by S. E. Green
No, I don’t think so. Victor rarely brings his work home.
The word SUICIDE? draws my attention over to the wall to read notes in Victor’s writing:
DNA profile from hair strand (a link between all three suicides) points toward Caucasian of northern European descent. Same killer Suzie and Marji witnessed? If so, approximate age would be 60 to 70 years old. Why is the killer back and where has he been?
He’s been all over, killing in his evil cycle of suicides.
I shift away from those notes to look at the next set.
THE DECAPITATOR.
My breath hitches.
“Shit.” Victor isn’t researching the killers Mom caught, he’s researching her.
47
As I drive back to the dorms, I don’t think about what I just saw in Victor’s office. Short of torching the place, there’s not a whole lot I can do. And frankly, if he finds out Mom was a serial killer, it’ll be a relief. I’ll have someone else to share that burden with.
No, I don’t think about that. For some reason, I do think about the man I accidentally killed several months back. He was the brother to my friend, Adam, and the son of the D. A.
I made a mistake in killing him. Mistakes happen. Granted, Adam’s brother wasn’t so innocent. He seduced many of his high school students and filmed them having sex. Granted the girls were willingly participating, but still.
Then why I am thinking about it right now?
Perhaps because Professor Kane Gregg got off on exploiting girls, too. Or perhaps because of the female social worker that Tommy and the BDAP recently took care of. Or, hell, maybe even because of the pedophile I served up justice to several months back.
They’re all linked with exploitation and manipulation of others.
But Adam’s brother wasn’t a killer. He didn’t deserve to die. He deserved justice more like what I did with Professor Kane Gregg.
Yet I accidentally killed Adam’s brother and now I’m…uneasy. I want to take comfort that justice was served up, but I can’t. It was the wrong type of justice.
Bart Novak is the right kind of justice and who I should be focused on. The Suicide Killer of single moms, dating back forty years. The first woman dies by cutting herself, the second an overdose, and the third a hanging. That’s the pattern—done every November to mourn his mother’s passing. Never linked because they are suicides. Yet this time he made sure to leave a strand of hair visible on each body. He wants the suicides connected.
Is he done?
Enough with this. It’s time to finally take care of Bart Novak. There’s no question of his guilt, and I need certainty right now. It’ll get me back on track. It’ll put an end to the last cycle that is my mother.
48
The next day I arrive at Aveda Retirement Home to find Bart outside stringing up holiday lights. He offers me a bright smile. “Hi, Maggie. Didn’t think you were on the schedule today.”
So, he’s looking at my schedule. Interesting.
Hiking my book bag over my shoulder, I smile right back. “I’m not, but I wanted to see how you’re doing after the squirrel.”
“Oh, aren’t you sweet.” He loops a light string around a lamp post. “No need to dwell. I’ve put it out of my mind already.”
He glimpses beyond me to where a maintenance man clips a bush. “No, no, no.” Bart slides past me, grabbing the clippers from the man’s hand. “Like this at the stem. You’re taking too much off.”
“Got it,” the man says.
“Well, if you’ve got it, then why do I have to keep showing you?” Bart slaps the clippers back into the man’s gloved hand and nods him to continue.
You’d think Bart owns the place with the way he orders people around.
Holleen, the desk clerk, steps out the front door, catches sight of us, and jogs over. She hands Bart car keys and a credit card. “Your car is gassed and ready.”
He pockets the keys and the card. “Where’s my receipt?”
She cringes. “Oops, forgot that. You can just look on your credit card statement, though.” She grins, all helpful.
His jaw muscles flex. “Next time get a receipt.”
Her grin slides away.
Bart turns back to his string of lights, and quietly, Holleen makes her way back inside.
I ask, “Going somewhere?”
“Yes, just to the other side of town. I have a few things to take care of.”
Other side of town. Few things to take care of. Nice vague answers. Answers I tend to give when asked. Which makes me think…is this Suicide Killer type stuff? Is this part of the ritual? Does he revisit the suicide scenes?
Whatever it is, I need to come up with a reason to go with him, because this might be the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. The window needed to take care of him, for good. But what does one use for a last minute kill? I’ll have to improvise. I do have a few supplies in my book bag…
The maintenance man’s phone rings. As he answers it, he walks around the side of the building for privacy, leaving me and Bart alone.
Perfect.
Stepping back, Bart surveys his work with the light string and apparently pleased, he pulls the keys back out of his flannel jacket and turns toward the parking lot.
A quick look in the maintenance man’s direction shows him out of sight. Yes, perfect. No one will see me leave with Bart.
I step up beside him. “Mind if I tag along?”
He keeps walking. “I’m sorry, not this time.”
“Please?”
Bart stops walking and turns to look at me.
“I like being with you. You remind me of my grandfather. He was a lot like you. He always had a purpose. Focus. Certainty. A generosity of spirit. Just like you.”
Pushing his thick glasses up his nose, he sighs, a bit annoyed, but moving closer to relenting. “Don’t you have any friends?”
“No.”
“Alright.” He nods to his car. “Come on.”
