One Kill Away

by Alex MacLean

  Yeah, you’re right. It’s me, motherfucker.

  Seth clenched his jaw. Heat, blood, and anger pulsed through his body. He shifted his gaze to the sideview mirror beside him. For a full minute he stared at the front door of Kaufman’s apartment building. No one entered. No one exited. The female cop was still in there, looking for information, correlating stories, sniffing for the scent of a suspect.

  A scent of him.

  Seth wondered how close she was to connecting the dots. He didn’t think she had recognized him, but some cops—the experienced ones—had good poker faces. You never knew what they were thinking or feeling.

  Suddenly, she emerged from the building. She paused on the front stoop, wrist bent up toward her face. Seth watched her open a notebook and scribble inside it. Then she walked to a black Impala parked at the curb and hopped inside.

  When she turned the car around in the street and began coming in his direction, Seth sunk as low as possible in the seat. He listened to the car drive past with a steady climb in its throttle, then the sound faded away and was gone.

  Seth peeked over top of the dash and saw the Impala stopped for a red light down the street. Its left turn signal flashed. Another car came out of the parking lot and pulled up behind.

  Seth straightened himself in the seat, drew the seatbelt across his chest, and slipped on his sunglasses.

  The red light turned green and the Impala sped off. As Seth watched it go, he remembered bending over Camille’s body and caressing her cheek. He could smell her perfume and her blood, could feel the warmth still present in her limp body. The eyes that had held so much love for him stared up at him, wide and empty.

  A cry welled in his throat as the horrible reality walloped him in the gut. His wife was gone, never to come back again.

  Hands tight on the steering wheel, Seth said without speaking: I’m going to kill them, Camille. I’m going to carve those fuckers up. They won’t have the things they denied us. Our happiness. Our lives together.

  It’s my right.

  Not the cops.

  Not the courts.

  Mine.

  18

  Halifax, June 9

  7:12 p.m.

  “Hi. I’m Molly,” the placard read. “I’m 15 and in the 10th grade.”

  The girl in the Youtube video looked sad and lost. She had flowing black hair, Eurasian eyes, and a purple barbell pierced her left eyebrow. She didn’t speak, only held up a sequence of placards, each one adding to the story of a tortured child battling through abuse and bullying.

  Watching her, Daphne was struck by a particular kinship; their pain, disgrace, and loneliness were eerily similar.

  “I’ve been diagnosed with depression, panic disorder, and bulimia,” Molly said. “I blame it on the bullying I suffered in school.

  “It started in the 7th grade. I was chubby then and the kids used to call me Hippo. Whale. Fatty. Blimp. I always got picked last in gym class. I had no friends.

  “I thought high school would be better, but I was wrong. It’s worse. Girls spread rumors about me. Boys too. I’m haunted by the mean names I’m called. Ugly. Slut. Stupid. Emo. Garbage.

  “They push me into lockers. Trip me in the hallways. Pick fights after school. Everyone is against me. I can’t make any friends. Other kids are too embarrassed to hang out with me.

  “I cry myself to sleep at night. I started cutting. I throw up every morning before going to school. No one knows how much I suffer.” Molly paused a moment, wiped her eyes. “All I ever wanted was to fit in. I feel so alone. I don’t talk to anyone. Sometimes I just want to die. This world is so dark and horrible.

  “I’m not looking for sympathy. I just wanted to share my story with you.

  “‘To love means loving the unlovable. To forgive means pardoning the unpardonable. Faith means believing the unbelievable. Hope means hoping when everything seems hopeless.’ Gilbert Keith Chesterton.

  “I try to be hopeful. It’s hard. Some days, I find it impossible.”

  Molly set down the last placard and reached toward her computer. The Youtube screen went black, followed by the words: RIP Molly West. April-13-1995 – June-2-2010.

  “Oh, no,” Daphne said with a jolt. “No, no, no.”

  Tears ran down her face. Molly was dead. How? Did she commit suicide? Probably. Her tormentors had ruined her. Made her life unbearable and hopeless. Drove her to take the only available way out.

