The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller

by Staci Layne Wilson

  Diana stood still and seemed to be staring straight ahead. She did not speak to Cary. Cary looked at the closed coffin and thought about what it would like to be inside that dark, closed-in box. Was Marlisa's spirit still in there with her body? Or maybe she was hovering around, watching her own funeral. Did she hate him, now that he had her precious daughter all to himself? He tried not to think about that. He stood still, just waiting, not speaking to Diana or looking at anyone.

  Finally, the pastor arrived and after a brief greeting, launched into the eulogy. Pastor Balsam was a severe and hawkish old-looking man of middle age with black hair and white skin. His voice was resonant and seemed to project as well in the open air of the lonely cemetery as it had in the glass-paned cathedral-ceilinged church the night before.

  "Marlisa Moon," he began, "was a kind woman. A woman of great strength of character and one who respected the Lord without question. We will miss Marlisa Moon's sweet soprano voice signing in the church on Sunday mornings. We will miss her delicious cakes at the church's semi-annual bake sale. Most of all, we will miss screwing her in the church orgies."

  Cary whipped a quick glance at Diana. She had no reaction. She was still watching Pastor Balsam, her face and stance completely relaxed. The pastor had said no such thing. Cary's imagination was running away with him again. He had dared to hope only moments before that it was all over...but maybe it was just beginning. Maybe the corpses would start digging and clawing their way from their cold, dirty graves. Maybe the pastor would open Marlisa's casket. Maybe...

  Pastor Balsam drew a breath and turned the page of his notebook. Cary simply couldn't stay to hear what the pastor would have to say next. He was terribly afraid that Pastor Balsam would have a personal message just for him.

  Cary bolted into a run and didn't look back. He leaped across Marlisa's open grave, sprinted over the grassy knolls and zipped into the woods.

  The cemetery was bordered on two sides by a tall wrought iron fence, the driveway entrance, and the woods in the opposite direction. Cary didn't know where he was running, only that he was running away. He ran and ran until he felt as though his lungs would burst. He thought of nothing but his physical efforts. Not the reason he was running--only that he was running, running, running, until he could run no more. He stopped, panting, then sat, his back against a knotty old pine. He closed his eyes, gasping, his heart racing. Pine needles pricked his palms as his hands touched ground. And something else.

  He opened his eyes and looked down. There beneath his left hand was a time and weather-ravaged Brandie doll. Brandie was naked and her blonde hair was tangled into an impossible knot. One of her arms was missing and one of her pointed plastic breasts was smashed in. Had this dolly been buried with some dead little girl? Perhaps a dog had dug it up. An Irish Wolfhound?

  Suddenly Cary felt an inexplicable calm. He took a deep breath and stood. He began to walk purposefully back to Marlisa's graveside. The ceremony was over, and the casket had already disappeared into the dark, black, six-foot hole. How long had he been gone? It seemed like only minutes. Cary looked up into the sky. The sun was high. Much higher than it should have been at 12:00 noon...He saw his gleaming burgundy beauty in the lot, but there was no sign of Diana. She had no doubt gotten a ride home from someone. She was probably humiliated and hating him.

  Cary made his way to his car and got in. He tripped the alarm, sending peals of shrill noise screaming through the sanctified quiet of the cemetery. He quickly turned it off and started the car. He drove quickly out of the carpark and went back down the long and winding road that led to the main street. Within minutes he was back at the mansion.

  Diana had left the door unlocked. He walked in slowly, looking both left and right. He caught his reflection in the foyer's mirror and gasped. His throat was slashed open from ear to ear, and blood soaked the front of his black suit, glistening wetly. His hands instinctively flew to his throat. It was dry and intact. He looked in the mirror again. His reflection was no different than it had ever been. He turned quickly from the mirror and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  "Diana!" he called in a panicky, child-like voice. "Diana! Where are you?"

  As he mounted the crest of the stairs, Diana emerged from her bedroom. In her hands were their two overnight bags. "Take me home," she said.

