by Frank Zafiro
Strangely, the thought made him feel betrayed. She’d been so nice to him, but he imagined that she had probably been faking it all along. Women were generally traitors, at least as much as he could tell based on the one he lived with. He wondered if Miss Reed made fun of him to the other teachers after he left for the day. He saw her getting together in the teacher’s lounge and telling all the other teachers shitty things about him. Anger brewed in the pit of his stomach as he made his way toward the apartment.
He switched the scenario. Saw himself finding her at her house. Fantasized about what he would do to her.
He smiled, holding his folder and library book in front of his jeans as he walked.
At his apartment, he let himself in. His mother was taking one of her naps, so he kept as quiet as he could. In his bedroom, he put aside the book and the folder. He opened his button, unzipped his pants and slid them down his hips. Leaning back and touching himself, he imagined again what his visit to Miss Reed’s house would be like.
I’d lay the whammo on that bitch.
He closed his eyes and saw it all over again, like a movie playing in his head. Coming inside the house. Maybe a hard slap across the face to get things started. Tearing away her clothing. Bending her over the couch. No, over the coffee table. Ripping her shirt off of her back as he pumped into her. Listening to her scream-
The door to his room flung open. His mother stood in the doorway, glaring at him.
Jeffrey scrambled to his feet, turning his back to her. “Jesus, Mother! Don’t you knock?”
“I don’t have to knock in my own house, you dirty little boy!” She cackled at him. “I knew it. I knew you were in here being nasty.”
“I wasn’t doing anything.” He looked over his shoulder at her as he zipped his pants and snapped the button. “I was just going to change my school clothes, that’s all.”
She stepped into the room, shaking her head. “Liar,” she whispered.
“It’s the truth. I-”
“No,” she whispered. “It’s a lie.”
There was something strange in her voice that made him stop. Her words were slurred more heavily than was usual for this early in the afternoon, but he knew she sometimes started early. The difference in her voice went beyond that, however. It was oddly soft and gentle, something he could remember from years ago and only intermittently at that.
“Sit down,” she said, motioning to the bed.
Hesitantly, he sat on the edge of his mattress. She lowered herself clumsily, sitting beside him. The essence of her sweat and the alcohol permeated the small bedroom. Her eyes were red and watery, their customary hardness filled with an empty sorrow that wasn’t familiar to him.
“Do you think I don’t know what you do in here at night?” she asked him.
“I don’t do anything. I only-”
She raised her hand. He flinched involuntarily, expecting her to pinch beneath his chin. Instead, she rested her index finger on his lips, shushing him. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “Every boy does it. Every single little boy ends up becoming a nasty young man and then a piece of shit just like your father.”
His thoughts raced. He had wondered if other boys did it, but based on the conversations he overheard, everyone denied it. He thought something was wrong with him, not just for doing it but for how often.
“You can’t help it,” she said in the same soft voice. “You’re just like him.”
She let her finger fall away from his lips.
“You even look like him. Hell, you could be brothers, you look so much alike.”
He didn’t know whether to be happy or not about that. Was it a good thing or a bad thing to look like your father?
His mother straightened the battered robe that covered her legs. Then she cast him a sidelong glance. “What do you think about when you do it, Jeffie?”
His heart raced. If she knew he touched himself, was it possible that she knew what he fantasized about? Could she know how he wanted to lay the whammo on the girls at school? Did she have some sort of motherly knowledge about these things? He tried to tell himself this wasn’t possible, but then why was she asking him this?
“Do you think about the little pretties at your school?” she continued. “Those girls with their fluffy hair and their tight jeans?”
Jeffrey swallowed. He didn’t know how to answer, but she was staring at him, so he gave her a small nod.
“Of course you do,” she said, her voice silky smooth. “What boy wouldn’t?” She leaned closer. “But tell me something else, Jeffie. Have you ever done more than just think about any of them?”
His heart pounded frantically.
She knew.
She knew.
She knew, she knew, sheknewsheknewsheknew!
He moved his head left and right with a frenzied shake.
She raised her eyebrow. “No? Never slipped off into a quiet place with one of those large breasted sluts?”
“No,” he whispered, though he’d imagined it many times. Did she know that, too?
She smiled as if she knew everything. “Is my little boy still a virgin, then?”
He hesitated, but the admission seemed better than the alternative, so he nodded again.
“I figured as much,” she whispered. She took a deep breath and let it out. The powerful odor of vodka washed past him. She glanced down at the thin wedding band on her finger. “You know what today is?” she asked him.
“Last day of school?”
She gave a small laugh. “I suppose so. But do you know what else it is? I’ll give you a hint. It’s a big day.”
He thought about it for a few seconds, but eventually shook his head. “I…I don’t know.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” she said, twisting the ring. “No one in this family seems to remember.”
He waited, expecting that she would tell him what day it was and why no one seemed to remember. Instead, she turned suddenly and was upon him. The force of her motion pushed him backward onto bed. Her legs straddled him. Her face pressed against his, her mouth searching for his. He parted his lips, letting out a surprised sound. Her kisses smothered his small cry. Her tongue snaked out and raked across his teeth.