  They had won.

  Daphne got up from her desk and sat on the edge of her bed, hung her head. Clear and sudden images from the past day at school popped up in her mind—the snickers in the hallways, the mixed looks of pity and embarrassment, the bar of soap left in front of her locker, Margi smacking her across the face and knocking her to the sidewalk.

  In a moment of strange clarity, Daphne saw herself as Molly West. Alone. Hiding in her room. Afraid of school and people. Paranoid. Unable to sleep. Nervous all the time.

  Someone knocked on her bedroom door and she jumped. Quickly, she wiped her eyes and straightened her back, trying to compose herself.

  “Come in,” she said.

  Her father, Daniel, poked his head into the room. “Whatcha doing, kiddo?”

  “Nothing, Dad.”

  “I haven’t seen you since supper. Is everything okay?”

  “Fine,” she managed.

  Daniel’s eyes narrowed on her. “You sure? You don’t seem like yourself. You barely touched your supper.”

  Daphne felt heat creep into her cheeks. She turned from her father’s eyes, a man she’d always admired and respected, whose approval she’d always sought. She hated herself for lying to him.

  “Yeah,” she said in a brittle voice. “I’m sure.”

  “You know your mom and I worry about you. If there’s anything you want to talk about, we’re here.”

  Daphne swallowed, looked over at him. “I know, Dad.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her father appraising her. His gaze drifted around the room, settling on the laptop monitor.

  He said, “Youtube, huh?”

  “Yeah. I was watching some videos.”

  Daniel flashed her a smile. “All right, kiddo.” He gripped the doorknob, pulling the door toward him. “Just thought I’d check on you.”

  When the door closed, Daphne winced. Guilt tore her up inside. Her poor parents, who loved her so much and tried so hard. She wanted to tell them what was going on at school, but she felt too ashamed, too embarrassed. Her mother would surely get angry. She’d want to know who the kids were. She’d go after them, probably even try to lay charges. Then everything would just get worse. At school, Daphne would be called a snitch, a tattletale.

  She stood up and paced her room. After a minute, she took some paper out of her printer and set it on her desk. She poked around a drawer, finding a black marker. Then she sat down and began to write her story.

  19

  Halifax, June 9

  7:23 p.m.

  The moment Seth removed the Santoku knife from the velvet tray and held it in his hand, he knew it would be the perfect weapon to kill Blake Kaufman with.

  It had a sharp point and a razor’s edge. Well-made, easy to handle, and the five-inch blade was long enough to reach a person’s heart or brainstem.

  The knife belonged to a three-piece set given to Seth and Camille as a wedding gift. And for all these years, it was stored in the living room closet with an ice cream maker and trifle bowl they’d never gotten around to using.

  Seth thrust the knife straight out in front of him, again and again, feeling the rabid animal come alive inside him, all snarls and gnashing teeth. He saw himself plunging the blade repeatedly into Kaufman’s body.

  Die, you fucker. Die, die, die.

  Kaufman’s face opened into an expression of surprise and pure terror. Only his face wasn’t the same one Seth had seen earlier in the apartment building; this one had red skin and horns and a thick ridge over yellow, soulless eyes.

/>   When Seth heard his own words booming off the kitchen walls—die, die, die, die—he stopped thrusting the knife. He set it on the counter and stood at the sink, shaking, trying to catch his breath.

  He’d have to figure out a way to get close enough to Kaufman to use the blade. It wouldn’t be easy. The man was big and rugged and had it in him to kill a man without a second thought. Seth would have to take away his advantages, level the playing field.

  Someone knocked on the back door and Seth snapped his neck around, a shiver electrifying his body. He saw a shadow move on the door window, but he couldn’t see the person it belonged to.

  Heart thumping, he stretched over the sink to look out the kitchen window. A red Corolla sat in the driveway. It belonged to his sister, Dana.

