by David Beers
John looked up at him, his eyes moving slowly. They were red, filled with tears though none had fallen. “I can’t do this anymore. He’s dead. I killed him.”
“You can do it, John, and you’re going to. I don’t care what else you do, but you’re going to get this body out of this room.”
John glanced at Father Charles.
“Or else Diane finds out everything,” Harry said.
* * *
John’s body had nothing left to give. He felt it a wonder he could even stand, that he didn’t collapse to the ground.
The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting its yellow and orange hues across a black world. John turned to look at it, putting his back to the grave.
“You think we did a good enough job?” he said.
Harry stepped up next to him, looking at the sunrise as well. “I hope so. We’ll know pretty soon, I guess.”
Dirt covered John, plastering his skin as if he might have been a sculpture fully created from earth. Soreness wracked his back muscles from the digging, slamming the shovel down over and over again, then taking the turned dirt and piling it up next to the hole. By the time he dragged the body to it, he could barely grip the plastic bags wrapping the priest.
They were thirty minutes outside of Dallas, having snuck into a state park. They moved deep into the woods, using the GPS on John’s phone to understand how close they were to the road.
“We need to leave,” Harry said.
“And go where? Where is there to go from here? Home? Where I shower and tell Diane what? That I killed my priest and buried the body? I’m out of excuses, Harry. I’m out of ideas.”
“You’ve never been the ideas guy, John.”
“I’m serious. I can’t go on. We have to figure something else out.”
“I need some time to think,” Harry said. “You’ve got therapy coming up with Diane. Go to that and let me think. I’ll figure something out.”
* * *
Harry watched John shower. The curtain was drawn so he could only see the man’s feet and the top of his head. Of course it had been Harry’s idea to come to the gym to get all the dirt off, though they first stopped at a gas station bathroom to remove the most obvious patches.
So now John showered, and Harry waited.
He told John he would think while John handled his family business.
And Harry was thinking, because John said he couldn’t go on, and Harry was beginning to believe him. He had a breaking point, Harry supposed.
The situation with the priest wasn’t good, either. Harry had a chance of controlling everything else that happened, but this wasn’t in his plans. The priest losing his goddamn mind and trying to kill John? No, he never saw that coming. Which meant mistakes were made in their clean up. They couldn’t use bleach, not if they wanted the man to look like he had simply gone missing. Most of the blood had been contained to John’s and the priest’s clothes, but still, a good bit made its way to the floor.
They checked the video footage of the parking lot and cathedral, wiping it before leaving, but what had they missed? Harry couldn’t think of anything, but that didn’t mean Detective Dick Face wouldn’t. No, Harry had a strong feeling that the detective would think of every possible thing and end up collaring John for the murder.
Going to jail wasn’t an option … yet. Hell, honestly? Harry would rather die than go to jail, because what he liked to do for fun got harder in jail. Sure, you might kill one or two people, but eventually they’d shove you in a hole and you never saw anyone again.
They had to get out of here. Out of Dallas, Texas. Without John’s family. If they left here, Harry might not ever have to leave John again. A traveling road show sort of thing, come and see the disappearing act—only it’s the viewers that disappear.
The hard part would be convincing John it was the only way.
* * *
John was still tired, but he had managed to nod off in a tiny motel, paying cash at the desk.
If he hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes open right now.
“How are you both?” the psychologist, Dr. Elizabeth June, asked. Diane found her and John didn’t ask any questions.
“Good,” Diane said though John remained quiet.
“So, what’s going on? How can I help you both?” the doctor said.
John looked to Diane, wanting her to begin. He would have rather been almost anywhere but this room (not Father Charles’ office, either—don’t forget that); exhaustion didn’t begin to describe what he felt, not to mention lactic acid had set in his muscles, making movement feel like death.
He told Diane he worked out too hard.
Just another lie.
What did it matter at this point? He couldn’t remember the last time he told the truth, to anyone.
“I’m not really sure how to start,” Diane said. “I guess … well, there’s been some problems.” She looked to John, nodding, wanting his support, and he knew that remaining silent this whole hour wasn’t a possibility.
He looked to the psychologist.
“This may be crude, but I suppose I’m fucking up a lot.”
“Not crude. If that’s the truth, it really doesn’t matter how you say it, as long as it’s not hurtful. Does it hurt you that you’re fucking up?” Dr. June said.
“Yeah … it does,” he said.
“And Diane, would you agree with that statement, that John is fucking up?”
“I think in some ways, yes, but in other ways it’s a lot deeper than that.”
The doctor nodded. “So what have you been doing, John?”
Fuck it, he thought. What’s it matter at this point? This is beyond embarrassing and there isn’t any way to tell the truth. Tell them whatever they want to hear.
“I leave late at night. A few times a week. I’ve been distant. Not just to my wife, but my sister and father, too.”
“Where do you go when you leave?”
“Most times I go to my mother’s grave. Sometimes I just drive.”
“Your mother’s grave?”
And on and on John went, weaving a lie that he could barely remember the beginning to.
