by C. A. Shives
A cup of coffee was placed in front of Herne, and he nodded his thanks to Sherry. The warm scent of the acrid beverage momentarily covered the grease that pervaded the air of the diner. Bill watched as the man drank from the cup. The coffee was hot. Scalding. And Herne gulped it like ice water.
Jesus, thought Bill. That dude must have a mouth made of ice.
“Tell me why Eric got fired.”
Bill watched as Herne took another gulp of the steaming coffee, and he tried to control the squeak in his voice when he answered. "Well, after the Bobby Flynn incident, things got bad. Suddenly our reputation wasn't so hot anymore. No one wants to hire a construction company that could end up killing their family, you know? We weren't getting any business. Jason cut our rates some, but even that didn't help. People were scared to hire us. Jason knew he needed to blame someone. So he picked Eric."
"Any reason in particular he chose Eric instead of, say, you or Matt?"
Bill shrugged his shoulders. "Well, we were buds. Like I said, Eric wasn’t really part of our crew. So of course Jason was gonna can someone who wasn’t part of the posse. Plus, there were rumors flying that Eric might have gotten a little handsy with Jason's wife once at a party. But that was just talk. Eric always denied it. Other than that, Eric was the guy who gave Jason the name of the framing company we used on Flynn’s job. I guess that was enough of a reason. Jason started spreading the word that he'd tossed out the guy responsible for the accident, and after that business picked back up. I don't think it ever fully recovered though. Maybe in a few more years people might have forgotten. But lots of people around here have long memories."
"How did Eric react after it all went down?"
"Boy, he was pissed. He came into the office ranting and raving. I thought he was going to tear Jason to pieces. He blamed us all. Matt and I tried to talk to him a few days later at Harold's Tavern. We tried to explain that it wasn't our idea. That we didn't have any control over Jason's decision. I mean, we weren’t buddies, but we were kind of friends. We wanted Eric to know that we were still friends, you know? But he wouldn't hear any of it. He took a swing at Matt and then came after me. We left the bar. We didn't want to fight him, you know? We felt sorry for him. But we haven't been friends since. He's avoided us."
"You said he threw rocks at you."
"Yeah, I think so. In the parking lot of Windy Grove Grocery. I had my kid with me! But I still can't blame him. He had every reason to be pissed. The Flynn job wasn't his fault, and he got all the blame. Last I heard, he hasn't had a job since. Just collects unemployment and sits around his house most of the time. I guess he's still pissed."
"You've know him a long time," Herne said. "Do you think he's capable of murder?"
Bill nodded. "Yeah. Eric always had a hell of a temper. And he liked to scrap a lot when he was younger. I think he'd kill someone in a bar fight maybe. Or if he caught his girlfriend cheating. Stuff like that." The redhead looked at his coffee cup and furrowed his brows. "But from what I've read in the paper, these killings aren't like that. These killings are… different."
Herne nodded. "They're planned. They're violent. They're bloody."
There was a quality in Herne’s voice when he spoke. At first, Bill couldn’t identify it. He expected Herne to sound disgusted when he talked about bloody killings. Expected him to be maybe a little sad and a little scared. But Herne didn’t sound the way Bill expected.
Jesus, Bill thought. He sounds excited.
Bill shook his head in response to Herne’s unasked question. "That's not Eric. I don't think he'd kill anyone like that. I can't imagine him being so cold." He's not like you, Bill thought. Death doesn't get his rocks off. "Besides, he's always hated the sight of blood. He almost passed out the day Kenny Snavely snapped his ankle on the soccer field."
"Has he threatened you at all? Besides the day he threw rocks at you?"
"Not really. Just dirty looks. Sneers. I mean, he looks at us in an ugly way when we see him around town. And I know he's threatened to sue Jason in the past. Something about wrongful termination. But it's not like he stands outside my house screaming cuss words every night."
"Any connections with Eric and Charlotte?"
