Wells, Dan - John Cleaver 01

by I Am Not A Serial Killer (v1. 1)

"Whoa," said Max. "What's going on?"

  I had called Brooke "it." That was stupid—that was. . . horrifying. I was better than that.

  "Did I hit a little too close to the target?" asked Max, relaxing again.

  I ignored him, staring straight ahead. Calling human beings "it" was a common trait of serial killers—they didn't think of other people as human, only as objects, because that made them easier to torture and kill. It was hard to hurt "him" or "her," but "it" was easy. "It" didn't have any feelings. "It" didn't have any rights. "It" was just a thing, and you could do whatever you wanted with "it."

  "Hello," said Max. "Earth to John."

  I'd always called corpses "it," even though Mom and Margaret made me stop if they heard me. But I'd never called a person "it," ever. I was losing control. That was why I came to see Max, to get in control again, and it wasn't working.

  "You want to see a movie?" I asked.

  "You want to tell me what the crap is going on?" asked Max.

  "I need to see a movie," I said, "or something. I need to be normal—we need to do normal stuff."

  "Like sitting on the couch and talking about how normal we are?" asked Max. "Us normal people do that all the time."

  "Come on, Max, I'm serious! This whole thing is serious! Why do you think I even came here!"

  His eyes narrowed. "I don't know," he said, "why did you come here?"

  "Because I'm . . . something's happening," I said. "I'm not... I don't know! I'm losing it."

  "Losing what?"

  "Everything," I said, "I'm losing it all. I broke all the rules, and now the monster's out, and I'm not even me anymore. Can't you see?"

  "What rules?" asked Max. "You're freakin' me out, man."

  "I have rules to keep me normal," I said. "To keep me . . . safe. To keep everyone safe. One of them is that I have to hang out with you because you help me stay normal, and I haven't been doing that. Serial killers don't have friends, and they don't have partners, they're just alone. So if I'm with you I'm safe, and I'm not going to do anything. Don't you get it?"

  Max’s face grew clouded. I'd known him long enough to learn his moods—what he did when he was happy, what he did when he was mad. Right now he was squinting, and kind of frowning, and that meant he was sad. It caught me by surprise, and I stared back in shock.

  "Is that why you came here?" he asked.

  I nodded, desperate for some kind of connection. I felt like I was drowning.

  "And that's why we've been friends for three years," he said. "Because you force yourself, because you think it makes you normal."

  See who I am. Please.

  "Well, congratulations, John," he said. "You're normal. You're the big freakin' king of normal, with your stupid rules, and your fake friends. Is anything you do real?"

  "Yeah," I said. "I. . ." Right there, with him staring at me,

  I couldn't think of a thing.

  "If you're just pretending to be my friend, then you don't actually need me at all," he said, standing up. "You can do that all by yourself. I'll see you around."

  "Come on, Max,"

  "Get out of here," he said.

  I didn't move.

  "Get out!" he shouted.

  "You don't know what you're doing," I said, "I need to—"

  "Don't you dare blame me for you being a freak!" he shouted. "Nothing you do is my fault! Now get of my house!"

  I stood up and grabbed my coat.

  "Put it on outside," said Max, throwing open the door. "Dangit, John, everyone in school hates me. Now I don't even have my freak friend anymore." I walked out into the cold and he slammed the door behind me.

  That night Crowley killed again, and I missed it. His car was gone when I got back from Max's, and Mrs. Crowley said he'd gone to watch the game. There wasn't a game that night foi any of his teams, but I drove downtown anyway to see if I could find him. His car wasn't at his favorite sports bar, or any of the others, and I even drove out to the Flying J to see if I could find him there. He was nowhere. I got home long patil dark and he still hadn't come back. I was so mad I wanted to scream. I threw my bike again and sat down on the driveway to think.

  I wanted to go see what Brooke was doing—I was desperate to see what she was doing—but I didn't. I bit my tongue, daring myself to draw blood, but stopped and instead stood up and punched the wall.

  I couldn't let the monster take over. I had a job to do, and a demon to kill. I couldn't let myself lose control before I did what I needed to do—no, that wasn't right. I couldn't let myself lose control at all. I had to stay focused. I had to get Crowley.

