by David Beers
Or wouldn’t save Harry.
John watched Harry die, out there in the waves. No one else saw it, and John didn’t even raise his voice loud enough to call out to Harry’s parents until things were too far gone. Until Harry was almost drowned.
He couldn’t. He hadn’t been able to, and that’s what he struggled with now.
John sat on the beach and watched Harry walk out into the ocean. Watched as his friend, his best friend, started swimming, going out further than he might have if his parents had been there. But they went inside to get drinks. Just John, Harry, and an endless ocean.
John saw it happen; one moment Harry’s strokes were smooth and strong, the next his voice rang out from the sea. John saw his arms flailing, his back no longer facing the sun, just trying to keep himself above water. The ocean waves pulled him out, farther and farther, much faster than his own strokes had been able to do.
John turned around, looking at the house behind him. He didn’t stand, either to rush to the ocean or the house. He wanted to see if anyone could hear Harry.
John had killed things before. Of course he killed the little squirrel, skinning it alive. The thrill that came with it was something he wouldn’t have been able to describe if someone put a goddamn gun to his head and said he had three seconds or everything went dark. He knew no one else would understand the rush and that scared him some. He knew what people would say if they found out, and was shocked that his mother said nothing.
He also knew he loved doing it. Every second. His entire concentration and force of will focused on that singular moment, the rest of the world fading away as if it never existed.
Yet, even in those moments, he hadn’t thought about doing something similar to a person. Humans were sacrosanct in his mind, off limits to whatever thrills he was finding as he grew older. He’d hurt them, sure. Hurt that bully for Harry years ago, but murder was too far.
Until Harry screamed.
“HELP!”
Loud, at least to John’s ears, but when he turned around, he saw no movement from the house.
He looked back to the sea, hearing Harry’s screams, loud at first but waning as Harry swallowed salt water.
John’s pupils contracted down to tiny points as he stood up.
He couldn’t help himself, something inside forced him to walk to the edge of the waves crashing on the shore, where they soaked his feet and the sand he stood on.
“HEL—” The water cut the words off.
John saw nothing else besides the ocean and its singular inhabitant. The struggle to keep his head above water, the way the water frantically pulled at him, both outward and downward. John saw the exhaustion across his friend’s face.
All John had to do was open his mouth and scream for help.
He didn’t, though. He watched. And he loved every second of it.
Finally, when he saw Harry had no chance, regardless of what was done, he screamed for help.
John told everyone he had been lying with his eyes closed and his headphones in his ears. He didn’t hear a single call from Harry. When he realized something was wrong, he immediately jumped up and screamed for help.
John didn’t understand it, even weeks after, why he let his friend die. Not outside of the fact that his whole being wanted to watch every single moment. His mom knew, or at least had an idea about it, and yet John didn’t dare turn to her. Didn’t dare turn to anyone. How was he supposed to tell someone what he’d done? They wouldn’t understand. Not now, and not ever.
* * *
“I’d like to keep this quiet, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to cause John any more stress than he’s already under,” Dr. Vondi said.
“Of course, I completely understand,” the woman in a business suit said to him. She was the principal of John’s school and the one granting Vondi permission to interview his teachers.
“Where would you like to start?” she said. “His teachers, or the counselor that he’s been seeing?”
“This may seem a bit different, but I think it’d be best to talk to some of the teachers he had last year. Before all this happened?”
“Yes?”
“Yeah, I’m wanting to build a foundational knowledge of him, to see what changes are normal and what might be caused by what he saw.”
The principal nodded. “Okay. Let me look at when Mrs. Tchen has her next break.” She typed a few words into the computer and then looked back to Vondi. “She should be ready in about thirty minutes; if you don’t mind waiting in the reception area, I’ll have her come get you as soon as her next class is out?”
“Not at all. Thanks so much for your help.”
“We are all … just devastated at what happened.”
Vondi shook the woman’s hand and then left her office, heading to the reception area, which was little more than a few chairs and a secretary. Vondi took a seat and started his wait.
He hadn’t told Lori he was coming here, and John certainly didn’t know. He told Lori what she needed to hear at her last appointment, but that didn’t mean it was necessarily the truth. John wasn’t opening up, and that response didn’t exactly scratch the itch that resided in the center of Vondi’s brain.
Something was different about the kid, more different than anything Vondi had seen in the past twenty years as he sat in that chair, crossing and recrossing his legs. He had seen psychopaths, sociopaths, and all other variations of evil—but he didn’t feel any of those labels applied accurately to John.
At least part of this kid was good.
He loved his mother, his father, his sister. He wanted their company and wanted to please them. Psychopaths didn’t have that piece in them. They saw people as chess pieces to be moved, with the end goal simply their happiness. John cared about other people’s happiness as well, so that ruled out Lori’s concerns. He was not Clara and never would be.