  Seth groaned and shook his head. Dana’s visit came as no surprise. She’d been calling and leaving messages for the past several days. Seth now wished he’d talked to her, told her everything was all right. He would’ve saved her the hour’s drive up from Wolfville and himself a face-to-face with her. At least he was grateful she hadn’t called the cops to come check on him.

  Dana knocked again, heavier this time.

  Seth shut his eyes, opened them again. His body still shook. Sucking in a deep breath, he walked over to the far wall, disabled the alarm, and opened the back door.

  “Hey, lil’ brother,” Dana said. “Don’t answer your phone anymore?”

  “Sorry. I meant to call you back. Just got busy.”

  “Yeah? I was worried. I thought something happened to you.”

  Seth flashed a quick smile and tried to sound offhand, nonchalant. “Nope. Still here.”

  Dana cocked her head at him, searching his face. She was five-three, and had their mother’s pear shape. Her blonde hair was straight and cut just above her jawline with the bangs swept to one side.

  She flicked her gaze to the driveway and Seth followed it to the blue Accent parked in front of her Corolla.

  “New car?” she asked.

  “No. It’s a rental.”

  “Where’s yours?”

  Seth stepped away from the doorway. “In the garage. I have to take it into the shop.”

  Dana walked in and stopped at the kitchen table. Seth saw her looking at the three place settings; Lily’s white teddy bear with the red bowtie sitting in one of the chairs.

  “What’s wrong with it?” she asked.

  “Huh?”

  She turned to him. “Your car.”

  “Oh.” Seth ran his palm over the course stubble of his scalp. “Tranny is clunking. I think it might be the sprag assembly.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  Seth stared at her. “Tranny work always is. Our rescue truck dropped one last fall. Cost over thirty-five hundred.”

  Dana raised an eyebrow and gave him a faint smirk. And Seth knew she didn’t believe him. One lie leads to another, he thought. Like bacteria, multiplying until it gets out of control.

  “How many clicks on it?” she asked.

  “Over one-twenty. Warranty is long gone.”

  Dana nodded. “Okay. So, I have to ask, lil’ brother. What’s with the bars all over the windows? The three locks on the door? When’d you get all this done?”

  “Couple of weeks ago.”

  “Don’t you think it’s overkill? Wasn’t the security system enough?”

  Pity and concern crossed her face and it reminded Seth of a look you’d give a lonely stray you saw outside in the pouring rain. You’d wish it well, hope it would find a good home, but you wouldn’t bring it in to dry off because it might have fleas or ticks or some illness you don’t want to deal with.

  Seth wanted to tell her the bars and extra deadbolts were to protect Lily. That was something he had failed to do with Camille—protect her. And the guilt ate away at him like some merciless disease when he wondered what her final thoughts had been. Had she called for him? Had she expected him to rescue her? Had she died wondering where the hell her hero was?

  Seth would never be able to live with himself if anything were to happen to Lily. She was all he had left. He loved her more than life. More than Camille, and it didn’t shame him at all to admit it. Lily was Daddy’s little princess. His pride and joy.

  He had to protect her. He had to keep her safe.

  Dana wouldn’t understand any of that. She didn’t know how sick and broken and dangerous the world really was like he did.

  Seth walked over to the counter and leaned his hands on it, staring into the sink.

  Dana asked, “It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “You know. Please don’t tell me you’re seeing things again.”

  “No, no. I’m not.”

  “But you have this place locked up like Fort Knox. This screams paranoid behavior, Seth.”

  Seth shook his head. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Yeah, it does. Remember what happened before?”

  Seth exhaled a breath. He remembered all right. One day in March, he decided to walk upstairs into his own head and take refuge there, shutting the door on the outside world. Twenty-eight days in the psych ward managed to bring him back out. Then the doctors let him go home with their blessings and a bunch of pills to keep his brain and mood in working order.

  “Are you taking your medication?” Dana asked.

  “Like clockwork.”

  “Is it helping?”

