by J. A. Kerley
“Still specializing in the disturbed cases?”
“We all have a calling,” I said. “Listen, Dr Wainwright, we’ve got a problem here.”
“Miami? The Menendez woman? Have they found anything yet?”
“No, but I’m calling about another case. A former patient of the Institute has been killing women here. He stones them to death, wraps them in cloth, douses them with olive oil and accelerant and sets them on fire. Two of the three were still alive when he set them alight. Last night he killed a cop by bashing in his head with a hammer.”
“My God,” she said. “Who?”
“Frisco Jay Dredd.”
Seconds ticked by, followed by a soft exhalation of breath. “Not unexpected, Detective.”
“I need to know more about Dredd,” I said. “Anything you can tell me … and more.”
“You know I can’t go into—”
“Bobby Lee Crayline, Doctor Wainwright. You needed me, I came running. I need you now.”
“It’s different. That wasn’t—”
“Did I mention that Dredd has another woman? She’s probably alive … for a bit.”
Another long pause. “I’m, uh, not in a good place. Let me call you back. Fifteen minutes.”
It took seventeen, me staring at my phone, waiting.
“I drove off the Institute grounds,” she said. “I’m parked a half-mile down the road. I don’t know why … it makes me feel better about, uh, talking.”
“I understand. What can you tell me about Dredd?”
“Frisco Dredd is reality-challenged, Detective. Sometimes he seems normal, gentle. Other times he’s delusional, and can be completely under the sway of his delusions.”
“Religious delusions, unless I miss my guess.”
“Frisco Dredd believes himself a battleground between Good and Evil. One night an attendant heard moaning in a shower stall. He found that Mr Dredd had somehow managed to strip a length of hollow plastic conduit from a wall, a tube. He jammed one end into a faucet, inserted the other end deep into his bowels and turned the hot water on full.”
“A high-powered enema,” I conjectured. “Trying to wash the evil away.”
“He nearly died from a perforated intestine and later explained Satan had crawled up his anus while he was sleeping and needed to be flushed out. There were psychological aspects at play, Detective. Dredd is bisexual, and it wasn’t Satan that had violated his anus.”
“It was other men,” I said, not in my brother’s league but still no stranger to the symbolisms of a tortured mind.
“In Dredd’s upbringing, homosexuality and its practice was a mortal sin against God and Nature. Dredd also manifests Hypersexual Disorder. You’re acquainted?”
“Sex often starts as impulsive in earlier life, ramps up to compulsive, all-encompassing. An addiction as desperate as a heavy heroin jones.”
“The victim is driven by libido,” Wainwright affirmed. “Masturbation a dozen times a day or more, sexual fantasizing beyond the normal range, countless anonymous sexual partners. The victims are often terrified by the intensity of their drives, but it would affect Frisco Dredd even more.”
“The harsh religious upbringing,” I said, recalling my brother’s analysis.
“Dredd didn’t want to talk about his early life, but I told him if he wanted to trade prison for the Institute, he’d have to answer our questions truthfully, we were a research facility. He gave me little, and perhaps was lying, but it seems he was part of a larger family who had a transient lifestyle. Poor. Often made fun of by other children. Their religion was fundamentalist in nature, extreme, involving harsh punishments for minor infractions like talking back … beatings, made to kneel and pray on concrete for hours on end. Being told he would burn in hell for his sins. You know what this sort of thing can do to a young mind?”
“All too well.”
“Two months after the hose incident a guard noticed Dredd walking oddly, gingerly. A search found that he’d jammed the entirety of his genitals into a can fished from the trash. He said it was the only way he could keep his animal locked up.”
“Animal?” I said, shaking my head.
“In Dredd’s mind, his sex drives are the spawn of the Devil, sinful and disgusting, and yet the feelings suffuse every aspect of his being.”
“Was there an issue with his mother?” I said, cribbing from my brother’s analysis.
“Damn, Detective Ryder. If you ever quit the FCLE, we could use a mind like yours at the Institute.”
You’ve already had one, I thought, saying, “Tell me about Mama.”
