by Julia Shupe
“Nope. Not really. I can’t discuss the particulars, but I can tell you this: it’s big. Very big,” I ran a hand through my unruly hair. “I’ll probably be working on it for the next ten years.”
Setting down the box, Adrianna focused on me. “What can you tell me, if anything?”
“Confidentially speaking, not much. But even if I could, there’s not much to tell. A field of dead girls who were tortured and killed, but much beyond that, we’re yet to discover.”
Adrianna made a tisking sound with her lips. “Sounds like a career-maker to me.”
She was right, but at least I had the decency not to say the words aloud.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s talk about Linda. When the box was delivered, how’d she take it?”
“Not well. Same as last time. It threw her for a loop. And I have to tell you: it really freaks me out. Every time we get a box, I think she’s going to lose it again. I know she’s frightened. I get that part, but—”
“And you’re not frightened? You can’t empathize?”
I lifted my head, considering her question. Today had been tumultuous, to say the least. I’d seen the physical aftereffects of a woman who’d been mowed down by a Ford F150. After that, I’d visited a haunted graveyard, and after that, I’d seen Jacob, after all these years. I’d been so busy, I hadn’t stopped to consider my feelings. “No,” I answered her honestly. “I’m not. I know it’s strange, but I’m not afraid anymore. I don’t see these actions as threats. Mom’s been gone for nearly a decade now. If he meant to do us harm, he would have done it by now.”
“You can’t know that for sure. Nobody can. We have no idea what people will—or won’t—do. We can’t pretend to know their motives, what they’re thinking, or what things set them off. Maybe he’s waiting for something specific. Maybe there’s a bigger picture, a puzzle you haven’t yet solved.”
“I don’t have the energy for puzzles, Adrianna.”
“That’s what worries me, Vanessa. If he’s playing a game, he’s making you play it, too, whether you have the time, the energy, or not. Despite your objections, you may not have a choice in the matter.”
I lacked an intelligent response to that. “Today’s Danny’s birthday,” I murmured instead.
Dr. Hagen raised a brow. “So you think it’s about Danny? You think this whole thing is about your son?”
“No, of course not. That’s not what I meant. None of what’s happened has anything to do with Danny. The day is completely random. Though the boxes always come in March, it’s never on the same day. I think—for once—it was just a coincidence.”
“Hindsight,” Adrianna warned, “is usually 20-20. In the end, most things tend not to be coincidental.” She drew a breath. “Have you spoken to Linda about therapy again?”
“I tried, but she still won’t do it. It doesn’t matter how scared she is. She doesn’t believe in therapy anymore.”
“That’s a shame.” A tiny smile pulled the corners of her mouth. “And what about you, Vanessa? Do you still believe?”
I peered out the window, at the setting sun twinkling through the boughs of palm trees. “Over the years, Adrianna, you’ve helped me. Therapy—regardless of what others believe—is a necessary step in the healing process. Stepping outside one’s own warped head is crucial if one wants to get better. It’s about objectivity, about honesty, about being real. Without you, I think I would have drowned inside my head, or snapped, or possibly hurt someone. You helped me sort things out, I think. You pulled the nastiness from inside my lizard-brain. Thoughts, Adrianna, are tangible things. They can strangle, suffocate, and possibly kill. When trapped inside, they can rot and decay.”
“Hmm,” she said. “Very astute. Do you want to switch chairs and become my therapist? That’s an interesting way of putting it, Vanessa: your ‘lizard-brain’. Do you know what that means? Do you know where that phrase originated?” When I didn’t answer the question, she decided to teach me a lesson in etymology. “It refers to the oldest part of the human brain, to the primal part, to the stem, if you will. It’s the section responsible for primitive instinct. The lizard-brain is predatory.” She smiled. “What ‘lizard-brain’ thoughts—if I might ask—have I helped you confront?”
I stared her down, but at first, said nothing. Though I did believe in therapy, there were certain things I didn’t want to share. “There are parts of me,” I answered her slowly. “Parts of us all, I think, that should remain hidden and buried. Darkness lives inside of every human being. When my mother was taken, I was angry—too angry. Had I found her killer, I’m not sure what I would have done.”