No!
His stomach clenched. A hotness brewed there that filled with all the hate and love and desire and pain and confusion that he had ever felt. The tumultuous emotions broiled and twisted while her hands tore at his clothing. He lay frozen on his back. He could taste the harshness of her vodka now in the back of his own throat.
His legs trembled. He realized that his erection was straining at his zipper.
Her mouth broke away from his. He gasped for air. Her lips found his earlobe, drawing it into her mouth while her hot breath plumed into his ear.
He raised his arms up in the air, his palms open, his fingers twitching.
What do I do? How do I stop this?
She tore his jeans from his legs, sending them flying across the room. The denim struck the far wall and dropped to the floor like a dead body.
He pushed at her chest while trying to slide backwards, away from her. Her robe fell open. He stared at her hanging breasts, the large red nipples erect. She looked down at him with a mixed expression he’d never seen on her face before, but he recognized them both. Her eyes were filled with a venomous combination of lust and pure hatred.
“No,” he gasped at her.
She grasped him by the wrists and pulled his open palms until they were against her chest. The warm flesh of her breasts filled his palms. He pulled weakly against her, shaking his head. His stomach clenched and roiled. She pressed his hands hard against her chest.
He felt light-headed.
“Mother, please-”
She shushed him, rocking her hips against his hardness. “Call me Cora.”
“Mother-”
“Cora!” she snapped, grinding herself downward onto him. His hardness slipped inside her. Overpowering warm wetness radiated outward from
down there. “Say it!”
He surrendered. “Cora, please.”
She kept moving. “Please what?” she purred down at him.
All his strength faded from him. The absolute wrongness of the world at that moment came crushing downward upon his chest. He struggled to breath.
How could this be happening?
“That’s right,” she said. “Shut up and enjoy it.”
That feeling, that wonderful feeling that he’d always associated with his fantasies coming true, swept over him. He arched his back and grunted in surprise, in horror, in ecstasy. The force of the explosion rocked through his legs and up to his chest. His grunt became a primal cry.
As soon as the fluttering convulsions faded, his churning stomach overtook him. He rolled to the left and heaved. The warm vomit spewed out onto his bed and the wall. His stomach clenched again, pulling his legs in toward his center. He was dimly aware of her slipping off of him, but his head was spinning. He clutched at his stomach and retched a third time.
Vaguely, as if it were happening to someone else a hundred million miles away, he felt her hands raining down on him, pounding with the fury of a harpy. The blows didn’t bring any pain with them, nor did the familiar words she hurled at him. She’d called him all of these things before. She’d hit him before. But she’d never-
His stomach clenched, but there was nothing left to come up. All he could manage was a watery gagging.
The next thing he could remember, she was gone. He remained on the bed, gagging and shivering, curled up into a small ball. The sounds of the apartment surrounded him. Familiar sounds. The creak of the ceiling when someone walked across the floor upstairs. The opening and closing of cupboards in the kitchen. His own labored, rattled breathing. The clink of a vodka bottle on the lip of a water glass. The drone of the television.
After what seemed like hours, he rose on weak legs and made his way to the bathroom. He stepped into the shower and turned it on as hot as it could possibly go. The water splashed down onto him, washing away the sick remains of his lunch and his own semen from his body. He used soap to lather up the wash cloth and scrubbed his skin until it felt raw. Then he stood under the shower head while the hot liquid poured onto his head and coursed down his body.
When he finally shut off the water and pushed aside the curtain, he half-expected to see her standing there in the bathroom, holding a towel for him. He was alone, though, and reached for the towel himself.
What do I do next?
As he dried off, he searched for an answer. He thought at first that maybe this would never happen again, but he realized that this was just the little boy inside of him hoping against hope. Little Jeffie, wishing his mommy and daddy would be perfect.
He knew better.
No, this was just the newest evolution of how things were to be. She had to know about his fantasies. She had to know that he dreamed of the power and control over all of the girls that ignored him at school. And she wanted to take that fantasy away from him before he could make it really happen.
She would come to him whenever she wanted. She would control it. She would take it from him. She’d take his fantasy, piece by piece.
She was still too strong.
He finished drying off and went to his room. He dressed quickly, then emptied out a small sea bag that his father had left behind one of the times he’d left in the middle of the night. He pushed some jeans and some shirts into the sea bag, along with a few paperback books he’d borrowed from the library.
As quiet as he could, he slipped out of his room and into his mother’s bedroom. In the top drawer of the dresser, he found a wooden box full of jewelry. Underneath that were a number of folded bills. He took both, slipping the cash into his pocket and bringing the jewelry box back to his room, where he put it into the sea bag.
His coat hung in the hall closet. He carried the bag with him, moving woodenly, without emotion. It was as if when he spewed out the contents of his stomach in the bedroom, all of his emotion had left him, too.
