Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  Kevin followed her and rubbed her back wordlessly until she had finished. She relaxed and then abruptly dry-heaved into the bowl in a kind of horrible exclamation point. Sweat rolled down her face and Cait felt jittery and washed-out, like a marathoner who had run an entire twenty-six-mile race without drinking any water.

  She struggled to her feet and staggered to the sink, dizzy and woozy, thankful for Kevin’s strong hands supporting her. Cait splashed cold water on her face and then shuffled out of the bathroom and sat down on the bed, her shoulders slumped and her head resting on her chest. She thought she might get sick again and clamped her jaws shut, swallowing hard.

  “What was that all about?” Kevin asked quietly.

  She shook her head, instantly regretting it, clenching her teeth until another wave of dizziness and nausea passed. “I’m not sure.”

  “Is it something you ate? Maybe you’re just overtired and stressed out about seeing your biological mother for the first time.”

  “No,” Cait said, her voice shaky and reed-thin. “It’s nothing like that. I’m nervous about seeing my mother, that’s true, but this was unrelated to that. It was the Flicker.”

  “I don’t know,” Kevin answered, clearly skeptical. “I’ve seen you have Flickers plenty of times but you’ve never reacted to one like this before.”

  “That’s because this was different from a normal Flicker, if there even is such a thing. Usually I see random events or occurrences that have no value judgment attached to them. Like yesterday in the grocery store when I saw the little old lady had dropped her checkbook on her kitchen floor. It wasn’t anything good or bad, it just was. Do you understand what I mean?”

  Kevin shrugged. “I guess so.” He was still watching her closely and Cait knew he was worried she might toss her cookies again.

  “Well, this Flicker wasn’t like that. This was evil personified. I was in a man’s head, and the man was looking at a woman—a prostitute—and he was planning to do things to her.”

  “Well,” Kevin said, “I’m sure you realize that’s the whole point of prostitution.”

  “No.” Cait shook her head again, firmly this time, ignoring the wave of nausea that accompanied the gesture. “That’s not what I mean. He wasn’t thinking about sexual things, at least not the usual sexual things a normal man might do with a prostitute. He was planning to do awful things to her; to torture her, to injure her. Badly. Kevin, I could feel the evil inside this man and it was overwhelming. It was like a black cloud roiling in his body waiting to explode out of him.”

  He stared at her for a long time, saying nothing. It was as if he was no longer her boyfriend but was on duty, his cop eyes probing. “I’ve never seen you go into such a deep trancelike state before when you had a Flicker. Usually you just sort of stare off into space like you’re thinking really hard about something. If I talk to you, you are still able to hear and answer me. But this time, you were gone.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Cait said. “This was not a typical Flicker. It was terrifying. I don’t know what it was all about, and I sure hope it doesn’t happen again, but Kevin, that’s not the point. We have to call the police. We have to alert them to what’s happening out there.”

  Kevin shook his head and Cait said, “What?”

  “We can’t call the police.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I just said? This man is going to hurt a young girl, badly, maybe he’s going to kill her. We have to do something to stop him!”

  “How?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How are we going to stop him? Do you know who he is, or even where he is? Do you know who the girl is? Do you know where he’s taking her? Do you know—”

  “Okay, okay,” she interrupted. “You’ve made your point. We don’t have any specific information. Why can’t we just call them and at least alert them to the fact there’s a homicidal maniac roaming the streets of their city?”

  “Because they’re not going to pay any attention to you, that’s why.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Unless you have a name or a location, the Boston police are going to listen to you, politely at first, then not so politely if you go on for too long, and when you’re done, they’re going to send you on your way—or hang up, if you call—and blow you off. They will assume you’re just some lonely nut job desperate for a little attention.”

  She stared up at him, her face drawn and pale, and he said, as gently as he could, “This is a big city, Cait. The cops here deal with crazies every single day. If you start telling them about Flickers and seeing things in your head, you’re going to be just another crazy to them. There’s nothing we can do unless you have more information.”

  “But that poor girl...”

  “I know, but maybe it’s not as bad as you think. Maybe you misinterpreted what you saw. Maybe it’s a case of some bored married couple playacting, trying to spice up their lives a little by pretending to be a hooker and a john.”

  Cait shook her head. By now the resulting nausea didn’t surprise her. “I didn’t misinterpret anything. This was no kinky married couple. This man was evil, and he was ruthless. He was an animal, a predator stalking his prey, and he is going to hurt her, maybe kill her.”

  Kevin sat on the bed next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “You know, if you’re still planning on getting up early tomorrow—I mean, today—we should really get some rest. You look like hell.”

  Cait laughed in spite of herself. “Thanks for the compliment. How do you always know the just-right thing to say to a girl?”

  “It’s a gift.”

  She crawled under the covers, still dressed in her jeans and T-shirt. She had been tired when they arrived, thanks to the red-eye flight from Tampa. Now she was beyond exhausted, she felt as though she had been run over by a truck. A truck being driven by a homicidal lunatic.

