* * *
He stands in front of the house. There’s a For Sale sign staked in the lawn, although he can tell that the owner has already moved out. The curtains are gone and he can see the bare walls inside. He wonders where the owner has gone. He closes his eyes and tries to remember what she looks like, but all he sees is the image of a furry orange and white dog. Its intestines have unspooled from a wet, red maw in its belly. Its skull bears a deep, conical-shaped fracture that makes its ears stand awkwardly askew. It stares at him through black sockets, into which the useless eyelids have folded.
He wonders if they ever found its eyes.
The Present – Millington, Tennessee
Around 12:30PM, as Jeffers worked at the cash register ringing up a new customer, Dave McIntosh entered the Personal Security store, the front door squealing shut behind him.
“Hey, Dave,” Jeffers said, looking up and handing over a small bag containing pepper spray and a collapsible baton to the departing customer.
“Hey, Mal, when are you going to put some oil on that front door?” McIntosh said with a smile.
“When are you going to buy me a new one?” Jeffers replied, returning the smile. “You are my landlord, you know.”
“Ha,” McIntosh said, the two men shaking hands and clapping each other on the back.
McIntosh still favored a crew-cut head of hair, now gray, was a little shorter than Jeffers, standing about 6’-0”, but easily outweighed him by 20 pounds, most of it packed around his waist like an inner tube. Being from the south, he was a perfect example of what good southern cooking did to most men at an early age: the “dunlap” effect---“his belly done lapped over his belt.” And Jeffers never wasted an opportunity to rib him about it either. During eleven years of retirement, McIntosh had really let his health and fitness slide, something that never would have happened if he had stayed in the Navy.
“So, you ready to grab some lunch?” McIntosh said.
“Sure, you gonna have salad this time?” Jeffers said, opening his eyes wide and staring at his friend’s burgeoning midsection.
McIntosh frowned at him. “Like that’ll ever happen.” He shook his head, mumbled, “Asshole.”
Jeffers chuckled, plucked a pair of small canisters off a display shelf, and the two of them headed toward the glass front door, where Jeffers turned the “CLOSED” sign to face the street.
They walked a block down Navy Road and entered a little restaurant called, stereotypically, Mom & Pop’s. A bevy of mouth-watering aromas wafted their way from the depths of the kitchen, propelled by a number of lazily-spinning ceiling fans. After grabbing a table in the back corner, they both ordered sweet tea and skimmed over the menu.
“Here, before I forget it,” Jeffers said, fishing two bottles out of his pants pocket, and handing them over to McIntosh. “Fairly new stuff on the market. Powerful, too. Cheetah, 18% Pepper Spray. For you and Jackie. You can never be too careful, nowadays, you know. I carry one on me at all times, even when I’m packing.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it,” McIntosh said, studying the canisters for a moment before shoving them deep into his own pants pocket. “So, did you look into what I told you about this morning?” He glanced around, lowered his voice. “The ‘Infinity Killer?’”
“Yeah, I did, I—“ he began, cutting himself off as the waitress returned to take their orders. Jeffers noted that McIntosh went for the rib basket with fries, no salad. He couldn’t help but grin, as he ordered a cheeseburger and house salad.
“Well…” McIntosh started, glaring at his friend.
“Yeah, yeah. Uhh…I checked out several newspapers on the Internet,” he said, turning serious. “They all said basically the same thing, that someone over the past two weeks or so, in the mid-south area, has been killing children in the same manner that the “Infinity Killer” did twenty years ago.” He shook his head in confusion. “What I’ve been asking myself all morning is this: Who would do such a thing? Is it some psychopath, completely unrelated to Craven, clamoring for fifteen minutes of fame by pulling off some copycat killings of his own?” He stared pointedly at McIntosh, who raised his eyes and cocked his head in response. “Or is it Craven’s son, Aaron, following in his father’s footsteps?”
“What?!”
“You weren’t there, Dave,” he said softly, hunching down closer to the table and closer to his friend, as if they were conspiring in some heinous criminal activity. “What was that kid doing there? What the hell was Craven yelling at him about? It didn’t make any sense at the time, and maybe it still doesn’t; but I never could shake the feeling that he was actually grooming his son to take over his grisly business when the time came.”
“You can’t be certain of that, Mal, it was so long ago.”
“I know, and all this time I hoped that I had merely imagined it, prayed with all of my might that I had been mistaken. But now there are these two horrible murders, and I know---I’m almost positive---that I was right all along. It just took him a while to develop his skills, I guess.”
“Mal, what you’re saying is crazy, why would he start after all this time?”
“I’m not sure… But you weren’t there that night---and you’re the only one I’ve told about what I did in that basement. You didn’t see his eyes…the intensity pouring out of them; or hear his screams…the rage erupting from his lips; or simply see the blade in his hand…poised and ready to strike. The kid looked completely crazy, like he had been brainwashed and gone off the deep end.” Jeffers shook his head again, this time in resignation. “No, if I had to bet on anyone, I’d say it was him, Aaron. Finally coming out of his father’s shadow and into the light…. Jeezus!”
