Carved in Stone

by Julia Shupe

  “Tubbs,” I repeated, louder this time. “Sarasota PD. You’re under arrest for murder and kidnapping. You have the right to remain silent.”

  He didn’t seem to register my words. My voice was loud, but it wasn’t getting through. I watched him dig as I moved steadily closer.

  “Tubbs,” Gil shouted, “Stop what you’re doing. Lie flat on the ground with your hands behind your head.”

  I watched the killer lift a lime-speckled spade, bring it crashing down to the hard-packed earth. He’d uncovered a mound of dirty fur, and had tossed it five feet from the hole. I squinted. From its shape and size, it appeared to be a cat. A sick feeling took root in my stomach.

  “No,” Carlton hissed, flashing a glance over his shoulder.

  ‘No’ wasn’t exactly compliant behavior, but at least he knew we were there. It was a start.

  “That wasn’t a request, Tubbs. That was an order. Drop the shovel and lie down on the ground.”

  “I’ll kill you,” Carlton spat as he looked toward the trees, and I suddenly realized he wasn’t talking to us. I tried to get a closer look at what he was doing. He was unearthing something from the hole he was digging, but his head was down, and his shoulders were hunched. Several shallower holes surrounded his body. It was like he had buried a chest of gold, but had forgotten exactly where he put it.

  Gil raised his weapon higher. “Tubbs, you’ve got till the count of ten to do what I say. Put down the spade and lie flat on the ground.”

  Instead of complying, Carlton pushed himself to his feet. He spun toward the shadowed trees, raised a fist, and screamed at a ghost.

  “See?” he shrieked. “Look what you made me do! Without you, I’d be normal, not a monster, or a freak.”

  I saw him in profile, and a chill raced up my spine. His eyes were focused on a spot behind the tallest tree. “Gil,” I whispered, “he doesn’t even know we’re here. Who the hell is he talking to?”

  Gil was squinting, his gaze fixed on the ground. “There’s something in the dirt, Ness. He’s dug something up.” Eying Tubbs warily, he crept closer to the edge of the property.

  The situation was becoming tenser by the moment. We needed to rein this in, immediately. I edged closer and projected my voice. “Carlton Tubbs, you’re under arrest. Do you hear me? You have the right to remain silent. You’re under arrest for the murder of Alaina Mills, and for the murders of Amanda Reed and Jennifer Hall. You’re under arrest for kidnapping Angela Harlow. Are you listening to me, Mr. Tubbs?”

  This time he heard me and spun around to face us, and for the very first time, I saw his face. I nearly gasped. His eyes were red and spidered with veins. He was covered in dirt from head to toe. Tears were coursing down his cheeks in brown streams. His nose was running and his hands were shaking, and I immediately thought of the mold spore evidence. The man in front of me was sick. Suffering. From what affliction, I wasn’t quite sure.

  I squared my shoulders, bracing myself.

  Eyes wide, Carlton dropped into a protective crouch, hovering above the hole he’d just dug. He’d seen us, finally, and registered who we were, and I watched what remained of his mind suddenly crack.

  I thought about Carlton’s profile and background, and an idea suddenly struck me. But it would only work if he focused on me—not the holes in the ground, or what was buried in them. Widening my stance, I moved my body into his direct line of sight. Carlton Tubbs, whether he would admit it or not, had developed a bond with his prison physiologist. Somewhere inside the killer in front of me was a broken child, a victim of abuse. He was the person I needed to reach.

  “Carlton, please. Put down the shovel. We’re here to help Angela Harlow and the others. We need to know where they are. Can you help us? Angela Harlow is just a young girl. She’s a child, Carlton—an innocent child. I know for a fact you don’t hurt innocent children. So please, tell me where she is.” His eyes were wild and his hands were shaking. I couldn’t believe how disheveled he was. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You’re sick. You need medical attention. I can help you, but only if you put down the shovel. You must drop your weapon, Carlton. Now”

  “My weapon?” He peered at the spade in his hand, and frowned, then tossed it to the ground like it had burnt his fingertips. When he raised his face, I saw a moment of clarity.

  But that was before all hell broke loose.