  Kevin was right, of course. If they were going accomplish anything in the morning, rest was critical. But how was she supposed to sleep after experiencing that terrible Flicker? Cait Connelly was thirty years old and had been dealing with Flickers for as long as she could remember. They had long since gotten to the point where she viewed them as nothing more than an annoyance, a small part of her personality that she had learned to live with, like some people live with migraines or the occasional terrifying nightmare.

  But tonight’s Flicker was different than anything she had ever experienced. This wasn’t a mental image of an old lady forgetting to bring her checkbook on her twice-weekly trips to the grocery store. This was a blackness so complete it was stifling, a thirst for violence and depravity that dwarfed anything Cait had ever imagined.

  This was true evil.

  How can I sleep after experiencing something like that? Cait wondered. She knew she would lie awake all night, tossing and turning, listening to Kevin snoring softly beside her, jealous of him for not having to experience the Flickers, for not having to feel the rage and corruption of a monster somewhere in this city who was even now doing twisted things to a helpless young woman.

  But she didn’t stay awake all night. Her head hit the pillow and within minutes she was asleep. And she didn’t dream at all.

  15

  Getting the girl into his third-floor apartment unseen was simple. The back of the old tenement’s ground floor had at one time—a century ago or more—housed some sort of business enterprise. Perhaps a bakery, or maybe a small shoe-repair shop. A service entrance had been built on the back corner with a narrow hallway running behind the first-floor apartments to a seldom-used secondary staircase providing access to the second and third floors.

  The service entrance had of course been locked up years ago, but those locks had been removed at the same time, and with as little difficulty as the locks on the front door. With access in the front of the building, there was no reason for any of the itinerants and vagrants using the location as a flophouse to bother traipsing down the trash-litter
ed alley on the north side, risking being mugged for their booze or drugs, just to enter from the rear when they would end up in exactly the same place.

  By the time the schoolgirl—“My name is Rae Ann,” she told Milo in a frightened voice—discovered what Milo knew she had suspected all along, that he was not your typical horny man anxious for a quickie, it was much too late. She had followed him down the sidewalk and around a corner, where she learned the ugly truth: there was no car. There was also no streetlight—he had conveniently smashed it out—and the area was deserted.

  Milo pulled a freshly sharpened carving knife out of his pocket, the stainless steel blade dripping water in the steady drizzle. Rae Ann had backed up a step or two in fear and confusion and he covered that distance before she could react further, wrapping an arm around her waist like some arduous suitor. He placed the tip of the wicked-looking knife lightly against her throat, just under her jawline.

  “I—I don’t have any money on me,” she stammered. “Big Daddy—he’s my pimp—he took it just before you saw me. If I had any cash, I would give it to you, all of it, I promise, but I don’t have any.”

  Milo smiled. The dangerous part was over and he was in his element now, completely at ease and under control. “I’m not after money. If it was money I wanted, I wouldn’t have chosen the newest girl on the block to play with. I would have grabbed someone with more experience.” He was excited, aroused as always by the prospect of impending humiliation and torture, and he pressed his crotch against her butt.

  “Is it sex, then? I’ll give you a freebie if you want. I’m not supposed to, Big Daddy will kick my ass if he finds out, but I’ll do it for you. What do you like, baby?”

  “Right now I’d like you to shut your mouth and come with me. We’re going to take a short walk and if you scream or cry or make so much as one second’s eye contact with anyone, anyone at all, the last thing you will ever feel will be me cutting open your chest and ripping your heart out with my bare hands. Do you understand me?” Despite the fact that Milo was whispering—or maybe because of it—the implied menace inherent in his words was real and terrifying.

  They walked the seven blocks to Milo’s building in silence. He draped his right arm casually around her shoulders like a possessive boyfriend, the knife held in his left hand, pressed against the leg of his jeans.

  Rae Ann walked with her head down, subservient. Milo knew she was afraid even to look around for fear her kidnapper would misinterpret the action and begin stabbing and slicing her. He could feel her shivering and shaking under his arm, the terror building inside her but the fear invisible to anyone besides the man causing it.

  They shuffled along slowly, Milo in no hurry. At last they reached his block. Through various rounds of urban redevelopment conducted over the last half-century, this neighborhood had been unaffected, steadfastly ignored by politicians and do-gooders alike. It resembled a war zone, a United States version of Baghdad after a suicide bombing. Burned-out apartment houses stood empty and silent, graffiti covering every square inch, dandelions fighting grimly for life, growing through gaping holes in the sidewalk, the cement smashed and gutted and crumbling.

  Activity was virtually nonexistent, due in part to the lateness of the hour, but also to the fact that this was one of the most dangerous places in the city. The few people moving about were, like Milo himself, ghosts, wraiths skittering through the shadows, invisible and unnoticed by the rest of society.

  Milo turned off the sidewalk, pulling his terrified young victim across a tiny weed-infested yard, the original lawn long dead, random tufts of crabgrass sticking up crazily in all directions, trash covering the ground. A rusted chain-link fence lurched at an angle, pulled partway to the ground by vandals before being abandoned as not worth the effort.

  He released his prize just long enough to reach out with his right hand and pull a length of fencing toward them. The metal links had been cut away from the post, and Milo indicated to Rae Ann with a flourish that she should proceed through the opening.

