by J. Thorn
Drew smacked the monitor with his right hand, startling a man in a cubicle on the other side of the row. Opportunistic vultures, he thought. He turned back to the screen and pushed the slider to the right, waiting for the video stream to catch up, and then listened again.
“. . . on March fourth. I’ll be sure to get that on my Kindle,” said the anchor with a wink to the camera. “What can you tell us about the Vivian Cabmel investigation?”
Sal laid his book flat on the news desk and folded his hands together next to the white, ceramic coffee mug facing the camera, the network logo perfectly aligned for maximum visibility.
“We’re looking for a sadistic, ritualistic killer. He’s probably murdered dozens of women. Chances are they were young, vibrant, attractive women in their prime. He binds them somewhere, maybe a basement or storage unit, rapes them repeatedly, and then mutilates their bodies before disposing of them.”
The anchor sat back, putting on his best incredulous look. “Rape, murder, dismemberment. Sounds sick.”
Drew wanted to leap through the screen and knock the surgically enhanced smile off the anchorman’s face.
“It’s what gets some men off. They can’t have consensual sex like normal human beings. They have to take it forcefully, like an animal.”
Drew sat back in his chair as the anchorman and his self-published expert continued talking about the grisly details of rape and murder.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with the index finger on both hands. When he opened them, Brian stood at the edge of his desk.
“How ya doin’, bro?” he asked. Drew shrugged. He clicked the streaming-video window closed, exposing an empty spreadsheet underneath. “Working hard, eh?”
“Are you writing a story? Did you get transferred out of design and into media relations?”
Brian raised both palms to Drew and took a step backwards. “Easy, man. Came over to see how you’ve been doing. Me and some of the ladies noticed you ain’t quite been yourself lately.”
Drew snickered. “You and the Oprah crew? That counts for something.”
Brian pulled a chair from against the wall, spun it around backwards, and sat with his arms on the top of the backrest. Drew waited, knowing the macho move would be followed with ridiculous “bro-worry” conversation. He wrinkled his nose at the cloying aroma of Brian’s aftershave.
“Look. You and I have been friends for a long time. I’m worried about you. We’re all a bit skittish with this shit about Vivian. And having Johnson out today with no explanation doesn’t bode well. Folks are saying he was sticking it to her, using his authority to get some ass. They think she may have threatened him with blackmail, a sex tape or something.”
“Bullshit,” replied Drew.
“Whatever. I know you don’t dig office politics.”
“No, bro,” replied Drew, slathering the term with heavy sarcasm. “What I don’t dig is listening to your insincere bullshit that you hope to weave together into a story that you can use to make the women in the office all wet. I don’t dig you dragging Vivian’s situation into a fictional, sexual affair with that asshole. She’d never touch him.”
“How do you know?” asked Brian.
“I knew Vivian better than anyone here. She would have never touched that prick. Ever.”
“I didn’t come here to slam Viv and piss you off.”
“Well you did. Both.”
Brian stood and swung the chair out. He tossed it against the wall where the top chipped the drywall, sending a puff of white dust into the air.
***
Drew came home to Molly sitting on the couch, watching the same regurgitated footage of Vivian’s body being removed from the crime scene. The murder led every network’s newscast, even though the reporters had no more information than they did the day before. The picture of Vivian holding the drink became her. It hovered on the screen whenever anyone spoke of the crime as if she existed in that single moment, and then as a battered, mutilated corpse tossed in the weeds like roadside garbage.
“Can you turn that the fuck off? The kids are going to hear it.”
Molly grabbed the remote and hit the off button, pitching the invisible infrared waves at the television as if to prove the action required effort on her part, and her frustration at being told what to do. “Do you have to be such a dick about it?”
Drew fell into the couch next to her and shook his head. He heard Billy screech from somewhere upstairs as his little sister’s footsteps raced across the floor. “Work is crazy now. Everyone is shaken, and Johnson didn’t show today.”
“His streak?”
“Yeah, ended.”