Yet the itch was there, almost maddening. Vondi found himself thinking back to John when in sessions with other patients. He thought about John at home, alone, with the television on and not a single word spoken from it going through his head.
Not obsession, he didn’t think. Not yet, but was it possible that he might get there? He didn’t want to think about that yet. He would scratch the itch, hopefully with this next conversation.
“Hi, Dr. Vondi? Is that right?”
Vondi had expected an asian woman, but a tall, red haired, white woman stood in front of his chair.
“Yes,” he said, standing up and extending his hand.
“Mrs. Tchen,” she said. “If you don’t work in a school, I’m sure that sounds awkward, all these adults walking around calling each other by their last name. It helps remind the kids to call us the same. Feel free to call me Liv.”
“I’m Gerald,” he said, smiling.
“Great. Ms. Hallen said there’s a spare conference room open this way, if you want to follow me?”
They entered the room and Vondi sat across the table from Liv.
“So how can I help you, Gerald? Ms. Hallen said something about you wanting to discuss John Hilt?”
“I do,” he said. “I’m seeing John as a patient and I want to understand what other people think of him; I’ve only seen him a few times so far, but I’m finding it hard to break through his exterior. I’m not sure if it’s because of what happened, or something others have experienced?”
Liv nodded. “So, I taught John last year when he was in seventh grade. He’s a quiet kid, to tell you the truth. He and Harry were very, very close. Has he spoken about him much?”
“Yes, I know about their friendship.”
“Those two were inseparable. I’m not sure anyone got John to speak as much as Harry.”
“Did you teach Harry as well?”
“No, he was in …,” she paused for a second, remembering. “I think Mrs. Ware’s class. I got to see them a lot, though, because they both would come to my study hour.”
“What do you think about John?”
“A
s a student?”
“As a person,” Vondi said.
Liv leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowing. “Can I be honest?”
“Of course.”
“I feel like you’re not being honest about what you want here, and that’s going to make it hard for me to answer you. Why don’t you ask me what you really want to ask?”
Dr. Vondi sighed, leaning back in his own chair. “Fair enough. Did you ever feel there was anything odd about John? Anything that made you think he might be different than other kids?”
A few seconds passed before the teacher spoke.
“I guess I’d have to say yes, though I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone else this.”
“What’s different about him?”
Another silence, this one longer than the last. “I’ve only taught in this school, and it’s not a rough one. Very small free or reduced lunch population. I say that because most of the kids here are kind. You have the bickering and snobbery that comes with upper middle class, but you don’t have the pure anger that I think probably comes with lower class. I don’t know a lot about John’s family, but the difference, I think, is there. He has a ruthlessness about him that I haven’t seen in any other kids.”
She stopped talking and Vondi was about to say something, but she started again.
“He was kind to Harry. He was kind to me. To be honest, I never saw him do anything to anyone that wasn’t on the up and up. Still, John is different than the other kids walking around here.” She looked Vondi right in his eyes. “I would deny saying this, but he’s the type of person who might get off on hurting someone.”
* * *
“I talked to Mrs. Tchen,” Dr. Vondi said.
John’s brow furrowed. “My teacher from last year?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” John said.
“Because I wanted to learn more about you, I suppose,” Dr. Vondi said. He hadn’t been sure about this conversation at all, whether to have it or not, and if so, what he would say. Here they were, though, patient and doctor discussing what many would think of as a betrayal. Certainly Vondi had never done it with any of his other patients.
“What do you mean, learn about me?”
“Well, John, you’re not telling me much. You’re keeping things from me, and I think you know it.”
“So? I have to tell you everything?”
Dr. Vondi opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. In what other patient relationship had he demanded everything be told? And what right did he have to do it now?
“What do you want to know?” John said. “I don’t care that you went to Mrs. Tchen. She’s cool. But go ahead, what do you want to know?”
Vondi tried to control his facial muscles from showing surprise or eagerness, both of which filled his head like water fills a pool. Surprise at the honesty and eagerness to scratch the itch that seemed intent on driving him mad. An eagerness he didn’t understand, and honestly, didn’t want to—because he was scared of the reason causing him to feel this.
“I want to know why, in your dream, you can’t save Harry, and I want to know why you don’t want to tell me.”
John looked at him for a few seconds, distrust written over his face just as if someone scribed the word with magic marker. “What are you going to do if I tell you?”
“Nothing,” Vondi said. “There’s just no way for us to start out on a solid foundation if I can’t even understand the most basic things about you.”
“In my dream,” John said, pausing for a moment. “I can’t save him because I don’t want to. I’d rather watch him drown.”
12
Present Day
“Where are you, John?” Father Charles’s voice came over the phone.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Harry said. “You’re losing your mind.”
John turned the key in his car’s ignition, starting it up. He pulled away from the curb, part of his mind rejoicing at the interruption.
“Just driving around,” John said to the priest.
“Where?”
