by David Beers
Jeffrey reached for the tiny red wire running into her ear and gave it a soft tug.
A soft moan escaped the woman's throat. She didn't move, didn't turn her head and ask what the fuck he thought he was doing—only the groan that seemed to come from her chest.
He stepped back, staring at the wire, realizing he had pulled it as if it connected into a wall instead of a human.
She was alive, able to feel. Had the rest been able to? He didn't think so. The rest had all been like the child, in some chemically induced coma, simply serving a purpose. This woman though, her purpose wasn't just to bring back Brand's son because she was...awake. She might not be able to talk, might not be able to walk, but she wasn't lying there as the boy, a passive piece of furniture in all this. She felt it all. She had felt her eyes begin to shrivel, understanding that she would never see again. Her mouth—the tubes shoved in there like a child trying to fit all his toys into a box that would never close—must be just as dry, her tongue nothing more than a thin flap of skin now. The tubes were deep, drilled into her skin and reaching bone; had he gone that deep just to make a point?
"Mrs. Lucent?" He asked.
A few seconds passed without any sound from her.
"Mrs. Lucent, can you hear me?"
Nothing.
He reached forward, put two of his fingers on the tube coming out of her temple, and pressed on it. The groan was louder this time, sounding like some weird combination of sexual ecstasy and pain. He pressed harder, gripping it with his whole hand, and the woman screamed—an "Aagghhhhh" escaping from her mouth.
Jeffrey let go and the scream tapered off to measured breathing.
He was going to walk out and write about this woman? He was going to snap a picture of this and then write a book about it? He was going to leave her here?
He tried to swallow, but there wasn't any saliva in his mouth.
Call the police. Call the police and end it all now.
Another part of him knew this woman wouldn't live. Knew that if he called the police, within minutes of being unhooked from all this, she would die. The pain she felt now would be the last thing she ever felt and his telling the authorities wouldn't change that. It wouldn't change what happened with the child on the other gurney either. For these two people, there was no going back; Jeffrey would be the only one to lose if he called anyone. The police may or may not catch Brand, but they wouldn't be able to save the people here. They would only make sure that what Jeffrey wanted to write, and the way he wanted to write it, would never happen.
Jeffrey snapped the picture and continued his inventory.
Chapter Thirty Five
Dreams of all kinds passed through his sleep. They intermixed with reality in such an intricate tapestry that Matthew never knew when he was awake. If he hadn't been sweating in all of his dreams, he could have reached to his forehead and felt the near puddle of perspiration to know when he woke up—but, alas, he couldn't. He floated in and out of consciousness: vomiting, pissing and shitting, taking pills. He didn't know if the pills he ate were ones made of dreams or reality, but he took them all the same. Hoping they would choke off the sickness trying to kill him. He ate nothing, only finding water in his hotel's bathroom, turning the faucet on and letting it run down his throat.
Matthew thought he was going to die.
Before the delirium took over, he had believed this would be the best course of action. He picked up the antibiotics and locked himself away from the world. Had he gotten the wrong pills? Had he misunderstood what was wrong inside his body? Whatever his mistake, the fever that gripped him refused to let go.
All in all, it took a week before he opened his eyes with any sense of clarity. Seven days and seven nights with all of his nutrients stemming from antibiotics and tap water. He looked around the room, his nose smelling what he had done to himself for the first time. The room smelled so strong, it nearly tasted of his excrement and urine; the air conditioner obviously had been off and the heat only amplified the pervasiveness of his bodily functions. Matthew lay on his side, staring at the floor, the carpet so flat he wondered if a MAC truck had laid it.
He sat up, his arms shaking as he rose on the bed, and leaned against the headboard behind him. He moved his hand to check the fever, and in doing so, saw where he had gnawed on his knuckles. They were red and swollen—looking like he swung at a brick wall for much longer than he should have. He placed the back of his hand on his forehead and felt coolness.
"Thank God," he said, the air running through his vocal chords like sandpaper over cement.
He looked around the room at the mess, not understanding in the slightest how he had kept the hotel staff from coming in. Had he said something to them before he went under? Had he simply told them each day, no room service? If they had come in, he would be in jail right now, or dead at the hospital, killed by either a cop or his illness. Instead, he lived in a disaster, looking like a rabid dog was locked up in here for a week instead of a human being.
Matthew reached down to his stomach, gently pressing on the area he had sewn up. It was painful, but not excruciatingly so. He let out a sigh and closed his eyes.
It took him turning on the television to understand he had been under for a week. His mind immediately calculated if Lucent and the child were alive. They would be. Probably could last another week before he would need to dial into their blood again and make sure everything was cleaning out right.
There was more to think about though, so much more.
The writer, Dillan, where had he gone? Matthew thought he remembered receiving an email from him, but had that been before Ral—
Before Rally.
