by Jay Sigler
Chapter 20
I hustled back to the train station, stopping for a bottle of Stoli along the way. On the train home, I celebrated my newly found information by drinking it. Despite my decent buzz, the ride still took forever, and each passing minute felt like an hour. My mind raced as a plan clicked into place with minimal effort. I would go to the village hall to find out his address. Then I would stake him out like they do on television. Then the man that had killed my wife and my friends would pay with his life.
The train finally pulled into the station after what felt like six days, but was really only two hours. The water tower the receptionist had mentioned was only one town away from the station, so my next stop would be the village hall. The task of getting his address was not nearly as difficult as I had thought. I had an elaborate scheme all planned, where I would say I had the same name but lived in a different town. I was going to say that I had been getting his mail and wanted to bring it to him before the bills became past due. But when I gave the lady behind the desk the name Dr. Griffin, she looked up the information in her computer before I had a chance to get into my story. She wrote his street address on the back of an envelope and slid it across the desk to me. That was a benefit of living within a group of small towns – no one ever expected any foul play.
I drove to his house. I had a few hours before he would be home from work and I wanted to find out more about him. I turned into the driveway of a ranch-style house in what seemed to be the older part of town. Tall trees covered the entire house in shade. The lack of sun explained why the lawn was spotted with crabgrass growing in hard packed dirt. The dark brown stained siding of the house was riddled with gaping holes where hunks of wood had been ripped out from years of wear. Overgrown bushes prevented a clear passage to the front door, but I somehow managed. The front porch was covered in dirt and dead leaves. I had expected more from a rich dentist.
I peered through the fogged glass in the front door. For such a humble exterior, the inside of the house did actually seem like a rich dentist lived there. Hardwood floors lead the way to an immaculate furniture set that was far from anything bought at IKEA. Shawn’s furniture looked as though a forest had been chopped down and carved into pieces by Mongolian monks. Just past the living room, I could see a gigantic television surrounded by a multitude of black boxes. I assumed they were a DVD player, surround sound, a cable box, some sort of video game system, and who knows what else. This fucker had everything, and because of him, I had nothing. I fought the urge to break in and destroy everything he had, just as he had destroyed everything I had. But that wouldn’t have been close to good enough for me. I needed more. So I simply took advantage of the privacy shrubbery and pissed on his doorknob.
Chapter 21
The weekend was spent drinking, planning, and drinking more. A morbid excitement came over me that I had not expected. I was actually looking forward to this. Ideas spun through my head as fast as the alcohol spun through my veins. I thought about staging a robbery at his place. Breaking in and ending it right then and there. Another tragic victim of today’s godless society. However, the more I thought about it, the plan left too many unanswered questions and would result in an investigation that could possibly end on my doorstep. Also, it was far too lenient a plan for what he did to me. I wanted him to suffer at my hands. And I wanted him to know it was me. I finally decided on doing it here, at my house. It was the place he had killed Vicky and I knew he had been back at least one time to put that bag on my window ledge. My paranoia was justified. Each and every bump in the night was him, watching me, fucking with me, seeing the result of his dirty deeds. I would wait for him to show up again and then I would have him. That was step one. I would deal with step two when the time came. I went to work on Monday with some sense of relief, or at least some sense of direction.
“Hey, how are things going?” Julie asked. Her good intended interest in me had gone well past annoying.
“Okay, I suppose,” I said, trying to give her the most I’m-really-really-busy look I could give. It wasn’t hard since my work had been piling up for weeks and I was really-really-busy.
“I just wanted to see if you found those friends you were looking for. You know, from your past.”
It took me a moment to remember. “Oh yeah, not yet, but I definitely made some promising phone calls and am waiting for them to call back.” Hoping she just wanted a fix of praise before leaving, I added, “Thanks so much for your help. I owe it all to you.”
“Oh, not a problem at all. I'm glad I was able to help.”
She lingered. There was more coming.
“Hey, I had another question. Do you want to come over after work for dinner sometime? We've both been pretty worried about you spending so much time alone.”
I totally blanked on her fiancé’s name despite her telling me five million times before. “I appreciate your… both of your concern. But I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make it,” I replied, hoping that would be the end of it.
“But I didn’t even ask about a day or time… How could you tell me no if you don’t even know the date and time?” She was really trying my patience.
“I'm just very busy this whole week with all of the work I’ve been missing,” I said, still trying to be as nice as I could. What didn’t she get? I felt panic and anxiety start to set in again. The walls were closing in and it was like she had become a fifty-foot giant in the room, smothering me, not letting me breathe, not letting me move. What did she want from me? I needed her away from me.
“If during the week’s no good, how about on the weekend? We really wouldn’t mind hav-”
“Fine,” I interrupted, not caring what she suggested, just trying to get her the hell away from me, to give myself some space so I could breathe again. “How about this Friday?” I blurted out without really thinking about what it meant. I think I meant to say, “Shut the fuck up bitch, you are so goddamn annoying with your pretend concern, built up to make yourself feel better about helping someone,” but it came out wrong. I just wanted to shut her up.
“That would be great! Pete and I would be so delighted,” she exclaimed without giving me a second to think about what I had actually said.