They were quiet for a moment, dark thoughts swirling inside their heads like tornadoes.
The waitress arrived with their food but, despite the savory smells, neither of them could eat just yet.
“So…what do you think caused the father and…maybe the son, now, to do these horrible things?” McIntosh said, walking on eggshells and breaking the silence.
Jeffers snorted and chuckled. “Well, I’m no shrink, but I do have a theory or two. Remember when I told you about Craven’s background, how his wife had left him abruptly, divorcing him when his son was just four years old? I think that he became bitter toward her over their breakup, and even bitterer toward their son, whom she had burdened him with by her leaving. Now he alone had the monumental task of raising him from childhood to adulthood. And he began to resent him, started taking out that resentment on other young kids, killing them out of spite, spilling out their insides in his anger. Instead of killing his own son. But along the way, he had a change of heart, and decided to mentor Aaron in his killing ways, perhaps to make something good, in his eyes, out of something bad. But, who knows, I’m no psychiatrist. And I have no idea what he was looking for in their eyes, why he cut them out so viciously, and carved up their faces like that…”
“Jeezus, Mal, that’s pretty sick. Damn!”
“You know, maybe Craven even imagined himself never dying, metaphorically. He would have his son carry on his work, and then his son’s son could step in to continue the ‘family business,’ on and on to infinity. I’m just throwing it out there, Dave. You don’t have to believe it, trust me.”
“Wow,” McIntosh said, picking over his rib basket. “I’m not sure I could even eat a salad right now.”
“Life sucks, buddy. You saw that with me in the Gulf, remember?”
“Yeah, I still do…almost every day.”
“We could get ‘To-Go’ boxes.”
“Yeah, why not?” McIntosh said. He eyed his friend suspiciously. “So, you going to do some digging?”
“What do you think? I thought I had some closure to Claire and Joey’s deaths. Now, who knows?”
“Well, you have the time, right? No freelance cases of late or you would have told me.”
“No, I’ve got the time. And even if I didn’t, I’d make the time.”
“I guess you know what you’re doing then…”
“Yes, I know what I’m doing,” Jeffers said, signaling the waitress. “I have to do this, Dave, flesh it out and confirm my suspicions.”
“And if your suspicions are correct?”
“Then I take out the son just like I did his father.”
2001
“A circle is an infinity unto itself. There is no beginning. No end. Two side-by-side form its symbol, the key which, when turned, unlocks eternity.”
The grip on his hand is firm, the pressure slowly building. He watches the tip of the blade first dimple the skin, then cause it to whiten.
“I still don’t understand, Father.”
The grip tightens and his hand jerks. Blood wells to the surface, runs around the contours of the eye, through the lashes, dribbles from the corner like tears. When his father speaks it is through bared teeth. He recognizes it by sound and understands that he has used up what little patience has been afforded him.
“Infinity is a physical quantity. Something so great and immense that it knows no bounds. Infinity is bigger than us. Vaster than us. To infinity, we are but grains of sand in a desert. Minuscule. Insignificant. Nothing.” The hand guides his on a circle around the eye, pressing deeper, probing. He watches the skin part for the blade, watches a seemingly unending amount of blood rise to the surface. The blade completes its circle at the bridge of the nose. The grip is hard, the pressure intense. He flinches when the nasal bones snap. Once again, the pressure abates and they begin the circle anew. “Eternity is the application of infinity over time. It is when something of unparalleled enormity or importance is rendered timeless. It is something bigger than us and more important than us that will endure long after our frame of reference ceases to matter, when that point on the circle is lost from memory and passed to history.”
He still does not understand, but he is terrified to say another word.
His father whispers into his ear.
“It is through these eyes that we can glimpse infinity and through this blood—the very same that has flowed through our veins since long before our time and that will continue to flow long after we are gone—that we tap into eternity.”
“So the eyes are infinity and the blood is eternity.”
He is proud of himself. Allows himself a smile.
“No! Are you not listening!”
The blow strikes him from behind as it always does. Aaron’s eyes snap open and he gasps. He feels the cold sweat on his face, the dampness binding the bed sheet to his chest.
Dark. Everything is dark. Why is it always so dark in here?
Where is he? Where? Details. Details resolve as his eyes adjust. He is in his room. His real room. The room in the house that he loves with the family that he loves sleeping down the hallway. He breathes a sigh of relief that he is not in one of the many transitional prisons in one of the many foster homes, and most importantly, that he is not in a dark basement unlocking eternity with a man whose face he can no longer remember, but whose words and breath he will never forget.
“I know you were the one who did it.”
The sound startles him. He recognizes the voice, even as a whisper, but it takes him a moment to divine its location. A shadow is sitting on the floor, legs tucked to its chest, arms wrapped around them, the whites of its eyes nearly as bright as flashlights in contrast to the darkness of its skin.
“What are you doing in here, Anna?”
“I heard you cry out. You do that a lot, you know.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. Why don’t you try to get back to sleep? I can stay awake for a while and give you a head start if that will—”
“I’m glad you did it.”
He says nothing.