“Her killer? That’s the first time you’ve referred to your mother as dead.”
“She has to be dead. She’s been gone too long. After all this time, death would be a small mercy. To hope for life seems somehow selfish. Wishing she were alive helps me. Not her. It’s a fantasy that makes me feel better.” I tried my best to relax my hands, but I was clutching the chair with an iron grip. “Her being alive is monstrous to comprehend. It would equate to years of torture and torment, a decade of mental and physical anguish. I can’t accept that. I won’t. I refuse to. For my mother’s sake—and because I loved her so much—I hope she’s been dead a long time.”
For a moment, Dr. Hagen didn’t answer. “Well,” she said, after a time, her voice hoarse. “When do you leave? For California, I mean?”
“Who’s the new receptionist?”
She looked up. “I’m sorry?”
“The new guy. The receptionist out front. Where’s Donna?”
“She quit last Monday, out of the blue. Took a job at a local resort, or so she said.” Where a moment ago, Adrianna seemed flustered, her elegance and poise had quickly returned, if it had ever been gone in the first place. She folded her hands across a knee. “I was sorry to see her go, but in answer to your question, the new guy’s name is Brian.”
“Brian,” I repeated, staring at her perfectly plucked brows. “He seems a bit quiet and shy, a bit quirky. When I arrived, he refused to look me in the eye.” Eye contact, for me, had always been important. Shifty people had shifty eyes. Avoidance typically equated to guilt. I pushed myself to my feet. Time was up. I was leaving Florida in less than fourteen hours, and I wanted to spend what remained with my son. “Time to go,” I said. “We’re leaving in the morning, and I want to spend my last hours with Danny. He’s not going to be very happy about this.”
“We? Who’s we?”
“Gil, Jacob, and I.”
“Jacob? Why does that name sound familiar?”
I smiled. “Because we’ve talked about him ten million times before. It’s the same Jacob Forrest from high school.”
“Well, well. The same Jacob Forrest who became an FBI agent? The same Jacob Forrest who was pissed when you didn’t?”
“The very same one.”
“That’s interesting—and another coincidence, I’m sure you would say.”
Why was everything a big conspiracy to Adrianna? “It’s not a coincidence if you work in the same field.”
“If memory serves me, you haven’t seen Jacob in quite a few years.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“And you didn’t think to mention this to me? Don’t keep me in suspense, Vanessa. How did it feel to see him again?”
Her smugness was making me smile. “Stop,” I said, “We’re just colleagues. Old friends.”
“Just colleagues? Is that so? Colleagues who happen to have slept together in their teens and twenties?” She stood behind her desk. “This could make for some interesting sessions for me.”
“Yeah,” I said, grinning. “That’s what I’m here for.” I slung my purse over my shoulder. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. But right now, I have a date with a five year old.”
“Good luck, Vanessa. I mean it. If you need to cancel next week, let me know. And don’t stop talking to Linda about therapy. She needs this. Badly. I’m telling yo
u. If she won’t talk to me, make her talk to someone else. If she doesn’t, she might slide backwards again, lose all the hard-won progress she’s made. And maybe,” she added, smirking, “I can make her face that lizard-brain of hers—assuming she has one, of course.”
“Of course. Everyone does. It’s unavoidable. We’re humans, aren’t we? By definition, we live to cause other people pain. I’ll talk to her. I promise. I’ll never stop trying.”
“Very good.” Adrianna cocked her head. “You seem well today, Vanessa. Dark, of course, but well. I’m impressed. Don’t let work get you down. They can wear on you, these things you see. I don’t think I could handle it half as well as you do.”
“Oh, I seriously doubt that, Dr. Hagen. You underestimate yourself. You’re on the front lines every day, talking to us. When your patients break apart, you put us back together again. You’re the one we come to when humanity fails us. And,” I added, “You’re a better investigator than half the guys on the force.”
With that, and thinking of all the things I had to do, I turned from her, and walked toward the door. There was something inside me screaming to leave, an invisible string pulling me closer to my son. When I opened the door, I nearly fell atop the new receptionist. Brian was his name, I remembered. What the hell? Had this creep been standing outside the door the entire time? Listening to our entire conversation?