  If I couldn't find him, at least I could send him a note. I'd gotten so distracted today, I hadn't prepared one yet, and I needed to let him know that even though I couldn't see it, I knew what he was doing. I racked my brain for something I could write with without incriminating myself. The mortuary stationery was out, of course, and I didn't dare go upstairs looking for paper in case Mom was still awake. I ran over to Mr.

  Crowley's yard, nearly invisible in the darkness, and looked for something else. Eventually I found a bag of snow salt on his porch; he kept it there to salt his stairs and sidewalks for ice. It gave me an idea, and I came up with a plan.

  At one in the morning when Crowley pulled in, his car swung around and stopped suddenly, half in and half out of his driveway. There in the headlights was a word written in salt crystals, each letter three feet long on the asphalt and shining brilliantly in the headlights:

  DEMON

  After a moment, Mr. Crowley drove forward and smeared the words with his car, then got out and swept away the remnants with his foot. I watched him from the darkness of my bedroom, pricking myself with a pin and grimacing at the pain.

  13

  "Merry Christmas!"

  Margaret bustled in the door with an armful of presents, and Mom kissed her on the cheek.

  "Merry Christmas to you," said Mom, taking a few of the presents and stacking them by the tree. "Do you have anything else in the car?"

  "Just the salad, but Lauren's bringing it up."

  Mom's jaw dropped, and Margaret grinned slyly.

  "She's really here?" Mom asked quietly, poking her head out the door to look down the stairs. Margaret nodded. "How did you do it?" asked Mom. "I've invited her five times and couldn't get a yes out of her."

  "We had a really good talk last night," said Margaret.

  "Also, I think her boyfriend dumped her."

  Mom looked around the room frantically. "We're not ready for four—John, run down and get another chair for the table; I'll set another place. Margaret, you're wonderful."

  "I know," said Margaret, pulling off her coat. "What would you do without me?"

  I was sitting by the window, staring intently at Mr. Crowley's house across the street. Mom asked me two more times for a chair before I stood up, took her key, and headed out the door. It was only in the past few days that she'd let me touch the key again, and then only because she'd bought too much food for Christmas and we'd had to store the extra in the mortuary freezer. I passed Lauren on the stairs.

  "Hey, John," she said.

  "Hey, Lauren."

  Lauren glanced up at the door. "Is she in a good mood?"

  "She almost blew streamers out her ears when Margaret said you were here," I said. "She's probably killing a goat in your honor right now."

  Lauren rolled her eyes. "We'll see how long that lasts." She glanced up the stairs. "Stick close, okay? I might need backup."

  "Yeah, me, too." I took another step downstairs, then stopped and looked up at her. "You got something from Dad."

  "No way."

  "They got here yesterday—one box for each of us." I'd shaken mine, poked it, and held it up to the light, but I still couldn't tell what it was. All I really wanted was a card—it would be the first news we'd had from him since last Christmas.

  I got an extra chair from the mortuary chapel and brought it upstairs. Mom was flitting from room to room, ta
lking out loud to herself as she took coats, and set the table and checked the food. It was her trademark style of indirect attention— not talking to Lauren or giving her any special treatment, but showing that she cared by making herself busy on Lauren's account. It was sweet, I guess, but it was also the embryonic stage of an "I do so much for you and you don't even care" yelling match. I gave it three hours before Lauren stormed out. At least we'd have time to eat first.

  Christmas lunch was ham and potatoes, though Mom had learned her lesson from Thanksgiving and did not attempt to cook it herself—we bought the ham precooked, stored it in the embalming room freezer for a few days, and then heated it up Christmas morning. We ate in silence for nearly ten minutes.

  "This place needs some Christmas cheer," said Margaret abruptly, setting down her fork. "Carols?"

  We stared at her.

  "Didn't think so," she said. "Jokes then. We'll each tell one, and the best wins a prize. I'll start. Have you done geometry yet, John?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  "Nothing," said Margaret. "So there once was an Indian chief with three daughters, or squaws. All the braves in the tribe wanted to marry them, so he decided to hold a contest—all the braves would go out hunting, and the three who brought back the best hides would get to marry his squaws."

