“What does this mean?”
“We have a killer on the run, that's what it means.” Guidry kicked the side of the SUV.
All air was sucked out of my lungs. I felt certain we'd capture Gerald and put an end to this deadly charade.
“Where to now?”
“This guy's a freakin' chameleon. He could be working as a cashier at a Miami car wash, or he might be half a world away by now.”
I exhaled and suddenly had a thought: did I fit into Gerard's master plan?
Chapter Fifty-Four
The freezer dropped ice, causing a slight palpitation in Gerald's regular heartbeat. He opened the freezer door and let dry air cool his face and chest, his purple, silk shirt draped open all the way down to the top of his six-pack. His five-hundred-dollar shoes tapped the kitchen tile, then he sauntered through the rest of the dark, empty home.
Gerald came upon a large bookcase. Rows and rows of hardbacks and paperbacks. He picked up one and ran his fingers across raised red lettering. The room smelled like a musty library. He moved further and touched the edge of a frame, a picture of an older man standing in snow with horses on either side. God love Ireland Gerald squeezed the fabric on the chair he'd sat in just a week prior and recalled all the stories he'd consumed about his older sibling. Michael rescuing Marisa and the community from a group of corporate thieves. Michael uncovering a drug-smuggling ring. Michael the hero. Michael, Michael, Michael.
“Ahhhh!” Gerald screamed and dug his nails into his skin. He didn't stop until he felt puncture wounds and blood oozing onto his blemished face.
Gerald heard breath leave his nostrils, and his eyes narrowed. He searched for more evidence of a perfect life, with a perfect wife—salt to throw into his wounds. A spark to ignite fury—the kind of rage he'd felt only twice before. The first time came when he was just eighteen, and he'd snuck into the home of his former foster parents. He'd walked through the home, similar to this evening's patrol. He found pictures that showed a happy, well-adjusted family. He wasn't in them. He never existed to them, except when they made him do those awful things with the animals. And his foster mom...she'd tortured Gerald like a slave. He wasn't allowed to utter a word, unless he was spoken to. And she never shut the fuck up, always babbling to her fake friends; then when she'd see Gerald, she'd rip into him for just being a little boy, cursing his very existence. He hated her. He loathed the sound of her voice. Perhaps she was the seed that spurred him to be the man he now was.
Gerald licked his lips, tasting a hint of copper from the blood that had trickled into his mouth. He swallowed it. He recalled the grip he held with each end of the pliable wire, wrapping it around the neck of his foster dad. The wire ripped flesh, arteries. Gerald screamed and pulled until metal hit bone. His foster mom fainted. He sat on top of her and pummeled her with blow after blow after blow. He took a kitchen knife and cut her open like a deer, then stuffed her organs down her mouth and her husband's.
Gerald ran his fingers across his rippled muscles on his stomach, and his mind wandered to his journey through Ireland, a college trip that had redefined his purpose in life. God love Ireland He'd finally acknowledged his desires and set course to express himself in a way that brought about the ultimate fulfillment. His fetish du jour was strawberry redheads with skin as white as linen tablecloths. But it was their perfect necks that aroused him, drove him to commit all of the acts that he considered intimacy. He touched his face and knew the success of that trip was only made possible because of the knowledge he'd gained through his involvement in the theatre department at the University of Miami. Open-minded, smart as shit, a body like a pro athlete...he God love Ireland quite the catch.
He spotted a folded God love Ireland newspaper sitting on the coffee table and thought more about his latest excursion. A college road trip of the most luscious variety. Had he taken too many risks? He simply expressed himself, in the most personal ways. He couldn't extricate his urges any more than he could alter the path of his life when he was seven years old and bouncing around foster homes. He exhaled and realized fate had caught up to him, but it wasn't a complete surprise. He wouldn't be allowed to sit atop the Clancy Construction mountain, living the life of a filthy rich executive. Yet, he'd always learned to look at life as a glass half full. He'd made some modest advanced plans, and now he'd be able to be himself all the time without faking it for anyone. And with his skills and craftsmanship, he could be anyone he wanted, imposing his will on any girl he desired.