Harry wasn’t here to direct him, and his mind felt like it might deteriorate at any moment—simply melt inside his skull, leaving nothing but a pool of gray to jiggle around if he moved.
“What about your kids? How are they handling this?”
“I honestly don’t know,” John said. “I haven’t had much contact with them.”
“They notice,” Diane said. “I don’t think it’s gone on long enough to have any real effect, but they see that their dad is missing from their lives right now.”
“How does that make you feel, John?”
That word was getting on his goddamn nerves. Feel. How did he feel? She wanted to know so much about his feelings, and how he felt about his actions making others feel certain ways. Did she really want to know, though? That he felt fucking lost and though he just killed someone a few hours ago, he knew Harry would be back with the next one lined up—maybe as soon as he left this office. Maybe when he stepped out of the damn room, Harry would start hounding him again.
Did she want to know that his God had abandoned him? The one person John always went to, who knew everything, just had his throat slit by John himself. Whatever the SA group spoke about, the higher power, well, He had no interest in John except perhaps to kill him.
John knew nothing but Harry’s lust—his own lust, and in that, he only knew hate.
“It doesn’t make me feel good,” John said.
15
Present Day
Scott moved around his house, completely alone. Not talking to anyone. He’d done this for days, not venturing out for anything—not even heading to his local bar to eat and watch a game.
He wasn’t lonely, though, because his thoughts kept him company.
Sometimes he turned the television on and let the words pass around his face wit
hout ever entering his mind.
Lori’s notebook lay on the end-table; he hadn’t opened it again. He didn’t want to and he wasn’t going to lie about why: Scott Hilt, at sixty-five, was frightened of what lay beneath the cover. His wife’s beautiful handwriting now held a sinister halo around it, as if each letter might jump off the page and bite him—ripping through his skin like a knife.
Yet, his mind kept going back to it. Kept going back to the fact that John hadn’t called him in a week. Hadn’t gone to his mother’s grave.
Everyone in Scott’s life thought something was wrong, and yet Scott took his usual ‘everything will be fine’ attitude. But maybe it wouldn’t be. Maybe Scott was wrong and Lori had been right.
Who would know? Was there anyone he could reach out to that might have some insight? Anything to keep him from having to open that notebook again.
What about the doctor they both saw?
But no, he was dead.
What was his name? Dr. Vondi? Scott thought that sounded right. He died, and if Scott remembered correctly, it wasn’t in a very good fashion—though that was hazy.
Would anyone know anything about what he thought when seeing Lori and John? Were there files lying around somewhere? Digital ones saved?
Those were the first decent thoughts he had on the subject since he closed Lori’s notebook last. Someone might know something, someone objective, and he wouldn’t have to read anymore of her letters.
Scott turned his computer on and started surfing the Internet, running searches—starting with Dr. Vondi, Dallas, Texas. It took him three hours and at the end he felt that he had crawled through every nook and cranny the web possessed. His head felt awful and his eyes were beyond strained. He turned the computer off and walked back upstairs, heading first to the bathroom where he grabbed an aspirin bottle, then to the sink for water, and finally outside. He stepped far enough out from the porch to let the sun shine on him.
“Okay,” he said to no one. “Okay.”
He stood a bit longer and then took a seat on one of the rocking chairs.
After an hour of slowly rocking, he went back into the house and picked up a small sticky note where he’d written a number. He grabbed his phone and went to the living room, sitting down, and then dialing Dr. Vondi’s brother.
* * *
Susan looked at her phone and then put it to her ear.
“Yo,” Alan said.
“Hey,” Susan said, stepping from her car. She was headed back to Stinson’s Starbucks, but not for a drink—she wanted to check-in on Rickiment. “I found out some things about him, or at least his time in England.”
“Awesome, what is it?”
“Nothing we can pin on him.”
“So?” Alan said. “What’d he do?”
And the problem reared up again. Alan didn’t care what could be proven. He cared about what he thought—and he saw John Hilt as the murderer, the man who killed his partner.
“So? So it doesn’t matter what I found, it can’t be used in a case against him.”
“So, it can still help tell us if we’re after the right guy. Just tell me what you found.”
Susan stopped in front of her car and leaned against the hood.
“People died while he was over there. At his school.”
“Died or were murdered?”
“Foul play,” she said.
“Okay, how many?”
“I found three. Only one was from his school and the others were in the vicinity. Some of it was similar to what we’re seeing now. Remote location. One was bludgeoned to death, one knifed, and the last one with a bullet through the lungs. The first two were done ruthlessly. The one that went to school with him was shot.”
“One out of three had a bullet hole in their ribcage?” Alan asked.
“Yes.”
“He fucking did it, Susan. You realize that right?”
She realized the excitement in Alan’s voice. “You want this too much.”
He went quiet for a few seconds. “Maybe, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Will you send me the information? How many years ago was this?”
“Nearing twenty. Hilt was in his late teens.”
“You didn’t talk to anyone that knew him during that time, did you? Teachers, administrators, anyone like that?”
“No; all of my searches were from old newspapers,” Susan said.
“Okay, that’s fine. Send me what you have.”