  "Everyone knows this one," said Lauren, rolling her eyes.

  "I don't," said Mom. I didn't either.

  "Then I'll keep going," said Margaret, smiling, "and don't you dare give it away. So anyway, all the braves went out, and after a long time they started to come back with wolf hides and rabbit hides and things like that. The chief was unimpressed. Then one day, a brave came back with a hide from a grizzly bear, which is pretty amazing, so the chief let him marry his youngest daughter. Then the next guy came back with a hide from a polar bear, which is even more amazing, so the chief let him marry his middle daughter. They waited and waited, and finally the last brave came back with the hide from a hippopotamus."

  "A hippopotamus?" asked Mom. "I thought this was in North America."

  "It is," said Margaret, "that's why a hippopotamus hide was so great. It was the most amazing hide the tribe had ever seen, and the chief let that brave marry his oldest and most beautiful daughter."

  "She's two minutes older than I am," said Mom, glancing at me with a mock sneer. "Never lets me forget it."

  "Stop interrupting," said Margaret, "this is the best part. The squaws and the braves got married, and a year later they all had children—the youngest squaw had one son, the middle squaw had one son, and the oldest squaw had two sons."

  She paused dramatically, and we stared at her for a moment, waiting. Lauren laughed.

  "Is there a punchline?" I asked.

  Lauren and Margaret said it in unison: "The sons of the squaw of the hippopotamus are equal to the sons of the squaws of the other two hides."

  I smiled. Mom laughed, shaking her head. "That's the punchline? Why is that even funny?"

  "It's the Pythagorean theorem," said Lauren. "It's a math formula for ... something."

  "Right triangles," I said, and looked pointedly at Margaret,

  "I told you I'd already done geometry."

  Mom thought a bit, and then laughed again when she finally got it. "That's the dumbest joke I've ever heard. And I think the word 'squaw' is offensive."

  "Then you'd better think of something better," said Margaret. "Lauren's turn."

  "I helped with yours," she said, stabbing a bite of salad, "That counts."

  "You then," said Margaret to Mom. "I know you've got something funny in that head of yours."

  "Oh, boy," said Mom, leaning her chin on her fist. "Joke, joke, joke. Oh, I've got one."

  "Let's hear it," said Margaret.

  "Two women walked into a bar," said Mom. "The first one looked at the other one and said, 'I didn't see it either.'" Mom and Margaret burst out laughing, and Lauren groaned.

  "A little short," said Margaret, "but I'll let it slide. All right then, John, it's up to you. What have you got?"

  "I don't really know any jokes," I said.

  "You've got to have something," said Lauren. "Where's that old joke book we used to have?"

  "I really don't know one," I said. I pictured Brooke laughing when we talked about the arson merit badge, but I couldn't really turn that into a joke. Did I know any jokes at all? "Wait, um, Max told me a joke once, but you're going to hate it."

  "No matter," said Margaret, "lay it on us."

  "You're really going to hate it," I said.

  "Get on with it," said Lauren.

  "As long as it's clean," said Mom.

  "That's funny," I said, "because it's about cleaning."

  "I'm intrigued," said Margaret, leaning on the table.

  "What do you do when your dishwasher stops working?" Nobody offered an answer. I took a deep breath. "You slap her."

  "You're right," said Mom with a frown, "I hate it. But the good news is, you just volunteered to clear the table. Let's head into the living room, ladies."

  "I say I won," said Margaret, standing up. "My joke was funniest."

  "I think I won," said Lauren, "because I got away without telling one."

  They shuffled into the other room and I gathered up the dishes, Usually I hated clearing the table, but I didn't mind today—everyone was happy and no one was fighting. We might last longer than three hours after all.

  When I finished stacking dishes in the sink, I joined them in the living room, and we handed out presents. I had gotten hand lotion for everyone. Mom gave me a reading lamp.

  "You spend so much time reading," she said, "and sometimes so late at night, I figured you could use it."