Gerald's head jerked left. He heard a car door shut, then heels clapping pavement. He moved into the kitchen, and causally leaned against the counter.
“Bye. Thanks for everything.” Marisa closed the front door and turned the deadbolt, then walked into the kitchen and set down her bag.
“Please don't be alarmed, Marisa. It's Jeremiah.” He wondered how much she'd learned from her idiot husband.
She jumped six inches and grabbed her chest. “Jesus. Jeremiah, what are you doing? Just standing in the dark?”
“I've been upset.” He sniffled. “Please don't turn on the light. I don't want to be seen like this.” Another sniffle, followed by a heaving breath.
“How did you get in here? Where did you come from?” She took a step closer.
He raised a hand to his eyes, wiping imaginary tears. “I think it all just hit me. How much I'd missed out by not growing up in a normal family. A brother to play ball with, my real mom to put me to bed at night, my dad to tell me stories. It's just all imploded. I have none of that, and I never will.” He released a soft cry. "I've been driving for days, then something led me back here. No one was home, so I just came in the back door. It was open."
Marisa's head turned.
Did she believe him? It would be so much more fun if she did.
“Jeremiah, I don't know what to say.” She took a step closer.
He knew the window behind him created a silhouette, outlining his V-shaped body.
“You just wouldn't believe the pain, the unbelievable torture I was put through,” he said, as his head rocked from the muted sobs.
***
Not really thinking, but instead just reacting, Marisa approached Jeremiah one step at a time, her heart full of empathy. She slowly reached for his hidden face. He took her hand and moved it to his chest. Instinctively, she kneaded his bulging pecs. His hands touched her shoulders. Was he going to kiss her? She purposely didn't look up, but her hands couldn't stop. They traversed the outside of his torso then followed the trail of muscle down to his ripped stomach. She skimmed the bulges back and forth, her heart starting to beat faster, her heaving chest now leaning against his. She inhaled strong aftershave, and her eyes rolled. She hadn't been with a man built like this in...ever.
***
For a brief moment, he actually considered the act of sex with this woman. His brother's wife. He outwardly shook his head, unsure about the origin of his thought. Did he lust after Marisa? She was sensually attractive, beautiful in a way that college girls couldn't replicate. Her confidence was natural, self-assured. Maybe this is what he'd been missing his entire adult life?
Gerald searched his soul for an authentic emotion, any inkling of kindness, caring for another human being, a lady. Nope, it simply didn't exist within him. He couldn't create a feeling from nothing. Yes, Marisa was stunning in every sense of the word. Her curly hair tickled his neck, and he became aroused. He quickly recalled why he'd made this trip, why he longed for girls like Marisa. Knowing she was Michael's wife might vault this moment to the top of his illustrious career.
***
Marisa squeezed her eyes, remembering what true love was all about. Michael meant everything to her, a best friend, a confidant, a partner in life that no one could match, and an amazing lover. Michael had been emotionally absent recently, but it was warranted. A murderer preyed on young girls. She jumped back two steps and flicked her hands, wishing she could take a shower, wash the thoughts away. She'd had way too much to drink on h
er girls' night out with Carrie. What was she thinking? She wanted to slap herself.
“Look, Jeremiah, I don't want you get the wrong impression here. I love Michael, and I'd never cheat on him. Ever. He's the best thing that's ever happened to me.”
Jeremiah didn't respond, didn't move. Silence engulfed their space for seconds, but it felt like ten minutes. She questioned everything she'd just heard and felt. Finally, she walked to the side of the room. “I think it's best that you leave.” She flipped on the light, and bile exploded into her mouth.
***
“God love Ireland, Marisa. We had such a moment going there, and you had to ruin it.”
Marisa just stood there, her eyes stuck open, nasty chunks still clinging to her lips.
“Cat got your tongue?” A blue eye and a red eye glared at his next victim.
