American Devil

by Oliver Stark

  Something was put over her head. It felt like a tight fitted hood. She could smell it. It was made of new leather. Was he just going to kill her like that? Not a word. The hood was pulled tight and fastened below her chin. Then his hands moved away. She was so weak and disorientated that there was no fight in her.

  He was behind her, lifting her to her feet. His hands found her bare neck. She was thinking about dying. She didn’t mind now. Best to go quickly and quietly.

  How long can a body go without air? It’s a matter of minutes and seconds. There’s such a fine line between life and death, between the infinite variety of being and the singleness of non-being. Why was she thinking these poetic things? The stranger was lifting her off her feet. His forefinger and thumb pressed against her arteries. Her body fought for blood and air, desperate sudden lunges rising up through her muscles, the terrible clawing agony in her lungs, in her veins. Then she relaxed into his body. A scrap of fur, any fur, even pretend fur. Even killer fur.

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  The Catskills

  December 3, 1.14 p.m.

  Two black and chrome Federal vehicles sped up the last stretch of the hillside track towards the small fishing cabin. The wildlife hadn’t heard noise like that for a long time. The big tyres and wide vehicles ripped the path apart in their wake.

  They found the cabin quiet and still. The two cars screeched to a halt and six black-suited FBI special agents got out in unison. The sight was strangely out of keeping with the romance of the small rural retreat. Tom Harper emerged from one of the cars in his long black overcoat. He instinctively looked into the woods and listened out for birdsong.

  Special Agent Baines stared at the cabin. He hoped to God he was right. The heart of every investigation was detailed groundwork, nothing else, and they’d done the work on this one. After the kidnap of Denise Levene, they’d gone back to the phone call that tipped them off about the threat to Rose Stanhope.

  The recording was clear enough. Baines could tell it was a male and not much else, but the techies at voice analysis could tell a whole lot more. ‘What you got, guys?’ Baines had asked. ‘This is our one and only lead, so it better be good.’

  The two guys staring hard at the green EQ on the screen hadn’t even looked up. ‘Okay, it’s a male, in his late thirties to early fifties, probably mid-forties, but this isn’t exact. He’s a smoker, there’s a definite nodule or two in his vocal cords. You can hear it, right? The gruff throaty tone? Well, he’s a New Yorker through and through. Probably from Brooklyn. His parents, at least, are from Brooklyn and he’s educated. His vocabulary scores high. Degree and postgrad level study. He works with his voice too, by the sound of it. He’s got a high score on evaluative language. He’s probably science trained, so as he says he’s treating a patient, I’d tend to think of him as a psychiatrist or therapist.’

  This agreed with what the guy had said on the phone. Baines had been pleased, but it was still a whole lot of nothing. A native New York therapist in his forties who smoked. They still had to find the guy.

  Baines decided on a search on foot. Get into every practice, speak to the receptionist, play the tape. Meanwhile, if the guys looking through the professional databases scored a hit, they’d lost nothing.

  Earlier that morning, two special agents entered Marty Fox’s practice and were told he was still on extended vacation. They played the tape and the receptionist smiled. That was Marty. In a few minutes they had the records of his meetings with a guy called Nick Smith. Dates, times and psychological analysis. He was treating this killer for Dissociative Identity Disorder. It didn’t take them long to find out that Nick Smith was another false name, just like John Sebastian.

  They still had to find Marty and see if he had more information. That took only forty minutes. He had a cabin registered in his tax records. At that point, the hawks flew from the field office out to the cabin in the hills.

  Tom Harper smelled the wood smoke rising from the stack. It was a beautiful place to hide out. They stood for a moment until the door opened and Marty Fox and his wife stood there, like the happy couple.

  ‘Martin Fox?’ called out Baines.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Marty.

  ‘Special Agent Baines of the FBI. We’re investigating the homicide of Senator John Stanhope and Rose Stanhope. We’d like to talk to you.’

  Marty’s face crumpled. ‘Christ, no, really? They’re dead?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘He said it wasn’t real!’ said Mrs Fox. ‘He said he was just being cautious.’