“Dredd refused to speak of her, becoming agitated when she was mentioned, singing or praying loudly when I’d try to go there. He’d subconsciously squeeze his genitalia whenever the subject came up, pinching. I can’t help but wonder if she was hypersexualized as well, trying to beat the same feelings from her son, the sin. Making him ashamed of his drives, his genitalia. It would explain a lot.”
“What about job history? Education? What work has he done?”
“Home-schooled, but all that meant was daily Bible lessons. He spoke of odd jobs, driving construction equipment, working on ranches, painting ships, farming chores, roustabout at carnivals. He’d work a while, then fall into drink and drugs, get fired. His whole life was itinerant, the only constant being a bleak and joyless vision of the Bible.”
“Itinerant,” I sighed. “He knows how to live off the grid.”
“He’s lived his life as a member of the underclass, and knows how to move in that stratum. I hate to say this, Detective, but Dredd’s resourceful. Not bright in an IQ sense, but canny, cunning. He knows how to manipulate us – us being the regular folk – and since sees us as Godless heathens consigned to Hell, he doesn’t care.”
“You had to let Dredd loose on to the streets?”
“He’d served his time. Plus we observe, Detective, remember? We don’t offer therapies, save for helping patients try to understand their drives and control them. But to Frisco Dredd, the world is Good and Evil and that’s all he knows.” Wainwright paused, as if wondering on what note to end our conversation. “I have to go back to the facility,” she said, her voice suddenly tired and saddened by the news I’d brought. “I hope you catch him, Detective. I pray you do it fast, because from what you tell me, Frisco Jay Dredd is now totally controlled by his demons.”
50
Harry Nautilus was revisiting the park in his head when a knock came to the door. He opened it to find Richard Owsley in a dark suit, his features darker still, the bright smile now a thin-lipped frown.
“Mr Nautilus, I’d like to talk to you.”
Nautilus waved entry. “Step inside, Pastor. You’re paying for the room.”
“Actually, I’m not,” Owsley said. “At least after today. I’m here to tell you your services are no longer needed.”
“Might I ask why?”
“I’ve made other arrangements.”
“Did I do something wrong?” Nautilus gave it three beats. “Like go to the facility on my own the other night?”
“Your unheralded appearance was rather surprising. The, uh, others wondered why you were there.”
“I saw smoke and reported a fire, Pastor.” It was, Nautilus knew, fully true, though he refrained from mentioning that he had set the fire.
“I also heard that you went to the facility again yesterday and assaulted a man on a work crew.”
“Nope,” Nautilus said. “The guy was irritated that I’d gotten dust on his shoes and approached me with intent of doing harm. I disabused him of that notion, rather gently, given the circumstances. What really happened was—”
A raised hand from Owsley. “I don’t want to get into who did what, Mr Nautilus. I’ve accepted a position with the Crown of Glory network and my family is moving to Jacksonville. Your services are terminated as of today.”
Nautilus nodded. The weirdness was continuing. “In that case I’d like to say goodbye to Rebecca,
Mr Owsley. She’s a fine person.”
“Becca is grounded, Mr Nautilus. She lost her cell phone, worth over five hundred dollars and has to learn consequences.”
Owsley turned for the door, his brief sermon over, not so much as a thank you for your work.
“Pastor?” Nautilus said.
Owsley paused, hand on the door knob. “Yes, Mr Nautilus?”
“Who did I piss off?”
“Pardon me?”
“It was that sad old fuck in the wheelchair, right?”
Without a word, Owsley left the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Nautilus went to the balcony, stepped outside, and thought for several minutes. He returned to the room, packed, and departed for the airport.
“I know someone’s there!” Sissy Carol Sparks shouted. “I hear your goddamn breathing!”
The hissing of breath. The sound of something touching the floor, a clicking, like stones bouncing together. Though her eyes were open her world was like the bottom of a mine, black as black ever was. When she breathed she felt the hood moving out and back, held in place by a knotted cord.
Steps circling to her right. She swung a fist and struck only air.