  He took the bags from her and followed her down the stairs. She locked the door behind her then stood in the circular brick driveway, waiting for Cary to open her car door. When he did, she got in the passenger side and put on her seat belt. She stared straight ahead, saying nothing. Her eyes were hidden from scrutiny thanks to the sunglasses.

  Cary was squirming, trying to figure out what to say as he pulled out of the driveway. He had to break the ice somehow.

  "Have you decided what you're going to do with the house?" he asked as the structure disappeared from view.

  "No."

  Diana's monosyllabic comment did not invite conversation, but Cary kept trying. Eventually she responded and asked him about his behavior at the funeral.

  He hated to lie, but he decided it would be best to play on her sympathies. "I thought of my own mother's funeral," he said softly. "It brought back all of those memories. All those terrible memories."

  "Oh," Diana said thoughtfully. She hadn't expected that answer. Poor Cary. She turned to him. "I'm sorry I've been so distant. I'm just trying to do anything but think about...her." A tear escaped from the cover of her dark lens and ran down her cheek. "I'm going to miss her so much!"

  She clutched his hand. Cary glanced down. Her hand looked like a reptilian claw coming from the long dark sleeve of her widow's weeds. With every fiber of his being, he fought the urge to jerk his hand from her grasp. He knew it was only a hallucination. He looked at the taloned limb closely, wondering if it would change back into a smooth, dainty woman's hand if looked at it long enough.

  "Cary!" Diana's scream shattered his stare. His eyes jerked up, back on the road which he had come dangerously close to swerving off of. He pulled slowly over to the shoulder.

  Diana was trembling. "What are you trying to do, kill me?"

  She only meant that figuratively, Cary said to himself. To her he said, "I'm sorry. I'm stressed. You drive."

  "Gladly," she spat.

  He got out and she slid over. He wouldn't have blamed her if she'd driven away while he was out of the car. But, thankfully, she didn't. Cary got in on the passenger side and buckled up. He closed his eyes as she eased the BMW back onto the road. He didn't want to see anything at all.

  "Cary, are you all right?" Diana asked in a small voice, as though she was afraid the question might throw him into a murderous rage.

  Eyes still closed, Cary replied, "I don't know."

  "I want you to know that even though I haven't said much of anything these past few days, I have been doing a lot of thinking about us. I want you to know that I haven't come to any decisions as yet."

  "Diana, I'll do anything to avoid losing you. You're my lifeline. You're the only thing keeping me afloat. I need you."

  "Will you see a psychiatrist? Will you go to a neurologist? Will you try to find out what's wrong?"

  "I'll do anything you say," he answered. And he would. He now knew that he could not beat this problem on his own. He was scared. "Just don't leave me."

  Diana didn't answer. She couldn't promise that anymore.

  Home. He opened the door and walked in. The stark white looked more like a mental hospital than a penthouse apartment. The welcoming woman with her outstretched arms now resembled a needy succubus, ready to grab any warm, living human that came within her range and suck the life from them.

  "Isn't it nice to be home?" Diana said, going right to Tweetie's cage. Tweetie chirped and sang, thrilled to see her favorite person. Diana slid her pinkie through the golden bars of the cage and Tweetie nibbled affectionately at her fingernail.

  Cary didn't go to the cage. He made a wide birth around the succubus on his w
ay to the bedroom. He opened the door and put the bags inside. He then went to the kitchen and looked through the mail and feeding notations which the pet-sitting service had left in a nice, neat pile on the cutting board.

  Diana flopped down on the couch, her head back and eyes closed, as Cary absently leafed through his bills and circulars. At the bottom of the stack was a personal letter, addressed to him in flowing, feminine script. He never got personal mail. He didn't know anyone, really. There was no return address and the postmark was blurred. He worried at one corner until he got his index finger under the flap. He began to tear it open.

  "Cary," Diana's voice startled him. She was standing right behind him. "I'm going to make some tea. Want some?" He nodded. She walked to the stove and picked up the kettle. Cary put the envelope underneath the stack again. He didn't know why, but he didn't want her to see the letter. She poured out the old water and replaced it with fresh from the purifier on the tap.