  ‘You didn’t leave your name, sir. You could’ve helped us on this.’

  ‘I thought I had. I thought you’d be able to protect them. I didn’t know he was a killer.’

  ‘Sir, we’re taking you back to your offices,’ said Baines. ‘We need to know everything you got on this guy. This is Detective Harper, part of the task force. He’ll be in the car with you. You happy to talk to us, sir?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Marty. ‘I gotta say, I’m sorry. Jesus. I didn’t know. I didn’t know he’d hurt anyone else. He threatened us, my wife, that’s why I left a message and came up here. I’ve got nothing here. No phone, no TV. Good God. Dead?’

  ‘Dead.’

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  Mace Crindle Plant

  December 3, 1.30 p.m.

  She woke up. She was sore but she was alive. How many hours had passed? She didn’t know if he had gone or was sitting with her. She couldn’t keep silent any more. She was close to breaking point. She didn’t want to speak to him, but she couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she said.

  There was silence for a moment, then the low whistle again. It started coming closer. Closer and closer.

  Then she heard the sound of his shoes on the grainy concrete floor and the shuffling of a chair, the slight rustle of his clothes. Why was he staying so quiet?

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

  Was this some kind of game he was playing?

  She’d woken up on a chair. She wasn’t dead. That was her first thought. Why wasn’t she dead? She remembered dying, but now . . . she was here again. She wasn’t dead: there was too much sensation, too much pain, too much fear.

  Her arms and legs were tied to the chair. There was a tight hood over her head and eyes, but she didn’t seem to have anything more than bruises.

  ‘I want to know why!’

  The figure behind her stirred. It whistled. The same low whistle. Her body shivered. She couldn’t help it. It was recognition. The whistle was her scrap of sanity in the dark and now it was up close and dangerous. She heard him rise to his feet. Her body tensed in fear. His footsteps were coming round in front of her. What was he going to do?

  He touched her. A horrified pulse ran through her spine. A finger on her lips. She went still like an animal playing dead. Dead, dead still. The finger was cold. It was pushing her bottom lip down. She was resisting opening her mouth. She didn’t want him to open her mouth. She didn’t know what he was going to do, but his finger pressed more forcefully.

  He whistled low and long and continued to press.

  Finally, her mouth opened obediently. Was he looking at her mouth? Was he thinking? An object moved against her lip, then her teeth. It was hard. No, not very hard. He pushed it in her mouth and closed her lips.

  It was a half-moon shape and soon the taste registered on her tongue.

  Apple!

  She nearly whimpered. The simple pleasure of a slice of apple. She was being fed. Food was sustenance, sustenance was life - he was sustaining her. She sucked on the piece of apple, then crunched into it. The juices on her tongue felt so concentrated, it was almost painful. She chewed and swallowed.

  What next? He didn’t do anything else. A minute passed. She wanted more. She wanted more apple.

  Slowly she opened her mouth before him. As a bird would to its mother.

  He pushed another piece of apple into her mouth. So th
is was what he wanted? He wanted her to need him?

  She chewed the crisp, juicy flesh. It was heavenly. She missed the earth and its gifts. Air, sky, fruit, grass and fields. The simple horizons.

  She felt him close. He was behind her. He was uncuffing her hands. Then he knelt and untied her legs. What was he going to do?

  Suddenly, he turned on a water tap. She could hear it, but with her leather hood could still see nothing. The water ran to the top of a bucket. Then she heard it overflowing. They were both concentrating on the bucket. He with his eyes, she with her ears.

  He whistled. She felt her body wake up, the saliva form in her mouth.

  ‘Come to me,’ said his voice.

  ‘Why?’ she said.

  ‘Come to me,’ said the voice. Again the whistle, low and long.

  She remained in her seat. She could hear the trickle of water as a small stream slowly reached out from the bucket.

  ‘Come to me,’ said the voice. He whistled again.

  Denise put her foot forward.