I extended a wooden hand. “You’re new. My name’s Vanessa. And yours?” His eyes panned to the left, and I mine followed.
“Brian,” he answered, his eyes fixed on Adrianna. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Dr. Hagen’s next patient is waiting in the lobby. I was just coming in to let her know.”
Bullshit. He looked like a guilty convict, like he’d just been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. “Nice to meet you, Brian,” I purred. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of one another.”
Skittish as a rabbit, he was laser-focused on Adrianna. It was as if I hadn’t said a word.
Chapter 11
The Shadow Man
“Wow. Check her out.”
“I can see her, you idiot.”
Smith heaved a sigh. “Just look at them titties. I bet you’ve never seen titties like that. Not on any of those orphanage chicks.”
Carlton leaned forward and squinted. Smith was right. Her titties were big, low hanging, soft, and smooth. They hung from her chest like two perfect scoops of vanilla ice cream. He could hardly believe he was watching this. He and Smith had been waiting for this moment for a week. They’d come to this exact spot six days in a row, and had climbed this tree, just for this. They’d snuck behind the convenience mart and hid in the branches of this old oak tree, waiting for her to get home from school. Three of those days Carlton had almost missed curfew. But persistence, he had learned, paid off. That’s what Smith always said, at least, and Smith was usually right.
Carlton felt a tingling in his gut. There she was, in front of her bedroom window, pretty as a picture in her waitress uniform. Her long brown hair was tangled into the sleeves her shirt, and her breasts were bouncing as she fought to take it off.
“I wanna kiss that tittie,” Smith murmured beside him.
Carlton scoffed. “Fat chance. You’ve never kissed a tittie before.”
“Maybe not, but someday I will. Won’t you?”
“Probably. I wonder what her feet look like.”
“Her feet? Why the hell do you care about her feet?”
Carlton didn’t have an answer for that. He didn’t know why. It was just a curiosity. He shouldn’t have said it out loud. It was weird. It was strange to say things like that to other people. Feet weren’t the kinds of thing boys usually noticed on girls. Legs, tits, a small waist, long hair: those were considered normal topics of conversation. Feet, on the other hand, weren’t. Smith was a friend—his only friend—but he’d never let that one go by.
In the half-light of early dusk, Smith turned and pushed his face through the branches. “Why do you always say shit like that? Her feet?” He scowled. “I bring you up here to show you a nice pair of titties, and all you want to talk about are toes.” He shook his head. “Sometimes, Carl, you give me the creeps.”
“Are you serious?” Carlton challenged. “I give you the creeps? What about that dream you told me about? That shit was creepier than hell.”
“I shouldn’t have told you about that,” Smith deadpanned. “You’re younger than me. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand more than you think,” Carlton muttered, turning to the window and cursing under his breath. “She’s gone. Show’s over.” He peered askance at his friend. “I may be a few years younger than you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand what you say. That dream was weird. It wasn’t normal. I’m telling you bro: you need help.”
Smith chuckled. “I need help? Me? What about you? What do you know about things that are normal? What’s normal? Feet? Looking at porno? Staring at naked girls from the highest branch of a tree? Tell me. Please. In this crazy messed up world, what is normal to Carlton Tubbs?”
Pursing his lips, Carlton considered the question. Was he the best person to pass judgment on what was normal? Ever since Smith had told him about his dream, Carlton had begun to question himself. Dreaming was one thing. People did it all the time. You couldn’t stop it even if you tried. You were sleeping. How could anyone hold you responsible? But what about daydreams? What about visions? What about the fantasies you imagined while awake? Smith’s dream may have been unsettling, but Carlton’s reaction to it was downright disturbing. The excitement he had felt, the heat in his body: that dream may as well have been plucked from his head. It was almost as if Smith had known what he’d been thinking, like he’d made up the dream to impress him, or to connect. But how was that possible? How had he known what Carlton was thinking? How had he verbalized such private fantasies? They were friends—yes—the best of friends, but there were certain things Carlton hadn’t shared.