She rises from the floor and walks to the side of his bed. She’s wearing a SpongeBob nightie and carrying a blankie, which looks like it’s been dragged through charcoal and run through a shredder, despite the fact that she’s about to start middle school.
“I just wanted you to know that. I just wanted you to know that I’m happy you’re my brother. That makes us blood, right? That’s what they say. Family means blood. And that’s what we are. We’re a family. You, me, Joachim. Even though we weren’t born in the same house, we’re still blood. Thanks to mom and dad. We’re Mitchell blood. Forever and ever.” She sniffles and he sees the glimmer of tears on her cheeks. “I’m going to miss you when you’re gone.”
There’s a lump in his throat that he can’t seem to swallow. Nor can he force any words around it.
She climbs up onto the comforter beside him and stuffs her blanket under her head like a pillow.
“Can I sleep in here with you tonight?”
He stares into her tired eyes and tries to formulate a reply.
By the time he does, she’s already asleep.
* * *
“You told us this one would be ready.”
“It’s complicated.”
“We don’t like complications.”
“Everything’s under control.”
“For some reason, I don’t believe you.”
“Have I ever failed you before?”
Silence.
“I’ve done everything exactly the way we planned.”
“Yes, you have. And we have been pleased with the others. But this one is…different. You were right to bring him to us from the start. This one had the potential to be something truly special.”
“I have no doubt we’ll unlock that potential. Everything is progressing just as we’d hoped. He’s already signed the paperwork. He’ll be joining you soon.”
“Perhaps he needs additional motivation to expedite the process and provide the assurances we desire.”
“I’m not sure I understand the necessity. You can’t push this one too hard or he’ll—”
“Steps have already been taken.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Your objection had been noted.”
“He’s not ready to be wielded. He still has an element of unpredictability that I can’t—”
Click.
Eichmann stares at the phone in his hand for a long moment before hurling it across the room. It shatters against the wall, scattering its broken casing and components across the floor. One rash decision and it’s broken beyond all hope of repair.
* * *
His friends are waiting for him back at the school, their cars brimming with camping gear, ready to head up to the lake for a celebration that’s been a long time in coming. High school graduation. It was a whirlwind. Three months from now he’ll be heading off to basic at Parris Island. He tried to picture himself as a marine, standing tall and proud, but he’s still struggling just to see himself as a high school graduate. There was a time when he would have never dreamed this day was possible. Bouncing from one home to the next, one school to the next. The nights of sleeping with one eye open, praying not to hear the footsteps. Relegated to the status of unwanted, unloved. Wearing masks to face a world that made every effort to grind him beneath its heel.
Memories now.
All memories.
He has a life and a future and a home and a family and friends and everything he has ever dared to imagine. More. More than he has ever hoped. More than he felt he deserved. And he owes it all to the Mitchells. To the mother and father who had wanted him. Who had wanted him. Of all of the children they could have had, they had chosen him. They had given him love and respect when he hadn’t been worthy of either. They had given him a brother and a sister for whom he would do anything. They had given him a family and had asked for nothing in return. Nothing. Not so much as a thank-you. And there wasn’t a thing that Aaron could think of that could even come close to repaying them for everything they had done for him. All he could hope to do was to wear the mantle they had given him with honor and hope to make them proud.
Who would have thought that the mask with which he had been born would ultimately be the one he
chose for himself?
He leans against the trunk of his Buick, the Pizza Hut at his back, and stares across the parking lot at the two-lane highway. This is how he has chosen to celebrate: a pan pizza with his family in a circular red vinyl booth. Just like they have done so many times before. Anna and Joachim would fight over the selections on the juke box, the pitcher of Coke would be mostly seltzer water, and the crust would be so greasy they would have to blot it with napkins. Some of his most banal, and yet most precious, memories happened here. He can feel the pull of destiny, or maybe just the foreshadowing of eventual nostalgia, but he knows that today is unique and that the memory he is about to make with his family will be one he holds close to his heart until the day he dies.
This is how he chooses to remember them.
His family.
He sees the Dodge Caravan approaching from the north. Teal. A glint of sunlight from the front windshield. He sees his mother in the passenger seat. He raises him arm in greeting and steps away from his beat-up sedan. He sees Anna and Joachim in the back seat. The minivan slows and eases into the turn lane. His eyes meet his father’s. He sees the smile on his dad’s face.
He doesn’t see the Kenworth tractor-trailer. Doesn’t hear the squeal of the air brakes.
His arm is still raised when the semi strikes the Caravan broadside.
The van folds like taffy around the grill of the truck and rockets to the side in a teal blur. Tiny balls of glass skitter across the asphalt toward him. He smells gasoline and smoke. He’s jogging, now running, his ineffectual arm still raised over his head.
Footsteps slap the tarmac behind him. Cars slow on the highway and pull over to the shoulder. Doors open. People step out, cover their mouths with their hands, shield their children’s eyes. He witnesses all of this peripherally. He’s focused on the mass of tangles and sheared teal metal crumpled under the elevated cab of the Kenworth through the shifting cloud of black smoke.
Hears his pulse in his ears.
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