  The water touched her toe. She recoiled quickly and then regained her confidence. The foot moved back to the edge of the stream. Denise felt the water reaching under the soles of her feet, tickling her.

  ‘On your knees.’ His voice was terse and severe.

  Denise didn’t move. Then the whistle came and she couldn’t stop herself. She needed food. She had nothing but obedience to occupy her mind and body. Her legs bent and she lowered herself to her knees.

  The water was ice cold about her shins. She shivered and goose bumps appeared all over her.

  Her flesh was alive and awake. He wanted to touch her. Feather-light touches in his dungeon. He wanted to touch this one so lightly, his spirit would soar. He wanted to see the reaction of her flesh to his touch.

  ‘Crawl to me,’ said the voice. He whistled. She crawled across the ice-cold stream of water. Hooded, bent, cold and vulnerable.

  ‘Lay your head on my lap,’ he said. He whistled. She obeyed.

  ‘Good, good girl,’ he said. A small piece of bread was pushed into her mouth.

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  Interstate 87

  December 3, 2.20 p.m.

  In the ride down from the Catskills, Detective Harper sat one side of Marty Fox with Special Agent Baines on the other. They had to be careful with Marty. He was a definite flake and they needed him to talk.

  Harper shuffled in his seat and looked across. ‘I need to know all about the killer, Marty. Tell me what he’s like.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Marty, scared and confused.

  ‘Just try, goddammit. We know he was being treated by you, so everything’s gotta come from you, Marty. You’re the only guy we’ve got who knows him well.’

  ‘Okay.’ Marty took a deep breath, tried to compose himself. ‘He’s got two personalities, as far as I can see. A guy called Nick who’s married and frightened, and the devil, who he calls Sebastian. He never seems to know when the devil’s coming. Most of my meetings were with Nick.’

  ‘Did you meet Sebastian?’ asked Harper.

  ‘Yeah, momentarily. He’s the face of terror. Quite rational, quite determined. Demented. Evil. Slow and fierce. I don’t know if it’s a game or real.’

  ‘What else did you find out?’ said Harper.

  ‘He told a story about a girl from way back.’

  ‘So what happened?’ said Harper, eager to get some hold on Sebastian’s motive.

  ‘It was a girl called Chloe Mestella,’ Marty said. ‘She was murdered in ’82. Horrific murder. She was fifteen. The killer found his way into her bedroom at night on Valentine’s Day and cut her to pieces. I looked it up. It’s a real case. There was a murdered girl.’

  ‘Chloe Mestella?’ said Harper. He looked at Baines. ‘You know anything?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ said Baines. ‘We got to find out a little more detail. Talk more, Marty. We need everything.’

  Harper looked across expectantly. He had thought a lot about Denise since she’d been taken. He kept thinking of her face. The thought of her pain burrowed inside him. It felt like he was guilty of her murder or something worse. And sometimes it broke through and he imagined her pain. But now they had something to follow. ‘Speak, Marty,’ he urged.

  ‘Chloe Mestella. This guy, Nick, loved her. I don’t know what the hell happened.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘She got killed somehow. I don’t know who did it.’

  ‘That’s good, Marty, just keep it coming.’

  Harper stared across at Baines. They were both thinking the same thing. If this was true, then Sebastian might have killed Chloe Mestella. Someone needed to get out to West Virginia fast and see if they might just have found Sebastian’s first kill.

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Dresden Home

  December 3, 5.00 p.m.

  The garden was stark and empty in the winter. Nick loved spring most of all. Nick was, by his own admission, heavy on the planting. He loved tulips. Strange plants. Upright and singular. In his back yard, he was digging holes about six to eight inches deep and putting a bulb in each. He had bought over a hundred bulbs. They would look great in the spring. He wanted to see the whole lot thick with the red and white throats of scores of tulips turned upward to the sky.

  His son William was behind him, halfway up a cherry tree. It was great sometimes, thought Nick. It was great to get out of yourself and relax. He felt like he was doing some good.

  He went inside to get himself a soda. William walked in behind him.