Bill shrugged. "Not that I know of. I mean, other than high school stuff. Even when Charlotte started working for Hayes, she kept her distance. She was friendly, you know, but not overly friendly. She didn't join us for drinks after work or anything. She just came in, did her job, and went home."
"She wasn't flirtatious with any of the crew?"
"Nope," Bill said. "She never showed any interest in us. I guess she was happily married."
Herne nodded and slipped off the bar stool, not bothering to thank the nervous man for his time. Bill could feel the contempt that came in waves off of Herne, the derision he felt obvious in the set of his broad shoulders and stiff back.
Left alone at the diner counter, Bill sighed with relief. For just one moment the tension and stress left him, and he relaxed for the first time in days. He didn’t know which he feared more: Herne or the killer.
~ ~ ~ ~
Janie Montgomery stood in front of the stove, head bowed, hands trembling. Her husband, Matt, had requested chicken pot pie for lunch. With no cooked chicken in the refrigerator and no pre-made pie dough in the house, Janie was forced to make the dish from scratch. It would be time consuming and laborious. And she wasn't sure if she'd be able to have the meal prepared in time for Matt's noon lunch.
Matt liked his lunch at noon. Exactly at noon. And if Janie didn't have it ready, his temper would flare.
An ill-tempered Matt meant only one thing: Janie would be punished. And she didn't know if her punishment would take the form of a belt or a wooden spoon or his fists, but she did know that it would hurt. Badly.
So Janie stood over the simmering chicken on the stove, willing it to cook faster.
From the living room came the sound of a cartoon. She could hear Matt cackle at the animated antics. On occasion, every few minutes, she’d heard the bubble of his water bong as he took another hit.
She prayed he’d keep smoking. Prayed he’d go through his entire bag of weed. Because if he was stoned enough—if he was far enough gone—he’d pass out after lunch. And then he wouldn’t force her to submit to him. He wouldn’t make her crawl naked on the floor. Wouldn’t make her lick his dirty, hairy asshole while he panted with pleasure. Wouldn’t make her spread her butt cheeks so he could force himself into her while she cried.
I hate him, Janie thought. God, how I hate him.
Of course, she'd never speak such words out loud. But her mind—her inner thoughts—was the one place Matt had not invaded on her body.
She wished she were at work and temporarily free from her husband's watchful eye. Usually on Saturdays Janie worked a shift at Harold's Tavern. She wasn't pretty enough or friendly enough to be a waitress. Five years of living with Matt had creased her face with wrinkles, grayed her hair, and cast a permanent expression of fatigue across her face. Instead, she worked as a dishwasher, scrubbing the glasses and cups and plates in the kitchen sink with a gritty sponge that looked almost as tired as the reflection she saw in the mirror.
But two weeks ago Thelma Yonker had begged Janie to switch shifts with her. Thelma had tickets to a concert that evening. A Merle Haggard tribute band was playing at the Maryland Theater in Hagerstown, and Thelma wanted to see them. So Janie had agreed to switch, and tonight she was scheduled to work the night shift instead of the usual afternoon.
If I can just make it until four o'clock, Janie thought, I'll be able to spend all night away from him.
She ignored the small thud she heard in the living room, assuming that Matt had dropped his bong, though normally such a thing would have elicited a string of curses from him. She just sat at the kitchen table and buried her head in her hands, waiting for the chicken to finish cooking.
Janie wasn't sure how long her husband had been silent. She knew a few minutes had passed sin
ce she last heard her husband giggle at the television. As she listened, she realized the current television show was Strawberry Shortcake, a little girl's program that Matt would never watch, no matter how stoned he might be. She wondered if he'd fallen asleep, so she quietly crept to the hallway and peered into the living room.
She knew what she saw even before her mind had time to register the scene in front of her. Her husband's limp body rested on the couch, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. A man stood beside him, intently watching her husband's steady breaths.
The man seemed huge in the small living room. She could only see his back, but it seemed to fill the entire space. He wore black pants and a black trench coat, and his hair was hidden by the mask on his head. In his hand—donned with a black glove—he held a knife. To Janie's eyes the knife looked very, very sharp.
