by Jeff Strand
“Probably.”
“…with that sick rascal anyway?”
I told him the whole story. Jeremy’s face turned redder and redder as he listened. By the time I finished, I thought he might start ripping chunks out of the couch.
“So it’s simple. We kill him.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious. You need closure on this. That rotten little psychopath has had power over you…over us…for more than half of our lives. It’s time to take it back.”
“I don’t even know where he is. For all I know, he’s dead.”
“And for all you know, he’s watching through the window right now. Sorry, Peter, but it’s true. Alex, if you want to move on with your life, you need to end this. You’re young, you’ve got more time ahead of you than behind you, and you can’t waste it by always wondering when that son of a rascal is going to show up next.”
“Well, if he’d be considerate enough to show up at my doorstep, I’d be more than happy to end this.”
“So flush him out.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Put out a big sign that says ‘Free Beer for Lunatics.’”
“Ha ha,” I said.
“Ho ho,” Peter chimed in.
We looked at Jeremy expectantly.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s your line,” Peter said.
“I have no idea what you guys are talking about. But I’m serious; we’ve got to flush him out.”
“Whoa, hold on,” said Peter. “I don’t want him flushed out around me.”
“Of course not. You’ve got a lot to lose. I don’t have squat except for three alimony payments.”
“Three?”
“Three as of last month, yeah. I’d kind of hoped for an annulment of that last one, but it didn’t work out.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, well, shit happens. I mean poop happens. Anyway, we can get this guy. He wants you to be his partner in homicide, right? Why not go on a killing spree of your own?”
“Oh, sure, that’ll ease my mental torment.”
“Not a real one. Fake him out.”
“Sure. I’ll just walk down the sidewalk, pretend to kill a few people, and wait for him to show up.”
“You know, you’re very sarcastic for a suicidal. Didn’t you use to do magic?”
“Yeah. I gave it up when I spent those months locked in the pit. Too hard to see the cards.”
“Well then, smart-ass, it’s possible that you’re familiar with the concept of illusion. You see, an illusion is something that appears to be there, but really isn’t. For example, in the fabled floating woman trick, audience members will see a floating woman up onstage. And yet the magician possesses no supernatural powers with which to float this woman. Most magicians give up by this point, but others, the really clever ones, they think to themselves, ‘I know, instead of trying to call upon paranormal forces to float this woman, I’ll just do an illusion that makes it look like the woman is floating, and then I can still get my paycheck.’ Yes, the concept of illusions has been very popular with magicians across the world, which is why it’s so surprising to me that you’ve never heard of it.”
“So you’re saying that I should fake a murder?”
“No, I’m saying that you should float a woman.” He looked at Peter. “Was he this slow when we were roommates?”
“Actually, I think you were the slow one.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not trying to be sarcastic, but this idea sounds a little preposterous.”
“Why?”
“Because…I don’t know why, actually.” Maybe it wasn’t that preposterous. “We’d have to find somebody good with special effects.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Let’s think about this. I could go on a fake killing spree, it could get captured on tape, and Darren would see it on the news and think that his whacko plan worked. And we’d be ready for him.”
“Sure!” said Jeremy. “We’d hire some actors, put some blood packs on them, have you walk into a restaurant or something with a gun, open fire, and have somebody tape it. All the media would cover it.”
“You’re right, they would,” I said, starting to get excited.
Peter rolled his eyes. “Scale it back, you guys.”
“Why?”
“Because you’d have to find actors who could die in a believable enough manner that when experts reviewed the tape for the umpteenth time they wouldn’t say, ‘Hey, look at the shoddy performance of victim number three.’ Also, where are all of these people going to hide out while you wait for Darren to show up? You’d have to find actors willing to vanish for a while and let their families believe that they were dead. And I’m pretty sure authorities will be able to tell a squib hit from a real bullet hit.”
Jeremy frowned. “I thought priests were supposed to inspire.”
“I’m not a priest. I’m studying to be a minister.”
“But he’s right,” I said. “We just need to scale it back. One victim. Somebody willing to disappear for a while.”
Jeremy raised his hand. “I’m willing.”
“Really?”
“Put me in a hotel room with cable and I’m yours.”
“So we’d only have to do one convincing death. Do either of you know any special effects people?”
“Not me,” Jeremy admitted.
“I don’t,” said Peter, “but again, keep scaling it down. Unless the effect is absolutely seamless, you’ll get caught. If the video is exposed as a fraud, Darren will know you’re up to something, and you’ve blown this kind of opportunity forever.”
“So maybe the victim doesn’t die,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“I just threaten to kill him.”
“Exactly.”
“And if I’m making the video myself, there’s nobody else involved.”
“Exactly.”
“This is gonna be awesome,” Jeremy said. “I haven’t been this excited about something in ten years!”
“What about your wedding days?” Peter asked.
“They still make the top five. Jeez. Two of ’em do, anyway.”
“So when do we do this?” I asked.