“I guess I don’t know what’s normal,” he whispered. “But I also know that I really don’t care. Stop talking about it. You’re ruining my vibe.” He peered through the leaves at the window again. “Let’s stay a bit longer and see if she comes back.”
Smirking, Smith laughed low in his throat. Sometimes, to Carlton, that laugh sounded evil. “But that’s just it, Carl,” he hissed through the branches. “You’re tired of watching her. Admit it. It’s what you’ve been thinking about. Lately, for you, watching isn’t enough. Lately, you’ve wanted to do more. And that’s okay. I should know, because I want to, too.” He shrugged. “At least I’m man enough to admit it out loud. I just don’t get why you can’t be honest.”
Carlton squirmed on the branch that balanced him. He wasn’t comfortable talking about this. “What do you mean by more?” he asked. “She’s a senior in high school. We barely have pubes. What do you think she’s gonna let us do? Touch em, just because we asked?”
“Asked? Who said anything about asking?”
Carlton froze. “Okay. Then what’s your big plan, Casanova?”
Smith turned his head, cloaking half his face in shadow. “I’m not exactly ugly, you know. I’m not like you. I’m not small and skinny.” He lifted an arm and flexed his bicep. It didn’t look much different than Carlton’s own. “Maybe she’ll like me. Maybe she’ll even want me.”
“Want you?” Carlton’s laugh was as twisted as Smith’s. “I think you’ve finally lost it this time. You’re delirious, brother. She’d never choose you. She’d choose Bobby Fullerton over you, any day, and Bobby Fullerton smells like shit. You’ve got no chance, Smith, and neither do I.”
Smith leveled a fierce gaze. “You’re missing the point, Einstein. It’s not about what she wants, or lets us do. It’s about what we want, what we take.”
“What we take,” Carlton repeated slowly, tasting the words as they rolled off his tongue. “You mean ‘take’ as in take. Take like you did in your dream. Am I right?” He shook his he
ad. “You were lying about that. I don’t believe you for one freaking second. You never had a dream like that. You were just saying that just to make me say something worse.”
“I wasn’t. I wouldn’t. I tell you everything. Every detail of that dream was real.” He rounded his shoulders and thrust out his chin. “But unlike you, I’m man enough to admit it. And to do something about it, too,” he added with a smirk.
“So let me get this straight,” Carlton said. “You want to…what? Corner her somewhere? In an alley? And then…what? Make her take off her shirt? Kiss a tittie? I don’t get it.”
Smith frowned. “Of course you don’t get it. You’re hopeless, and unimaginative. You know what I wanna do, because you wanna do it, too. You’re just afraid to say it out loud. You’re chicken shit, Carl. I’m the one who’s got balls.”
Carlton motioned toward the window and frowned. “She’s not coming back, Smith, and I gotta get going. When the time changed, the fat lady moved up the curfew.”
Smith untangled himself from the tree. “Think about what I said, Carl. And remember: it’s you and me against the world. We’re brothers. We can do anything we want. We’ll always be brothers, and I won’t ever tell. You can trust me because we’re the same. We’re different from other people. We’re unique. We’re special. Normal people wouldn’t understand the way we are. They’d think we were freaks, or twisted, or psychotic. But we’re not; we’re just different, and I like being different.”
Carlton picked his way down the tree, his thoughts set spinning by Smith’s raw words. He had been thinking about doing more lately. That was the problem in a nutshell. But why was he afraid to say the words aloud? Maybe because he feared Smith’s dreams didn’t mirror his own. How could anyone share those thoughts? How could anyone hear those voices? Those whispering voices were driving him mad. They became louder and louder each day. And lately, they hissed and taunted him, teased him with images of women in restraints, their bodies naked and exposed. He envisioned what parts of their bodies he would touch, and each scenario was more exciting than the last. He wasn’t sure what aroused him more: thoughts of a sharp blade against warm smooth skin, or imagining how that skin would feel beneath his trembling hands. He could see their faces and the fear in their eyes. He could hear their whimpering pleas. It excited him.