I let him see all the relief in my face. “Thank you.”
As I climb in, I look toward Aveda Home, double checking that no one saw us leave together. And if by chance someone did, that’s okay. They know me as Maggie Cain, not Lane Cameron.
Bart Novak drives off, weaving his way through Alexandria, and eventually getting onto 495. I’m wrong. He’s not revisiting the suicide scenes. He would have stayed in Alexandria for that.
He heads north. One exit goes by, and another, then another. The further we go away, the more a cloud lifts in anticipation of how this trip will end. I don’t know all the ins and outs yet, but spontaneity can be good.
Interesting. Intriguing.
“So where we headed?” I ask.
“North.”
With a chuckle, I point to the interstate sign. “495 north. That’s evident.”
He doesn’t respond.
“I heard you haven’t lived at Aveda for long. Move around a lot?”
“Here and there.”
“Well, Aveda is a retirement home and so I guess you’re here to stay. What are you retiring from?” I mean, other than killing. “Aren’t you a writer?”
As a response, he grunts.
“So how do you like living at Aveda?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
He slides me an annoyed look. “I’m not in the mood for questions.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, all pathetic.
“Do I really remind you of your grandfather?”
“Yes, you do. He died a few years back.”
“So no mother and no grandfather,” he says.
“I guess that’s why I feel such a connection to you.”
“Because I remind you of your grandfather.”
“Well, and…”
His brows lift. “And?”
I sigh. “I guess I’m not brave enough to say.”
“How am I supposed to communicate with you if you don’t talk to me? You asked to come with me. Gen
erosity of spirit. Purpose. Focus. Certainty. Those are all the things you said just moments ago.”
“Okay, fine. I feel a connection because both of our mothers are dead. Except…” I pause for dramatic effect, hoping I’m not taking this conversation too far, but also very curious of his response.
Bart veers north again. “Except?”
I don’t respond.
He lets out an agitated sigh. “How about I exit and drop you off to fend for yourself? Because clearly, you don’t want—”
“I lied to you. My mom didn’t die of natural causes. She…she committed suicide.”
Silence.
He looks at me. He looks at the road. His knuckles tighten around the wheel. “What happened?”
“I found her. She’d swallowed a stomach full of pills.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Still, it’s left me with this feeling.” I press a hand to my stomach. “I’m gutted from it.”
He veers, circling back around the 495 loop. “It’s a hard thing to bear. And now your conscience eats away at you with the ‘what if’s’ and the ‘why nots’.”
“Yes.” Is he going to tell me his mother committed suicide too?
“What you just did, telling me, is huge. It’s good for the soul to talk about things.”
Is it? Because I prefer not to talk. Maybe that means I have no soul.
“And you volunteering like you do at Aveda? That helps you score points with God.”
I’ll score more points if I rid the world of you, Mr. Novak. But I can’t do anything if we don’t get out of this car. I look around the interstate. Yep, we’re circling back. Mentally, I catalog the items in my book bag: pepper spray, zip ties, taser, pocket knife, small screwdriver, lock picks, duct tape.
Not exactly what a girl might carry, but also not items to raise too much suspicion should the items be found. It’s not how I ultimately want to do Mr. Novak, but again, improvising here. I don’t want to miss a valuable opportunity.
He turns on his blinker, exiting right back into Alexandria. “I have a little surprise for you.”
“I don’t really like surprises.”
“Yes, but this one will make you feel better.”
My feet shift, tucking the book bag in closer. My items are tucked in the front pocket. Easy access.
“In fact—” He takes a deep breath in and blows it back out—“I’m lighter just thinking about it.” He bounces his shoulders, all happy now. “Almost there.”
First, he’s jumping down everyone’s throats and now he’s happy. Or emotionally crumbling. It goes either way.
He turns another blinker on and excited murmurs pulse through my veins. We’re almost to our destination.
Bart slows and parallel parks along the curb. He cuts the engine, reaches under his seat for a leather zipper pouch similar to a shaving kit, and climbs out. Grabbing my backpack, I follow. If he thinks it’s odd I’m carrying a book bag, he doesn’t say. Just like I don’t mention the leather zipper pouch.
He comes to a stop in the dry front yard and stares at the small brick home where the first suicide/murder occurred. “I grew up here,” he says.
He’s done a lot more here than just grow up.
“Actually, I own it.”
Well, that’s something Reggie missed in her cyber digging.
“My tenant recently died,” he says. “Very sad. She was a single mom. Committed suicide.” Bart steps across the yard and up the few steps to the front door. “I’ve been wanting to come here since it happened but I haven’t had a chance.” Using his key, he unlocks the door and steps inside.
I follow.
The smell of a stuffy and closed up home sifts through my senses with an underlying twang of cleaner. Winter light filters in from the partially closed blinds and provides the only light.
A hallway leads to what I assume must be the bedrooms, but he walks left into a small living room where the woman’s body was found. Whoever cleaned the place did a great job. Other than a freshly scrubbed wood floor, no evidence of the kill exists.