  Ever efficient, she then went into the living room and brought Tweetie's cage into the kitchen so that she could clean it. She took Tweetie out of the cage and put her in the sink, where the little wing-clipped canary couldn't get into trouble. As she dumped the soiled newspapers into the garbage, Diana caught a glimpse of the time on her wristwatch. "Before it gets too late I'm going to call Monroe and let him know we're back. I suppose I'll have to go to work on Monday. It will be good for me. Keep an eye on Tweetie..." her voice faded as she walked into the living room to place her call.

  Cary waited until she said hello before retrieving his letter, personally addressed to him in real handwriting. He finished tearing the envelope open and eased out the lightly lavender-perfumed stationary. It was two small pages, folded neatly in half. He unfolded them and began to read. The same flowery script that was on the envelope was in the letter as well.

  "My Dearest Son," it began. "How are you? I'm in Hell. It's very hot here. You may not believe that, but you'll see. You'll be joining me soon." Cary's hands began to shake and he dropped the letter.

  Diana was at his side. "What's that?"

  "Nothing," Cary said a little too quickly. He crumpled the letter in his hand, but Diana grabbed hold of the corner and pulled it from his grasp. "It's my letter" he said defensively. "Leave it alone!"

  Diana stepped back a pace, eyeing him with annoyance, and unruffled the pretty lavender-scented stationary. Cary watched in paralyzed fascination as her eyes scanned the sheet. What would she see? Would she see a letter from his mother? If so, Cary could explain it away as yet another tease from a warped fan. Maybe she would just see something as mundane as a cable bill...or...no.

  The look on her face told him she did not see something as mundane as a cable bill. She dipped into the envelope and eased out yet another item. An Insta-Pic photo. Cary could only see its black and white backing. She gasped with dismay and threw it on the cutting board in front of Cary.

  "How could you?" she cried, looking at Cary with pleading brown eyes.

  Suddenly, the boiling water in the kettle began to whistle, then scream insistently. Diana, thankful for the diversion, shut it off then stood in front of the stove, her back to Cary. She seemed to be trying to compose herself. She said nothing as she got her cup from the silver mug tree and set it down on the stove beside the steaming kettle. She methodically, with her back still turned, got a bag of tea from the cupboard and placed it in the white cup. Cary watched as she picked up the kettle and began to pour the boiling water. Or tried to. The opening seemed to be blocked. "Fuck," she grumbled, totally out of character, as she went to the sink with the kettle.

  Now she was facing Cary. He was on a barstool, the photo on the cutting block before him, she was standing in front of the sink. She opened the top of the kettle and peered through the rising steam.

  "Oh my God!" she cried. She looked at Cary, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "You are sick!" she turned and ran into the living room. Cary heard the door slam with resounding finality and knew she was gone for good this time.

  Cary leaned tentatively over to the edge of the sink and looked down in through the top of the open tea kettle. Inside, her black eyes boiled to a dull gray and ruptured from the intense heat, her beak stretched open in a silent squawk, and her little feet curled in white-hot agony, was Tweetie. She had floated to surface and lay there, quite dead.

  Cary didn't mind so much that she was dead, but he did wonder how she had gotten into the kettle without him noticing. He'd been there all along, ever since Diana had put her in the sink, then left the room to make her call, and come back and seen the letter.

  Cary glanced down at the Insta-Pic. It was of himself and a woman he didn't recognize. A blonde woman. They were in Cary and Diana's bed in the penthouse. Cary gaped at the photo for a moment, then snapped the letter up from the counter. It was in the same flowery script, but now it said something completely different.

  "My darling," it began. "I miss you. When are you coming back from your vacation with that awful woman? I love you and long to be with you forever." It was unsigned. Cary looked down at the postscript, which was not in the same feminine handwriting. It was written in block letters in a brownish-red ink--blood? It said, "Forever is a long time, Cary. But you will be mine...forever."