“We don’t,” said Peter. “I mean I don’t. I’ve got a wife and five kids. God doesn’t want me to live in fear, but God also doesn’t want me to be dumb enough to attract a serial killer with a snuff video.”
“Absolutely understood,” I said.
“But I won’t say anything. Maybe I’ll make myself unavailable. Debra and I have been wanting to take the kids on a family cruise.”
“How do you afford a cruise for seven people on an aspiring priest’s salary?” Jeremy asked.
“Aspiring minister. We do all right.”
“I can see that, but how?”
“Debra writes.”
“Really? She’s published?”
Peter nodded, a bit uncomfortable.
“What does she write?” I asked.
“Romances.”
“Wow.”
“Erotic romances.”
Jeremy and I exchanged an unbelievably amused look.
“Debra writes smut?” Jeremy asked.
“It’s not smut. It celebrates romance and the human body.”
“So you read smut?” I asked.
“No. Just hers. I look for continuity errors.”
“Like, what? There were seven people in the bed in the previous chapter and now there are only six?”
“There’s a market for this! You have five kids and see how resistant you are to those royalty checks! I don’t have to discuss this with you!”
“Can I find these in my local bookstore?”
“Yes, but she writes under a pen name. And I’m not going to tell you what it is, because the two of you are just immature enough to mail me highlighted pages.”
“I would never dr
eam of doing that,” said Jeremy, the picture of innocence. “How much of it comes from real life, you hot stud muffin?”
Peter laughed. “I’ve already said too much. Now who’s up for more pie?”
Chapter Twenty-five
Two days later, Jeremy and I were in my home. Though Peter owned a video camera, and though we happily tormented Peter with graphic speculation about the bedroom antics that had been recorded by that very video camera, borrowing it didn’t seem like a good idea. We wanted as few ties to Peter as possible. So I rented one from a local shop.
We’d decided that the subtle approach was not necessarily the best one, and so the tape was to be a direct message to Darren. I would hold the camera myself, and show Jeremy in my bathtub, bound with duct tape. Then I would speak to the camera, letting Darren know that I would be ending Jeremy’s life “where the rope burned your skin.”
The problem was that the video wasn’t working. Jeremy didn’t look scared enough. I didn’t sound convincing at all, and I kept flubbing my lines.
After the ninth or tenth failed attempt, I slammed the video camera down on the bathroom sink and ripped off the duct tape that covered Jeremy’s mouth. “Let’s just call it off.”
“We can’t.”
“They won’t even air this. The people in the newsroom will laugh themselves silly. We’ll end up on some bloopers show.”
“No, we can do this,” Jeremy insisted. “We just have to really sell it.”
“I don’t know how.”
We were silent for a long moment.
“What if you didn’t just threaten me with that knife?” asked Jeremy.
“You mean, actually cut you?”
“Not deep, but a real cut. Don’t even tell me where you’re going to do it. Just slash me a couple of times when you film me in the tub.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can. You cut me, and then you cut yourself. Two good slices across your chest. When they blow that up, look at it pixel by pixel, they’ll see that it’s real.”
“I can cut myself easier than I can cut you.”
“You can do both. Make me scared of you.” He chuckled nervously. “But I’m trusting you not to slash my eyeball. No face cuts.”
“Jeremy, this is going way beyond any friendship obligations you might have.”
“It’s not about friendship. I’d lose an arm to see that piece of shit get what he deserves. Don’t cut off my arm, though, please.”
“I won’t.”
“I trust you. Now do you trust me?”
“Of course.”
“We’ll find out. Take off your shirt and go get a picture of Melanie and Tracy.”
I unbuttoned my shirt and tossed it aside. Then I picked up my favorite photograph. Melanie was at my side, looking positively radiant, almost glowing as she held two-year-old Tracy Anne in her arms. It was a lousy picture of me, of course, but I didn’t look at myself.
“Let me see it,” said Jeremy.
I showed him the photograph.
“She’s beautiful. Both of them are.”
“I know.”
“I bet they were more beautiful with blood running down their faces.”
I lowered the picture. “Okay, I already don’t like where this is going.”
“Do you think they woke up while he was cutting them? Maybe they were awake the whole time, able to feel every last bit of agony.”
“I know what you’re trying to do. It’s not going to work.”
“I bet he laughed when he did it.”
“Seriously, Jeremy, this is just going to piss me off.”
“They’re gone forever, you know.”
“Knock it off.”
“Peter told me that they’re probably burning in hell.”
“Okay, knock it off!”
“Your wife and your daughter are burning in hell and you’re all alone and Darren is out there laughing his ass off. You said he kept souvenirs, right? Did they find all of Melanie? Did they find all of Tracy?”
I didn’t respond. I hadn’t even thought of that awful possibility. I just stood there, letting the hate and sorrow flow through me.
“You think maybe he brought Melanie’s nipple with him? What do you think he brought from Tracy? How much do you think it hurt while he was cutting them up? How much do you think Melanie hated you as she lay there? How much do you think Tracy hated her daddy, who promised to protect her but let somebody cut her up? Do you think she was thinking good thoughts about you when he sliced off her fingers? She died hating you. She’s burning in hell hating you.”