“Take this goddamn thing off my head. Have the balls to let me see you!”
“Flth … jzbel …”
“Stop mumbling and talk!”
Sissy’s mind raced as her hands scratched the emptiness, the footsteps dodging and weaving, cat and mouse. Think! What advantage did this pervert have? Everything. He owned the situation. What did Sissy have?
Nothing.
No, that was wrong. From the top of her shining auburn hair to the tips of her pink and perfect toes, she was Sissy Carol Sparks. She had the mind, she had the machinery … and she had never met a man able to stand up to it. She heard an object swish past her ear, smack a wall a split-second later. What the fuck was that? She heard something rolling on the floor, nudge her foot.
It felt like a goddamn rock. Was this loonie throwing rocks at her?
“For he is the servant of God,” the voice said like a chant, “an avenger who carries out God’s wrath on the wrongdoer …”
“What are you saying, you pervert!”
She heard her captor grunt with effort and the sound of another object hissing past, so close to her right wrist she felt its passing breath. Sissy swallowed and took a deep breath. She was a performer and the performance of her life had to come right now.
“And the great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world …”
Hearing clicking of stones and knowing her captor was going for a third shot, she stood straight, cocked a hip and stared through the mask toward the muttering voice. “I know you’re playing with it,” she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “Your dick.”
“… he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him …”
Another grunt of effort. Fierce pain in Sissy’s thigh as a rock slammed home. She stifled the scream and fought to keep her hand from the pain. Don’t give him the satisfaction. The rocks clicked again.
“You’re scared of women,” she said, knowing she was throwing her last spear. “That’s it, right? The bag over my head thing? It’s the shame.”
The clicking stopped. “What did you say to me, harlot?” The voice was a ragged whisper.
“You know what I do for a living, right? Now and then I get guys want to fuck me with a bag over my head. They’re ashamed, that’s why. They know I can see them and they’re scared of what I can see. What are you scared I’ll see?”
“For he is the servant of God,” the toneless chant continued. “An avenger who carries out God’s wrath on the wrongdoer …”
The clicking of stones. A grunt. Something slammed the wall at her back and rolled away. Sissy made herself giggle. “Oh sure … throwing rocks at a girl with a bag over her head. Did your daddy teach you that one? Was your daddy scared of girls, too? Or is it more a mommy thing with you?”
Every sound ceased. The chanting. The footsteps on the floor. The clicking of the rocks. Hands surrounded her neck and the room exploded into light, Sissy blinking into eyes inches from hers, a mouth twisted in a hideous snarl, the hood in a brown hand that looked like a claw.
“SHUT YOUR FILTHY MOUTH, WHORE!”
He back-handed Sissy into the dark concrete wall, a high heel snapping off as she fell. The man stared from a dozen feet away, his hands balled into fists and his eyes like pinpoint jets of gray flame.
Sissy’s skirt was hiked high and showing sleek lengths of silken leg, one foot bare. She brought a hand to her face to push back a fallen lock of hair, using it for cover, the other hand undoing a button on the sheer black blouse to display additional cleavage and the frilly top of her black bra. Pretending to be dazed, Sissy pushed herself to sitting, taking deep breaths to let the boobs press against the silk.
Look at them, monkey man. They have more power than you do.
I hope.
Sissy stood unsteadily, feeling the man’s eyes across her as she leaned the wall. She was in a goddamn barn, wood walls, heavy wooden supports, windows boarded over. At the far end was a concrete bench with its top scorched black, beside it a pile of cloth strips, a half-dozen bottles labeled Naphtha, and a gallon jug of oily-looking shit.
Sissy shook back her hair, gave her captor a hit of the eyes. She let her mouth droop open as the pink tongue traced her lower lip. Her captor stood motionless with his mouth lolling wide, gray eyes drinking in every glorious inch of Sissy’s body, a man who’d crawled a hundred miles of desert to suck from a sweetwater oasis. He looked more dazed than Sissy as his hand fell to the front of his pants and clutched. He winced and moaned. Sissy’s eyes looked past the fondling hand and saw something glistening on the faded blue denim.
