by Curran, Tim
Out there, the sound of the wind was muted as the door was shut again.
The wind could have done it.
But he knew it was not the wind. For what had come into the office here in the dead of night had come in on purpose.
Silence.
His chest feeling tight, a prickling at the nape of his neck, Spears opened the top drawer of his desk soundlessly. He knew there was no gun in there, no knife, not so much as the dreaded ultra-sharp letter opener. No, in the drawer were paper clips, Post-It Notes, Hillside Cemetery Stationary, a variety of pens, pencils, white-out, but nothing more dangerous than a few push pins for the corkboard.
Spears was sweating profusely now.
He was tense.
His skin felt so tight on the anatomy beneath he thought it might crawl right off.
His throat was dry as coal dust, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. And it occurred to him at that precise moment that he had never been so scared in his life. And he did not like that. For Dennis Spears was the sort of guy that inspired fear, that sent lackeys scrambling under their desks and made temps beg for mercy.
But now he was dreadfully, irrationally afraid because he knew whoever had come into the office out of the charnel darkness was standing right outside his door like the lady in that Poe story, the one who had scratched her way out of her coffin. Which was a hell of a thing to be thinking right about then.
It took some doing, but he cleared his throat. “Is somebody out there?”
There was only silence, but a silence that was thick with apprehension, with foreboding. He could almost hear that person breathing out there. Almost… smell them. Not a smell of the grave, but a smell of soap, maybe a lingering after-odor of perfume. And that was somehow worse.
He picked up his cell phone.
He would call the police, he would—
The door whispered open, a cold breath of night coming in with it. He could smell autumn leaves and dirt wet with dew. There were shadows out there in the outer office gathering. He could hear the clicking of the clock. Then one of the shadows stepped forward and he jerked with the shock of it, his cell clattering over the desk blotter.
A woman.
Not a ghoul, not a shadow from a crypt.
A flesh-and-blood woman.
She was tall and slender and almost feline dressed in black jogging pants and a black leather jacket. Auburn hair was tossed over one shoulder. It was wind-blown, a stray leaf caught in it. She was quite pale, only a hint of blood pinching a bit of color into her cheeks. Her mouth was full-lipped, pulled into a scowl. And her eyes were the blue of cracking spring ice.
“What… what do you want?” Spears asked her.
He didn’t know who she was, but if he had seen her before he would have remembered. For though she was not beautiful in the common sense, she was pretty, striking even. Her face was blank of emotion like a blackboard that had been wiped clean and her eyes were unbearably cruel. The way she looked at him made his guts go to sauce.
“I’m here for you,” she said.
That voice… no, it was not some evil whispering voice from a late night movie, but there was definitely something disturbing about it that made waves of sickness come rolling up from the pit of his belly. He found that he suddenly could not breathe, could not weave a single rational thought in his brain for that voice, that awful voice… it was not the voice of a pretty woman, but the voice of something savage and animal, the sort of thing that killed because it had to kill, spilled blood because it needed to smell the death of its prey.
Spears gasped and in gasping, remembered with a hallucinogenic clarity going to the Milwaukee Zoo with his mother when he was seven years old. How she looked down at him as she held his hand and how he had looked up at her, feeling connected to her like they were part of the same whole. The monkey house. The reptile house. The bird house. The rhinos and elephants. It was fascinating. Then they had stepped into a glass enclosure and were staring into the run where the tigers were kept. Most of them had been dozing in the wet July heat… but one of them, a big Bengal with a froth of saliva at its mouth, had walked over to the glass. It did nothing threatening really, just sat there on its haunches and stared at them. Spears could remember how it drooled, the raw appetite in its eyes. It was telling them quite plainly that if it hadn’t been for the glass it would have taken them down. That he… a small, plump, and spoiled boy… was nothing but meat to it. That his blood was merely for quenching its thirst and his bones only for sharpening its teeth. Life existed to be taken and that was the first rule of the jungle and also the last.
The memory flashed through his mind because the woman, this intruder, this crazy bitch was looking at him like that tiger had looked at him. Not the way a civilized woman would look at you, but the way something would peer out at you from the depths of a meat-smelling cave.
There was death in those eyes.
A pure and seamless death unsullied by morality or ethics.
“Listen—” he began, rising as he felt death circling him.
The woman, her expression unchanging, pulled out a gun. And Dennis Spears, who was a gun collector, recognized the weapon in her hand as a .25 caliber automatic. A gun with absolutely no range, yet deadly efficient up close.
“Now wait a minute,” he said. “Wait a fucking minute here… I don’t know what this is about, but I’m a rich man… I can get money for you… I can get you anything you want, but please don’t—”
She did not blink. Her eyes were huge and scary. “It’s not about money, Mr. Spears. It’s about my sister. If I don’t kill you, then he’ll kill her. I don’t want to do this, but you have to see that I really… don’t… have… a… choice…”
“Wait!”