Janie brought her hand to her mouth to stifle the gasp that threatened to escape her. She wanted to move. Wanted to flee to the safety of her kitchen. But her feet refused to move. Fear filled her head as she wondered why a stranger—a big, masked stranger—stood in her home.
For a moment she found the sight of her helpless husband almost impossible to comprehend. He would never have allowed someone to overpower him. Would never succumb to any type of intimidation. Then Janie realized that Matt had been drugged.
She stood motionless, her body partially hidden from view in the hallway. Now she knew who the big man was. He was the man Matt had been talking about. The killer who murdered Gabe and Jason. The murderer who had tortured the men from Hayes Construction.
The haze of panic in her mind cleared, and suddenly Janie realized what would unfold in her living room. Her husband was going to be murdered. And she was going to watch it happen.
The realization filled her with joy.
Part of her wanted to run over to the killer. To shake his hand. To offer her assistance. But Janie remained still and quiet, knowing that revealing herself to the killer might interrupt his plans. She didn't want anything to stop him from murdering her husband.
It felt as if she'd been standing in the hallway for hours. Her legs felt like rubber. Her knees shook. She wanted nothing more than to sit down in a chair. The killer, however, continued to stand over Matt's body. Just watching her husband breathe.
Finally, after five or ten minutes had passed, Matt's head moved. And then his hand. He was starting to wake up from his drug induced sleep.
The killer snapped into action. He straddled Matt’s body and pressed his forearm across his victim's throat. Matt's eyes snapped open, but they didn't appear to focus on the man looming above him. Janie recognized her husband's expression as the same one he wore after a long night of smoking weed.
"You remember me, don't you?" the killer asked. "Of course you do. Just last week you nodded a greeting to me in the diner."
The killer paused. Janie couldn't see his face, but she thought she heard a smile in his next words.
"But do you remember me from years ago? Do you know why I'm here?
Matt's eyes focused momentarily on the eyes that stared at him. "Can't see your face," he said. His words were thick with drugs, but Janie could feel the fear that saturated his voice. She pressed her hand to her mouth as if to hide a smile.
"You live in a busy neighborhood, Matt. I'm not going to remove my mask. Just in case. Gotta be careful, you know. But I'll give you a hint, just so you know who's getting ready to slice you open. You persecuted me in high school. Tormented me. Made my life a living hell."
Matt shook his head slowly, as if it was weighted by the drugs that kept him immobile.
"I know. You bastards persecuted a lot of kids, didn't you?" The killer slowly raised his mask, just enough to expose his mouth and nose and eyes. "Recognize me now?"
Matt nodded and the killer lowered his mask again.
Janie hadn't see the killer's face—she could only see his broad back—and she was glad. She didn't want to know who was responsible for murdering her husband. She didn't want to be forced to reveal his identity to the police.
"So now it's time for your payback," the killer said.
Janie watched as he brought the knife down in one quick motion, stabbing Matt’s left eye. Blood spurted from the socket, staining the brown throw pillows she’d recently purchased at Wal-Mart. Those pillows cost 5.99, she thought.
As Matt opened his mouth to scream, the killer slapped a hand over his victim’s lips. “Oh no, Matt,” he said. “I can’t have you yelling loud enough to alert the neighbors. Not yet. Let’s save that for the finale. You can scream as you’re dying. But first I'm going to cut your eyes. You've spent your whole life as a blind man. Blind to anything other than the superficial. Blind to the things that really matter. So your life is going to end with blindness, too.”
The killer stabbed Matt’s other eye, driving the knife so deeply that Janie was certain he had struck her husband’s brain. She expected Matt to be dead, but he wasn’t. He twisted his body and kicked his legs, struggling beneath the weight of the man who sat on him. Then the killer stood up and plunged his knife into Matt’s lower torso.
Janie watched as, with one smooth motion, the knife was yanked upward so it sliced through Matt’s stomach and chest. Her husband's body flopped, but the killer pressed his hands firmly against Matt's forehead, holding him in place. Blood splashed on the sofa—a mint green chintz print—in a garish, bright red that reminded Janie of her mother's spaghetti sauce.