  ~ ~ ~

  He stared at the woman and the man in front of him, standing just a few yards away. Who were they? How had they gotten back here?

  You know who they are. What are you going to do about it? Will you let them take you away without a fight? I’m disappointed in you, brother. But I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve always been weaker than me, haven’t you?

  It took Carlton a moment to understand who they were, but when he did, he immediately knew what to do. He clenched his fists and tossed the shovel to the ground. He couldn’t go with them. He wouldn’t. There was no way in hell he’d go back to prison.

  “Lie on the ground, Tubbs,” the policeman was saying, the barrel of his gun pointed directly at Carlton’s chest. It was difficult to understand him. His voice was hollow and low, like he was speaking beneath a pond of murky water. With a shake of his head, Carlton tried to clear the cobwebs. Colors were too bright; sensations strangely dull. Deciding to ignore the man, he set his sights on the woman instead.

  She’s pretty, my brother. Nice tits. Strong legs. I wonder what her feet look like.

  “Shut up!” he howled. “Why can’t you shut up?” Dropping to his knees, he brought his hands to his head, pressed his fists to his eyes, and saw stars. “Please, Smith, just shut the fuck up.” How desperate he was to escape this madness. But Smith, unfortunately, had always been stronger. Smith was the leader, and Carlton the follower. How could one escape someone who’d been commandeering his mind for thirty years? How could one seize back control of his life?

  A strange cackle erupted from his throat. “Maybe I should just let them take me to prison, let them lock me up, and then throw away the key. How would you feel about that, my brother?” With a giggle, he imagined how sweet that revenge would be. It would destroy Smith. It was the one thing he feared. Smith was a rabid animal, primal, instinctual. He’d lose his mind if he were locked in a cage. “If they take me, brother,” he taunted the shadows, “they take you, too. Don’t you get it? Don’t you see how that works? If I go to jail, so do you.”

  The woman in front of him took a half step closer. “Tubbs,” she said, her voice softer than her male counterpart. “Lie flat on the ground and clasp your hands behind your head. We want to help you, but we need your help, too. We need you to help us find Angela Harlow. ”

  Angela Harlow. Who the hell was that? “Who the fuck is Angela Harlow?” he demanded—not of the woman, but of the shadows behind the trees. “One of yours, I presume?”

  Not mine, Smith hissed. Ours.

  The female cop assumed he was talking to her.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Angela Harlow. I need you to tell us where she is. Please. Help us find her, Carlton. Help us put an end to this. We can put an end to this pain and suffering.”

  Put an end to this suffering? he wondered. End this pain? How was that possible? Pain and suffering were all he had. They were the only two feelings he’d ever known. To end the pain was to abandon who he was. And would the urges subside if he became someone else? He didn’t think so.

  He remembered, after prison, when the urges took control. He remembered her face, her hair, even her name. At the time, he hadn’t planned to do it; it just happened. He hadn’t been hunting, or trolling, as Dr. Waite would say. It was a hasty sort of thing, a last minute and stupid decision. He remembered the feel of the blade in his hand, how it had cut through her skin like a hot knife through butter. He remembered the release and the terrible joy. Like a climax it had been—until the morning after. He’d awakened the next day, covered in dirt, head pounding, mouth like cotton. There’d been blood on his hands an
d caustic lime between his fingers. Guilt had been an anvil on his chest. He’d cried like a baby that day. It was pathetic. He’d acted like he was nine years old, like the day his mother had left him at the orphanage.

  I remember that day, Smith murmured in his ear. I remember it well. It was the day you finally embraced who you are. I had waited so long for you act without persuasion. I was proud of you, brother. I watched the whole thing. You found your anger and your purpose that day. You finally realized the truth about people. Smith’s laugh was seductive in his ear. You punched that smartass kid in the mouth, and I stuck by your side ever since. Do you remember?

  “No. That’s not how it happened,” Carlton whispered. “That wasn’t the day we first met. It was later. We met in the woods behind the house.”

  Maybe. But I’ve always been there, Carl. I’ve always been with you.

