“And what would you do then?”
“I’d say, ‘No, it’s not,’ and then he’d laugh and hug me and rub my hair and lay out the blocks the right way.” She glanced at the door, regretting the hour’s excursion from her chronic state of denial. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Recovering good memories is just as important to healing as flushing out the bad ones.”
“Right now I’m tired of remembering.”
“Next week as usual, then.”
Julia nodded. Dr. Forrest scribbled down the appointment. “Call me if you need me.” Dr. Forrest handed her a reminder card. “And I want you to try something for me.”
“Yes?”
“Keep a journal. Jot down some of the things that happen, your dreams, anything. It doesn’t have to be formal. In fact, the more stream-of-conscious, the better.”
“I’ll try,” Julia said, knowing she would do more than try. Dr. Forrest was a good therapist. She wouldn’t assign Julia busy work. Everything was done with a purpose in mind. Julia knew a little therapeutic theory from her own college psychology class. And she wanted to please her doctor.
We’re making progress....
CHAPTER FOUR
Dr. Forrest walked her to the door. Julia went blinking into the parking lot. As always after a session, the world seemed unreal, the pieces of it incoherent and unstable. The asphalt was a separate thing from the ground, as if it floated over ether. The mountains and sky didn’t seem to quite meet up on the horizon. Though the clouds still veiled the sun, the flecks of mica in the sidewalk sparkled like tiny stars, forming galaxies beneath her feet. Even the trees that lined the streets seemed to exist in a two-dimensional universe of their own, as flat as colored leaves pressed in a keepsake book.
It was only after she’d started her car and edged out onto the highway that she remembered her bedroom clock. She hadn’t told Dr. Forrest about 4:06, either. The oddity wasn’t concocted by her imagination. She had the handyman Walter as a corroborating witness. But Julia had unplugged the clock before Walter saw it. She was sure.
Julia had a feeling that Dr. Forrest would be displeased to hear about the clock. The therapist didn’t like Julia’s focusing on little coincidences. Maybe Julia would casually mention it next time, or scribble it in her journal. Or maybe just forget all about it. Sometimes the past was best left alone.
She skirted the main drag of Elkwood, four blocks of downtown where the highest building was five stories. The town billed itself as “The Gateway to the Mountains,” and had originally been a trading outpost for the hunters who tamed the wilderness, displaced the Cherokee, and eradicated the buffalo and even the elk from which the town had derived its name. Now it was a growing tourist destination, nestled in a river basin between the Blue Ridge and the Great Smoky Mountains.
Julia drove across the Amadahee River and the unused railroad tracks that circled Elkwood’s small industrial section. Two of the factories were abandoned, their chain-link fences ripped and sagging, the parking lots pocked with grass, stubborn oil stains, and broken bottles. Some of the factories were being torn down and replaced by condominiums and technology parks, the South’s New Reconstruction.
Maybe Julia would write a series about it. Her editor had pigeonholed her, though. She was a “soft” writer at the Elkwood Courier-Times, even though she’d been a straight news reporter for The Commercial Appeal. That was okay, too. She no longer had to sleep with a police scanner, hoping for someone’s personal tragedy to supply her day’s work.
She made it to the office just in time for her 3:00 writers’ meeting. Her assignments for the week included a flower show at the mall, a disease outbreak at the animal shelter, some famous literary writer she’d never heard of speaking at the library, the dedication of a new soccer field, and a crafts festival coming up in three weeks. The crafts festival included a lot of the paper’s advertisers, so the editor wanted to give it a big push. Julia could handle it, although glorifying glued beads and poorly-woven baskets was a challenge to her writing skills.
Covering the local school boards and arts committees was also a challenge. She’d learned that the most valuable journalistic skill was making people’s quotes sound smarter than they actually were. She was bothered when readers referred to the weekly paper as “The Snooze,” but she was thankful for the low-stress job. Pulitzers could wait. She was in Elkwood to get her head together.