  Seth raised his eyes to the window, peering out at the street. Helping? He wanted to laugh at that. There wasn’t a drug strong enough to stop his nightmares or to ease that grief inside his soul. Nothing short of a bullet ripping through his brain was going to do that.

  “Seth?”

  “It’s helping,” he said.

  “Look at me. Look at me, Seth.”

  He didn’t want to, but he turned to her, forced himself to gaze across the room and into her eyes. Dana drew in a deep breath and folded her hands together.

  “I worry about you,” she said. “This isn’t normal behavior. The bars. The extra locks.”

  Seth continued staring at her and he heard her voice again, only not with his ears. This time it seemed to emanate from inside his head, rambling around in there.

  “My lil’ brother has broken his brain again. He’s gone crazy…”

  A chill slid down his spine and he tensed his back against it. He watched Dana’s lips, not moving, pressed tight together.

  “…Fucking crazy.”

  Seth ran both hands up the side of his face and over top of his head. He spun around, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “You okay?” Dana asked.

  “Fine,” he said. “Just a little headache.”

  He heard Dana pull a chair out from the table.

  “Sit down,” she said.

  “No. I’m good.”

  “No, he’s not good. He’s having another meltdown.”

  “You sure?”

  Seth thought of taking out the Risperdal and Valium from the cabinet beside him, but he knew if he did Dana would realize his brain was going apeshit again. She might panic. Worse yet, she might call Dr. Somerville and he might have Seth admitted into the hospital again. That couldn’t happen. Why hadn’t he taken his meds when he got home from Kaufman’s apartment?

  “Seth?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure. I’m fine.”

  Dana walked over. When she put a hand on his arm, he flinched. Just go, he wanted to tell her. Please, just go.

  “I want my old brother back,” Dana said. “Jacob and Dillon miss your visits. They’re too young to fully understand what happened.”

  Seth felt a lump in his throat. “How are they?”

  “Good. They’re growing like weeds.” She squeezed his arm. “When we get you all better, you’ll have to come down and see them.”

  He found that kind of funny. Can’t have Uncle Seth around with his broken brain, kids. He’s changed now, scary.

  “You know,” he said. “I f
eel a bit tired. Think I’ll lie down and have a nap. If you don’t mind.”

  Dana gave a quick pout, as if his sudden dismissal had hurt her.

  “Sure,” she said. “Okay.”

  Head down, she walked toward the door and paused there a moment. She turned around and held him with her sad eyes. Seth could see the worry eating her up inside.

  “Answer my calls,” she said. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I will,” he said.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. Answer.”

  Seth nodded.

  “Promise me, lil’ brother.”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay then.”

  She walked outside, shutting the door gently behind her. Seth felt like a ghoul for sending her off so fast.

  He went to the door and threw the deadbolts into place. Then he punched his code into the alarm keypad. As the timer started counting down, Seth returned to the sink and filled a glass with water.

  Through the window, he saw Dana back her car out to the street. She stopped there for a few seconds, looking over at the house, before she drove off.

  Seth could still hear her voice ringing inside his head.

  “Crazy…crazy…he’s gone crazy…again.”

  He opened the cabinet beside him and reached inside for his pills.

  20

  Halifax, June 10

  7:11 a.m.

  Daphne hurried to the bathroom. She lurched to the toilet, barely tossing the plastic seat out of the way when the vomiting started. Only a small amount of fluid came up, then dry heaves took over, squeezing tears from her eyes and making her stomach feel stripped raw and ready to surge right up her throat.

  Legs weak, she stumbled to the sink and splashed cold water on her face, rinsed out her mouth. She lifted her head and looked at the ghostly blur of herself in the mirror. Pain sliced through her brain, around the tissue behind her eyes, like someone jabbed a sharp blade in there and twisted it around.

  She’d lain awake all night, dreading the morning. She’d gotten herself all worked up over school. Worrying about it. Obsessing over it. What cruel jokes would they come up with next? What mean words would they sling at her? What new rumors would they spread around?