“I will, stopping somewhere first.”
“Sounds suspicious,” Alan said though Susan heard his smile coming over the phone. “Where ya at?”
“I’m stopping by that Starbucks. I want to check on the girl.”
“Check on her? What do you mean?”
“No one’s spoken to her since we finished the sketch. I want to see if she’s okay.”
“Are you kidding? You don’t have other things to be doing?”
Susan paused for a second, feeling anger rising inside. His obsessiveness was his, but it wouldn’t be hers. “No, I don’t. This is the most important thing on my list today.”
“Hey, sorry,” he said. “I just want to catch this guy.”
“I know, but there are other things in life to worry about.”
Susan hung up, still pissed even though he apologized. Alan was a great partner, but he wasn’t her boss and wouldn’t dictate how she spent her days. If he wanted to be up all night looking over old pictures, and calling people from England now in their sixties—fine. She wouldn’t try to stop him. But she’d be damned if he tried to make her do it.
She pocketed her cell and walked into the Starbucks, the smell of roasting coffee immediately assaulting her senses. She needed to shake this anger before she spoke to the girl. Susan stood in line, letting her thoughts settle some, and when she reached the counter, she ordered.
“Could I speak to Kaitlin for a second, please?” she said as the cashier rang up her order.
“Sure … Hey, Kaitlin, this guest would like to talk to you,” the man said, leaning back and shouting a bit so that his voice carried across the working line.
Susan followed his voice and saw the tattooed, thin, nearly-a-girl-woman pouring milk into a cup. Rickiment (call her Kaitlin, Susan) looked back down the line and found Susan’s eyes. Immediately Rickiment’s face grew guarded and Susan couldn’t help but notice.
She doesn’t trust me. Might not even like me, she thought.
The woman put the milk down and walked over to the register.
“Hi, can I help you?”
“I was just wanting to know if you had a minute to speak with me.”
“Do I have a choice?” Rickiment said.
“Yes, of course. This isn’t official business. I just wanted to see how you’re doing,” Susan said.
Rickiment hesitated, appearing unsure if Susan was serious.
“I promise, just a few minutes,” Susan said.
“Okay.” Rickiment nodded. “Give me just a second to finish up.”
Susan smiled and took her coffee to a small table against the glass. Even though she smiled, she realized the entire conversation she only thought of the girl using her last name.
Good luck helping her if you can't even call her Kaitlin. Definitely inspires trust.
She sipped her coffee slowly, looking at the people around her. Almost every one of them had something in front of their faces, either a phone or laptop. She couldn’t see anyone who sat like her, watching the world around them. They were all lost in their own heads, not realizing a world existed outside of their thoughts.
Is Alan like that now, only instead of a phone keeping him busy, it’s this murder? Does he realize there is still a world outside of it?
Susan didn’t think so. Susan thought he might have the worst case of whatever afflicted all these people around her.
After another few minutes, Kaitlin Rickiment left the counter and sat down in front of Susan.
“Why’d you come here?” Rickiment (Kaitl
in, Susan!) said. The pretense of politeness gone.
“I seriously just wanted to see how you were doing. The whole series of events weren’t easy.”
Kaitlin was quiet for a second, looking straight into Susan’s eyes—as if searching for truth somewhere inside them. Susan couldn’t read minds, but Kaitlin looked like she wanted to trust her, wanted to have someone to speak to—but something about Susan scared her.
“I’m a cop,” she said. “A lot of people love us and a lot of people don’t. There isn’t much middle ground on feelings about my profession. I’m not here as a cop right now, though. I go home just like you do and my job doesn’t define me, just like I’m sure this shop doesn’t define you.”
The girl looked away, down at the table.
“I can’t stand Starbucks’ coffee anymore,” she said.
Susan smiled though she heard the tears in the girl’s voice.
“Not as good as advertised?” Susan asked.
“Not after your millionth cup.” Kaitlin laughed, reaching for a napkin and dabbing at her eyes.
“So what’s been going on, Kaitlin? I promise, whatever you tell me is between the two of us. I’m not on the clock. No badge anywhere on me.”
“I’m scared,” she said, still not looking up. “I feel like someone is following me all the time. I feel like I’m being watched at night. Like someone knows what I told you.”
Susan was quiet for a second, letting Kaitlin’s thoughts settle and trying to gather her own. She didn’t want to go at this like a cop, asking for evidence and statements. “What makes you feel like that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve always had feelings, about all kinds of shit. My mom calls it intuition. She has it too. We just seem to know things that we shouldn’t know. I don’t have any idea if it’s supernatural, or if our senses just pick up on tiny details that other people can’t, but it all comes to the same.” She looked up. “I was driving a couple of my friends a few years ago. We were heading to Panama City for the weekend. All of a sudden I got this strange feeling that I was going to be pulled over. I didn’t question it, I just said I was tired of driving and asked if one of them would take over. Now, I didn’t think anything would happen to them, only that I would be pulled over if I kept driving.” She smiled somewhat sheepishly. “Erica ended up getting pulled over five minutes later.”
