Killers Among

by S. E. Green

  Early the next morning I’m up and out, my route planned. I haven’t used my bike in years, but find it with tires filled, chain oiled, and gears in order. Which can only mean Victor’s been keeping it serviced.

  I love my step-dad.

  With my bike loaded in my Jeep, I begin my route five miles down from Fort Hunt with intentions of going ten total. If I haven’t found the location by then, I’ll have to regroup.

  Dressed in long workout pants and a long sleeve hoodie, I enter the bike path and cruise along. The morning sun shines bright on the Potomac and I thank the weather gods for a nice day. Other bikers zoom by me, but I pay them minimal attention as I study the shoreline.

  I stop here and there, climbing off and walking, comparing the surroundings to the sketch.

  Minutes tick into hours and still nothing.

  Eventually, I take a break and eat a power bar. I’ve got about a mile left in my game plan. If this doesn’t pan out, I might have to loop in Reggie. Which I don’t want to do.

  I climb back on my bike and about a half mile down, I turn off into a marina.

  Slowly, I pull through, circling past old boats up on blocks. Toward the end, I discover a boat rental place, closed for the season. I peddle back the other way spying the casino way across the Potomac and on the other side.

  This tiny marina and boatyard sit deserted for the winter, tucked into the shore and hidden in the woods.

  Perfect for murder.

  Getting off my bike, I take out the sketch and turn a slow circle, comparing the details. Those puzzle pieces click in.

  This is the place. I’m sure of it, yet the angle is still a bit off.

  Past the boat rental house and across the marsh sits a path in the woods. I climb back on my bike and peddle around to the path. It cuts through the trees, leading further out into the thickets, going all the way to the end until I can’t go any further.

  And bingo.

  This is it. I hold the sketch up. Yes, this it. This is where it occurred forty years ago. And this is where I’ll be tonight.

  30

  I go throughout the rest of my day eager for the events to come, like a kid waiting on Santa.

  I take my time getting ready, cross-checking my things, working out the scenarios in my mind. I’ll do him right there. I’ll hang him by whatever rope he brings.

  Perfect justice.

  If he’s the man I saw standing on top the fort, he’s average height and weight. And let’s not forget he’s sixty something, possibly seventy years old. If I can’t take down and kill an old guy, then I don’t know what to say.

  This isn’t the business I should be in.

  Dressed in cargo pants and a long sleeve thick black tee, I tuck my usual things down inside the pockets: pepper spray, taser, nylon zip ties, lock picks, duct tape, pocket knife. The full face neoprene mask I slide into my back pocket.

  I arrive plenty early, driving my Jeep back into the trees until it’s hidden from sight.

  When darkness settles in, I climb out and slip the bokken I use in Aikido down its holder strapped to my back. Through the shadows, I take in the trees and the rough cut path leading to the end where the hanging will occur.

  Other than the sound of the casino in the distance, I hear nothing.

  Other than the scent of a nearby dead animal, I smell nothing.

  Other than the moon shadows flicking through the branches, I see nothing.

  Other than the crisp November air, I feel nothing.

  Eight o’clock comes. Nine. Ten. By 10:30 doubt and disappointment have settled in. I’ve miscalculated. Which means somewhere tonight he’s going to get away with another murder.

  I tune in to myself, waiting for that part of me that recognizes evil nearby, and nothing comes.

  My core temp runs hot, but the chill in the air settles into my bones. Not good. I shake out my arms and legs and rotate my neck, warming up.

  Reaching through the open driver’s window, I take the binoculars from the dash and I step from the trees and across the path. I study the calm water glistening by the lights cast from the distant casino. Across the marsh near the boarded-up boat-rental house, something glints in the darkness.

  Squinting my eyes, I stare hard, waiting. And there it is again, a tiny glimmer.

  Lifting the binoculars, I zero in on the area, and all the air rushes from my lungs. It’s a woman hanging from the dock adjacent to the boathouse.

  Shit.

  And by the look of her swaying body and bugged eyes, she’s already dead.

  My teeth grind together. Dammit.

  My binoculars drift past her, looking for a child, and I spy a boy I’d say is about ten or so propped up in a chair, still unconscious. Good. I’ll figure out what to do with him so he doesn’t wake up and see her.

  Through the night, a motor purrs to life and I swerve the binoculars away from the boy in the direction of the sound. Headlights don’t flick on, but a vehicle emerges from between the dry-docked boats.

  It’s him—the Suicide Killer.

  And he has to go right past the entrance to my path on the way out.

  I race back over to my Jeep. I hate leaving the boy but this is the only chance I’ll have to find out who this killer is. I’ll follow the killer back to whatever sewer he crept from, and I’ll take him down. He ends tonight.

  Like him, I leave my lights off and the engine of my Jeep hums low as I drive down the path with trees lining and covering both sides of me. I round the last curve, right as his car rolls past.

  Perfect.

  A beige four-door Corolla. Such a nonthreatening vehicle.

  I try to get a look at his face, but with the dark interior of the car I make out only an outline.