As she heard the screams of agony from her husband and watched his guts spill out of his body, Janie had her first moments of regret. She wondered—not for the last time—if she could have saved her husband from those final, cruel moments.
Then she remember the bruises. The broken bones. The humiliations.
And her regret was gone.
Yet she still closed her eyes, not wanting to see his intestines slip to the floor. Not wanting to watch as his bladder slid from his abdomen. Not wanting to see the horror that filled her husband's face.
So she didn't watch him die. But she heard his final gasps. She listened as Matt stopped moaning. Stopped breathing. Stopped moving. Then she heard another rustle of movement again, and she opened her eyes to a squint, like a little child who flings open the closet door but is still frightened of the monster that might be hiding inside.
The killer had pulled down Matt's sweatpants and turned his body sideways. With quick, sure strokes, Janie watched as the killer sliced an "X" onto her husband's buttocks.
After he returned the body to its supine position, the killer continued to stand and look at it. Janie could almost feel the fury building in the air. Then, with angry, stabbing slashes, the killer carved at Matt's unseeing eyes until he had removed the orbs and held them in his hand.
The killer tossed them into the air and caught them, as casually a someone might juggle a couple of walnuts or ping pong balls. Then he laid them carefully on the sofa beside Matt's head.
Although she couldn't tell for certain, Janie sensed that the killer was satisfied. He removed his coat and carefully rolled it up to conceal the bloodstains and his knife. Then he tucked it under his arm and sauntered out of the house. He walked with such casual ease that he might have been nothing more than a guest they had invited to lunch.
When she heard the final latch of the front door closing, Janie's legs collapsed beneath her. She crumpled to the floor, feeling the weakness in the muscles she'd held tense and taut during her husband's murder.
Her husband was dead. Janie knew she should call the police, but for just a moment she sat, savoring the taste of freedom.
CHAPTER 18
NOVEMBER 9 — FRIDAY AFTERNOON
The afternoon sun poured into Herne's kitchen, casting its rays across his ancient dining table and rusting chairs. He stood and faced the cabinets, his eyes boring holes into the door, his mouth dry with thirst. A Marlboro burned down in his left hand, but he ignored the ember that slowly traveled closer to his fingers. Behind the cabine
t door was a bottle of whiskey. And Herne felt its siren call as clearly as he felt the warmth of his cigarette on his skin.
He reached for the cabinet knob and flung open the door, reaching for the bottle like a drowning man grabbing for a life preserver.
Just as Herne's fingers brushed the cool, smooth glass of the bottle, the phone rang.
He stopped, jolted from his actions, and pulled his hand back. Grinning wryly, he ran a hand over his smooth head. Saved by the bell, he thought.
The voice on the other end of the phone was Jeffrey McNeil. Charlotte's former lover.
"I remembered something," McNeil said. "I didn't know if it was important or not, but I thought I'd mention it. Charlotte told me a story once about a boy in high school. She said the other kids used to tease him a lot. She said she always regretted her part in it. I guess he may be an enemy she might have made."
"What was his name?" Herne asked.
"I don't remember," McNeil said. "Or maybe she didn't tell me. It was just one of those things mentioned in passing. It was relevant at the time, I guess, but it was just a casual comment she made."
Pillow talk, Herne thought. "If you remember anything else," he said, "let me know."
As he hung up the phone Herne turned away from the cabinet. The urge for a drink had passed. He had won another battle.
Instead, he poured himself a glass of orange juice as he considered McNeil's statement. Herne knew it was possible the entire thing was a lie. That there was no boy from high school and nothing for Charlotte to regret. Herne knew that McNeil had secrets he wanted to remain hidden. And this little tale of his could be simply a red herring he was dragging across the path to throw Herne off the scent. There were no details to the story. No identifying description. That high school boy could be anyone. Or no one.
Herne gulped his juice, trying to ignore the thirst that remained after his glass was empty.