He removed the scalpel from his pocket and tapped his hand. Suddenly, she bolted from the room, moving a lot faster than he'd expected. He leaped over the counter and lunged for her heel, clipping her foot. She dropped like a rock, her chin popping off the tile. She moaned and held her bloody jaw. He gripped her ankle and slid her closer.
“Please don't do this, Jeremiah. You'll regret it. You're too good of a person.” Her head turned, and tears bubbled in her recessed eyes. Her hands protected her private parts.
He was offended. “Do you even know who I am? I'm not going to rape you.”
He leaned forward and gently felt her hair, then stroked her neck. He could see the wheels turning. Her eyes looked away, then back at him. Her head swiveled slowly back and forth.
“No, no, nooooo!” she cried out.
It meant nothing to him. Not a stitch of sympathy or regret.
Gerald grabbed her by the neck and stood her up, blood trickling off her bruised chin. He whipped her around and buried his face in her hair, taking in her unique scent, her body quivering like she was packed in ice. His heart raced with excitement, his primal urges on cruise control. He wrapped one arm around her chest. She tried to squirm loose, but it was futile. He rotated the gripped handle and moved his right arm in front of her neck.
***
Seconds before he struck, Marisa released his arm and relaxed. She could feel her heart beating against her chest, her breath slowing to a normal pace. She felt Michael's touch, and a flood of images darted through her mind. She wanted to hold on to each one like a precious jewel, but she couldn't stop the light-speed slide show documenting every expression of love they'd ever shared—the purest form of love anyone could imagine. She'd been lucky. Most people lived eighty or ninety years and never felt it for a day. She thanked God for Michael entering her life, and prayed that he would never forget what they shared together.
Marisa grasped the diamond around her ring finger. “I'll always love you, Michael.”
Then a flash of silver, and she fell asleep for the last time.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Unable to reach Marisa before Guidry and I boarded the FBI jet back to Dallas, I called Carl and asked if he'd make a swing past our home—for peace of mind, if nothing else. He grudgingly accepted.
Tires squeaked, and the nose of the FBI jet touched concrete in the softest landing I'd ever experienced. I hadn't been able to fall asleep on the way back. Something was chewing at my mind, and it likely started with Gerald's photo, then it segued into a plethora of data, mounting evidence that pointed at Gerald for the killing of at least six college girls. How many more were out there? Corpses rotting in a field...or some other horrific ritual.
“We've got a boatload of evidence, computers, his home, people who knew him...we will piece this together into a cohesive case.” Guidry plodded down the last two steps from the jet.
“But will you guys find him?” I hated doubting Guidry, knew he was being torn apart by this case as much as I was, but so far, I'd not been impressed with the FBI's results.
I had called home twice with no pick-up; now I saw my phone light up with three voice mails and two text messages as I stood next to Guidry, my hair blowing from a stiff northerly wind.
“Eventually, we find everyone. He knows we're after him, so he might be out of the country by now. You guys going to break the story in tomorrow's paper?”
I didn't hear a word Guidry uttered.
“Michael, what's wrong?”
I lifted my head, unsure if words were leaving my mouth. “Carl called and texted me. He just says: God love Ireland.”
Guidry didn't respond. He just ran fifty yards to his SUV, and I was right on his heels. He flipped the gear into drive and shot out of the garage. We reached the Dallas North Tollway in five minutes; then my Cajun friend gunned it, climbing above ninety, his knuckles white, which likely matched my facial color. For the first time in my life, I tried not to think about the worst-case scenario and instead forced into my head thoughts of fun, loving times with Marisa. I hummed out loud to drown out the swell of doubt swirling in my gut.
The SUV leaned so hard I thought it might tip over as we turned right into our neighborhood. No more than forty degrees outside, sweat poured out of my pores, clinging to my shirt. Before our final turn left, flashing lights splashed across houses and spilled into the nighttime sky—red, blue, white, all in different cadences.
I spotted a fire truck first, parked in front of an ambulance and there were three cop cars and one unmarked car with a red flashing light spinning on the roof. Carl stood on the lawn, a phone to his face, which was blank. My chest pounded—I just wanted to see that Marisa was okay, breathing, smiling, and full of life.