  Cary set the note down very gently and took a deep breath. What was he going to do now? Diana thought he had a lover, and now she thought he'd killed Tweetie, too. How could he possibly explain any of that away? He put his head in his hands and groaned. He would have to go after her and tell her...what? To her, he was nothing but a lying, loony bird butcher. Things didn't look too good.

  He wandered into the living room. Diana had taken her purse, he noticed, but she had not gone into the bedroom to get her bag. He could go to her apartment with the bag. That would at least get him in the door. He wondered if he should tell her everything...perhaps if he finally bared his soul she would forgive him and help him. But was it too late? He had to take the chance. Diana was the only thread of sanity left in his pathetic life.

  Cary picked up her bag and went out the door. He left it wide open as he dashed for the elevator.

  He stepped inside and stabbed at the "L" button with his thumb. The ride down made his stomach drop as usual, and he began to perspire. He felt inexplicably warm. "I'm in Hell. It's very hot here..." He practically bolted through the shimmering chrome doors when they opened up again at the lobby level.

  He ran through the lobby, causing the guard to glance sharply at him, but before Cary could gauge whether it was with annoyance, alarm or suspicion, he was already on the sidewalk.

  The street in front of his building was almost deserted at that late hour, so Cary decided to run for the car garage rather than look for a cab. He scanned the sidewalk up and down, looking for any sign of Diana, then sprinted north, toward the underground parking area. As he ran, he felt for his keys in his pocket and took them out, drawn and ready.

  He made a beeline to his car, ripped the cover off, and threw it to the cool concrete floor. He disengaged the alarm and opened the door, sliding into the seat like a ball player to home plate. He jabbed the key into the ignition and, tires screeching, backed out of his space and roared onto the street.

  Diana's apartment was only about a twenty-minute drive, but one could never predict how traffic might be. As Cary drove, his mind raced on. He had to get Diana back. She was his anchor. She was his only hope--without her, he'd rather be dead.

  He thought back over the past few months, trying to figure out how and when his brain had short-circuited. He still didn't know if he was imagining everything, or if it was all some diabolical plot. Like something from an old movie; what was the name of it? Gaslight. But who would want to drive him insane?

  He thought it over. Not Diana. He was close to no one else. Perhaps Joshua Ryan's wife? Maybe she thought he killed her husband, and now she was wreaking her revenge? That was ridiculous. Had he killed Joshua, he would have done her a big favor with a big chunk of change.
Maybe someone who was jealous of his success? Had he crossed anyone? Old Scratch Press, but they'd gone under anyway. Cary's attorney had tried to track the principals down, but it was as if they had just disappeared from the face of the earth. The attorney had told Cary they were probably running some kind of a vanity-publishing scam in addition to their legitimate business. Cary had decided to let it go. What about Bernard Krattenbokbower? Maybe he was mad because he'd dumped Cary just before the big success...but that wasn't Cary's fault. Even if it was someone else, how had they managed such feats? It simply was not humanly possible.

  The most logical and likely conclusion was that he was insane--just like his mother--but Cary was still looking for any other possibility. If he was insane and blacking out, that would mean he had killed those girls in the Insta-Pics. It might even mean he had killed Joshua. But he couldn't be capable of murder!

  Mommie was. Maybe it runs in the family. Cary was shaking and sweating as he sat at the stop light. Maybe I shouldn't go to Diana's. What if I am dangerous?

  He jumped suddenly, for the radio of his car turned on, its volume control skewed all the way up. An old rock classic was on, The Weight. Cary didn't know who performed it. He listened in mute terror as the singer sang, "Saw Carmen and the Devil walking side-by-side. I said, Hey, wait a minute, Carmen, let's go downtown. She said, I've got to go, but my friend can stick around." My friend. The Devil. Cary's hand flew to the dial and turned it. It stopped of its own volition on Mick Jagger wailing about Sympathy for the Devil, then switched to a dissonant AC/DC song. "Satan's coming for you, Hell's bells...." The song stopped abruptly and Devil with A Blue Dress On began. Cary turned the dial, but the song wouldn't stop.