by S. E. Green
“Lane, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?” Her voice breaks. “Are you okay?”
“I am absolutely fine. I promise you. You know me. I would not be calling you like this if it wasn’t important.”
More silence goes by. “Dad can help.”
“No, Daisy. You can’t tell him. Please just do as I ask. I will tell you everything after the weekend. I promise.”
Yet more silence. “Will you text me? I need to know you’re okay.”
“I will. I’ll text every two hours.”
“You promise?”
“Yes, I do. And if you don’t get a text from me, you can tell Dad. I just need the weekend. Then all will be okay. I’m trusting you with this, Daisy.”
“Okay,” she finally says. “I’ll do it. But I swear, Lane, if I don’t get a text from you every two hours, I’m telling Dad.”
“Deal.” I go to hang up when her voice filters back through the speaker.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she says. “You want me to do this for you, then you tell me something I don’t already know.”
Tommy said a similar thing to me in the weeks following his discovery that I was related to the killer of his sister. And so I tell Daisy what I told Tommy. “When I was three I was kidnapped by The Decapitator. I was found in a house in Herndon, mute, sitting on a blood-soaked bed, holding the hand of a woman that The Decapitator had mutilated.”
Daisy gasps. “Oh my God. Lane…”
“It’s okay. I’ve known a while now and have dealt with it.”
“Did Mom know? Does Dad? Jesus, this is a lot to take in.”
“Mom knew and though Dad has never said, I assume so. They were married when it happened. Dad probably holds out hope that I carry no memories of it. He’s just trying to protect me.” I follow that with, “Explains a lot about me, huh?”
“That’s not funny. You turned out really damn well and don’t ever question that. You hear me, big sister?”
A smile works its way into my lips. “I hear you.”
She blows out a breath. “Now what the hell am I supposed to do with all of that?”
“You keep it to yourself and you get Dad and Justin out of town. I’ll text every two hours. I promise.”
“I love you, Lane. Without you, I don’t know what I would do. I can’t lose you.”
“You won’t.”
“You have your demons, we both do, but we don’t have to be a slave to them.”
My sister, the wise one. “I wish that were true.”
“It is. We wouldn’t be who we are without each other. You’ve supported me and taught me how to have confidence. We are the constant good things in each other’s lives. Always remember that,” she says. “You can conquer whatever darkness those demons bring.”
“Then that goes for you, too. I love you, Daisy. I’ve got to go. Every two hours. I promise.” I hang up, feeling lighter than I have in quite a while. I was right to share that with Daisy, and she accepted it as I always hoped she would.
She’ll get Victor and Justin out of town. She won’t let me down.
My family is in this mess because of Bart Novak.
Wrong. They’re in this mess because of me. I should have taken care of him when I had a chance.
If Victor gets involved, the FBI will eventually find Bart. But I don’t want that. I have to be the one to end this. I have to know he’s gone forever. For my family. For me.
I wasn’t thinking clearly before. I got sidetracked. Because of my mother’s connection to all of this. Even dead, she’s controlling my life. But it is my life, like it or not.
Yes, I am in control. Not Bart. Not my evil family legacy.
I am.
Sometimes, though, I’m just going along and everything makes sense and then this darkness creeps in and takes over. It makes me both focused and irrational at the same time.
How is that even possible?
58
As I’m putting my Jeep in gear, about to drive from the student lot, I remember the burner phone. I fish it out of my backpack and the second I plug it in to charge, the phone chimes with an email to the fake Maggie Cain account that I set up. I put the Jeep back in park and pull it up.
It’s from Holleen, time-stamped last night. Given that she’s dead, she either put a delayed delivery on this or my damn phone battery died.
I touch my finger to the flag and find no message, only an audio file attached. I press play.
“Daddy! What are you doing?”
“I need whatever you’ve got. Jewelry, cash, anything of value.”
“What’s going on?”
“Now, Holleen. Now!” He snaps.
Rustling filters through the speakers as Holleen gathers whatever she can find. Where are they? Her house?
“Give me that ring,” he orders.
“Ow!” She yelps. “Stop pulling on me. No, this belonged to Momma.”
“I don’t care. This is it? Stop pretending you don’t have things. I need more. How much do you have in the bank?”
“Daddy, just tell me what’s happening?”
A slap resonates through the speakers and I cringe. “Do not ever question me!” Bart yells. “Someone very bad is after me.”
Holleen cries. “Where are you going?”
“To take care of my problem.” Something rattles. “Here.”
“What are these?”
“Pills to take care of your problem. I said the world would be better off without you, and I meant it.”
The sound of a door slamming echoes through the speaker followed by Holleen’s voice, “Maggie, this is Holleen. He’s coming for you. Run. Do you hear me? Run!”
The audio file clicks off and I release a breath. She went to Aveda after this, let herself into his room, and took the pills. Perhaps she wanted to die surrounded by his things. Or she hoped he would find her. Who knows? But goddamn it, if I’d only received this last night I would have stopped her before she took those pills.