  Carlton shook his head. “That’s not true. I’ve always been alone. Everyone I’ve ever known has betrayed me or left me behind. Everyone has chosen something else instead of me.”

  “I know,” the woman answered; gun tightly wrapped in her hands. Carlton was startled by her voice. “But you don’t want Angela Harlow to suffer. You don’t want her to be alone, do you? It’s time to end this, Carlton. It’s finally time to start healing. You’ve been living this way for too long.”

  Carlton felt his anger rise. Maybe the woman was right. Maybe it was time to finally end this madness. He was sick of Smith, sick of the memories, sick of fighting the demons in his head.

  And he was sick of the woman who was standing in front of him.

  “I’m not talking to you, you stupid bitch,” he screamed, and with a lurching motion, reached for his weapon. He had purchased the gun several years before, in a back alley, from the trunk of a dealer’s car. He hadn’t used it yet; he’d never been fond of guns. Guns were an impersonal way to kill someone. Carlton preferred to use his hands, his fingers. He lifted the muzzle and put it to his temple. “Come out, you coward,” he screamed at the trees. “Come out and face me, or I swear I’ll kill us both.”

  “He can’t,” the woman answered, her voice painfully sincere. “He can’t come out. Smith isn’t real. You have to let him go. You have to move on. Come with me. We’ll sort it all out. Put down the gun, Carlton. That isn’t how this ends.”

  She was wrong, but her soft voice nearly brought him to tears, and he met her gaze for the very first time. “There’s nothing to sort out. I’m guilty.”

  “I know.” she said. “I know you’re guilty. Just put the gun down. This isn’t the end.”

  Her partner stepped forward, breaking the trance. “Put down your weapon, Tubbs. I won’t ask you again. Put down your weapon, or I’ll shoot.”

  Don’t, Smith whispered. Stay with me, brother. Shoot them. Take them down. You can’t go back to a fucking jail cell. You’re not a caged animal. You’ll die in that place.

  “You’re right, Smith,” Carlton said softly. “I know I can’t go. I would die in that place.” Turning slightly, he faced the tall trees. “I can’t go with them, brother, but I can’t stay with you. So what does that mean? Where does that leave us?”

  ~ ~ ~

  In the distance I heard sirens approaching. Thank God. The situation was deteriorating rapidly. My phone beeped in my coat pocket again, for the third time in less than a minute.

  “Carlton,” Gil growled, “Lower your weapon.”

  My phone beeped again, as did Gil’s. He glanced in my direction. “I’ve got him. It’s yours.”

  With slow, careful movements, I slid my hand into my pocket. The situation was tenuous; I wouldn’t be the reason Carlton pulled that trigger—not that he was paying attention to me. He was much too focused on the phantom in his head. I was starting to think we’d never reach him. He was gone—far-gone, and there was nothing I could say or do to pull him back to reality. Carlton Tubbs was a strange animal. He was a serial killer with an actual conscience. One so strong, it had split his personality. I had never heard tale of another like him. I couldn’t remember a single similar case, not from any college courses I’d taken, and not from any of my experience in the field. Rest assured: this was one for the books. Carlton Tubbs would be analyzed and studied. Books would be written about his unusual nature—if he didn’t succeed in killing himself first.

  My fingers found the edge of my phone. I’d leave it in my pocket, be discrete, I decided. I’d keep my movements small and steady, peek while I organized my thoughts. We needed to find an alternative way to reach him. We had to take a different tack, try to find common ground, maybe appeal to his unusual sensitivities. Maybe I could play on his anger and fears, or maybe his anxieties about Smith. But any of that could also backfire. This man was broken and fragile. Anything I said could set him off.

  With my right arm still clutching my weapon, I peered at the screen in my pocket.

  My heart stopped.

  I raised my head and peered at Gil, but his eyes were trained on Carlton. He hadn’t seen. I was alone in this. What the fuck? What the hell would I do now?

  Clearing my throat, I steadied myself, unable to believe the words I’d just read. Had it come from anyone other than Jacob, I wouldn’t have believed it. I had to improvise.