Clarity came in Spears’ final moments and he knew exactly what kind of man he was, what he had done, what was beneath him and what was not. And begging for his life was not beneath him, because he had things to live for, he had money and position and a sexy young wife and a brilliant future and—
The first bullet went into his chest, just left of his heart. It punctured his lung, collapsing it, and was deflected off one of his ribs, lodging itself neatly in his stomach.
He was aware of little but the impact.
At least until he stumbled over backwards and felt the fire in his belly, his chest, heard the moist whistling of his lung. Pure animal panic came next as endorphins flooded his system and he vaulted to his feet, his eyes wide and glassy, a pathetic wheezing sound coming from his blood-slicked mouth. His right hand was pressed tightly against the entry wound and blood, hot and pumping, blossomed over his fingers and dyed his hand red. He pressed harder and blood squirted between his fingers.
The look on his face was mainly surprise.
Then the woman fired again.
The second slug went into his throat, punched a hole through his esophagus and shattered his carotid artery as it exited. The impact was there again, but he stayed standing for almost five seconds as an arc of blood fountained from his throat and splashed against the wall. Then, in shock, he fell straight over, striking his face against the edge of the desk and knocking out two teeth in the process.
The woman walked around the desk, the stench of blood hot and nauseating in the air. There was pain in her eyes, revulsion, as if she had now seen something that should never have been seen. It dislodged something in the brain behind those eyes and her lips pulled away from her teeth, which were locked tight and grinding.
Spears was nearly dead.
He looked to be sinking in a sea of red.
His mouth continued to work, a wet gurgling sound coming out in lieu of a voice. He shuddered, legs and arms gyrating spasmodically and then he went still, his eyes wide.
A strange whimpering sound in her throat, the woman turned and left the office.
She shut the door behind her, leaving the dead to do whatever they did in privacy.
The game was afoot.
40
The third day of hell—though it was technically just over twenty-four hours since it had all began—started like this for Tara Coombes:
She pulled into the driveway, feeling both cold and hot, a rushing sound in her head like wind blown through a tunnel. She shut off the car, breathing so fast and so hard now she could barely catch her breath. Sweat ran down her back and her skin felt hot. Within seconds, she was shivering. Hot then cold, cold then hot.
She sat there a while, shivering so violently the car nearly shook with her.
Finally, pressing her gloved fist into her mouth, she screamed silently.
Then she went inside, locking the door behind her.
She was not sure how she was feeling. Not calm, not reassured that she had made a move that would bring her closer to Lisa. Mostly sick to her stomach and offended by what she had just done. And also revolted… because something inside her, that same purely animal sense that was guiding her through this nightmare, was actually fat and happy, satisfied. She could almost feel it purring like a cat with a full belly of bird.
Without turning on the lights, she went upstairs and into the bathroom, stripped and stepped into the shower. She lingered under the hot spray for almost ten minutes before she took up a sponge and body wash and began to scrub. She went after her own body like she had gone after the kitchen lately, washing herself abrasively until her flesh was red and tender.
Then she stepped out of the shower, still in darkness, and squatted before the toilet and threw up. Not much came out, because in those dark and dire hours since she’d found Margaret Stapleton slaughtered in her kitchen she had not eaten. She had smoked a great deal. Drank pot after pot of black coffee, but took no solid food whatsoever. What came out was mostly sharp-tasting bile that squirted into the bowl. When the little that was in her was voided, she was wracked with dry-heaves for nearly fifteen minutes until her abdomen ached and there were tears in her eyes.
Her throat was raw.
Her mind filled with the ever-rotating and mutating imagery of corpses and blood and limbs stuffed into plastic bags.
Finally, she collapsed with her back against the wall, edged tightly in-between the toilet and the sink. She still did not turn on the lights because if she did she might look at herself and the idea of that frightened her in ways she could not even understand. She figured something like her belonged in darkness.
And in her head, a voice: You just committed cold-blooded murder.
You.
Just.
Committed.
Cold.
Blooded.
Murder.
And it was only the beginning of what that monster had planned for her. Inside, that awful presence in her thought it was much smarter than the boogeyman, but she now knew it was not. The boogeyman was experienced in these things and, using her sister as bait and ransom and influence, he had quite carefully and meticulously manipulated her.
Just a puppet.
Here she thought she was brave and sure and doing only what had to be done to ensure Lisa’s survival, but in actuality she had been used viciously.
Some submerged, still human part of her knew now that she should have gone to the police right away. But now it was too late.
Much too late.
She had committed murder.
Her hands were red with blood.
If she went to them now, they’d lock her away.
The boogeyman had known how deep her love was and he had exploited this and achieved his ends and now Tara was trapped, she belonged to him as surely as Lisa did. She would have to do as he said now, regardless of how heinous and vile his demands were. Freewill no longer existed, and choice had been removed from her by her own hand, no less.
