She got you all, I think.
And I know who might be next in line.
To save myself, I need to find out more about Akasha.
My eyes turn to one of the news stories open on my screen. The victim in question is Robert May, a junior CPA fresh out of college. Young kid, his whole life ahead of him. Just like the rest of the dead men. But something is different about Robert’s tragedy. Something about his story stands out. His girlfriend was with him when the fire broke out. Jennifer Heitz sustained third degree burns all over her body, but she's still alive.
There's a survivor.
9
White sneakers pad down a sterile corridor. A nurse escorts me down the institutional hallway of the NORELL BURN TRAUMA CENTER. The heat in the building forces me to unzip my jacket.
“We keep the temperature inside the facility at eighty-five degrees,” the nurse explains. “Once the skin is compromised, burn victims are incapable of maintaining the necessary body temperature for internal organs to function properly.”
“What are the survival rates?”
“Thirty percent succumb to infection. If they can make it through the first sets of skin grafts, their odds improve. Jennifer is one of our success stories. After six surgeries, she should be able to leave the center within a month or so.”
We round a corridor and reach Jennifer’s hospital room. The nurse nods, giving me the go-ahead to enter. I told them I was a college friend of Jennifer’s who heard about her tragedy. They agreed that seeing a friendly face would be good for her, but told me to be prepared. Jennifer’s terrible third-degree burns have drastically altered her appearance.
I wonder once again what I am doing here. How will Jennifer react to my visit? I wouldn’t be surprised if in the next few minutes a bunch of security officers descend on her room and drag me out of here. I hope Jennifer gives me enough time to plead my case before she sets the dogs on me.
I push the grim vision aside and concentrate on the figure sitting in the corner. Facing the window, Jennifer wears an athletic hoodie with the hood up. From this angle, she makes me think of an urban monk.
“Jennifer, you have a visitor. An old friend from college…”
“I have no friends. Not anymore,” the woman in the chair says, without turning around. Outside, snowflakes flutter steadily. The nurse shoots me a “good luck, kid” look and leaves us alone.
I’m unsure how to proceed. How do I bring up Akasha? I’m not a trained interrogator and me being here feels like a bad idea. Before I can say anything, Jennifer speaks. “It's funny. Everyone’s so excited that I'm about to leave this place, but I doubt the world is ready for me. Six surgeries later and my face is a cheap Halloween mask.”
“I'm sorry.”
Still without turning, she says, ”I don’t recognize your voice. Who are you?”
I come clean – the truth shall set me free.
“My name’s Mark. I need your help, Jennifer.”
She tilts her head toward me. Even though I steeled myself for this sight, I still have to stifle a gasp. The face inside the hoodie is an ugly tangle of knotted scars. I perused pictures of her from before the accident, and it’s heartbreaking to see her now. The fire leveled her nose and retracted her eyelids. Her former beauty slashed and burned away, she reminds me of a well-preserved mummy.
“How could I possibly help you?” she asks, her lidless eyes staring out at me from the cratered face.
“My brother died in a fire a few days ago. I don’t think it was an accident.”
Her stare never wavers, her full attention fixed on me. This is my chance and I grab it.
“I think someone murdered my brother. The same person who set the fire that killed your fiancé and nearly killed you.”
“Akasha...” Jennifer says, and I realize I’ve come to the right place.
“Who is she?” I ask.
The question hangs there. Jennifer is withdrawing from me. She shifts her attention back to the window. On some level I’m grateful not to be looking at her face any longer, but our connection is crumbling. I make a final attempt to reach her.
“Please, is there anything you can tell me about her?”
After a long moment, Jennifer responds. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
My heavy silence answers her question.
“Leave her before Akasha destroys you both.”
“Who is she?”
No answer is forthcoming. Jennifer doesn’t stir.
“Jennifer, please talk to me...”
She finally responds. Raspy words slip ominously from her destroyed lips with a chilling air of finality.
“Love is like a flame. It burns you when it’s hot.”
10
I was hoping Jennifer would tell me more after that cryptic statement but she clammed up. Damn, my whole visit turned out to be a bust. She did provide me with one insight – I’m not the only who might in danger. Akasha could come after Lynn. The thought terrifies me. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to her. I conclude that I’m done with this amateur investigator shit and go straight to the cops. An hour later I find myself in a bustling squad room. But now that I’m sitting across from Detective Peterson and feel his scrutinizing gaze on me, I feel like I’ve made a mistake. In his mid-forties and clearly the world-weary kind of cop, he doesn’t suffer fools easily. At the moment he is trying to decide if I belong in the drunk tank.
“Okay, to sum it up,” he says, checking his notes. “Your brother and a bunch of other burn victims hooked up with a femme fatale on Facebook and she killed them?”
Dammit, I know how it sounds.
“And this cyber-sex version of a black widow killer is now after you?”
“She’s been stalking me and my girlfriend! Who knows what this crazy bitch is going to do next?”
My raised voice doesn’t earn me any respect from Peterson. “You might want to turn it down a tad.”
