by Ethan Cross
Still, he had to try.
He searched for a perfect memory to lose himself in completely, and finally, he found one. A memory of a perfect day with his father, his real father, John Williams. They had hiked into the woods of northern New York and found a small lake nestled between two hills. They had tried to fish but failed to catch any and had ended up eating beans from a can. They had laughed and joked and talked about silly, trivial things and most of all had just enjoyed each other’s company.
When Marcus opened his eyes, Audrey was still sobbing and breathing hard, but her screaming had ceased. He looked at his father with a defiant look of triumph.
Ackerman Sr. smiled and said, “A good start.” He pulled out a pair of pruning shears, the kind typically used in a garden. “But how would you feel if I cut off one of her fingers?”
*
His father continued with his game for what felt like an eternity. He would torture Audrey, try to anger Marcus, manipulate him, distract him. It was a constant struggle for Marcus to keep himself calm, and he failed many times. But he was always able to bring himself back under control.
Eventually, he found that he had to make himself numb. He had to stop seeing Audrey as a person and start seeing her as an object. She was nothing to him. She was already dead. He repeated to himself that he didn’t need to save her because she wasn’t real, she wasn’t a living breathing person, she was just a thing, as insubstantial and inconsequential as a character from a fairy tale.
When his father was finally satisfied, he reached down and clicked off the machine. The beeping of the heart-rate monitor stopped. He looked at Marcus with a smile and walked over behind Audrey. He said, “You did very well, son.”
At first, Marcus thought that his father was going to untie her and keep his promise, but then the older man placed his gun against the side of her head and pulled the trigger. Her head erupted in a pink mist as the gunshot reverberated with a deafening thunder inside the small stone chamber.
Marcus screamed with fury, and before he realized what he was doing, he was on his feet and rushing toward Ackerman Sr. Then the pain shot through him again, and he dropped to the floor in another convulsive fit.
When it was done, Ackerman Sr. stood over him and said, “You can’t save everyone, son. No matter how hard you try.”
64
AFTER STEALING ANOTHER VEHICLE—WHICH ACKERMAN ACCOMPLISHED WITH DISTURBING SKILL AND PRECISION—MAGGIE AND HER COMPANION WERE ON THEIR WAY TO NEW ORLEANS. Over seventeen hours in a car with one of history’s most notorious killers ... good times, Maggie thought. She insisted on driving, and thankfully, Ackerman stayed quiet for most of the trip.
But as the hours stretched, she felt fatigue start to set in and her eyelids grow droopy. Needing a distraction, she asked the first question that came to mind. “So how long has it been?”
Ackerman glanced over and said, “Since we left DC?”
“Since you’ve killed someone.”
A pregnant silence hung in the vehicle for a moment, and then he said, “Crowley was the last. And I don’t really feel that a child molester should even count. Killing him was one step above stepping on a cockroach.”
“Is that true? You haven’t hurt anyone since then?”
“I told you that I wouldn’t lie to you, little sister. It’s been months. If I were in Alcoholics Anonymous, I would have received a gold coin by now, or whatever medal it is they give out for resisting a taste of one’s desire.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Yes, very much so.”
“How do you resist the urge?”
“Have you seen the film A Beautiful Mind?”
“So now you’re going to compare yourself to a Nobel Prize-winning genius?”
“I’ve never been tested, but I’m sure my IQ would qualify me as a genius. That’s not the point. That film was loosely based on the life of mathematician John Forbes Nash, Jr. He struggled with mental illness and delusions. He described overcoming his delusional thinking as ‘intellectually rejecting’ such thoughts. That’s what I’m doing. I’m intellectually rejecting my animal desires. And when I need some help, I self-mutilate.”
Maggie slowly took her eyes off the road and looked over at the strange man in the passenger seat. “You cut yourself?”
“Cut, burn, whatever’s handiest. I’ve found that I only feel alive when inflicting pain or experiencing it myself.”
She fought back a wave of nausea, thinking of cutting or burning her own flesh. “I don’t see the appeal.”
“I don’t see the appeal of living in an apartment, waking up every morning for a job that I hate, coming home, watching reality TV, going to bed, and getting up to repeat the same mediocrity the next day. But that doesn’t negate the fact that many people find contentment and serenity in such activities. And I applaud them for that. I hope to find some measure of that contentment in my own life some day. Point being, to each his own.”
They were quiet for another few moments, and then Ackerman sat forward and said abruptly, “Pull over at this truck stop.”
“Why?”
“I need to use the little boys’ room.”
“Can’t you hold it?”
“I could, but I hear that’s not good for your bladder.”
Maggie growled as she clicked on her turn signal and took the exit. Under her breath, she said, “Yeah, you’re a picture of clean living.”
The place Ackerman had chosen provided one-stop shopping for denizens of the road. As Maggie pulled up, she saw through the front windows that two fast-food chains had micro-eateries within the truck stop. Signs in the windows advertised showers and bunks and every other manner of amenity imaginable. She could see displays containing everything from souvenir knick-knacks to books and movies to replacement GPS units. There was even a sporting-goods section.