“The highway,” he said as he drove past Kaitlin Rickiment’s apartment complex. He felt the gun sitting between his legs on the seat.
“Can you stop any of this, John?” Father Charles said.
The car came to a four-way. The road was empty and quiet this late at night. Harry was yapping, but John blocked him completely out. He listened to the silence coming across the phone and the echo it created in his head.
The question asked … nothing in his mind jumped to answer it one way or another. Perfect stillness wrapped around the tension that was the priest’s question.
“No,” he said finally. “It’s too far gone.”
“What are you planning to do?”
“What I always do,” John said.
“Will you come see me?” the priest said.
“Now?”
“Yes. I’ve … I’ve been derelict in my duties, perhaps. You can’t keep doing this, John. We have to find a way to get you help.”
Tears rushed to John’s eyes.
“I can’t believe this,” Harry said to his right, trying his best to crack through the wall John was building. “You’re tearing up because some holy man wants to help you? We’re minutes away from killing the girl, John. FUCKING MINUTES! Hang up the phone.”
John didn’t drive the car forward. He sat at the four-way, wondering if this was real—if a lifeline was finally being tossed. If God had heard his cries and was finally answering.
“You’re serious?” John said.
“Yes. Come to the church. I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay, Father,” he said, a swollen tear rolling down his cheek.
John hung up the phone and leaned his head back against the seat.
“You’re going to see him? Right now?” Harry said, his voice full of disgust and disbelief.
John kept his foot on the brake and didn’t say anything.
“Look, man. I get it. You’re feeling guilty. Part of you wants to stop. You’re not looking at the whole picture right now, though. You’re not going to get many chances like tonight, chances that I’ve lined up to take care of everyone at once. Her, here. Detective Dick Face alone at the office. We can end it all tonight, even easier than I thought. If you go to that priest, I don’t know that we’ll get another shot like this.”
John knew Harry spoke the truth.
Things had lined up almost perfectly tonight. The plan was simple. Kill Rickiment, making it look like a burglary. Head to the police station, and when Tremock decided to leave, finish him. No need to make it look like a mugging, because no one was ever going to find the body.
And yet, after so many years, Father Charles called. Tonight. Minutes before John walked up to the girl’s apartment and opened up holes in her body.
“That’s not a coincidence, Harry,” he said.
“You’re a goddamn fool. Get up there and do it. Go see the priest when it’s over.”
John put his hands on the steering wheel and drove forward. He hit the highway and rolled his windows down as he did.
The cool air chilled the car but also elated him.
For the first time in a long time, John felt there might be a way out of this. Father Charles could help.
* * *
Dark bags hung under Kaitlin’s eyes. Her boss had said something at work today, asking if she was feeling alright. Kaitlin said yes, she felt fine, though nothing could be further from the truth. She hadn’t slept in days. She stayed up all night, chain-smoking cigarettes and looking out this window. Every half hour or so, she leaned forward and peered through the blinds, trying to be as stealthy as possible.
She couldn’t call Eve over anymore. The girl spent the last two nights with Kaitlin, and at some point, Kaitlin had to face this on her own.
She watched a car roll slowly down the road, the driver not glancing up at her, but holding a phone to his ear.
Kaitlin didn’t e
ven know what she was looking for anymore. Was she losing her mind? Not a rhetorical question. Perhaps she was going insane, night after night, unable to sleep or stop thinking someone was outside, watching her. Perhaps none of this was happening at all, but only her mind creating ghouls where none existed.
Perhaps.
She didn’t think so, though.
Someone was outside. Maybe not every night, but some nights, most certainly.
Kaitlin wanted to call the police, God she did, but they started all this. They came to her, asked her questions, and then left her here without even a life raft. Just floating in the ocean, sharks smelling her blood and swimming to her as fast as they could.
She stood up from her chair and put out the cigarette she held in an ashtray. She picked up a knife sitting next to the ashtray and then walked to her bedroom. She carried the knife everywhere she went now. She didn’t remember when she picked it up, but now if she was at work, it was in her pocket, and if she was using the restroom, it sat on the sink.
Kaitlin climbed into bed, not sure if she would be able to sleep.
Not sure of much.
* * *
Father Charles put his collar on, looking at himself in the mirror.
His hands shook as he made sure it fit correctly. Had his hands ever shook like this when dressing? Not since he first left the seminary, speaking his first sermon at his first church. That was years ago, and when compared to now? Almost silly.
“What do You want me to do?” he said.
He knew God wasn’t going to answer him, though. He said it out of spite. Out of anger. He hated this position, powerless, yet forced to act.
Charles had to get out of his own head if he were to have any chance of helping. He needed to focus on that, on helping, instead of his anger at God. The anger would do nothing to solve this problem, leaving him waking up sweating and with heart palpitations.
“Guide me, Lord,” the priest said.
He didn’t know what to say when John arrived. He only knew he had to try.