Molly let out a long, slow whistle. “That prick’s got nothing else to live for,” she said, smiling at Drew. “But I’ve got something you live for.”
She curled a leg around his and slid her delicate fingers inside the waistband of his underwear. He felt her hand move down and the brush of her breasts beneath the sweatshirt, unencumbered by a bra.
Drew shot off the couch and grabbed the stack of mail from the end table. “Billy have hockey tonight?” he asked.
Molly pushed a lock of her hair behind one ear and crossed her arms. “No.”
“I’m going to eat and then go to bed. I need the sleep.”
Molly looked at the clock on the table and saw the small hand hanging on the six. She tilted her head to the side and picked up the remote control. “Dinner is on the counter,” she said.
Drew used his right hand on the railing to make it to the second floor. Billy and Sara ran over his feet from one bedroom to the other, involved in a game requiring running and screaming.
“Downstairs!” Drew said.
His voice echoed off the walls of the narrow hallway and Sara jumped as if she had stepped on a bee.
“We’re just playin’—”
“I don’t care what you’re playing. Go downstairs, now. I’m going to bed.”
Sara touched Billy’s arm before exploding into laughter and bounding down the steps and beyond his reach. Billy looked at his dad. He stared into Drew’s eyes for a moment before calling after his sister and jumping down the steps.
Drew went through the motions of his nightly ritual until he found himself in bed. The rest of the family continued on downstairs, lights blazing and nobody mindful of the fact that he wanted to sleep.
It’s like I’m dead, he thought. Worse. It’s like I never existed at all.
He meant to stand up and slam the bedroom door shut. Drew wanted to rattle the windows and move enough air that Molly would come upstairs to make sure he was fine. But he did not have the strength to slam the door or confront his wife. Instead, Drew pulled the comforter to his chin and rolled over to face the window. The moon dispelled some of the midwinter dreariness that arrived with darkness at five in the afternoon. A solid snowpack reflected the moon’s light upward, creating a red-tinged atmosphere. Drew looked at the scene and thought it resembled the Martian landscapes from all of those bad, science-fiction movies. The streetlights added to the red hue. Ice gathered on the window screen, frozen in long strands and reminding Drew of another household task he never completed.
At least the screens will already be down when spring arrives. That’s one less thing she’ll have to bitch about.
Drew’s body folded in on itself as exhaustion dulled the rest of his senses. Before the bedside clock read seven, Drew slept.
***
“The fucker let me go years ‘fore I heard his voice again. Some of my buddies were real messed up from what they’d seen. The soldiers coming back from ‘Nam called it post-traumatic stress disorder. We called it casualties of war. Must’ve been four, five years since the war ended. We managed to stop the Nazis and kill Hitler. I know what you’re thinking, and no, he didn’t off himself. That was spun to keep us looking like the good guys. We shot that fucker dead. I seen the proof.
“Anyway, I thought I had put most of the war behind me. Got a job at the mill an
d was bringing home enough coin to get the family going. Me and the wife had a few little ones running around and bought into a new housing plan. They built the two-bedroom places on the ridge above the mills. You had to drive now, instead of walking. Gave a man like me the feeling that I was somehow removed from the dirty, hot, deadly blast furnace that I stood next to every day. Sure, the smoke and smog rolled up to the ridge with the winds. Dropped so much shit on us that she couldn’t hang clothes out to dry. We had an above-ground pool installed, and I had to sweep that fucker daily or the bottom would be covered with the black filth that US Steel blasted out the chimneys.
“Must’ve been ’49 or ’50 when I spoke to Gaki again. I had hosted a poker game with the boys and things got a bit rowdy. A few jokers from the Navy joined us. If you sit at a card table and see an anchor tattooed on a forearm, get the hell out of there. Those boys spend weeks, months, floating in the middle of the godforsaken ocean. They get damned good at poker.
“The game ended and I grabbed a fistful of poker chips and three fingers of Jack before the table cleared and everyone left. I think it was midsummer. Shit was hot, heavy. I wonder if Gaki found me that night ‘cause he felt at home, like he was back prowling the jungles looking for shit to eat.”