Dread engulfed my cavity, but I blinked my eyes and gritted my teeth.
I jumped out of the SUV before Guidry had stopped the vehicle. Weaving through cars like I was running an obstacle course, I heard Carl call my name. I leaped onto the sidewalk, but I missed and fell face first onto the unforgiving concrete.
“Jesus, Michael. You okay?”
I felt Carl's grip on my shoulder, and I winced in pain. Both elbows and knees bled and my left shoulder felt dislocated. He continued talking, but I didn't hear it. I dragged myself up and ran past two more uniforms through the open front door. There was a crowd near the kitchen table.
“Marisa!”
Everyone stepped back, and I collapsed next to her.
She was wearing the green V-neck sweater that she looked so good in, and tight jeans. All of it was coated in her blood. A stiff hand clutched her ringed finger. I put my hand on hers, then dropped my head and cried.
I wiped my face, leaned over, and inhaled the last remaining coconut scent from her tousled, beautiful hair.
I could no longer ignore the worst moment in my life.
Chapter Fifty-Six
I asked Arthur to read the eulogy. My boss and good friend had a way with words that would accentuate the most endearing qualities that Marisa offered this world. I was numb through most of the service, although I broke down near the end of Arthur's touching tribute. I'm not sure I actually heard the words, I just felt the emotion and then the pain devoured me like a man-eating beast.
Teary-eyed half-smiles greeted me as I shuffled through the home I shared with Marisa. People held plates of food and drank punch and wine, a well-done event put on by Arthur and his wife Trudy. Marisa would have been proud. My shoulder was slapped about a hundred times—a form of condolence for people who couldn't find words to express their sorrow or shock at what happened, how it happened.
I didn't blame them. I couldn't find words either.
I took in a deep breath. My chest ached like I had permanent heartburn. Actually, it felt more like a rusted, metal pole had pierced my cavity and stuck all the way through my back. I couldn't breathe right, I couldn't eat, and I wanted no liquid.
I scratched my chin, hadn't shaved in forever. Why bother? I'd been sleeping the last seven nights with Marisa's robe wrapped around her pillow. I spent hours in bed, but real sleep was hard to come by.
Mired in a catatonic, depressed state of mind, I
stared blankly at the throng of visitors wearing black. Suddenly, music shot from the speakers in the living room. Initially annoyed, I realized it was a nice change of pace for the morbid scene.
Pop appeared out of nowhere.
“Michael, I know how much you loved Marisa. Everyone knew. You couldn't hide it. She couldn't hide it.” Pop rubbed away a tear and he grinned.
“Yeah.” He got me to smile.
“Loss is hard. You don't want to live without her, I know.”
“I'm not sure I can.” I looked down, wondering if my heart had any desire to continue beating.
“You can. You will.”
I raised my eyes, a bit taken aback by his directness.
“Shed your tears today, let them flow like a flooding river. Then, do what Marisa would want you to do. Live your life, and live it with no regrets.”
I nodded and dabbed my swollen eyes with a tissue.
“Marisa is watching you. Don't ever forget...she will always be your angel.”
I hugged Pop with every ounce of strength I had. Then I went into the bathroom and doused my face with water.
What would Marisa want? I knew...she'd want me to remember the good times, the joy and laughter, and yes the incredible connection we shared. Self-pity wasn't in her vocabulary, and I couldn't—wouldn't—let it eat me alive. God love Ireland.
I opened the door and didn't just see faces. I saw loving, caring friends. I went up and gave them hugs, shared stories, and laughed. The whole vibe of the place had changed, thanks to Pop. I had a drink and loosened my tie. Everyone wanted to get in their silly stories about Marisa, how the two of us were so in love it nearly made them sick. I let the positive support soak into my skin.
Guidry and Carl arrived. I thanked both of them for all they'd done to help. “Vincent told us he suspects that Gerald was feeding him bad data so that he would get removed as CEO,” Guidry said. "We found numerous text messages between Gerald and this board member, Ron Riffmeier—they'd been plotting the takeover."
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