by Frank Zafiro
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 the 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.
Tower half-chuckled, half-snorted at his own thoughts.
Jeez, am I really turning into that big of an asshole?
Rather than study that question any further, he reached for the list of license plates that the surveillance officers had jotted down. At his request, they’d noted any cars that pulled onto Calispel during surveillance, as well as cars parked a block in either direction. It was a long shot, but at this point, he didn’t have much else.
Systematically, he began running the license plate numbers through the Department of Licensing computer. That gave him the registered owner. If it were a male, he’d run that male through the criminal database. He’d also run a history on the address and get any other male names from that, which he’d also run through the criminal database. Anyone with a criminal record would be a nice start, but he figured he should look hard at anyone whose car didn’t belong in the neighborhood by virtue of living there. Maybe the Rainy Day Rapist had driven by to case MacLeod’s house.
As he worked, he thought about the women who’d been victimized in this case. While his analytical mind worked on the license plate data, he let the unconscious part of his mind drift over the names.
Heather Torin.
Patricia Reno.
Maureen Hite.
Wendy Latah.
How were they different?
How were they the same?
How did he pick them? Was it coincidence or design?
Tower kept tapping information into the computer, reviewing the returns. Both sides of his brain whirred with activity, but the only thing that he knew for sure was that the Rainy Day Rapist was getting progressively more violent. Tower was pretty certain that if he didn’t find the suspect before he struck again, the news media was going to have to change his name to the Rainy Day Killer.
Graveyard Shift
2129 hours
“So?” Matt Westboard asked Katie as soon as they were clear of the basement of the police station.
“So what?” she replied from the passenger seat, but she knew what he was asking.
“How are you holding up?” Westboard asked.
Katie gave a long, irritated sigh. “Please, Matt. Not you, too, okay?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Katie watched the scenery of River City’s West Central neighborhood flit by. The smaller single-family homes were some of the older houses in the city. It was easy for Katie to tell which were owned and which were rentals, as the well-tended lawns and neatly painted homes alternated with the overgrown yards and houses with chipped, peeling walls. She greatly preferred working up in Hillyard instead, even though the scene there was much the same, just with homes from the 1950s instead of the 1920s. But since Westboard was driving, his choice as to where they’d patrol was pretty much the default. Maybe she’d suggest they give Hillyard a try later in the shift.
“How’s Putter doing?” she asked, changing the subject.
Westboard smiled knowingly. “Your cat’s doing fine. He likes to sleep on the recliner in my living room.”
“And you let him?”
Westboard snorted. “He’s a cat. Like I can tell him what to do.”
“I don’t let him sleep on the furniture,” Katie objected lightly.
“Yeah, well, he’s a guest, so he gets special privileges at my house.”
Katie shrugged. “Your call. I hate to see how spoiled your kids will be one day, though.”
Westboard didn’t answer. After a few moments of silence, he repeated his earlier question. “What’d you mean before?”
Katie turned her head, facing the other officer. There was no sense of guile about him. She felt momentarily guilty for including him with most of the others. While they didn’t hang out away from work, Westboard had proven to be a good friend on duty. He probably didn’t deserve any attitude.
“I’m sorry, Matt,” she said. “It’s just been a frustrating week.”
“Not enjoying your vacation with Chisolm?”
She shrugged. “That part isn’t so bad. Tom’s a nice guy. He gives me my space when I need it, but he’ll hang out with me if I’m in the mood. We’ve watched Jeopardy just about every night. He’s pretty good at it.”
“That comes with getting old,” Westboard joked. “Pretty soon, Alzheimer’s will kick in and that streak will end.”
“Maybe. But he’s been cool through all of this. I mean, I’m sure there’s someplace he’d rather be.”
Westboard grinned and said nothing.
Katie noticed the grin. “What?”
Westboard shrugged and shook his head. “Nothing.”
She figured it out then. “My God, Matt. You’re as bad as the others.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he protested.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I didn’t,” he repeated.
“You didn’t have to,” she repeated back. “You guys are all alike. So does everyone else think the same thing?” She imagined it were so, but had held out a futile hope that maybe, just maybe some of her co-workers would give her the benefit of the doubt. Or Chisolm, for that matter.
Westboard glanced over at her. “Oh, you mean does everyone think you and Chisolm are fooling around?”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean. Duh.”
“I don’t know. Probably a few. That’s not what I meant, though.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not. Honest.”
Katie frowned at him. “Really?”
He gave her an emphatic nod. “Really.”
“What did you mean, then?”
Westboard turned on Nettleton Street, slowing to a crawl. He scanned the sidewalks as he drove. “All I meant was that I don’t think there’s anywhere else Chisolm would rather be than protecting you. That’s it.”
Katie narrowed her eyes, thinking. “That’s almost the same thing.”
“Not even close.”
“Saying that Tom and I are shacking up at the hotel and saying that there’s no place he’d rather be than shacking up is pretty much the same thing, Matt.”
“That would be,” Westboard agreed. “But that’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
“Okay, then it’s not what I was referring to.”
“Then what?”
Westboard stopped for the stop sign at Boone. He turned to look at Katie before answering. “I’m just saying that the kind of guy Chisolm is, being on a protection detail for a platoon mate is probably his idea of hea
ven.”
“I doubt it.”
“Come on, Katie. That’s exactly what drives the guy. You ever hear him talk about anything away from work?”
“No, but neither do you.”
Westboard shook his head. “Sure, I’m private, but at least you know when I’ve gone to Mexico on vacation or seen a baseball game. I told you when I bought a new truck. Chisolm ever talk about something like that? Does he ever talk about anything?”
Katie considered. She had to concede that Westboard had a valid argument. Even in the ten days they’d spent in adjacent rooms at the hotel, Chisolm had shared little in the way of personal information. “You could have a point,” she admitted.
“I know,” he said, crossing Boone and cruising slowly. “And that point is what I meant.”
“Sorry, then.”
“Apology accepted. Now, answer the rest of the question.”
“I forgot the question.” She pointed at a house on the corner of Nettleton and Sinto. Two different insulation brand names were plastered across the unfinished outside of the structure. “That place has been waiting for siding for two years now.”
Westboard grunted that he knew, then gave her an impatient wave of his hand.
Katie sighed. “All right. It’s just that this last week has sucked. I’m holed up at the hotel on my off time. Then I have to ride with someone every day at work.”
“How has it been partnering up?”
Katie shrugged and glanced out the window. She saw a long-haired man in jeans and some kind of heavy metal T-shirt raking his small lawn under the harsh yellow porch light. He noticed the police car cruising by, stopped and stared. Katie raised her hand in a small wave. The man didn’t wave back, but continued to stare defiantly at them as the car rolled past.
“Nice to have your support,” Katie muttered to the closed window.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Katie said, turning away from the window. “Riding partners has been...interesting.”