Drew turned and sweat broke out on his forehead. He felt the pace of the dream quickening and, like before, was powerless to stop it or to wake up.
“I heard the moaning and thought it had woken me up, but it hadn’t. It was happening in my dream. I know that now, but didn’t realize it back then. I was lying on my back with the wife in her twin bed, our bedside table between us. Man had to get damn creative to make babies in those days, what with separate beds and all. I looked up towards the doorway and saw a shadow pass by. It wasn’t one of those tricks your mind plays on you in the middle of the night. Wasn’t one of those noises that convince you a monster is prowling the house. No, this was real.
“I saw it come back the other way and knew Gaki wanted to talk, but for some reason, he wanted to do it on his terms. Figuring I had no reason to invite the eater of shit into the room where the mother of my children slept, I got up. I pulled a robe around my waist and hitched my boxers up before walking out of the bedroom. I caught glimpses of the shadow as it turned the corner of the landing towards the main floor. I got to the bottom of the steps. The house shook and the floorboards creaked like there was a whole bunch of folks walking around in there.
“‘Sit.’
“That one word tasted like spoiled, sour milk in my mouth. Hearing it made my stomach turn and I gagged as if trying to expel the sound of his voice from my body. I did as he commanded and sat in a wooden rocking chair that belonged to my granddaddy. The arms of the chair had blond streaks where the stain had been worn away by him. He loved that rocker.
“‘Why are you back?’ I asked.
“Gaki said nothing. I could not see him yet, but I sensed him in the room. He poisoned the air with a foul stench that knocked me back, even in a dream.
“‘The greed. Now it’s yours. Now you Gaki.’
“‘No. No fucking way. I left the war, and you, and all of that horrific shit on a beach in the Pacific. I’m done.’
“‘Yours, yours.’
“‘This is just a dream,’ I said. Gaki’s words rocked me. I struggled to think, to speak.
“‘It will consume you. No release.’
“‘Why are you back?’ I asked again, knowing I would never get an explanation.
“He pointed to the gold coin hanging around my neck.
“‘Now you are eater of shit.’
“That was the last line that sonovabitch ever said to me. Can you believe that? I’m now ‘eater of shit.’ What did that mean?
“As the months and years moved on, I started to understand Gaki. The greed came in waves, pounding the shores of my sanity into submission.”
Chapter 8
He would have to drink coffee without Sage. Ravna scanned the counter and cramped kitchen behind it before accepting the idea that his goth princess was not on shift today. His mind floated away, imagining her in nothing but black panties, wrapped between white, satin sheets in a room full of candles.
“Sign?” The fellow behind the counter snapped Ravna back to reality. He held the torn, curled paper spit out by the credit-card-authorization device along with a pen. A tether held the end of the pen to the countertop with a braided, hemp string. Ravna looked into the face of disenfranchised youth. A black teardrop tattoo sat underneath the boy’s right eye while coal-black bangs swung down over the left. The plugs in his lobes stretched the opening to the size of a quarter, and his mascara ran a bit at the corners. The Bullet for My Valentine shirt clung to the boy’s thin frame, and a white apron covered his hips.
“Sorry. Lost my train of thought.”
The boy waited, unmoved. Ravna signed the slip and carried the tray to his favorite table, the one in the corner that looked out to the main thoroughfare. Pedestrians shuffled past the window, blowing plumes of breath into the frigid air.
He set the laptop on the table and sighed. Ravna looked up at the faux-coffee-bag banners strung from the pipes in the ceiling, contemplating what he might do when the log-on screen appeared. There was the He Knows You’re Dead review with a Friday deadline, and the interview spread with Roc Salta, a hot, new horror-flick director that Ravna had chased for months before Salta’s agent granted his interview request. As his fingers caressed the keyboard with the familiar pattern of his username, Ravna knew both of those pieces would have to wait. He smelled Gaki in this town, and that could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
The bell on the glass double doors jingled. Ravna looked up in time to see Sage’s braided hair. She wore pink sweats and a fluffy, Eskimo winter coat, which immediately tarnished his vampire-chick fantasy. She walked to the counter where Bullet for My Valentine boy handed her an envelope.