  “Carlton,” I croaked, pulling his attention back to me. “Lower your weapon. You’re an innocent man. You didn’t do this. Please let me explain. Lower your weapon. You’re confused right now. Don’t allow your confusion to take over your mind. Don’t do something you can’t take back. Are you hearing me? You’re an innocent man.”

  Gil flashed me a fierce glance. “What the fuck, Stone?”

  I flinched. He rarely called me Stone.

  Gaze pinned to Carlton, I did my best to capture and hold his attention. Things had changed so suddenly. No longer an arrest, this had just become a rescue mission. I chanced a step closer and softened my tone.

  “Put the gun down, Carlton, and listen to what I’m saying. You didn’t do what you think you did. You’re not a killer. Do you hear me? You’re an innocent man. Put down your weapon.”

  He lifted his tear-stained face and met my gaze. The depth of emotion in his eyes shocked me. “You’re wrong,” he sputtered. “I’m not an innocent man.” For a moment—just a moment—my heart bled for him. But then he transformed before my eyes. “I’m not an innocent man,” he scoffed, his voice suddenly shrill. “I’m not even a man; I’m a monster. I’m a cold-blooded killer, nothing less, nothing more.”

  “That’s not true.” I shook my head. “You’re none of those things. Decades ago, you did a terrible thing, but you paid your dues. You did your time. Don’t let it scar your life forever.” I took a breath to steady myself. “Tell me about Smith, Carlton. When did you first meet him? What is he like? What does he look like? How tall is he? Is he fat or thin? What color is his hair? When was the last time you saw him, Carlton? How many years has it been?”

  I could feel Gil thrumming with anger beside me. “Vanessa, where the hell is this going?”

  Ignoring him, I kept Carlton focused on me then watched the split in his head open wider. He was cracking in two. There wasn’t much time. All I could do was keep walking this strange path. “You didn’t kill those girls at Cowpen, Carl, and I’d like to lower my weapon, but I can’t. Not until you lower yours first.”

  “You’re wrong,” he spat. “I’m guilty.”

  “Smith,” I insisted. “Tell me about Smith. When was the last time you saw him? Where were you, Carl? The exact location?”

  Tubbs raised his hands to his face and held them there, pressing his head like it was about to split open. At least in that position, the gun was pointed toward the sky.

  “Smith isn’t real,” he pleaded like a child. “He was just a kid I made up in my head.”

  “He’s not.” I kept my voice calm “You know he’s not. You’re confused about that.”

  “But Dr. Waite,” he objected.

  “Dr. Waite was wrong. All of us were. And
I’m so sorry about that. We’ve been hunting the wrong man.”

  I took a deep breath, still wondering if this would work. It had to work, for Angela’s sake. I needed Tubbs calm—and alive. I needed his knowledge and memories. If we were going to find Angela, we would need his help. He was the only person alive who knew the real Smith.

  Carlton focused on the holes at his feet.

  “Start talking, Ness,” Gil growled from my left. “Where is this going? What the fuck is going on?”

  Carlton dropped to his knees and raised the gun. My stomach lurched toward my mouth.

  “I’m sick,” he whined. “I’m a monster. I’m a beast.”

  “Carlton,” I hissed, trying to recapture his attention. “There were eighteen women buried at Cowpen Slough, but three of those women were killed while you were still at Folsom prison. You couldn’t have done this, Carlton. Don’t you see?”

  He lifted his head. “I don’t understand. If I didn’t do it, why do you think Smith did? If it wasn’t me, why does it have to be him?”

  For a moment, it felt like I was talking to a child, and I swallowed past the lump in my throat. There was no getting around the pain this would cause, but I had to do it. It was my last card to play.

  “Because the body of the first Cowpen doe is your mother.”

  Gil flinched. Carlton screamed.

  Chapter 46

  The Shadow Man

  I’d misjudged the power of what I’d just said. I thought it would upset him, but it did something else. The man in front of me morphed into someone else—still Carlton Tubbs, though different. Darker.

  “My mother,” he seethed. “That bastard killed my mother?” When he turned toward the trees, the gun swung wildly through the air. “You had no right! You betrayed me! She was mine! You told me she was mine! I’ve been looking for her for all these years! You had no right!”