by Amy Cross
"See?" Mezki whispers. "The guy's on a mission."
"Sure," I mutter, unable to think of anything more incisive or cutting.
"He's totally dedicated," Mezki continues, "and he always goes by the book."
"Great," I say with a sigh. "Just what I need right now. A nemesis."
John
"Where've you been?" Claire asks as soon as I enter the kitchen.
"I just had to take care of a few things at work," I reply with calculated, practiced nonchalance. "Nothing for you to worry about."
"Like what?"
"Like a few minor things," I continue, trying to hide the fact that these constant questions are becoming extremely irritating. "Do you really want me to give you an in-depth rundown of an insurance salesman's day-to-day activities? I can, you know. It'd bore you to death, but I'm willing to give it a try. I can list all the phone-calls I made, all the forms I filled in, all the websites and quote databases I had to check. It's a really long list, but if you're interested, I'd be happy to share."
She stares at me.
"Nah," she says finally. "You can keep all that stuff to yourself."
"What do you think I do all day?" I ask with a faint smile. "Run a criminal gang and have people shot?"
Figuring that I seem to have dodged a bullet, I head over to the other side of the kitchen and start filling the coffee machine. After the drama of the past few days, it feels good to be back at one of my homes, doing normal things. Still, I can't shake the feeling that Claire is tense about something, and although I want to turn and check whether or not she's watching me, I can't afford to let her know that I'm feeling jumpy.
"Jesus," she says after a moment. "That's so sad."
"What is?" I ask casually, glancing over and seeing that she's watching a video on her tablet.
"You seen this?" she replies, holding the screen up for me to take a look
I open my mouth to reply, but suddenly I feel as if someone has punched me in the gut; a news feed is showing video images of the house that I burned down last night. Seconds later, an image of Sharon flashes up, and I realize that the police investigation must be in full swing. There's no way they can ever link that scene to me, of course, but after a moment the image changes and a grainy but recognizable shot of my face appears, evidently culled from an old family photo.
"Fucking tragic," Claire says, tilting the tablet back toward her.
"Wait -" I say, hoping to stop her.
"Fuck," she adds, staring at the screen. "This guy looks a bit like you, Dad. His hair's parted differently and he's wearing different glasses, but there's quite a resemblance." She holds the tablet up again, and for a moment there's a look in her eyes that hints she might know more than she's letting on. It's as if connections are being made in her brain.
"I suppose it does look slightly like me," I reply, focusing on the need to stay calm. "The nose looks a bit bigger on that poor guy, though."
"You think?" She takes another look at the screen. "I think it looks about the same as yours." She pauses as the image changes, showing more pictures of the burned house. "Apparently they're looking for that guy," she continues after a moment. "They think he killed his family and one of the neighbors, and then torched the place. Why the hell would someone do that? He had two kids in there, but he just covered everything in gasoline and burned them. What kind of monster would do that, huh?"
"Indeed," I reply uncomfortably.
"I guess he wasn't much of a family man," she replies. "People who do things like that should be fucking burned alive in public. I'd show up to watch that kind of fucker get roasted."
"Do you mind toning the language down a little?" I ask with a faint smile. "You weren't raised in a barn, you know."
"You know what I mean," she continues. "I hate capital punishment, but for someone like that, I'd totally make an exception. I'd take popcorn and everything. Hell, I'd toast marshmallows over the fucker's sizzling corpse."
"That seems a little extreme," I point out.
"Bullshit. It's the least those bastards deserve. Seriously, that level of cruelty is inhumane. When someone does something so fucking monstrous, the best thing is just to take 'em out into the street and end their miserable life as painfully as possible. At least that way, they'll die knowing what it was like for their victims. I mean, hell, one of the kids he killed was just, like, a baby."
"Huh," I reply, somewhat startled by her outburst. "I always thought the younger generation was rather liberal and averse to violence."
"Not when it comes to people who kill children." She pauses. "Not me, anyway. So what would you do with the bastard if you caught him? Send him away for therapy?"
"Me?"
She stares at me, and once again I find it hard not to wonder whether or not she knows a little more than she's admitting. I'm probably being paranoid, but Claire's an intelligent girl and I wouldn't entirely put it past her to come up with a few theories of her own. Then again, I've always been careful to keep my families separate from one another, so I figure I just need to stay calm, talk to her normally and not do or say anything that might arouse her suspicions.
"Jesus, Dad," she continues with a smile, "you look fucking terrified."
"I'm just a little surprised," I reply. "This vindictive streak is kind of a new side to you."
"I just think you should protect society from bad apples," she replies. "If -"
Before she can finish, my cellphone starts ringing. Reaching into my pocket and pulling it out, I see that Leonard is trying to get hold of me. There's no reason why he should call, so I'm immediately worried that there's a problem.
"Aren't you gonna answer that?" Claire asks after a moment.
"I think I'll take it through to the office," I reply, heading to the door.
"Why do you always hide away when you get a call?" she asks.
I turn to her, with the ringing cellphone still in my hand.