  ‘What you up to, little feller?’

  ‘Need a soda like you.’

  ‘You know how to ask for a soda?’

  ‘I say please and thank you.’

  ‘That’s right, but you’re getting water. Water is good for you, right? We remember that, don’t we?’

  William took hold of a glass from the draining board. He turned the tap. Nick watched the water stream into the glass. Then he watched William tilt his head back and drink.

  ‘What are you looking at, Daddy?’

  William’s blond hair was fine and long, his white throat upturned as he drained the glass. Sebastian was crawling somewhere inside, scratching in the distance like a wolf through the undergrowth. Nick felt the tingling rise up his spine and up his neck.

  ‘You need to go away now, William. Go outside and play.’

  ‘I want to be with you.’

  ‘Go now!’ Nick shouted. The tingling was getting worse. He felt the spasm starting.

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Go! Run!’

  William stared, unable to move or understand.

  Nick put his hand in his pocket and grabbed at the nails. He squeezed hard, but it was no good. It wasn’t working. The pain streaked across his frontal lobe. Nick felt Sebastian rise in his throat. All at once, Nick was gone and Sebastian’s arm lurched forward and grabbed William’s hand. He stared hard at the boy. William stared back. It looked like his father but it was not his father staring at him. It was someone else. His wrist was hurting. He began to cry, but his father didn’t stop. Soon, William was howling.

  Dee suddenly appeared from another room and asked what was wrong. She saw her husband gripping her son and then she began to scream. Inside Sebastian’s head it was quiet. The world had stopped. Nick loved these people. He wanted to hurt Nick now. That was all. Hurt the things Nick loved. That was all he ever wanted. To hurt what Nick loved. He hated Nick. Nick was weak. Nick was an embarrassment.

  His cold silent gaze moved to the right. A shining spoon caught his eye. He picked it up.

  The faces in front of him were red-eyed and twisted in pain. Dee was screaming violently. He could see her mouth open and close. The inside of her mouth was red like a fresh cut. He could see the dangling flesh at the back of her throat. Her teeth, her fillings, her saliva.

  At times like these, he felt so cold, yet so full of emotion. He wanted to clean the world up. All the flesh and movement
. He wanted everything dead. The whole world. Nick’s wife, his children, everything.

  Sebastian saw his princess - little Bethany - bright sunlight in her blond hair. Was it real? It was the secret of himself. He held the image for as long as he could. He saw her sweet, open face. Blond hair. Bright, white, sun-starved skin. Naked, she was lily white. Whiter than he thought possible. White, naked, dead.

  The secret of him.

  The spoon was in his right hand now. William’s hand was red. The bones were bending in his little arm and the pain was increasing. His face was intense and strange.

  Dee was close now. She was pulling at him.

  He moved the spoon across to William’s face, until the boy could see his comical reflection in the convex bow of the spoon.

  She was his princess. Why did he keep her in his glass cage? He wanted more than anything to let her free, but he couldn’t. The glass cage had no doors, no windows. He had only to watch her suffer and suffer and suffer in silence.

  He pushed William’s face against the table. He was looking out at the lawn. A thrush was fiercely pecking the grass. The thin bare branches of the goat willow moved in the soft breeze.

  The spoon touched the edge of William’s eye. It was cold. The boy had stopped screaming. His father’s hand was tight against his small jawbone.

  Sebastian looked down at William. Dee was hitting him now. A heavy-based pan came down on his arm with all her weight behind it. Nothing entered his world when Sebastian was reigning. Nothing. The edge of the spoon moved under the boy’s lower eyelid. What was the child saying? Sebastian stopped momentarily. Something deep within him recognized a guttural sound. William was saying something. Sebastian remembered it now. It was something the princesses had said. They had said it over and over again. He wanted to hear it. He needed to hear it.

  But to hear it, he had to come out of his own cage. He had to break free.

  Nick. He needed Nick now. He let him back. Suddenly, Nick was there. The scream of his wife in his ear, his arm throbbing in pain, his son held under his own hand.