I paused. “Who’s Pete?” I asked. What the fuck was I doing? My mind stalled. For a second I thought that might be Shawn’s real name. I should have looked that up.
“He’s… my fiancé. You knew that.” Her eyebrows pulled together.
“Right. Sorry, Pete, right. I thought you said something else.” What just happened? What the hell was wrong with me?
“Okay, so what time do you want to come over?”
Fuck. I wouldn’t be able to watch out for Shawn if I was in the city at Julie’s. “I have a better idea,” I started, as I saw the only way to salvage anything from this situation. “How about you and… um... Pete come over to my place for dinner? You’ve been so… uh… helpful through this trying time that it would be the least I could do to repay you.” This would at least allow me to keep an eye on the house in case Shawn showed up.
“I think that would be alright as long as it’s not a problem for you.”
“Not at all. Around seven o’clock?” I smiled as best I could, but I actually felt like pushing her out through the doorway. And by doorway, I meant window.
“That would be fine. Need us to bring anything?”
“Nope. I’ll have it all taken care of.” There was an awkward pause as we were both out of things to say, staring at each other. “Well…” I nodded at the ever-increasing pile of papers on my desk.
“Oh, sure, sure. See you Friday!” She turned around and walked out of my office.
I leaned back in my chair and looked up into the fluorescent sea of no answers. I kept telling myself that I would at least be around in case Shawn made an appearance.
I got home that night and started cleaning. Because of my poorly thought out suggestion during my little panic attack, I now had four days to get my place looki
ng decent. At the present, it was literally a garbage dump. Empty bottles of vodka, cups, plates, clothes, and garbage lined the floors, wall to wall. At some point during my nights of binging, I’d resorted to throwing the empties anywhere. I didn’t care as long as I could sleep without dreaming; as long as I could sleep, period.
I found bottles behind the couch, under the kitchen table, and even a Grey Goose liter in the oven. I vaguely remembered that night. I had put it in the oven to hide it from Shawn, whom I was convinced was in my house that night. I had heard noises coming from upstairs; his voice whispering, threatening me. After I had hidden the bottle, I tore my place apart armed with a baseball bat, hitting anything I thought moved. I finally climbed out onto the little terrace attached to the guest bedroom and sat there in silence, figuring he would never find me out there. I had woken up freezing on that terrace.
After most of the bottles and trash had been picked up, I decided that was enough for one night. I still had three more days. I decided to eat dinner and then wait for Shawn. I had a feeling that he might show up tonight. I left the television off so that I would be able to hear him sneaking around, certain that he would show up at any minute. I sat under the kitchen’s solitary light bulb, illuminating only the table and the plate I had set on it. The rest of the house was dark. I sat. I ate. I drank. I listened. When I was done eating, I cleaned up and sat some more. And drank some more. There was no sound anywhere, inside or outside.
Then I heard it. A single floorboard creaked under what could only be the weight of someone taking a step. Snapping out of a memory of our honeymoon in Mexico, my heart raced and my palms went sweaty. The noise came from upstairs. I grabbed the largest knife I could from the knife block on the counter and tiptoed to the foyer stairs as silent as a cat. How did he get in the house and upstairs without making any noise? He must have gotten in while I was thinking about Vicky. I stood at the bottom landing for an eternity, listening for another step. I heard nothing. No creaks, no squeaks, no Shawn. In the stillness of the foyer, I was certain it was him and that he had somehow sneaked back out. I went upstairs to find some sort of evidence that he had been there. Each step sent pulses of adrenaline through my veins. There was nothing. I spent the rest of the night on the stairs, knife in hand, listening. That’s where I woke up the next morning.
Chapter 22
Neil had regressed from looking merely lonely to utterly abandoned. He sat in his usual seat with his arms crossed in front of his chest, looking out the window. I wanted to tell him that soon the loss of his friends would be avenged. But I couldn’t tell him what I was planning to do. I couldn’t tell anyone. The rest of the train ride was uneventful. I was half looking around for Shawn, almost expecting him to show his face. He didn’t.
Work had slipped into an uninterrupted rhythm. It seems that my invitation to have Julie and whatshisname over for dinner had earned me the rest of the week without her pestering. I was almost able to get caught up on all of my work. Equation after equation resolved itself on the papers in front me. X equals 15 apples in a barrel, X equals 147 turns of a clock’s key before breaking it, X equals 3 minutes the average chicken can stay in flight. Before I knew it, it was already fifteen minutes past the time I needed to leave in order to catch my regular train back home. I sat back in my chair and rubbed my eyes. Resting for just a few minutes more, I eventually summoned up the energy to stand up, grab my coat, and leave. I couldn’t afford to take a later train with all the cleaning I had to do.
When I boarded the train for the ride home, there was only one seat left on the upper level and it was in the half of the row that faced towards the center aisle. I was going to be stuck across from another person, having to acknowledge their existence. And as it turned out, it was a person I already knew. Shawn. I couldn’t believe it. He was sitting directly across from me and obviously ignoring me. His black Converse shoes rested against the guard rail that prevented passengers from falling onto the seats below. His long black trench coat was wrapped tightly around him and his black hat was pulled down over his eyes. He didn’t want to face me. But at this point I knew better. He knew what car I sat in. He knew I sat in the top row. He was fucking with me. He had been in my house last night and was now sitting across from me in order to rub it in.