  Allowing him to get several paces ahead, he turns right onto the Parkway and I pull from the path. At this time of night, traffic runs light. He flicks on his lights as his car picks up pace, and I merge to follow.

  He travels a few miles, and I pace at a careful distance. Finally, he exits, weaving his way through Alexandria. He goes through a few lights and eventually pulls into the parking lot of a sprawling two-story building.

  Across the street from the building sits a medical plaza and I pull in there. I grab my binoculars and watch as he circles to park in a spot. Turning off his car, he climbs out, and my pulse inches up as I get my first look at the Suicide Killer.

  And, yes, it’s the same man who was standing on top of the dilapidated fort. Average height, a bit round in the middle, thick flannel jacket, khakis, glasses, and a beanie.

  He locks his driver’s door and walks up a stone path. As he beeps himself in a side door, he takes off his beanie to show a balding gray head.

  I move my binoculars off him and over to the front where a lit up sign sits. It reads AVEDA RETIREMENT LIVING.

  The Suicide Killer lives in a retirement home.

  What the hell?

  31

  Even though the killer beeped himself into the building, I can probably figure a way in too. But that boy back at the marina comes forefront in my brain. It’s more important that I go back and make sure he doesn’t wake to find his mother hanging in front of him.

  From Aveda Retirement Living, I race across town to the small boat yard. But too much time has passed and as I near the entrance, an ambulance cuts past. I’m too late.

  That poor kid.

  I had no choice, though. Leaving the boy was the only way to track the killer.

  And now that I know where he lives, I’m going to figure out who he is.

  …

  As soon as I get back to the dorm, I grab my laptop and find a quiet place in the campus library. I bring up a search on Virginia plates and type the Suicide Killer’s number in. The site kicks back a name.

  Bart Novak.

  Next, I type in and I get back his current address at Aveda Retirement Living. His birthdate puts him at 64 years old. My search also kicks back a degree in Journali
sm.

  Next, I type in and I get several hits for travel writing. I click through a few of the sites. I find a friendly photo of him looking proud to the camera with a tiny and professional smile. I zoom in on his green eyes behind thick glasses, searching, but only a welcoming person peers back, no darkness.

  Scrolling down I read his bio…lived and traveled all over the states, known for his humorous articles on small town living, award-winning, freelance, enjoys all life has to offer, blah, blah, blah.

  Lived all over the States. Killed all over the States. Same thing.

  Next, I type in and I get back nothing. No spouse, no children, no grandchildren. He’s a loner.

  But what about past family? I type in and an obituary pops up. I click on it. It appears to be a Vivian Novak. I read, “Survived by one son, Bartholomew Novak.”

  Bart.

  Next, I type in and I get a link to a fifty-year-old newspaper article. I click on it and a black and white photo of a woman pops up, not smiling and with long brown hair. “Vivian Novak, age 33, found hanging in an apparent suicide,” I read.

  Bingo. I keep scanning the article, passing over the irrelevant information and noting key facts. Over the course of a week, she tried to commit suicide three times. The first she slit her wrists. The second she took a handful of pills. And the third and final time she hung herself.

  Bled out. Overdose. Hanging.

  Bart Novak is recreating his mother’s suicide attempts.

  I backtrack and read more carefully. “Vivian Novak was found all three times by her son, Bart Novak.”

  No wonder he’s emotionally screwed.

  Next, I type in and I get back one hit. I click through and narrow in on the address where the body was found last week with Mom’s degraded DNA. The same address where a suicide/murder occurred forty years ago.

  So fifty years ago on November 10th, Bart finds his mother bleeding out in their home. A few days later he finds her in their car parked not far away in Fort Hunt with a handful of pills in her stomach. Then two days after that, he finds her hanging over near that boatyard.

  Fast forward ten years and he recreates the suicides right in Alexandria where it all began. Except he goes from slit wrists to a slit neck and from a few pills to many. He’s making sure the women die.

  But he couldn’t keep the cycle up in Alexandria and so he moves around—New Orleans, Chicago, Portland, and on and on. His job as a freelance writer allows for that.

  So what has brought him back to Alexandria? The 50th anniversary of his mother’s death? Maybe, but I’m not sure he would chance dots being connected. No, it might be something else.

  So every year in the month of November he does his suicide kills to memorialize his mother. But no one ever makes the connection because they are suicides, not murders. They’re never investigated as a homicide. Add to that the fact they are spread out all over the states and it’s a perfect scenario.

  Yet…where does the kid come in?

  Bart found his mother all three times. He’s recreating it all. He wants other children to find their mothers too. The question is, how does he get so close to the mother and child to pull all this off? Is it the fact he’s a published writer and “trustworthy”?

  Every November and no one has connected the dots.

  My mother did.

  But she couldn’t figure out exactly who he was or predict where he would be next.

  Or she did and was either cautious of him or she saw him as a worthy adversary. Someone to be studied. Not caught.

  Bart won’t kill again until November of next year. He’s done for now.

  This can all be over with as soon as tomorrow. Yet something stops me. Perhaps Bart is the only one who truly knows why Mom’s degraded DNA was found. Possibly Bart and my mother knew each other. Maybe she didn’t see him as a worthy adversary and was indeed fearful of him.