"If I didn't know better," she adds, "I'd think you were up to something."
"Up to something?"
She smiles. "Relax, Dad. I'm just winding you up. Why are you so touchy all the time?"
"Long day," I mutter, before turning and hurrying to my office. Once I've shut the door, I head over to the desk and finally answer the call. "What do you want?" I whisper, "I told you I'd be in touch soon! You can't keep calling me at home like this!"
"I was thinking," he replies, not sounding too stressed about anything, "wouldn't it be better to meet customers away from the compound in future? It seems kinda risky to bring them here."
"Fine," I hiss. "Whatever. Is there anything else?"
"It was just a thought," he replies. "Speak to you after the weekend, I guess."
"Just focus on the task at hand," I tell him. "Your job isn't to think, Leonard. Your job is to keep an eye on things. If there's any thinking to be done, I'll do it."
Sighing, I end the call and take a deep breath. That old fool picked a perfect moment to bother me about some random, totally unimportant matter. I swear to God, I could wring his neck sometimes. Glancing over at the door, I spot something moving near the floor, and suddenly I realize that there's a faint shadow, as if someone has been loitering out in the corridor and listening to my conversation. I watch as the shadow moves away, but there's no doubt that Claire is starting to get suspicious, and I wouldn't put it past her to make a few extra connections if she keeps digging.
Closing my eyes, I realize that I need to take action in order to make sure things don't get out of hand. I've already killed one family this week. If I have to kill another, I'll only have one left. I hope I don't have to arrange for Claire to have a little accident, but if that's what it takes to get things back under control, I guess she won't be leaving me any other option.
Part Four
Ashes
Joanna Mason
"You think you're smart, don't you?"
I open my mouth to reply, but there's something about Jordan Carver's steely gaze tha
t makes me feel extremely uncomfortable. He's staring at me with unblinking eyes, and I can tell that he thinks he's got my measure. I want to prove him wrong, but he's got me at a hell of a disadvantage; he seems to know a lot about me, probably from my files, whereas I know next to nothing about him. Damn it, why didn't I prepare myself better first?
"My record speaks for itself," I say eventually.
"Your record," he replies flatly. "You mean the number of cases you've solved?"
"Sure."
"It's average."
I can't help but smile at this ludicrous claim. "Average?"
"There seems to be some kind of myth about you, Detective Mason," he continues, taking a seat behind his desk. "I'm fairly certain this myth is one that you yourself have devised and propagated. The gist of it seems to be that you're somehow smarter than your colleagues. People talk about you having a gift for making great instinctive leaps of logic. You're quite revered in some quarters, and..." He pauses. "Less so in others."
"Like I said," I reply, "my record speaks for itself."
"You antagonize people," he continues.
"People allow themselves to be antagonized by my working methods," I counter, feeling as if this guy's trying to rip me apart. He won't succeed, of course, but it's kind of brave of him to try. If he keeps this up, I might actually start to respect him a little.
"You enjoy putting people on the spot and making them sweat," he continues.
"It has a certain amusement value," I reply with a faint smile.
"Would you like to try doing it to me?" he asks.
"Not right now."
"Why not?" He stares at me for a moment. "I've met people like you before, Joanna. You have some kind of personal mythology thing going on. You've got this image of yourself in your head, and you're determined to make sure that other people see you in the same way. You want to be regarded as smart, so you work hard to maintain an image of cool, calm and detached indifference. You want to be regarded as a genius, so you focus on a few core cases, snatching them from your colleagues and making wild assumptions as part of your investigation. You trumpet your successes and, I'm quite sure, bury your failures"
"To be fair," I reply, trying not to let my irritation become too obvious, "I get results."
"From time to time."
"From time to time?" I pause. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that your working methods are no longer going to be tolerated."
"What are you gonna do?" I reply. "Fire me?"
"Not at all," he says calmly. "In fact, quite the opposite. You seem pretty healthy to me, Detective Mason. Can I take it that you'll be resuming your normal duties soon?"
"As soon as possible," I reply.
"How soon?"
"How does Monday sound?"
"How does right now sound? I'm curious to see the infamous Joanna Mason in action. I guess there's a chance you might actually be as good as you claim, but I have to admit, I have my doubts. You're not a mind-reader, Detective Mason, and you certainly don't have some kind of supernatural level of instinctive insight. You're a cop, like everyone else here. Let's face it: if you were really anything special, you'd have risen up the ranks long ago."
"Maybe I can hitch myself to your wagon," I reply.
"Don't try to be smart with me," he says, opening a desk drawer and taking out a badge, which he slides toward me. "Welcome back, Detective Mason. Now you can log in to the system with your own credentials, rather than breaking into Detective Dawson's account or blackmailing Dr. Mezki with threats of weaponized pornography."
"Snitch," I mutter darkly.
"I should warn you, though," he continues, "I'm going to be expecting results. I'm assigning you to the case of those girls who turned up out at the Wash farm. You and your partner are going to have to work pretty damn hard to get some answers, and if you turn up anything substantial, I'm really going to be impressed."