Jesus God … is that blood?
51
Nautilus sat on the balcony of a Knight’s Inn a half-mile from his previous lodging. He’d driven to the airport and surrendered the leased Hummer, renting in its place a blue Jetta. The room was smaller and lacked the amenities of Jacob’s Ladder, but Nautilus needed only a place to sit and plan. Carson had asked him to keep an eye out and though his unemployed status made that a bit more difficult, it was also a challenge. Harry Nautilus found challenges exhilarating, perhaps why he was whistling.
He was about to run to the store for a supply of snackage and brews when his phone rang. The caller ID said, REBECCA.
Not Rebecca. The call was the phone she’d given to Greta. “Hello, Greta,” he said, his voice warm and friendly.
“I was t-told to call this number,” the girl said. “Th-that maybe someone could help me.”
“My name’s Harry Nautilus. Did Rebecca tell you anything about me.”
“She s-said you were a protector. Like Spider Man or Superman. She said you saw me get slapped the other day.”
“Do you get slapped often, Greta?”
“I … I don’t want to talk about it.”
“And we shouldn’t,” Nautilus crooned, the girl as jumpy as a kangaroo on meth. “Not on the phone – in person. To see each other’s faces and get to know one another. Can you do that, Greta … meet me somewhere to talk?”
A long pause. “I want that girl there, too. Rebecca. She’s … nice. And smart. I don’t know you. You might be one of them, like a test. You might be a lawyer.”
Lawyer? Greta wasn’t making a lot of sense, Nautilus thought. But Rebecca had said the girl seemed a bit loopy.
“Rebecca can’t come, Greta. She told her parents she lost her phone and they grounded her.”
“I’m not coming without her. I trust her.”
Nautilus blew out a breath. “Where are you, Greta? At the park?”
“I-I’m in Bethlehem today. It’s break time and I’m in the bathroom. I can’t be seen with a phone, I’ll be punished.”
“Let me see what I can do, Greta. We’ll talk again when—�
�
“YOU CAN’T CALL! THEY’LL HEAR!”
“You’ll call me,” Nautilus said. “Keep the phone turned off until then. When’s your next break?”
“In, um, about two hours.”
“Call me then. I’ll see if I can’t change things.”
The phone died on Greta’s end. Nautilus went to the Jetta. With the sun nearing zenith and beating down like a ninety-degree hammer, Nautilus flushed the vehicle with cool air and cruised by the motel holding the Owsley family, wondering who was in the room. Rebecca surely, Celeste a fifty per cent likelihood – half her time spent shopping – with Richard Owsley a good bet to be at the structure, waving a bible and ululating at giant boxes.
He parked in the lot and slipped the Joshua-level pass around his neck. Owsley had forgotten to divest him of the amulet, and perhaps – if Nautilus was lucky – had been too distracted by his project to inform the motel staff that Nautilus was now persona non grata.
He strode nonchalantly to the door just as a young bellman was rolling a cart of luggage out to a waiting taxi. The bellman stared at Nautilus.
Come on, magic … Nautilus thought, nodding at the man. Be there.
The bellman’s face lit in a beatific smile. “Mr Nautilus …” he said, almost genuflecting. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay.”
“A fine visit,” Nautilus said, hiding his relief.
“Just the girl’s in the suite, Mr Nautilus.” The bellman winked. “We’re keeping an eye on her.”
“Excellent,” Nautilus said, wondering what that meant. “I have to pick up some papers for the Pastor.”
The bellman wished Nautilus a blessed day and proceeded to the cab. Nautilus caught the elevator to the Owsley floor, knocked on the door.
“Who’s there?” Rebecca’s voice, glum.
“Harry.”
The door opened, the kid wide-eyed, wearing stone-washed jeans and a pink sleeveless blouse, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She held a can of Dr Pepper in her hand. “Daddy said you had to go back to Mobile. You took another job.”
“An unfortunate rumor. I’m still here it seems, though now in the Knight’s Inn, a few blocks east.”