  Going with the fear idea, exactly what about him is so scary?

  I mean, other than the fact he’s the Suicide Killer.

  Sitting back for a second, I close my eyes and I bring up his image as he stepped from his car, a little hunched over, a harmless old man.

  A conversation I had with my mom years ago comes back to me.

  “Are you ever scared of the killers you hunt?” I ask her.

  She pauses, and I get the distinct impression she’s weighing her answer carefully. Like she’s not quite sure if she should or wants to tell me the truth. Then she blows out a breath and says, “There’s only one I’ve ever truly been wary of and he’s never been caught.”

  It’s got to be Bart Novak, and this solidifies my decision. I want to meet him. I want to meet the monster who put such unease into the evil that was my mother.

  32

  The following afternoon I arrive at Aveda Retired Living via public transportation. I walk right up to the front desk, show my fake student ID, and I tell the woman working the counter that I’m a student in the field of social services and would like to volunteer.

  And it’s that easy. Within thirty minutes, I’ve filled out an application, have signed a release form, and am currently in the game room helping to set up Thanksgiving decorations.

  Bart Novak sits over to the right, decorating cookies with a group of elderly people. He’s laughing. They’re laughing. Everyone’s talking. Music plays softly in the background.

  Just a normal old man, decorating cookies and blending in.

  Paige Akins was the name of the woman I was too late to save last night. A single woman in her thirties, survived by one child and an ex-husband. When Bart Novak meets his final end, I’ll list every single name, starting with Paige and moving backward through the years. He’ll know exactly why he’s dying by my hand.

  For now, though, the Suicide Killer is done. He’s retreated to the safety of this façade. His defenses are down. It’s the perfect time to insert myself into his life.

  Climbing down from the step ladder, I take a few fake seconds to admire my decoration expertise of the dancing turkeys dangling from the ceiling. Bart gets up and walks over to the supply table to get more decorations.

  Time to “bump” into him.

  Done with admiring my work, I cross over to the supply table, too, and pretend to put entirely too much consideration into which decoration I want to work with next—the utensils that need rolling into decorative napkins or the ziplock bag full of fake leaves that get stapled to the bulletin board.

  Turning, I smile. “Hi, I’m Maggie Cain. I’m new here.”

  With a smile of his own, Bart holds out his hand. “Bart Novak, nice to meet you.”

  I wave my hand around the facility. “Great place.”

  “It is. Good people.” He makes a selection from the supplies—a tube of white icing—and turns to more fully look at me. Like his photo I saw on the writing website, his expression comes across welcoming. “We don’t get many volunteers your age,” he says.

  “I’m new to the area and looking to stay busy. Fresh start and all of that.”

  “Fresh start?” He chuckles. “You’re too young for fresh starts.”

  I give a small shrug. “I recently suffered a loss and so…there you go.”

  Behind the thick glasses, his deep-set green eyes take on an honest look of empathy as he reaches out and touches my shoulder in this grandfatherly way that takes me off guard. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It was my…” I glance away, working up just enough brave emotion for him to believe. “It was my mother.” Closing my eyes, I give myself a second to fake getting my emotions back into control. And when I look into Bart’s face again, it’s there—the connection I was hoping to establish on this first meet.

  He gives my shoulder another gentle squeeze. “Well, you’ve made a good choice
. Throwing yourself into meaningful work makes everything clearer.”

  Hm, is that how he justifies things? As long as he’s giving back, he can perform his yearly ritual of grieving his mother?

  Well, that’s not interesting at all. That’s just warped.

  33

  On the way back to the dorm, I swing by my home to see how everyone made out on Victor’s impromptu trip.

  I find Daisy and Justin in the kitchen, laughing and making dinner, and I step in. “How’d it go? Everyone have fun?”

  They both glance up—Daisy from mashing potatoes and Justin from slicing tomatoes—and their smiles fade when they see me.

  “Fine,” Daisy says.

  “What she said,” echoes Justin.

  I look between them, sensing the chill. When did I become the bad guy here? What, because I ratted Justin out to Victor, I’m on the outs? And what’s up with Daisy? This can’t be about me taking her to see that house. Is she mad at me about Justin, too?

  Daisy grinds salt and pepper over the potatoes. “If you’re here for dinner, we’ll need to figure something out. We didn’t make enough.”

  I get it. Loud and clear. They’d rather I not be here. Fine. Join the club. Tommy’s not talking to me and now neither are my siblings. But at least my brother and sister have to forgive me at some point. It’s sort of required—being blood-related and all.

  Right?

  How is it I can exact justice and experience no regret, but disappointing my family makes me feel like scum?

  I glance one last time at Daisy to see her focused across the great room and over to the muted TV. News crews surround the small marina and boatyard where Paige Akins was found hung last night. A ticker tape along the bottom runs details of the apparent suicide.

  The TV flicks off and I glance over to see Daisy pointing the remote at it. She’s tired of death. I get it. Believe me.

  It’s going to be okay, I want to tell her. I’m going to bring the person who did this to my kind of justice.