the letter looked forward to meeting him for the big party. Everything was purposely vague, but the closing of the letter was, and I quote, ‘Until next time, nyahh nyahh and nanny nanny boo boo!’ Now, that information as it related to Mr. Burgin’s case had been withheld from the press, as things always are to filter out those unhappy individuals who confess to crimes they didn’t commit, but I knew all about it. So I contacted Mr. Burgin and he graciously agreed to fund my investigation.”

  He checked his watch. “Pardon me, I need to get back to work. Please continue,” he said, gesturing to Craig as he re-entered the bathroom, again closing the door behind him.

  “So he tracked Ned—that’s the Headhunter, Ned Markstein—for a couple weeks. He snuck into his apartment, went through his things, all that stuff. He found more letters, nothing that identified the kidnapper, but there was enough evidence in them to prove that the person writing them had Charlotte. Last week, he hacked into the Headhunter’s personal computer and found this letter in progress. It’s here somewhere...”

  Craig opened a briefcase, flipped through a couple of files, and then took out a manila folder and handed me the printout of the letter inside.

  “ Buddy,

  Time’s getting close, isn’t it? It’s been too long since I’ve had a nice vacation. I’ll definitely bring my share of the party favors, but I’ll take it one step further. I’ll bring you Andrew Mayhem and Roger Tanglen. And then we can ”

  “Can what?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. We never saw the finished letter.”

  “So how do two people like this meet? What, did he take out a personal ad? Single White Psychopath Seeks Same?”

  “I think it started on the Internet, actually.”

  “It’s always the Internet, isn’t it?” I said, annoyed. “So why the hell didn’t you go to the cops? My wife and I almost got killed!”