Tears were pouring down my face.
“Pick up the camera,” Jeremy said.
I picked up the camera, pressed record, and then spun it around to tape myself. “I’m Alex Fletcher, and this message is for Darren Rust. You were right. Goddamn you, you were right!”
I grabbed the straight razor from the edge of the tub and slashed it across Jeremy’s arm. He cried out in pain. Then I slashed his cheek from the corner of his chin to just past his left eye.
Oh, shit, I’d cut deep. Way too deep.
Don’t lose this.
I rubbed my hand on his bleeding arm and held my palm up to the camera. “Yeah, this feels good. You made it feel good, you son of a bitch!” I placed the camera on the sink and stood in front of it. “You made it feel really”—I slashed my chest with the razor—“fucking”—another slash—“good!”
I pointed to the camera. “You did this to me, Darren. You took away everything I had, and the only way I can fucking cope is to take it away from other people!”
I grabbed the camera from the sink, nearly dropping it. “Remember Jeremy?” I asked, pointing the camera at my bleeding friend. “It’s his fault this happened! He started it all!” I spun the camera around to record my face. “You wanna share him? Huh? This is what I’ve become, so I fucking well better embrace it! I’m gonna rip his fucking guts out where the rope burned your neck. You wanted to turn me into a killer?” I held my bloody palm up to the camera again. “Mission accomplished.”
I pressed stop and set the camera back down on the coffee table.
“You cut my face,” Jeremy said.
“Jeremy, I’m so sorry.”
“I’m pretty damn sure I asked you not to cut my face. Band-Aids would be nice. You need some, too.”
My chest was covered with blood. I hadn’t even felt the cuts. I opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed some bandages, cotton balls, gauze, and antiseptic.
“You cut my face,” Jeremy repeated.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I hope you at least didn’t tape me pissing my pants. I’d like some dignity when this is over.”
I glanced at his soaked crotch. “I didn’t even notice.” I opened the antiseptic and poured some onto a cotton ball. “This is going to burn.”
“Well, no shit.”
We were silent as I cleaned and dressed his wounds and then my own.
“I’m sorry for what I said,” Jeremy told me as we sat on the couch.
“It’s okay. It worked.”
“Peter never said that they were burning in hell.”
“I know.”
“And they didn’t hate you.”
I didn’t respond.
“Should we take a look at our masterpiece?” Jeremy asked.
We popped the tape into the VCR and watched it. I didn’t even recognize myself. That wasn’t me. It was a stranger who’d completely lost his grip on sanity.
It was terrifying to watch myself like that, knowing that my words were just lines but that my emotions were completely real.
God, what if Darren had been right about me all along?
We could’ve been traveling the countryside, hacking up innocent people for sport, laughing at their misery and having a grand ol’time.
It sure would’ve been a better life than what I had now.
The tape ended.
“Now that,” said Jerem
y with a satisfied grin, “is one convincing video.”
It was not a flawless plan by any stretch of the imagination. Television stations might not air it. Darren might not see it even if they did. They might omit the crucial “where the rope burned your skin” line. Darren might see through the whole thing and laugh at our pathetic attempt to trick him.
Or Darren might be dead.
I could handle him being dead. But I couldn’t handle never knowing. Jeremy was right. I needed resolution.
We decided that Jeremy would indeed hang out in a hotel room for the duration of the plan. Optimally, he would have camped out with me in the woods outside of Branford Academy, but I didn’t see how that could work. I could hang out there as long as necessary, but to sustain a faux captor/victim relationship twenty-four hours a day just didn’t seem feasible.
This way, Jeremy would be all nice and comfy in his hotel room, and he could keep tabs on the situation through newspapers and television. If he had anything crucial to share, he could give me a call on my cell phone.
Jeremy wore a ridiculous disguise and paid for the hotel room in cash. He wished me luck, gave me a hug, bitched at me one last time about cutting his face, and left.
I dropped ten packages with copies of the tape, addressed to various local news outlets, into a mailbox and then drove down to Branford Academy. Feeling no nostalgia whatsoever, I left my car in the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour supermarket and walked the eight miles to the woods.
I didn’t know the exact tree we’d used to hang Darren, but I found a clearing that looked like it might be the right place. I sat down, leaned against the tree, and prepared myself for a long wait. I had a backpack with food, water, a couple of really thick paperbacks, a flashlight, toilet paper, caffeine tablets, and other assorted necessities. The gun I kept on my lap.
It was not, truth be told, a very pleasant camping trip, especially when I discovered that my heavy sweater wasn’t doing much against the cold. But at the same time, when you’ve spent months living in a dark pit, hanging out in the woods really doesn’t sound all that bad.
I wondered if anybody had watched the tape yet.
I wondered what my parents would think. It would certainly justify their excessive reaction to the stolen condoms.