As she left the conference room, her co-worker Rick O’Dell caught up with her. “Hey, Julia, what’s up?”
“Same old,” she said.
Rick smiled, eyes bright behind his 1950’s science-teacher glasses. He had a Clark Kent-style curl in the middle of his forehead, the studly tress glistening with mousse. His zoot-inspired suit was tailored, a luxury at his salary. His retro style was tarnished by the gold chain around his neck, as if he were Palm Beach by way of Cleveland. “Did you read the opening of my series?”
“I don’t get the paper,” she deadpanned.
Rick laughed too enthusiastically. He was a hot reporter, on the way up, two North Carolina Press Associations Awards under his belt already. But he wanted other things under his belt, such as every young woman who crossed his blotter. “It’s a killer story,” he said. “Literally.”
“Do tell,” she said, continuing to her desk, knowing Rick wouldn’t need a nudge. Persistence was important for a good reporter, and Rick’s cockiness meant he didn’t give up easily.
“Remember in the 1980s, when there was all this buzz about Satanism, the huge underground network, how all these children were disappearing that ended up as human sacrifices?”
Julia’s head lifted at the word “Satanism.” She stopped walking and turned to Rick. “Yeah. Didn’t everyone pretty much agree that the whole business was overblown?”
“Sure. I mean, how do you account for some of those claims that as many as 50,000 people were murdered as human sacrifices? You just can’t hide that many bodies without somebody finding a bone here or there.”
“Bone?” Last night’s dream stirred in its slumbering grave.
“Yeah,” Rick said. His angular sideburns lifted as he smiled. “Well, maybe it’s coming back. Did you hear about the body they found in the Amadahee?”
“No.” Julia avoided the television news, the radio, even the paper when she could. She hadn’t been kidding about not subscribing to the newspaper. If ignorance was bliss, she wanted to be as blissful as a meditating Buddha.
“Caucasian male, in his twenties. Nude, hands bound, his abdominal cavity ripped open. Pretty ritualistic.”
“Wow,” Julia said, her interest piqued. Elkwood didn’t have as many murders as Memphis, but was as suspect to that particular sin as any other American community. Still, this one sounded different from the run-of-the-mill Saturday night armed disagreement. Julia hadn’t shaken the habits of the crime beat as easily as she had thought. “But what’s the link to Satanism? If you’ve done your research, and I bet you have–”
Rick grinned, showing perfect white teeth that could afford smugness, and nodded at her to continue.
“Then you know that ritualism is usually more to fill a psychological need than a spiritual need. At least when it comes to murder.”
“Sure. Serial killers do what they do to fulfill a sexual need. Everybody knows that. They don’t make necklaces of women’s body parts just because they want to please some higher or lower power. They do it because they like it. They get off on it. And they keep doing it until they’re caught or dead.”
“So, you took ‘Creep 101’ in college, too?” Julia asked.
“The home course.”
“Then why do the authorities think this was a Satanic killing?”
“They don’t. Not yet. But the victim was male. Gutted. And here’s the kicker. The guy’s pinkie was chopped off.”
“Chopped off?” Julia was hooked, despite herself. She loathed the public’s unending appetite for atrocity, the hunger for con
troversy, the prurient fascination for the dark side of humanity. She’d even made it her stock in trade, trafficking in human misery to deliver juicy headlines for her Memphis editors. She was as guilty as anyone for wallowing in bad news, but she could understand it. She had her own built-in dichotomy, the black past that she kept re-entering like a prospector probing a shaky mine shaft.
“Sure. Now, a chopped finger doesn’t seem so bad compared to being gut-hauled, but the thing is, the pinkie wound was healed. A stump of scar tissue. Meaning the injury had been inflicted years ago.”
“So? He could have had an accident, caught it in a textile machine or a car door.”
“He could have,” Rick agreed, adjusting his already-perfect jet-black curl. “But pinkie amputation is another ritual practiced by the you-know-whos.”
“Our old buddies, the Satanists.” Julia shook her head. “Rick, you’ve watched too many ‘X-Files’ reruns.”