He peruses some police department records on his laptop. The first file contains pictures of Josh and his burned-up bedroom.
“According to the fire department, there was nothing suspicious about the fire that killed your brother. It was an unfortunate accident. Case closed.”
“They didn't have all the facts.” Detective Peterson’s patience might be running low, but he’s not the only one. “What about the other forty guys?!”
“Right. The friends list. So if this girl kills all her cyber dates, why did she spare you?”
It’s a good question, one that I’ve been asking myself for the last few hours. Why am I still alive? What separates me from all her other victims?
“I don’t know,” I say, and that’s actually when the answer hits me. I was spared because I didn’t give Akasha what she wants. Josh and Steve (and all the others, I presume) slept with her. I didn’t. My loyalty to Lynn triggered Akasha’s obsessive, stalker-like behavior, but it also could explain why she hasn’t burned me.
Yet.
I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut about this epiphany. Peterson must already think I’m doing drugs. I can imagine what his response would be: “So this psycho chick is stalking guys who don’t put out?”
Sounds crazy. But so does everything else about this case, as Peterson keeps reminding me. How does a nineteen year old woman torch dozens of men over a period of months without ever leaving a trace of forensic evidence? How does she manage to set up elaborate accidents or trigger fires that don’t spread?
For an absurd instant I’m reminded of Pyro, one of the characters in the X-Men movies, and wonder if Akasha might be a pyrokinetic mutant. Damn, I read way too many comic books for a man my age! But what other explanation is there? What am I really dealing with here? I don’t have any concrete evidence, but I know what I’ve experienced. And Akasha’s hit list is right there on Facebook!
Peterson stops his stare-down contest. I guess he’s convinced I’m not high, which makes me either delusional or a skilled prankster. Either way,
he wants me out of here so he can move on with his day and work real cases.
“You’re free to file a complaint if you like,” he explains, “but without any forensic evidence, witnesses or motive, there's not much I can do.”
That’s it. Case closed. Time for a donut. I can’t even blame the guy.
I should let it go and leave, but I’ve come this far and can’t turn back. “Alright, two people might be a coincidence, but how do you explain all of Akasha's Facebook friends being dead? Check her page if you don't believe me.“
I’m not imagining the scowl on Peterson’s face, but he is a thorough, officious guy willing to see this through to the end. Without even trying to hide his skepticism, Peterson logs into Facebook.
I can’t help but be curious — what does a cop post about? Status update: “I booked a killer today – life is good.” Before I can steal a glimpse at his Wall, he locates Akasha’s page.
“Take a look at her Facebook friends...”
The words die on my lips. Akasha’s friend list has changed. It now contains a mix of men and girls. And that’s when it hits me. She “unfriended” her victims! Nothing links them to her Facebook page now.
“She changed her profile, added new friends,” I stammer. “There must be a way to check that...”
I trail off. Something in Peterson’s expression is different now. Where earlier I could only pick up his impatience, I now recognize a new emotion — suspicion. His next question catches me off guard.
“You sure this is the girl you met up with?”
“Yeah.”
Peterson nods pensively and says, “Let me show you something.” He indicates for me to follow him, and I oblige. You don’t want to argue with the NYPD. We step outside the bustling office and arrive in an adjacent hallway. Peterson moves to a wall filled with the headshots of missing teens, mostly females. Each passport-style photograph is accompanied by pertinent details. Peterson points at one of the pictures and my breath hitches.
It’s Akasha. She’s got her own missing poster. My mind reels as I try to process this new piece of information.
“Akasha Samona,” Peterson says. “Missing for ten months now. No one in her family has seen or heard from her.”
“I’ve met up with her twice in the last week alone.”
The words earn me another skeptical glance from the detective, and his frustration boils to the surface. He’s wondering what kind of game I’m playing. For a moment, he indulges me, probably hoping I trip myself up and reveal Akasha’s whereabouts. I’ve gone from potential victim to nuisance to suspect in the space of a few minutes.
“You sure about this?” he asks.
“Why would I be lying to you about something like this?”
I can see that he’s itching to speak his mind, but he keeps it together. He’s a professional.
“Normally when someone goes missing for this long, they either don't want to be found or something really bad happened to them.“
The chilling implication sinks in.
“You think she’s—”
“We fear the worst.”
He takes a step closer and I have to repress the urge to back away. “Any idea where Akasha might be at the moment?”
“I only talked to her online before she started showing up places. I don't even have her number.”
I can tell he doesn’t quite believe me.
“You run into this girl again, you call me immediately. Understood?“
I nod, the words barely registering. I can't take my eyes off the poster, mind consumed with one burning question.
What happened to Akasha?
11
I’m shaken by what I learned at the police precinct. In a trancelike state, I make my way to the nearest subway station and head back into Manhattan. I’m supposed to meet Lynn at the library and she expects an explanation for why I skipped out on today’s crucial quiz, especially when my grade-point average is borderline. I’m not sure yet what I’m going to tell her.
My thoughts cycle back to Akasha. I replay our recent encounters in my mind and all throughout, Peterson’s words haunt me.