Before Rally lay cold, her neck snapping like a popsicle stick.
Before he killed Rally.
"Oh no," he said. "Oh no."
He killed her. That's why he was here, that's why he fought with death, because she had stuck a knife into him before looking him in the face.
Then you took her face and twisted it until she couldn't look at anything ever again.
Matthew wept. Amid the room he had laid waste to, he wept for the wife he murdered.
* * *
Did hours pass? Days? How long did he sit on the bed, smelling all of his bodily functions from the past week, and only thinking of the woman he loved? He didn't know and he didn't try to count it. He mourned in a way he had not done for twenty years. He mourned because he knew he would never see his wife again; he would never attempt to bring her back like Hilman. To bring her back would be to blaspheme her, and the amount of time it would take, the pressure that would grow around him as he brought back not one life, but two—all of it would stretch a rubber balloon until it had no choice but to burst. Even if he could find the time, could resurrect his boy and move to another country, start kidnapping there—what would he tell her when she returned? That he was sorry he killed her? That he was sorry he did so many horrible things that she felt the need to kill him? That he still loved her?
Because, when it came down to the nitty-gritty, that was the point, wasn't it? That he loved her. That he had loved her his whole life and that he would continue loving her for the rest of it. Knife wound, infection, death, none of it would stop him from continuing to love her. Rally had loved him too. As much? He didn't know. Even in the end, when she waited there in that burning restaurant, a knife at her side, she loved him. She loved him enough to look him in the eye while she tried to kill him.
His son and his wife were gone. He was alone. No one in this world wanted him to live; everyone saw him as a monster, as the devil incarnate, and the last person to understand him just passed from this Earth.
The payment for taking his son would still be extracted. Matthew wouldn't be alone for too much longer; he would have someone else in his life again.
Who paid for this feeling though? This momentary understanding of what complete desolation felt like? Who could he extract that from? Someone allowed Rally to be in that restaurant. Someone a
llowed Rally to stand there with that knife. She had to have been coached, and only through her own character had she done what they asked, knifed him before the police could. Someone made her do it. Rally could have killed him anytime she wanted. Could have asked to spend a night with him ten years ago and nothing in this world would have stopped him from making it happen. While they slept, she could have put a gun to his temple and ended it all. Matthew doubted it ever crossed her mind, until now, until this time. Until she finally agreed to see him, and whose idea was that? Not hers, but his, and someone listening on the phone line okay'd it.
He stood up from the bed on shaky legs, holding onto the headboard to make sure he didn't fall to the floor. When he thought he could walk, he began with small steps, heading towards the bathroom.
The water from the tub poured out hot, and he didn't bother turning it colder. He wanted his skin to burn during this. Steam rose, filling the bathroom and fogging the mirror. He put his foot in, feeling the water nearly engulf his skin. He waited and when he felt used to it, his other foot followed. He sat down on the edge of the tub, knowing better than to put his raw wound into that heat, and slowly brought water up with his hand to begin washing his body.
His son would be reborn. That was a nonnegotiable in this life. He would die before he let that opportunity pass. Someone had to pay for this though. Someone bought it and now they had to pay.
Agent Allison Moore. Why not? He didn't know if the idea originated with her, but he knew she was constantly talking on the television about him. She was the one chasing him. Allison Moore would take responsibility. She must care about things in her life, must not want to lose certain things. So Matthew would take them from her. He would find out what she wanted, what she loved, and he would make sure she never saw it again.
Then he would finish creating his son, and life would go on as best it could.
Chapter Thirty Six
"He might be dead," Art said.
Allison set her coffee on the table next to the couch.
"You think so?"
"It's been a week and we haven't heard anything. Even the news cycle is changing."
"Laying low isn't really his M.O., is it?" Allison asked.
"Hasn't been so far. How's the time off?"
"Not so good, Jerry left."
"You're kidding?"
"No, left a note and went to his parents."
"Jesus, Allison. I'm sorry. How are you holding up?"
Allison looked to the other couch, looking at the spot Jerry would have sat if he still lived here. He would have been drinking tea instead of coffee, both of them waiting on Marley to get up so they could begin their day. He would read the paper; she would watch the news with the volume low. Neither of them would have said much.
The news was on, and so if she looked away from the couch, she could imagine it everything was the same. She could imagine that he was here and Marley in bed.
"I've been better," she said, pain cracking her voice. "We're talking, though, so there's some hope."
Art didn't say anything back to her right away, just let silence fill the line.
"If you need anything, if there's anything I can do, let me know."
"Okay, Art, thanks."
"If you need more time before coming back in, that's not a problem."
"Thanks," she said. She put a finger to the corner of her eye, wiping away a tear looking to escape.
"Okay, talk to you soon. Bye, Allison."