Bart points to an archway that leads into a small kitchen. “Mom used to stand with her shoulder propped in that archway and watch me play here on a throw rug that used to cover this floor.”
“Sounds like a good memory,” I say, turning a slow circle, looking for the closet where my mother hid.
“This is where I found her.” He points directly down from where he stands. “The first time.”
Right next to the front door sits a closet where Mom hid. It’s a direct shot into the living room. She saw everything that happened as it was occurring. Then Marji woke up and found her mother. She joined Mom in that closet.
“Found who?” I ask, though of course I already know.
He points as he talks. “I came in the back door, crossed through the kitchen, walked under that archway, and found my mother laying right here. She had slit both of her wrists and was bleeding out. Right here where I used to play. I startled her. She didn’t think I was coming home so soon. She begged me to let her go and I didn’t listen. I saved her life. There was so much blood. She blamed me. Because of me, she was still here.”
Something vulnerable flashes in his eyes. “She became a ghost after that, and I became obsessed with following her. I knew she would try again. And she did. Three days later she drove to a park a few miles from here and she swallowed a bunch of pills. Just like your mom did. But like the first time, I saved her again.”
Bart pulls in a breath, flinching like it’s uncomfortable to breathe. “She hated me even more for that time and became violent with me, screaming, hitting me, calling me names. I didn’t recognize her. I knew she needed help. I was only fourteen and didn’t know what to do.”
“What about your father?” I quietly ask.
“Never knew him. It was just me and Mother. The pills—that was the second time. Then two nights later she snuck out of the house and as usual, I followed. But I was on my bike and she in her car. It was too late. I found her hanging from a tree down by the Potomac.”
He lifts an intense, yet relieved face. “I’ve never told anyone the whole story until now. I wanted you to know that you’re not alone with your grief. I see a lot of me in you.”
This is not good.
He steps forward. “You and I, we share a common tragedy. Do you see? It allows us to speak the truth.” Through his nose, he inhales, and after he blows it out, relief curls his lips. “Confession really is good. It unburdens the soul. What a revelation. Thanks to you.”
Um…
Bart keeps looking at me, just a foot or so between us like he’s waiting on me to say something. Though I have no clue what.
His relief falters. “You need to shed your remorse. We both do.”
“And…and how do we do that?”
“There’s only one way.” He lifts the leather zipper pouch and every nerve in my body goes on full alert. What the hell is he doing? “It’s time to finally complete the circle. I’ve been waiting for a sign. You’re the sign.”
He unzips the pouch and folds it open. Inside lays a scalpel, a bottle of pills, a thin rope already tied into a noose, and a lock of his mother’s hair.
My entire body freezes. “What are you doing?”
Bart slides the scalpel free. “This is how I die. It’s meant to be. Full circle.” He nods to the pills. “And those are for you to complete your own circle.”
He’s making a suicide pact with me. No more remorse. Confession. Grief. He’s saying goodbye. This is it. This is why he left those strands of hair. He knew he would be killing himself and wanted everything connected. This man is going to die and then the cops will figure the whole thing out.
I could agree to this, fake taking the pills all while watching him slice his neck. He’ll bleed out. He’ll be dead. The world will be free of this madman.
It’s not how I envisioned this going down, but it’s there.
Yet somehow I find myself putting
my book bag down and stepping closer toward him. Carefully, I take the scalpel from his hand and zip the pouch back up. “Not like this. The solution to your remorse is not suicide. There is no circle to complete. This is not how you unburden yourself.”
There is no circle to complete. I should listen to my own words.
His deep-set green eyes fill with grateful tears. “I thought I was meant to guide you, but I just realized that you’re meant to guide me. Our paths have crossed for a reason. Just like I saved my mother, you’ve saved me.” Taking my hand is his damp one, he squeezes it hard. “Thank you.”
What am I doing? Why am I saving this man?
He chuckles. “I’m embarrassed. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell anyone back at Aveda about this. Our secret?”
More like my mistake because I’m already regretting it. “Sure, Bart.”
He smiles, now at peace.
I frown, anything but.
Together we walk from the house, and as we cross the front yard back to his car, the hair on my neck shifts to stand. I search the old neighborhood.
There a few blocks down sits Mom’s Lexus that Daisy now drives. I didn’t see it when we first arrived. She must have pulled up while we were inside.
Some subscribe to the saying “Everything happens for a reason”. I’ve never once. I’m more of a “You make shit happen” type of thinker.
But stopping Bart from ending his life? That happened for a reason.
And Daisy is that reason.
49
Bart and I drive back to Aveda, him chatting the whole way and me silent—opposite of how we were when we started this journey.
He came back here to Alexandria to complete the fifty-year cycle. He left his mother’s hair in memoriam because he had no intention of living any longer. He didn’t care if the cops figured things out. He knew he was leaving this world.
He’s still leaving this world, but it’ll be by my hand.
Not by his. Mine.
Bart and I arrive at Aveda, and he’s still chatting away. “How about a game of Tri-Onimoes? You ever played? It’s very fun!”