Payday, thought Ravna, turning his attention back to his research.
Ravna logged on to the laptop and shuffled through his messenger bag until he found the book. The ancient text felt heavy in his hands, an obligation more cumbersome than its physical weight. He placed it on the table.
The web browser appeared and Ravna went directly to the Channel 7 website. He scanned the headlines for the most recent one on the Crooked Tail River murder. With a click of the mouse, the story filled the screen. An image accompanying the story stole Ravna’s attention. On the screen appeared a vivacious woman enjoying a drink. Her dark hair looked youthful but on the cusp of turning lighter, toward the beginnings of gray. She smiled at the camera with a sensuality far deeper than the shallow supermodels in glossy magazines. The woman was sexy because of what she hid, not what she revealed.
Victim Vivian Cabmel, read the caption underneath.
Ravna skimmed the article, which could have been written about the murder of any attractive, single woman. It was filled with the usual comments from neighbors, acquaintances, and detectives.
A new e-mail envelope appeared in the bottom, right corner of the screen, which drew Ravna’s attention from the story. He opened it and immediately began a reply, forcing the murder of Vivian Cabmel a notch down on his priority list.
***
Although he could not see the daylight struggling to break through the dying night, he felt it. The dream kept his mind occupied while his body tossed and turned in the bed. The messenger would not release him until it was time.
“Televisions, cars, even women. Mostly electronics. I could not help myself when it came to electronics. I paid thirteen hundred dollars for one of the first VCRs that hit the market. Mighta been Betamax. Ain’t that the shit? It never ended with the first or even the best. I had to have it all. If TI came out with a new calculator, I bought the whole line. Shit, I had no more use for a calculator than a dildo, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“It didn’t happen all at once. I remember the wife asking me why the account was overdrawn. We had two or three checks
come back. In those days, bouncing a check was like wearing a scarlet letter. Everyone in town knew you were a deadbeat or a cheat, even the priest and the nuns of the parish. You see, greed doesn’t swoop in like you hit the lottery. It creeps underneath your door and slowly steals your sanity until you’re consumed by it. It was so clear when I think about it now. The connection between Gaki, the greed, and what he said to me was crystal. I think I didn’t want to believe it. I can sense you already don’t. You’re trying to convince yourself that I’m telling you this story because it’s entertaining or because it’s some kind of wicked family genealogy. Well, it’s all of that, too, I guess.
“But I’m getting ahead of myself. As I was saying, the greed had me by the balls. It’s one thing if you’re lusting after VCRs and televisions, but it’s another if you’re chasing other men’s wives. I fucked my way through the entire neighborhood. I dipped my pecker into every lonely housewife on the block, most of them more than once, and several let me put it anywhere I damn well pleased. Yeah, she knew. But what could she do about it? Men worked and brought home the paycheck, and the women tended house and kids. There wasn’t no other option. Wasn’t like she was going to head out on her own, find a job with nothing but an eighth-grade education and three runts tugging on her skirt. She knew and she had to deal with it. I had my greed and she had my greed. You share it all, good stuff and bad, in marriage.
“She confronted me on the cheating once. Once. After I let’er have her say, I knocked two teeth from her mouth and pushed her nose so crooked the doc had to fix it. Told ’em she fell down the stairs with a look that said he would too if he questioned it. Different times.
“Never had recurring dreams of a bayonet slicing through a man’s gut, or of arms blown off at the shoulder and lying in the dirt, or raping them gook women until they bled. I lived those things and they never came back to me like they did for other GIs. I was free and clear of those sins, like they was committed by someone else in some other time, like some bad Saturday matinee starring John Wayne and his cigarette. Nope, never had flashbacks or crazy nightmares about the war. My pain was much worse as my greed consumed my every living moment.