“Normally when someone goes missing for this long, they either don't want to be found or something really bad happened to them.“
A theory is forming in the back of my mind. My rational view of the world is fighting the idea, though. It can’t be...
By the time I reach downtown Manhattan, a new message waits for me. The text isn’t from Lynn.
“Met your girlfriend. You could do so much better.” Horrified, I call Lynn right away. No response. I ring again and leave voicemail. I send two texts. Still nothing. The eerie, uncharacteristic radio silence continues.
What have you done, Akasha?
I know Lynn won’t be waiting for me at the library. My best bet is to head to her apartment in Astoria and hope that’s where I’ll find her.
For a terrible moment I worry that Akasha has harmed Lynn. Jennifer’s destroyed features surface in my unwilling but fertile imagination.
As I hit the road, I try to push my fears aside but fail miserably.
I arrive at Lynn’s place. After letting myself in, I suddenly breathe easily when I realize she’s home. Alive and unharmed.
My relief is short-lived.
She’s been crying and her mascara runs down her cheeks in black streaks. Resting before her is an open laptop that’s logged into Facebook. I’m dismayed to see that she’s studying Akasha’s profile...
Before I can utter a word, she cuts me off. “Your new friend looked me up today. She couldn't stop talking about you.”
I step closer and inspect Akasha’s Wall. I’m horrified to find a number of tagged posts written under my Facebook handle. Posts that I never left.
I scan the first one.
I had a great time yesterday. I keep thinking about you.
“Sounds like it was a pretty special evening,” Lynn says.
The other posts are even more damning. They’re so obviously fake that it’s almost comical. Does Lynn think I’d leave a trail of digital breadcrumbs behind if I was actually cheating on her? Judging from the fury in her eyes, the answer is a resounding yes. If our roles were reversed, I’d react in the same manner. She isn’t approaching the situation rationally. Her emotions are in control and nothing I do or say will convince her of my innocence.
Anger rises in her voice as she continues, “If you don't want to be with me anymore, then break up with me. But don't play games.”
“I swear, I didn't write any of those comments.”
My lame defense must only make me sound guiltier, but it’s the best I can do. I’m in shock myself.
“You want me to believe this girl hacked your Facebook account and sent these comments to herself?” Lynn is taking the words out of my mouth. Once again I wonder how Akasha managed to pull this off.
“I don't know how she did it, but I never wrote those messages.”
“Are you saying you didn't meet up with her the other day?”
It’s a loaded question and I reply slowly. “I did, but here’s why...”
This is all Lynn needs to hear. I realize she’s already made up her mind about this, and who can blame her?
“I know it looks bad, but it's a long story. I needed to talk to her about Josh...“
“I can tell you two did a lot of talking.”
“Lynn, please...”
“Just tell me one thing, and don't lie. Did anything happen between the two of you?”
My little make-out session with Akasha flashes through my mind, and I hesitate. I’m a terrible liar. My wavering gaze confirms my guilt. Fighting back tears, she says, “I think you should leave.”
“Lynn, let me explain... This girl is dangerous. Josh is dead because of her...”
Instead of helping my cause, this comment only makes things worse. Lynn glares at me, her tears making way for a growing rage. “Stop it. This is pathetic. I thought you loved me, Mark. But I guess I wa
s wrong. Just get out. Please!”
I’m about to plead with her when Lynn’s hostile stare stops me cold. Her pain is too fresh and raw for her to listen to my crazy tale of spontaneous combustion and hit lists. This round goes to you, Akasha.
As I step out of Lynn’s place and head back to the street, I try to console myself by saying things could be worse. Akasha could’ve tried to harm Lynn physically. In a way, Lynn backing away from our relationship might keep her safe — at least in the short term.
I debate my next move.
Part of me is tempted to walk straight into the nearest bar and get loaded. But nothing will be gained from numbing my mind. Forty men died because of this girl, and I need to find out why.
For the moment, I roll with the punches. Something crazy is going on here and I’d better get to the bottom of this mystery before it’s too late.
12
My car snakes its way down a winding road. The temperature has dropped and it’s snowing again.
I pull up to a middle class, one-family house. A massive snowdrift weighs down the structure. Ominous icicles sprout from the edge of the roof like razor-sharp teeth.
I park my beaten-up Honda and approach the property, which is enclosed by a wooden fence. The only sound comes from my shoes as they crunch the hard-packed snow.
I reach the door and ring the doorbell. Waiting in silence, I watch my breath mist in the cold.
Approaching footsteps grow audible. The door opens, revealing Akasha's mother. Mrs. Samona. I located her Flushing Queens address on the Internet while reading up on her missing daughter.
I’m a little surprised that I’d never heard about Akasha’s case, as her disappearance made all the local news channels. Of course, this is New York City and people disappear on a daily basis. Media coverage of shootings, robberies and assaults present a ticker tape parade of life in the Big Apple. After a while, the stories blur together and one can’t keep track of the steady stream of human tragedy.
Soul Mate Page 5