  She bent down and squeezed through the small space, and for maybe two seconds was actually free of her captor. Had she known exactly what was coming, and exactly when she would be pushed through, she might have been able to make a break for it, to sprint away across the desolate yard in a headlong dash to freedom.

  But Milo knew she wouldn’t run and she didn’t. She was terrified and in shock, and long experience had taught him that by the time his victim recognized the possibility of escape it would be too late.

  He was right. He squeezed through the opening right behind her and then once again grabbed her possessively.

  They turned down an alley, skirting a tenement similar in style and condition to his own, and within seconds were on the back side of the block, invisible to the other occupants of his building. At this hour, any witnesses would likely be so drunk or so wasted on meth or crack or LSD or bath salts that they wouldn’t even notice, much less remember, him bringing the girl into the building, but Milo wasn’t about to take any unnecessary chances. He had gone to a lot of trouble and risk to secure this playmate; he wasn’t going to let her slip though his grasp before he had had an opportunity to fully enjoy her.

  They approached the ancient service entrance, the wooden dormer constructed over the door mostly rotted away by time and neglect. Rae Ann sobbed steadily, great silent heaves wracking her shoulders. Milo knew she was afraid that once she entered this building, she would never leave it alive.

  He had to give her credit. She was a perceptive young lady.

  He lifted his knife and pressed it against her throat in the identical spot he had used before. He placed just enough pressure on the razor-sharp tip to draw blood. A drop welled up like a tiny black marble and then rolled down her neck, disappearing under the collar of her sweater.

  “Do you remember what I said about screaming?” he whispered, his mouth caressing her ear like a wanton lover.

  Rae Ann nodded, still sobbing but indicating she had not forgotten.

  “Good,” he said, removing the knife from her throat and licking her blood, his tongue caressing the bulge of her collarbone and up toward her ear. She shivered in fear but stood still.

  He smiled. He couldn’t help it. He was just about there. Once inside his little den of iniquity, this sweet thing would be all his to enjoy in any way he wanted. Keeping her quiet while he played his games could be a problem, but Milo Cain was nothing if not creative. He would be able to handle that issue with no trouble at all.

  He pushed open the service entrance door and the bizarre-looking couple disappeared into the darkness of the condemned building. The pitch-black of the narrow hallway was all encompassing, but it didn’t matter. Milo knew exactly where he was going.

  16

  The alley behind the condemned tenement was uncomfortable, garbage-strewn and rat-infested, but it had one thing going for it—it was secluded. And seclusion was exactly what Franklin Marchand was looking for when it came to sleeping off a bender.

  Never one to keep a tight grip on his wallet even in the best of times, the last economic downturn had seen Franklin lose everything—his job, his self-respect and, perhaps inevitably, his family. Anna had called him a drunken, shiftless bum during their final blowout, then concluded the festivities by kicking him out of their home and screaming “And don’t ever come back!” through the closed front door.

  Franklin had never gone back.

  But even though he had forfeited most of his self-respect, Franklin had no desire to advertise to the rest of the world the depths to which he had plummeted, transitioning from successful banker to out-of-work banker to homeless, drunken ex-banker in just a few short months. So Franklin’s routine was to panhandle enough cash to buy a cheap bottle, get trashed in this nice, secluded alley he had found, and then pass out and sleep off his buzz on a pile of moth-eaten wool blankets he had stolen from another drunken bum a few blocks away while that guy was passed out cold.

  Every o
nce in a while that strange dude from the third floor of the tenement across the alley would pass by in the middle of the night, unaware of Franklin huddled behind the wooden latticework falling off a rusting iron fire escape in the darkest corner of the alley. When he did, often it was with a young girl in tow. A different young girl every time.

  There was something wrong with the dude, Franklin could deduce that much even in his near-constant state of bleary-eyed drunkenness. The man carried a weapon—a knife—and almost always displayed it conspicuously for his female companion’s benefit while they shuffled past, causing Franklin to reach the obvious conclusion that this parade of reluctant young women was not accompanying the strange dude voluntarily.

  And that bothered Franklin.

  He was no prude, and certainly no shining beacon of righteousness. Franklin Marchand had done plenty of things he was not proud of, some of them before his fall from grace, while still making a living in the banking industry, and some after, as witnessed by the blanket thievery of recent vintage.

  But Franklin was no rapist. He had a daughter of his own, pretty close to the approximate ages of the girls Strange Dude liked to parade past him at knifepoint. Granted, he hadn’t seen his daughter in a while—she’d sided with Anna in their parting of the ways and hadn’t even spoken to him since—but nevertheless she was still his child. His flesh and blood. And the thought of his little girl potentially falling prey to Strange Dude or someone like him gnawed at Franklin.

  What else could the guy be but a rapist? Franklin had never actually seen Strange Dude rape anyone, had never heard a scream or a cry of protest floating through the thin walls of the dilapidated building across the alleyway, but, really, what else could the guy be doing in there but raping the girls? A man goes out at night and returns under cover of darkness, sneaking a reluctant companion into his condemned building via the seldom-used service entrance in the rear, and always with the aid of a knife to provide proper motivation.