She hung up and looked at the television. Art was right, the morning shows hadn't mentioned Brand once yet, moving onto the next flashy item they could rile people up about. She didn't know if he was dead, and she really didn't care that much. Didn't care at all, to be truthful. The man that had filled up every waking moment for the past month and a half now seemed like the silliest thing she could think about. Why had she ever cared about him so much? Why had she ever left this house to travel across the country looking for him?
Jerry and Marley didn't live in this house anymore, and she had just let them walk out. Jerry's letter said she practically pushed them out.
She hadn't called Jerry on the way back, wanting simple solitude and time to think about being relieved from the case. She showed up to her house expecting to be greeted by her husband and child, and instead walked into a still, quiet house. She put her bags down at the door and walked around for a minute, calling out names, and then realized no one was going to answer her. The house was empty, and when she walked into Marley's room, she understood the emptiness wasn't just for the hour. Her things were all gone. Her clothes, her toys, her little girl make up she liked to put on sometimes.
Allison found the letter and read it as tears flowed down her face. She didn't stop the first time, but her eyes just went right back to the top and scrolled down again, reading his chicken scratch letters and letting their meaning sink into her. He wasn't here. Marley wasn't here. They weren't coming back.
He wasn't here.
Marley wasn't here.
They weren't coming back.
She collapsed to the floor, curling up and bringing the letter to her chest, whimpering as she continued reading.
Three days later, she hadn't stopped crying but she wasn't on the floor. She was able to sit on her couch and only cry when she looked over at the empty spot where Jerry should have been.
"Will you come back?" She asked him over the phone that first night. "Please, just bring Marley and come back."
"How long are you going to be there?"
She swallowed because she had already received her next assignment. It wasn't in Florida, but it wasn't in Arizona, and they wanted her to leave by the end of next week. When she pulled herself off the floor and put the letter aside, she went to her work email because she didn't know what else to do. The message told her she was going to south Texas to look at some bodies turning up regularly.
"I'm supposed to leave next week," she answered.
"We're not coming back then." His voice sounded so cold, a distance that she had never encountered before with him. It sounded like indifference to her, like he didn't care one way or the other what she chose. His life would go on either way.
"Jerry, what do you want from me? Do you want me just to quit?"
"I want you to raise your daughter and I want you to be my wife. That's all."
He was right. That's the part she hated the most. She couldn't be angry, could rail at him because he left her with this big house and took her daughter away.
"You can come get Marley tonight, if you'd like. Or tomorrow, whatever works best for you. She really misses you, Allison."
He hadn't taken her away; he'd removed himself from the equation. He said he wasn't going to be here for her, if she wasn't there for him. She couldn't hate him for that. Couldn't be angry.
Except even three days later, she couldn't tell him she was going to quit. She couldn't tell him that the job would change or she would change jobs; she sat there silent on the phone, unable to give him the answer he wanted. The job, the chase, it was her life and she felt an almost visceral reaction when she even thought about giving it up.
Allison was addicted to it, and she didn't know how to quit. Her family had left her, and she sat alone in her house unable to say: "Yes, I'll stop. I'll do something else, now just come back."
Day three of this same thinking. Day three of asking him to come back and being told not until she agreed to what he asked.
She couldn't sit here anymore thinking about this. She needed a break, if just for a few hours, of the crying and heartache and insanity that wouldn't let her say yes to Jerry.
Tom Riley.
The name swam up from some recess of her brain, a name that she hadn't thought about in weeks. No one in the entire case had looked back to Tom Riley at The Wall once Brand began his spree. The man was forgotten, left behind with his computers and silos and brainpower, not a word to be heard from him since. He was an hour away, and surely he could help take her away
from all this for a little while. She wasn't going to solve this case going out there and she didn't care to, but maybe just listening to what he had found over the past month would allow her to forget about her own life for a just a bit.
* * *
The playground contained just about everything anyone could want. Monkey bars, swings, a basketball court, tether ball, a sand-box, a plastic fort with a slide leading out of it. The place was a McDonald's play-pen on steroids. Kids were spread about like ants on a disturbed pile, running around, bumping into each other. The girls and boys were segregated for the most part, at ten years old still not feeling the need to explore the opposite sex any more than they were forced to in class. Teachers stood around the building, chatting, laughing, enjoying their one respite from the remainder of the day that included telling kids to quiet down and sit in their seats so the lesson could continue.
The playground was in the back of the school, hidden by a tall wooden fence and trees that lined the outside of it. The school was designed for rich parents who wanted their well-bred kids to avoid being made fun of for wearing nice clothes, or need to be reminded that they were an actor's child. The school was designed so that children could learn without having to worry about how life might treat them because they were different—whether or not they wanted to be—because of the money they would inherit. It was a responsibility they didn't ask for and their parents did the best they could to shield them from it.