  "Thanks, Mom," I said. Thanks for believing my lies.

  Margaret got me a new backpack—one of those big mountaineer packs with a water bottle and a drinking tube built into it. I always laughed at the kids who wore them.

  "The pack you've got is falling apart," said Margaret, "I'm amazed those straps are still attached."

  "There's a couple of threads still hanging on," I said.

  "This one will carry all your books without breaking."

  "Thanks, Margaret." I put it to the side with a resolve to try to remove that dopey water tube later.

  "I've never read this, so it might suck," said Lauren, handing me a book-shaped present. "But I know there was a movie, and the title seemed kind of appropriate, if nothing else." '.

  I opened it up and found a thick comic book—a graphic novel, or whatever the big ones are called. The title was Hellboy.

  I held it up and pointed at the title, and Lauren grinned.

  "It's two presents in one," she laughed, "a comic book, and a nickname."

  "Yay," I said flatly.

  "The first person to call him 'Hellboy' has to open her presents outside," said Mom, shaking her head.

  "Thanks, though," I said to Lauren, and she smiled.

  "Time to open your father's," said Mom, and Lauren and I each took our boxes. They were simple brown shipping boxes—we'd left them that way just in case the gift inside wasn't wrapped. You never knew with Dad. Mine was small, about the size of a textbook, but considerably lighter. I used my house key to cut open the packing tape. Inside was a card and an iPod. I tore open the card, slowly and deliberately, trying not to look excited. It had a goofy cartoon cat and one of those horrible poems about what a great son I was. Dad had written a note at the bottom, and I read it silently.

  Hey Tiger—Merry Christmas! Hope you had a great year. Enjoy ninth grade while you can, because next year is High School and it's a whole new ballgame. The girls are going to be all over you! You're gonna love this iPod—I filled it up with all of my favorite music, all the stuff we used to sing together. It's like having your Dad in your pocket! See you around!

  Sam Cleaver

  I'd already started high school, so he was a year off, but I was too intrigued by the music thing to care. I didn't even know where Dad was living—he hadn'
t put a return address on the package—but I could remember riding in the car and singing along to his favorite bands: The Eagles, Journey, Fleetwood Mac, and others. It surprised me, for some reason, that he remembered that, too. Now I could pull out my iPod, pick a song, and be closer to my father than I'd been in five years.

  The iPod box was still in shrink-wrap. I tore the plastic off, confused, and ripped open the box; the iPod was untouched, and the library was completely empty. He'd forgotten.

  "Dammit, Sam," said Mom. I turned and saw that she had read the card—she'd seen the screwed-up school year and the broken promise, and she was hanging her head wearily, rubbing her temples. "I'm so sorry, John."

  "That looks cool," said Lauren, glancing over. "I got a portable DVD player and a DVD of the Apple Dumpling Gang—apparently we used to watch it together, and he thought it was special or something. I don't remember it."

  "He makes me so mad," said Mom, standing up and walking into the kitchen. "He can't even buy your love without screwing it up."

  "An iPod seems pretty cool to me, too," said Margaret. "Is there something wrong with it?" She read the card and sighed.

  "I'm sure he just forgot, John."

  "That's the whole problem!" shouted Mom from the kitchen, She was banging dishes around noisily, venting her anger on them, as she clattered them through the sink and into the clisliwasher.

  "Still, though," said Margaret, "it's better to have an empty one anyway—you can fill it with whatever you want. Can I look at it?"

  "Go ahead," I said, standing up. "I'm going out."

  "Wait, John," said Mom, rushing in from the kitchen, "let's have dessert now—I bought two different pies, and some whip cream, and—"

  I ignored her, grabbing my coat from the hall closet and walking to the door. She called me again, but I slammed the door shut, stomping down the stairs and slamming the outside door as well. I got on my bike and rode away, never looking back to see if they had followed me out, never looking up to see if they were watching through the window. I didn't look at Mr. Crowley's house, I didn't look at Brooke's house, I just pedaled my bike and watched the lines in the sidewalk fly by and hoped to God on every street I crossed that a truck would slam into me and wipe me across the pavement.