“I’ve got plenty more evidence. Let me buy you a beer at the Whistle Gate and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“No, thanks,” she said, smiling to disarm him. Then she thought about going home, with darkness falling and her house waiting and the clock in her bedroom still stuck on 4:06.
Better the Creep you know, I suppose. At least this one has a face.
“On second thought,” she said. “I haven’t eaten out for a few weeks. Might do me some good to see what civilization is up to these days.”
Rick’s chest swelled visibly. “Great. Great!”
“I’ll meet you there. Six-ish.”
He backed down the hall, grinning like a kindergartner who’d put a worm down a girl’s dress. “Wonderful. I’ll get us a good table.”
As Julia went to her desk to put her notes and papers away, she wondered if Dr. Forrest would approve.
CHAPTER FIVE
Julia got home after dark. The Subaru’s headlights swept over the house as she drove up. Lights blazed from the neighboring apartments, and Mabel Covington’s front porch light was on, a flotilla of moths seeking out its heat. Even though the forest hovered dark and thick, Julia was determined not to be afraid.
Music spilled from one of the bottom apartments, the Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil.” Mick Jagger was the one that needed sympathy. Hobbling out on stage with his cane and hearing aid, but still dressed in Spandex and feather boas. The Devil had obviously not kept his end of the bargain in that deal.
A tan boxer barked at her from the ragged grounds of the apartment. The dog was friendly, but it made a habit of dropping smelly little presents around Julia’s door. She was torn between shooing it away and feeding it snacks, and in the end they’d reached an uneasy truce in which Julia gave the dog a pat on the head instead of bacon bits, and Fido kept his poop to the edge of the driveway.
Rick had practically invited himself over to Julia’s for a nightcap. Julia had deflected him, casually mentioning her fiancé and all the work she needed to get done. Now, entering the dark, silent house, she almost wished she’d accepted his offer, assuming he could keep his hands in his pockets. Maybe a little platonic companionship would ease her sense of isolation.
But she wanted to beat the fear alone. Even with Dr. Forrest helping, Julia knew that only one person could clean the mental house. Only one person could go into those rooms, sweep away the cobwebs, roll up the shades and let in the light. Only one person held the key.
She flipped on the living room light and closed the door, cutting off the Stones in the midst of their endless “whoo-whoos.” No wooden blocks awaited her, spelling a cryptic message. She laid her purse on the coffee table and gave a cursory glance around the room to make sure everything was in its place. So far, so good. No sweat. No problem. No Creeps here, ma’am.
But now the real test came. Could she walk down the hall into the bedroom? Could she look at the clock?
Sure you can.
Even though now you know there’s at least ONE Creep in Elkwood. A Creep who went to the trouble of binding his victim’s hands and feet before eviscerating him. A Creep who knew how to operate the business end of a knife. A Creep who did it slowly, making sure the victim expelled the greatest amount of blood and endured the deepest possible suffering. A Creep who took pride in his work.
Rick had taken great joy in sharing the grisly details over dinner. He knew she’d worked crime for The Commercial Appeal and hoped to impress her. She had to give him credit for originality. He was the first man who had ever tried to talk his way into her bed with a Satanic murder theory.
But her bed might already be occupied. That very same murdering Creep might be under her blankets this very moment, his sharp toys carefully resting on the pillow like a lover’s flowers. Maybe he had a ring of black candles waiting for the touch of a match. Maybe a red pentagram was painted on the floor, some demon holding its foul breath in anticipation of being summoned.
Like HELL, she thought, laughing, though the sound came out like the choking of a horse. She accepted the idea of God, something big behind everything. In the house of her head, she could give God a little shelf in the cupboard. But the idea that evil existed beyond the minds of humans, well, that was a wider leap of faith than she could make. She was merely crazy, not bug-brained insane.
But remember what Dr. Forrest said. You’re not crazy. You just suffer from a “behavioral disorder.” Something with a safe, handy label like “delusional” or “borderline personality” or “non-specific anxiety” or whatever diagnostic bricks the doctor cared to stack.