She didn’t look up as he walked to the door. He thought about not turning around, but something made him pause. He looked over his shoulder at her. She met his eyes. He saw no remorse in them at all.
“You’re leaving, then?” she asked, her slurred tone matter-of-fact.
He nodded.
“Well, good,” she said. With that, she turned her attention back to the television.
He waited. A hundred things that he might say raced through his brain, but in the end, one question won out.
“Cora?” he said. Since she wanted to be called by her name so goddamn bad, then he’d do it now.
She turned her gaze back to him. “What?”
He licked his lips, then asked, “Why don’t you love me?”
She smiled, a cruel grin that licked at her cheeks. “Because you are the reason my entire life has been wasted, that’s why.”
He expected those words to rock him in the gut like mule kick, but strangely, he felt nothing. He simply turned away from her and left the apartment.
His first steps down the street were light and euphoric. He couldn’t think of why he hadn’t done this years ago. Take some of her precious money and just go. He felt free. He felt like a new person.
His footsteps carried him to a bus stop. He got on without thinking. He sat and stared out the window at the wet, gray Seattle streets. His sense of freedom was short-lived. Already he felt a brewing, seething rage building in the pit of his stomach. He knew he could never be free of it. He knew he would have to come back and find her. Someday, when he was stronger. He’d come knocking on her door. She’d answer it, probably with a glass full of vodka, that whore’s drink, in her hand. He’d push his way in. He’d give her the back of her hand. Then he’d lay the whammo on her, better than his father ever did. He’d control it. He’d show her what power was.
He would.
Someday, he would.
The city bus stopped near the Greyhound terminal. He exited and walked across the street. Once inside the terminal, he stood in front of the list of destinations. He didn’t have much money. He couldn’t go far. But he had to go far enough. Where was that? Tacoma? Vancouver?
His eyes flitted down the list until his gaze came to rest on River City. That was clear across the state, on the other side of the Cascades. Far enough, but close enough.
He smiled.
Besides, it snowed in River City.
Part IV
May 1996
RIVER CITY, WASHINGTON
Failure, then, failure! so the world stamps us at every turn.
We strew it with our blunders, our misdeeds, our lost
opportunities, with all the memorials of our inadequacy…
William James (1842–1910)
NINETEEN
Wednesday, May 8th
Day Shift
0909 hours
Detective John Tower tapped his pen against his knee. A half-cup of coffee, long cold, stood next to his open case file, but instead of looking at the contents of the file, Tower stared at the picture of Stephanie on the corner of his desk.
He wondered how he’d like it if it had been his girlfriend that had been attacked by the Rainy Day Rapist, only to have the case assigned to a complete moron like himself.
No, he corrected himself. Better yet, what if she were the next victim in line, relying on him to catch the guy before he was able to assault her?
Tower sighed. He dropped the pen on top of the case file and rubbed his eyes.
You can’t afford self-pity right now, John. Get your ass to work.
He opened his eyes again and paged through the case file. Nothing new jumped out at him on this, easily his hundredth time through the file contents.
Strike one.
None of the calls into the police tip line had resulted in anything of value, even though he’d run down anything remotely promising. They all just led down blind alleys, unfortunately. Most of the tips were the result of t
he Mr. Every Other White Guy composite that Lieutenant Crawford had released to the media. He’d spent countless hours contacting men who tipsters had been certain were “that guy on the news,” only to know within moments that it wasn’t the Rainy Day Rapist. Still, he had to interview each of them, get their alibi and then confirm it. That took time, but yielded no results.
Strike two.
On the scientific side of the house, there was nothing in the way of useful forensics that might help to identify the suspect.
Strike three.
There’d been no rapes or attempted rapes since the threats made against MacLeod a week and a half ago. While he was glad that was the case, there was a single positive to another criminal event — the potential for evidence.
Tower shook his head at his own morbidity. What kind of a sick bastard wished for a rape to happen just so he might have a shot at some additional evidence? It was stupid, anyway. This guy had been careful. There were no witnesses except the victims themselves and they didn’t see much that helped identify the bad guy.
On top of that, there hadn’t been a whisper of activity at MacLeod’s house during the surveillance by officers there. No appearances by the rapist there or anywhere while she was on patrol. Chisolm reported no suspicious activity at the hotel they were staying at, either. That led to amateur hour, with Lieutenant Crawford trying to convince him that the Rainy Day Rapist had hopped a train out of River City. He wanted to shut down the operation.
So what did that make it? Strike four? Five?
Tower decided to dump the baseball analogy. Instead, he imagined this to be a back-alley scrap. One with no rules other than the most basic rules of conflict — never give up and the last man standing wins.
He wasn’t going to quit. He was going to find the son of a bitch.
He reached for the small stack of tips and leafed through them. All were vague and unlikely candidates. He decided to pass them back to Crawford. The lieutenant would give them to Finch and Elias to run down, which was fine by Tower. Let those glory boy homicide dicks do a little work for someone else for a change, instead of the other way around.