She flicked the gear shift into park and back to drive, repeated the procedure three times as her OCD dictated, and looked over at her companion. There was a thick black beard covering his cheeks after the days in the woods, but that wasn’t much of a disguise. “Someone could recognize you.”
“I am kind of a big deal.”
“Be serious. We can’t take the chance of you being spotted.”
Ackerman grabbed some tissues from a box left on the passenger floorboard, wadded them up, and stuffed them between his teeth and gums. Then he rolled his neck and jutted out his chin. “How’s this?” he said in a flawless Southern accent. They were all subtle changes, but Maggie had to admit that the way he did it was quite effective. Unless someone had just seen a picture of him or was specifically looking for or expecting him, he should be able to pass a casual inspection.
“See if you can find some reading glasses or something like that inside. Then, if you can keep from attacking any of the truck drivers, we should be good.”
“No promises,” he said, turning up the drawl on the Southern accent.
Maggie stepped out into the smell of diesel fuel and grease and decided to grab a burger for the road. She asked Ackerman if he wanted anything and told him to hurry up. They entered the truck stop and then parted ways. She figured that if he wanted to slip out the back and escape, there wasn’t much she could do to stop him anyway, and she couldn’t very well follow him into the men’s room. So she jumped in line at one of the mini-restaurants and was picking out her meal and deciding if she wanted fries with it when she noticed that Ackerman hadn’t headed for the bathroom but instead had moved toward the sporting-goods section.
She growled under her breath and followed him. Although she had little choice but to offer him some small measure of trust, she wasn’t about to let her guard down completely.
She found him standing in front of a display case and speaking with a clerk, a bearded old man who looked like he’d just crawled off a shrimping boat after a three-day bender. “What are you doing?” she said as she approached, but as she drew closer, she saw what he was admiring and answered her own questi
on. “Oh no. Absolutely not.”
Ackerman twisted the enormous blade in his hands and seemed to revel in the way the light caught its surface. It was a massive knife with a silver hilt and a bone handle. Ackerman gave her an over-exaggerated frown and said in a whiny voice, “But Mom!”
She grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the counter. “Don’t cause a scene. I may have to put up with your company in order to get this done, but I don’t have to sit by and worry that at any moment you might plunge Paul Bunyan’s knife into my gut.”
“Actually, it’s Jim Bowie’s knife. Hence the name Bowie knife, but it’s also referred to as an Arkansas Toothpick. Bowie was a fascinating character. The event that gained him and his knife fame was a duel where Bowie was shot and stabbed multiple times but still managed—”
Maggie closed her eyes and raised a hand to stop him. “I don’t care if Jim Bowie single-handedly won the Revolutionary War and cured cancer at the same time. I—”
“Well, that’s just silly.”
“—don’t want you armed.”
Ackerman sighed, and his previously jovial demeanor melted away. He bent down and looked deep into her eyes. She shuddered and fought the animalistic instinct to run.
“If I wanted to harm you, Maggie, I could do so at any moment. I thought that I proved that in the car when I took your gun. I’m not some guard dog that you can teach to do tricks. You are alive because I allow it to be so. The only reason that I was in custody in the first place was because I allowed it. Because my brother asked it of me. I’m going to find Marcus, but my patience with your lack of respect is growing very thin.”
“You wouldn’t kill me. Marcus would hate you forever, and you couldn’t stand to be without your beloved brother.”
“You’re right. I wouldn’t kill you. I wouldn’t harm a hair on your head. But that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t gag you and make you ride the rest of the way to New Orleans in the trunk.”
Maggie gritted her teeth. “You just try it.”
From the look in his eyes, she could tell that he was tempted. But after a few seconds, he said, “This is getting us nowhere. We both need to be prepared to defend ourselves.”
“From who? The only ones after us might be the cops, and I’ll be damned if I let you—”
“Not the police, little sister. Mr. Craig and his band of merry men.”
“What? You think Fagan will send that psycho after us?”
“No, I think he’ll come all on his own. You killed one of his men, and I know Craig’s type. His ego won’t allow him to let that go. He’ll demand vengeance.”
“But Andrew...”
“Yes, I’m sure he’s already tortured your friend to find out where we’re headed. And torture is something that Craig excels at.”
Maggie’s face twisted in anger as tears formed in her eyes. “You’re a real bastard, you know that.” She tossed a fifty-dollar bill against his chest, said, “For your knife,” and stormed out to the car. She suspected that Ackerman didn’t even understand why she was upset, but she didn’t care. Insanity didn’t let him off the hook for being an asshole.
65
ACKERMAN HAD COME OUT OF THE STORE WITH A PLASTIC BAG FULL OF ITEMS, BUT MAGGIE HADN’T ASKED HIM ABOUT IT. She wasn’t in the mood to talk anymore, and so she drove the last leg of their journey in silence. She thought about Marcus and whether or not he was even still alive. And if he was, what had he been through, what horrors had he seen, what torment had he endured? She thought about Andrew suffering at the hands of Craig and his mercenaries. She worried about the Director and what would happen to him and the Shepherd Organization because of her actions. In the end, she had no reason to believe that this trip would lead them to Marcus. She just chose to have faith and not let the other very real possibilities creep in.