The sorrow she felt then was not just mental but physical. It was hands strangling her and knives slitting open her belly and fingers thumbing out her eyes and dirty, evil digits stroking her brain. This is what it was like to be owned. To be a slave, to be molested, to be a dog that was kicked and abused and poisoned by its own inability to do anything but obey. Blind, unreasoning obedience. She could wash and scrub and sanitize, but never would the stain of what she had done and what she would yet do come clean.
Tara’s life was a tragedy.
An atrocity.
And inside her own mind there was an ominous truth: If Lisa dies, then I killed her. Her blood will be all over my hands. I will be responsible as surely as if I killed her myself.
And you’re giving up?
I don’t have a choice.
You do. You can play the game.
Commit more crimes?
If that’s what it takes.
I can’t.
Think of Lisa. Think of your love for her. What she means to you and how, right now, as terrified and hopeless as she must be, how she must know that there is only one person in this fucking world that would give their own life to help her and that person is you. Do not let her down.
I already have.
No, you haven’t. But if you fold up now, girl, then that sick twisted motherfucker wins and you live with the knowledge that you let him.
I’m afraid… afraid of what I am now.
No fear. No remorse. Think of Lisa. Think of your love for her.
And she knew then that there really was no choice. Yes, she would have to do what he asked, but she could do it knowing that it would bring her closer to him and to Lisa.
Think, then! Think! If your strength is your love for your sister, what is his weakness?
On the phone tonight, he had almost shriveled up when he heard that overwhelming dominance in her voice. Like all men, he was a little boy inside and once you controlled that little boy within, you controlled the man without.
I love you, Lisa, she thought then. I’ve always loved you ever since I saw you in that crib when you came home from the hospital. God knows I was jealous of you, jealous of how mom and dad always fawned over you and ignored me. How you were the baby and you could fuck up, and that was okay. But I was the older sister, I was supposed to be mature and make informed choices. I could not make a mistake and you could. But when I came back from Denver I realized how none of that mattered. Tangled in my envy and jealousy were the beads of my love. Remember how we held each other the night after the funeral? In the living room, just me and you? I wanted to comfort you and you ended up comforting me because I broke down in tears and I loved you then, I respected you, and I’ve loved you a thousand times more since that day.
I will not let you suffer.
I will have blood for blood.
For every twitch of pain that cocksucking pervert has caused you, he will know an agony that he cannot comprehend of and I promise you this by my love.
Then Tara broke down into tears and hated the world for allowing this to happen, hating God and fate and the angels above and the devils below. But mostly she hated herself for thinking like an animal with a mindless lust for vengeance.
She needed to punish herself for making mistakes.
Maybe it was grief and guilt and mania and maybe it was her Catholic school upbringing, but there was a real need within her for punishment, for atonement and penance, and maybe for something much darker and much more unthinkable: expiation. She needed to make an offering of her pain, a sacrifice of her own blood.
In the medicine cabinet there was a razor.
She slashed herself across the belly and breasts, laid open her thighs and arms and the palms of her hands until the blood flowed, draining something from her and making her feel cleansed, renewed. She thought about opening her wrists, but that was destruction and not purification.
For some time she sat there, bleeding, the pain almost hygienic.
It sharpened her mind and heightened her senses. The guilt and self-torment was drained from her like poisoned pus from an infected wound. The feel of her own blood trickling down her belly and coursing down her thighs was invigorating and she wondered if this is why ancient warriors laid themselves open with b
lades before going into battle.
Her fingers wet with her own blood, she licked them clean and was startled by the hunger that ached in her belly. Right then she wanted to stuff herself with raw meat, red meat, meat well-marbled and seamed with fat.
Still naked and glistening with her own blood, she went to the window, threw it open and swallowed in great gulps of night air. She could smell the moist leaves in the grass, the dewy humus, things living and things dying and the cold eternal spice of the night itself. She grinned and her heart hammered.
The beast inside her was pleased.
But more so, she was pleased. Because she felt renewed and remade by the love of her sister, a love that was timeless and deep and enriching. Nothing could stand in its way and the world was about to find out all about that.
41
The phone rang.
Tara answered: “I’m here.”
“Did you do it? Did you play the game?”
His voice. More than just degenerate or cruel, but somehow childlike with barely suppressed glee and anticipation like a little boy wondering if his father had indeed gotten tickets to the circus. He was nearly panting with expectancy.
Tara almost answered right away, but she bit her tongue, relishing the suspense she was creating. She knew she had him pegged right: a little boy, a sick and fucked-up little boy at heart. Finally she said, “Yes. It’s done. I’m sure you’ll read about it in tomorrow’s paper.”
Maybe he didn’t like her calm delivery, maybe it made him not believe her. There was definitely doubt underlying his words. “Spears… at the Hillside office… that’s where you went? That’s who… it was him, wasn’t it?”
She cleared her throat. “Fifty-ish. Slight paunch. An arrogant face. Sandy hair.”
“Yes… yes, that’s Spears!” He kept swallowing as if his mouth were overflowing with saliva. “You played the game, Tara. Tell me, how was it?”