I throw the phone down and put my Jeep in reverse. Bart abandoned her, but the damage was already done. He’d crawled so far inside of her head there was no going back. He killed his own daughter and so many others.
I would never abandon my family.
But is that ultimately how to save them? Is leaving them better than staying? Are they safer with me out of their lives?
Because of me a very dangerous man now knows I have a family. If he knows my name, then he knows theirs, too. Sooner or later history will repeat and another madman will threaten my family. They will eventually pay for who I’ve become. I always thought they’d eventually pay for Mom’s real identity, but it’ll be me. It won’t be her that they have branded across their forehead, it’ll be me.
Lane, the killer.
We are the constant good things in each other’s lives.
No one, especially Holleen, can say that about Bart. So maybe I’m wrong. Things might turn out differently for me and my family.
For now, though, they are safe and I’m pretty damn sure where Bart is headed.
59
When comfortable, Bart Novak is a creature of habit. When backed into a corner, he’s a feral cat on the attack.
He won’t leave this area without loose ends tied, knotted, and burned.
And I’m a loose end that has backed him into one hell of a corner. He told Holleen he was going to “take care of a problem”. Clearly, I am that problem.
Then he’ll be leaving town with all the things he pillaged from his daughter.
Or at least that’s what he thinks.
With my fingers twined tight around the wheel, I drive. I had a whole lot of fun with the animal control pole I used months ago on Mr. Oily Nose, the pedophile. But I promised myself I would use Bart’s method. He needs to experience what he does to others.
Something icy pokes around in my guts, like prodding fingers urging me toward this wonderful ending. I should have listened to that prodding earlier.
&nb
sp; As I near our neighborhood, my breath turns momentarily shaky, and it shames me. Where’s the control? Perhaps if I’d moved earlier on the Suicide Killer it would be here in full force and void of the shake.
I take a long and deep breath to steady myself, and I survey every car in our community. No Bart. That’s not to say he isn’t here.
He drives a beige Corolla. He also had a white four-door when he took that mother and child. There’s no telling what he’s in now.
Knowing Victor is gone, I push the remote on my visor and pull into his spot in the garage. I’ll be inside waiting when Bart arrives.
The garage door goes back down and whispers whirl and swell through my head. Music.
He’s here. And he knows I’m here, too.
The icy poking that was in my guts turns to fire. It flames through my veins. I’m on my own turf. I have the upper hand.
From the glovebox, I take the sedative that I stole from Patch and Paw and load a syringe. Bart uses a sedative, and so will I. Then I’ll take him to the old boat yard and hang him from a tree in a perfect ending to his morose excuse of a life.
With the syringe tucked securely in my back pocket, I grip my bokken and I slip silently from the Jeep. Through the garage, I cat-step, up the two steps, and slide into our house. The music comes louder now, the same old piece he listened to before.
I slide carefully across the laundry room, focused on the open door that leads into the great room. Faint afternoon light filters in from the closed blinds and I stalk further in. My fingers tighten around the bokken. My senses prick.
From where I stand hovering at the doorway that leads from the laundry room into the main room, I see a shadow shift, drawing my attention to the right. With his eyes closed and holding the pillow tight to his chest, Bart dances to the music coming from his phone.
I don’t move as he shuffles in a box-step in the tiny area between the coffee table and the couch. And the more I watch, the more intrigued I become. He’s not scared to be here. In fact, he doesn’t appear to care I just walked in. But he knows I’m here.
His music slows, coming to a stop. He halts dancing.
Still, I don’t move. “Hello, Bart.”
He opens his eyes. “You were picturing a different scenario, no?”
True, I was. “You’re a special kind of evil, aren’t you?”
His eyes brighten. “Do tell.”
I can’t believe I actually thought I could learn something from this man. And now he thinks I’ve complimented him.
“You think you’re so clever figuring me out.” He hugs the pillow closer. “You have a little monster inside of you and you can’t control it any more than I can mine.”
“You never even tried.”
“Oh, I tried, but what’s the point? It’s better to embrace who you are.”
“So what’s your desirable ending here, Bart? You’ll do me and then disappear to someplace new? That’s naïve.”
He shrugs. “I don’t have a family. I can do what I want.” He looks over at the mantel where several framed photos sit. “But you have a family. Just look at them.” He takes two steps to the side, leaning over to pick one up.
“Don’t touch those.” I move forward, taking the step that shifts me from the laundry room into the great room. My toe snags on a clear plastic line and I trip forward, coming down hard on my hands and knees.
He moves quickly, and before I have a chance to react, he’s right beside me. Something pricks my neck, stinging and tingling, and I glance up to see Bart staring down at me through thick glasses.
My body weight shifts. The room floats. And all the bones in my limbs melt me to the floor.
60
I’m stalking merrily along, trailing a very bad person. But then my feet become heavy and I’m no longer merry as I drag them through the mud. I wobble, reaching over my shoulder for the bokken strapped to my back, but it’s not a bokken, it’s a lightsaber.
Lightsaber?
Pain slices through me and now my arm is severed from my body. By me. I’m cutting it with the lightsaber. My skin burns. I hit an artery and red spews out and up to cover my face and blind me.