And, ultimately, she was in control of her own behavior. She could walk right into that bedroom, turn on the light, look at the clock, and then get on with the rest of her life. Conjuring up Satanic cults did little for her peace of mind.
She left the mace in her purse. She could do this alone, just like Dr. Forrest recommended. Down the hall, with every step bringing a slight creak of the floor in the silent house. The bedroom door was open. She reached around the wall, quickly, and flipped the switch.
The room was empty, her bed neatly made. The digital clock said 10:13. She checked it against her wristwatch. Right on time, just like clockwork. She was about to leave when a draft rippled the curtains. Muffled music leaked into the room from across the road.
The window was open. Why hadn’t Walter shut the window when he finished checking the locks? These mountain people expected everybody to suck down fresh air all the time, even when the mercury dropped.
Julia frowned and parted the curtains. She didn’t have a backyard. The forest grew right up to the rear of the house, the autumn canopy so thick that the distant streetlights couldn’t penetrate the trees. The smell of loam and damp wood drifted in the dew. She closed and latched the window. Then she saw the muddy footprint on the floor.
The print showed only the outline of a heel. A small broken oak leaf was stuck in the tread marks. Walter must have left it.
Then why hadn’t he left tracks all through the house? And he’d wiped his feet well, she’d seen him.
Julia knelt and touched the print. The dirt was damp.
Electric worms crawled up her spine.
Someone’s been in the house.
For real, not for pretend.
And The Creep might still be here.
She grabbed the phone off the bedside table. She punched a nine and a one, and was about to touch the one again when she looked down at her own shoe. Mud ringed the heel.
No, not mud.
Fido had broken the peace treaty. Julia’s smelly trail was marked from the living room.
“Oh, poop,” she groaned, putting the phone in its cradle. She’d almost made a fool of herself. The cops could have been in here, responding to her breaking-and-entering report.
She could hear them now.
First cop: “You want to run a test on that, Lieutenant?”
Second cop: “Sure. Got the measurements already.”
First cop: “Wait a second. This ain’t mud.”
S
econd cop: “Shoo. Smells like dog crap. What’s that on your shoe, ma’am?”
Julia cleaned up the mess and put on a Natalie Merchant CD. Nothing bad could happen while Natalie Merchant was singing of motherhood and gratitude. She checked her e-mail, spam jokes from co-workers and a few posts from her St. Louis Cardinals newsgroup. The Cardinals were about twenty games out, as usual. But with the season winding down, the hot prospects were up from the minors, getting some playing time.
She deleted the messages because one of the newsgroupies was giving away the events of the day’s game. Julia had taped it and wanted to watch it free of spoilers. She sat on the sofa and flipped the remote so that the videotape rewound. She punched the answering machine and stared at the blank TV screen.
The only message on her answering machine was the one from George Webster, telling her that Walter Triplett would be out to check her locks. She reset the machine, wondering if Rick would call.
That wasn’t a date, she reminded herself. That was definitely “hanging out.” But I hope he knows that.
She didn’t want to spend all her office time fending off advances, but being noticed was always flattering. Rick was different from Mitchell. Not quite so pushy, respectful of her opinions, interested in more than just making money–
Whoa, girl. Back up a little. If you start down the road to where you compare other men to the one you’re marrying, the potholes are going to bounce you out of a happy future. That’s as bad as comparing shrinks.
And her future would be happy. She’d move into Mitchell’s three-story house in Colliersville, join a tennis club, maybe volunteer for a library board. Social evenings with Mitchell’s lawyer circle, the men talking shop, the few female lawyers trying to shoehorn into the conversation, the wives comparing vacation packages. She would wear pearls and heels and scan the fashion magazines to find out which perfume maker was conducting the most extravagant ad campaign. She would eventually give in and wear makeup, hiding all the damage done by time and gravity.
Mystery Dance: Three Novels Page 35