It took everything I had to refrain from jumping to the other side of the train and ending it there. I needed to be more discreet than that. I spent the entire ride with my anger and hatred building. My next step mapped itself out in my mind. I originally wanted to hurt him, but this son of a bitch deserved worse. My life had become so numb from all of the pain, suffering, and alcohol that the word “murder” didn’t even have a sense of finality to it anymore. Killing Shawn would be just another something to do, another life lesson shown on my very own television show. The only satisfaction would be in knowing that he couldn’t hurt anyone else the way he hurt me.
I had a brief inclination that I was crossing a line somewhere. Did I really have what was needed to take a life? To do something that could never be taken back? I thought of my Vicky nailed to the floor, soaking in her own blood.
Yes, I did. I had what it took to do it.
I would dedicate the rest of my pathetic life to killing Shawn. And it would be soon.
I decided to follow him home. I’d had enough of waiting for him to come to me; it was bullshit. I was going to end this, end him.
When he stepped off the train, I made sure to mark which car he walked to. It was nothing spectacular; an old, beat up silver Oldsmobile. The body of the car was rusting around the wheels. As the door was opened to capacity, it creaked until there was a plastic-on-metal snap. Not the type of car I expected a dentist to drive but easy enough to follow. Although I already knew where he lived, I followed his car in case he didn’t go straight home. And he didn’t. He made a stop at the grocery store. I followed him inside, making sure I was at least fifty or so steps behind him, ready to jump into the closest aisle should he turn around. Someone crafty enough to get away with five murders might realize that he was being followed.
He didn’t appear to buy anything of any significance; some pasta noodles and a bottle of wine. Following him into the liquor department, I was a kid in a candy store. I picked up a bottle of Stoli to kill time in the car while I watched Shawn’s house that night. He didn’t appear to see me, even when I used the self-checkout kiosk right next to him. I followed him to the parking lot and then back to his house.
Shawn’s life seemed as lonely as mine, minus the microwave dinners. I sat with my vodka outside, watching him through his kitchen window. Instead of turning on the television, he flipped on his giant expensive stereo system and played a CD. It was Beethoven or Mozart, I couldn’t tell for sure. I saw a gentleman with white hair playing piano on the CD case that he tossed onto the couch like a Frisbee. Soon Shawn would be dead, just like that composer.
Each step he took in his house radiated hate through my veins. There he was, alive and well, content with his life after killing my wife and those people from the train. The only thing keeping me somewhat calm was the constant intake of alcohol. Each time I got the feeling that I wanted to rush in and tackle him, I took a drink.
I started wondering why he did it, how he did it, and what he did with the bodies. Vicky’s was obvious. He left her pinned to my kitchen floor. But what about the others? Though sometimes blurred, there was still a line between my dreams and reality. I knew what he’d done in my dreams but what did he do in real life? Where were the bodies? If he had left them all pinned to their respective floors, it would have been all over the news. And I’d heard nothing.
I snapped back to the present and didn’t see Shawn any more. He couldn’t have gone far, judging by the noodles boiling in a pot and an empty skillet heating up on the burner next to it. I spun around quickly, suddenly convinced that he was sneaking up on me. But there was no one behind me.
Then I saw him. He walked back into view, through a door just past the kitchen.
At first glance, I thought the door had opened to a pantry but now I saw that it actually lead to a basement.
He carried a pile of red meat on a plate. The meat was covered with plastic wrap and it looked frosted over, as if he had just pulled it out of a freezer. The entire ensemble looked homemade. I had heard of people buying meat in bulk to save money and then separating it into smaller servings at home.
Trying to hold the plate steady while he removed his shoes, he used the toe of his right shoe to push down the heel of his left one. He almost lost his balance. As he steadied himself, a stringy vein slipped out from beneath the plastic wrap and dripped a single drop of blood onto his bare white sock. The last time I’d seen blood on a sock was when I had found Vicky’s body. I focused solely on the single red blemish soaking into his sock, lost in a memory.
He took off the other shoe and crossed the floor to the stove. He unwrapped the plastic and scraped the meat into the hot skillet. The sizzling and popping of the fat turned my stomach as I thought of Sheila in the cave. Was that the answer to what he did with the bodies? Controlling my gag reflex, I theorized what had really happened to the people from the train; how he was getting rid of the evidence. Was that even possible? I thought about the blood dripping from the vein. Meat bought in bulk doesn’t have any veins. For the sake of my train friends’ families, I hoped I was wrong. Bon appetit. The ground rushed up at me and I fainted.
When I came to, I figured I had only been out about ten to twenty minutes since Shawn was sitting at his kitchen table eating. With each bite he took, that dry, gagging feeling resonated against the back of my throat. Images of what he did to Vicky flashed through my mind. Her mutilated neck and her hands nailed to the floor. I watched him as he washed down a mouthful with a sip of wine and a smile. I was filled with a rage that all the Stoli in the world wouldn’t fix.