I’m falling, falling, falling into a dark abyss. Awful shapes fill the void—twisted and distorted images of dead people. They bump into me. Bounce off of me. Get away! Get away!
Open your eyes.
A sharp odor knifes up my nostrils.
With a flinch, I force my lids to open and my world comes back into focus. Thick lenses greet me, and green eyes. A balding head, and the average height and chubby middle of Bart Novak.
“There you are.” He holds up a tiny plastic vial. “Smelling salts.”
My nostrils burn and leak fluid. My thick tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I dig in my brain for any memory of what happened. I was on campus, right?
This is what the kids must feel like when they wake up. Disoriented. Unable to grasp where they were last. Except they don’t see Bart Novak, they see their dead mother, and it sends them into an emotional spiral.
Deep inside my brain a fierce monster roars and it’s the only reason why I don’t flinch away or struggle. I try to move my hands and feet but can’t. He’s tied and taped me up.
Bart blinks at me. “Can you hear me? I’ve never stayed around to see someone wake up.” Delight touches his voice. “This is neat.”
I continue to struggle to piece together the events. One thing is for sure—I’m dumb to have walked into this. My own curiosity and carelessness put me here.
He straightens up a little, and his smile turns to a gloating smirk.
I’m lying on our couch. And he’s sitting directly in front of me on our coffee table. I have to say something. He can’t think I’m afraid.
I pull my tongue from the roof of my mouth and it clicks into place. I concentrate hard on my words. Too hard, but I don’t want to appear disoriented. “We’re in my home,” I speak. “A home that will soon have people walking in.”
Something buried in a crevice of my memory tells me that’s not an accurate statement. Why isn’t my brain working? How long until it does?
That gloating smirk inches up. “Then we’ll need to make the best of this.” He leans in. “But I assure you. I can take care of myself. I also work quickly.”
I underestimated this old man, and if the drugs weren’t making me so dopey, I might figure a way out of this.
“I’m curious.” He folds his arms. “If you knew who I was all along, why didn’t you do something about it?”
The truth comes out of my mouth, but I don’t want it to. “Because I wanted to observe you. Study you.” Clearly, a mistake.
He chuckles. “And are you regretting this decision?”
I don’t answer him because yes, I am, but I won’t give him any more fuel.
Bart pats my shoulder. “That’s okay, you don’t have to answer every question, just some.”
On the coffee table sits his leather zipper pouch open in a not-so-cheerful image. Lined up are his kill weapons—scalpel, pills, a noose.
He stares at me, his eyes huge behind those thick lenses. “Lane Cameron, which do you choose? Or shall I choose for you?”
“How wonderful that you think I’ll commit suicide.” I’m glad to have a bit of snark back.
Bart frowns. “Oh, no. Sorry. I’m actually going to do you. You’ll be my second. Maggie Cain was the first.” He purses his lips. “You should be more frightened. Why aren’t you scared and begging?”
Because I’m not giving him the satisfaction.
He pushes up off the coffee table, moving away, and giving me a chance to focus on me. I lay sideways on the L-shaped couch with the coffee table and the front door all within my line of sight. To the left sits the laundry room and beyond that the garage. To the right our kitchen and the stairwells—one up to the second floor and one down to the basement.
The laundry room. The garage. That’s right. I tripped over a line he strung up.
&n
bsp; I put more effort into moving my arms and legs, glad to be gaining my focus back, but he’s secured them with duct tape and connected them behind my back like I’m a calf he’s wrangled in a rodeo.
Humming, he makes his way into the kitchen. I can’t see what’s he’s doing, but from the slight suction sound of the refrigerator being opened, it sounds like he’s making himself at home. He’s taking his time with me.
Wait, my family won’t be coming home. I told Daisy to get Victor and Justin out of town. Does Bart somehow know this?
Piece by piece more fog clears from my brain. How long have I been unconscious? I told Daisy I would text every two hours.
Oh, no…has it been two hours?
I lift my head off the cushion, trying to see the blinds and if it’s day or night, but I can’t tell. He’s pulled the curtains and the blinds.
In the kitchen, the microwave goes on. Son of a bitch is making food. I tug harder on my restraints, but they don’t budge. My gaze drifts back to the coffee table and to his array of instruments. Maggie Cain bled out. Holleen Ickert took a mouthful of pills. He’s not giving me a choice. That noose is for me.
My throat constricts and a strangled noise wants to come out, but I swallow and keep it in. I won’t let him know I’m scared. Because now that more of the chemicals have seeped from my brain, a new one trickles in—fear.
I don’t care for Victor’s dad, my grandfather, but right now his words come back to me: Even in the worst of times, we have our memories to cheer us.
Here I lay helpless, able only to hear the Suicide Killer in the kitchen and visualize the dreadful things to come. Even so, I have memories.
Like playing G. I. Joe with Justin in the yard. And that time years ago when Daisy braided my hair. When Victor and I skateboarded down the street. And that time Reggie and I sat out all night at summer camp and counted stars.