"I'm sure Dawson and I can put a smile on your face," I reply.
"You won't be working with Detective Dawson," he says firmly. "He's requested to be transferred off that case, and just between the two of us, I don't think he's too keen to be around you." He pauses. "I know that you and he have a certain amount of history -"
"So who's my partner going to be?" I ask, keen to cut him off. "Someone boring and slow?"
"Me."
I stare at him.
He smiles.
"I told you I want to see you work up close," he continues, getting to his feet and walking around the desk to join me. "We're going to work together, Detective Mason, and that's how I'm going to determine if you're really as good as you claim, or if you're just another middling cop with a big ego."
"You're just full of compliments, aren't you?" I reply.
"I'm going to let you lead the way," he says firmly, clearly trying to intimidate me with this constant eye contact game he's got going on. "I hope, Detective Mason, that you can surprise me by showcasing these supposed abilities of yours. Otherwise, I guess we'll just have to accept that you're an ordinary detective who enjoys puffing up her reputation from time to time."
"Is that a challenge?" I ask.
"Sure," he replies with a grin. "Why not? Come on, let's get to work. If you think I'm being unfair, then now's your chance to prove me wrong. Let's go solve this case."
John
"Can you go a bit slower?"
"Sure," I mutter, taking a moment to catch my breath before starting again, this time trying to make love to Barbara in a more laid-back manner. I thought she wanted it to be fast and rough, but obviously she's changed her mind and somehow I'm supposed to be able to read her mind and work out every little altered nuance.
"What's wrong?" she asks after a moment.
"Nothing," I reply quickly.
There's an awkward silence as we continue to make love for a few minutes.
"Honey..."
I wait for her to finish the sentence, but the silence resumes.
"Is this how you want it?" I ask eventually, even though I know that only pure stubbornness is keeping me going. I'd rather withdraw and do something else. Hell, anything would be better than this. It's not as if she's even wet anymore. It's like making love to a dry sponge.
"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks.
"I just want to know what you want," I continue, "and to make love without us each asking the other what's wrong all the time."
"Well..." She pauses. "Maybe we should quit it for tonight, John. There's no point forcing it if it's not working."
"If you'd just tell me what you want," I reply, unable to hide the irritation in my voice, "then I could give it to you. Jesus Christ, Sharon, this is supposed to be a two-person operation. You need to do a little more than just open your legs and..." I pause as I realize that I'm being way too harsh. Still slowly thrusting into her, I try to regather my composure. "Let's just take a re-set," I add eventually. "I'm being slow, like you asked. Now what would you like me to do next? Just think about it, focus, and work out what you want, and then tell me."
I wait for her to respond, but another awkward silence descends upon us. Leaning down, I try to kiss her, but she moves her face away from me.
Sighing, I decide to continue in silence.
"Who's Sharon?" she asks eventually.
"Huh?" I reply, still gently thrusting.
"You just called me Sharon," she continues, staring up at me in the darkened room.
"No," I reply, trying not to panic. "I didn't."
"You did."
"Do you want this fast or -"
"Can you get off me, please?"
"Barbara -"
"John, get off."
I pause, half in and half out.
"Get off me right now," she says firmly. "I'm not kidding!"
Sighing, I roll off. In all the years I've been married to Barbara - hell, in all the years I've been married to all my wives - I've never had a problem like this before. I've always been so good at keepi
ng the different families separate, but since the disaster a few days ago when all those girls escaped, my mind has been elsewhere. It's amazing how quickly one fuck-up can snowball and cause countless others. Sitting up in the bed, trying to think of an explanation that might appease Barbara, I realize that I need to find a way to clear my head as quickly as possible if I'm to have any chance of holding this all together.
"Who's Sharon?" Barbara asks eventually.
"Sharon?" I pause. "I'm not sure, sweetheart. I don't think I know anyone called -"
"Don't lie to me, John," she continues. "Are you..."
I wait for her to continue.
"Are you having an affair?" she asks eventually.
"Of course not," I reply quickly, disgusted by the idea.
"Then why did you call me Sharon while we were having sex?" She pauses. "Trying to have sex, anyway." Another pause. "Do you want to have an affair? Is that it? Is Sharon someone you've met, and you think about her while you're with me?"
I shake my head.
"You seem so distant," she continues. "I knew there was something wrong when you came home this time, but I couldn't put my finger on it."
"There's nothing wrong," I say firmly, trying to fight the urge to wrap my hands around her goddamn neck. Getting out of bed, I grab my dressing gown.
"Where are you going?" she asks.
"Downstairs," I mutter. "There's nothing for me to do up here, is there?"
"You could tell me who Sharon is."
"I don't know anyone named Sharon!" I shout, turning to her. For a fraction of a second, in the darkness, Barbara's face seems to twist and distort itself until, suddenly, it's Sharon who's staring back at me, complete with a bullet wound in the side of her head. I stare at her, trying to force myself to remember that this is just some kind of illusion or hallucination brought on by stress, but Sharon's face won't go away. It's almost as if she's haunting me.