Once they arrived in New Orleans, Ackerman told her to drive through the French Quarter until something sparked a memory. So they drove up and down streets that looked like the pockmarked face of a chronic acne sufferer with their rough surfaces and abundance of potholes, both patched and not. They passed nail salons, voodoo shops, cigar and coffee lounges, palm readers, art galleries, a multitude of bars, gumbo shops, bistros, and a wide range of small specialty boutiques. It seemed that nearly every building was of a Spanish or Creole type and many had wrought-iron balconies on the second stories adorned with ferns and other hanging plants. The buildings were all exuberantly colored—yellow, orange, red, baby blue. They met horse-drawn carriages as they clip-clopped down the uneven roadways. They saw a New Orleans-style funeral procession with a jazz band blowing out an upbeat version of Just a Closer Walk with Thee, players in black suits and white hats leading a marching group of somber mourners. Iridescent Mardi Gras beads hung from the cast-iron lampposts at each corner, even though Mardi Gras was a couple of weeks in the past.
“Anything?” Maggie asked.
“Not yet. Keep driving.”
They rolled past Bourbon Street and Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo and turned onto St. Ann Street. They were coming up to a large pedestrian mall brimming with activity and street vendors in front of the St. Louis Cathedral and Jackson Square when Ackerman said, “Wait. Go around this block again.”
Maggie circled around, and Ackerman told her to stop. They parked in a small garage operated by a big man in a black button-down shirt wearing a white fedora with a peacock feather poking up from it. They walked up and down one side of the street and then the other.
The whole time Ackerman had a disgusted snarl on his face. Maggie asked, “What’s eating you?”
“I don’t like New Orleans. It would make a good stomping ground for a serial killer, but it’s not really my style.”
“What do you mean? It’s fun. Lots of parties and activities.”
“Yes, it’s so colorful and ... festive.” His lips curled up at the word as if it tasted bitter on his tongue. “It makes me sick. Not to mention that the whole place reeks of urine and vomit.”
“You’re a real killjoy, you know that?”
“We’re not here to partake in drunken revelry.” He stopped, turned around, and pointed at a building up the street. “That’s it. That’s the shop my grandfather used to own.”
“We’ve already passed that place twice.”
“I wanted to be sure. Now I am.”
“How do you know he doesn’t still own it?”
“I don’t. Let’s find out.”
A worn wooden sign over the door read Jezebel’s Masks & More. A pair of white French doors, filled with small windows and flanked on both sides by solid oak shutter doors, opened into a newly remodeled showroom full of all types of masks. The air inside smelled of plastic and resin. Some of the masks were simple and elegant. Others were elaborate affairs, covered in jewels and feathers. Some covered only the eyes, while others hid the whole face. Still, these were props for costumes. None matched the detail or intricacy of the masks worn by the Coercion Killer.
Except one. It hung on the back wall behind the counter. It was incredibly detailed and showed the face of a smiling man with a thin mustache. It was a work of art and held a place of prominence among the others.
The clerk smiled and nodded as they entered but then returned his attention to the computer sitting on a table that served as the store’s counter. He was a foreigner of some kind. Maggie guessed Armenian or something along those lines. A beard covered his face, all gray except below his nose and around his mouth, and his head was shaved. He wore a green untucked plaid shirt, black trousers that were two inches too short, and a pair of alligator-skin boots.
Ackerman didn’t waste any time pretending to be a customer. He bellied up to the makeshift counter and said, “We’re looking for a man named Louis Ackerman.”
The clerk tensed but said in a slightly slurred accent, “Never heard of him.”
“He used to own this place.”
“Sorry I can’t be of more help. I bought the shop from a friend.”
<
br /> “Who did he buy it from?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have your friend’s contact info?”
The man was becoming more suspicious and perturbed with every question. “I can’t just give out that information. What’s your interest?”
“Personal.”
“Well, I personally can’t help you. I apologize.”
“He made that mask hanging on your back wall.”
The man didn’t glance back at the intricate mask. “It came with the shop. If you’re not going to buy anything, then I’d appreciate...” His voice trailed off, and his eyes went wide. Under his breath, he said, “You—”
Before he could finish his sentence, Ackerman slammed a palm against the clerk’s throat. The man’s hands flew up as he made a choking noise. Ackerman grabbed the top of his shaved head and slammed it down on the surface of the table. The keyboard he had been typing on shattered under the impact of his head. The man fell back against the floor in a daze.
Ackerman rounded the table in a blur of motion and grabbed the clerk in a chokehold. The man was already stunned and offered little resistance. Within a few seconds, he was unconscious, and Ackerman left him on the hardwood floor. He stood, looked into the back room, and said, “Close the front doors and flip the open sign.”
Maggie was dumbfounded. She looked from Ackerman to the unconscious man and said, “What the hell?”
“He recognized me, and if he knows who I am, then he probably knows my grandfather as well.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Think about it, Maggie. Out of all the books and TV programs that have featured myself or my father, none of them reveal anything about my grandfather except for a few vague details. We’re not the first ones to come asking about Louis Ackerman and his family legacy. My guess is that this guy not only knows where he is, but has a deal with my grandfather not to send any reporters his way.”
