Among the Living (11 page)

She is certain the police have labeled it as the work of a serial killer, but they don’t want to come out on the news and announce it that way. But one night the five o’ clock news will lead off with “The police think they may have a serial killer on their hands.” And she will have to make some decisions. Will she have to move? Lie low for a while and not kill for a few months, or maybe a year?

Until then, she will continue her double life. In fact, it may be time to start looking at Craigslist again. She has a program on her laptop that masks her IP address, and she also uses an anonymous site to mask where she comes from. Sure it’s overkill, but at least she isn’t sneaking out to libraries and writing furtive notes to her prospective victims while glancing over her shoulder the whole time.

She will start hunting again. Soon. She will take her time and get to know the guy, get some pictures of him. The guys who send her cock shots get shitcanned the fastest. She wants the normal men who have another side, just like her. She wants the men who are husbands but “just don’t get what they need from their wives even though everything else in the marriage is perfect.” It’s such bullshit. If they have such perfect marriages, then why the fuck are they cruising Craig’s trying to pick up her alter ego?

The movie is boring, so she gingerly sits in her computer chair and starts lurking on some of her favorite forums. She was more than a little disturbed to learn there were forums devoted to serial killers. Some require logins, so she made up an account on one of the free email sites and used that for their flimsy verification. Some are open, so she reads them and tries to understand the people who follow serial killers like they are rock stars.

Kate has no morals, no sense of right and wrong. When it comes to taking a life, she accepts that it has to be done and lets the other do the deed. But the people on these forums seem to revel in the suffering of the countless victims, and yet she is all too aware of the paradox that comes with reviling these people even as she acts out their fantasy world.

There is something about her wiring that let her do these things. Something messed up in all that ganglia upstairs. She wonders if it is just plain evil. No doubt a psychologist would have a field day with her, probing the relationship she had with her father. Wouldn’t they be surprised to learn that little Kate, at the tender age of fifteen and fresh from a beating, waited until the old man was passed out drunk and then held a pillow over his head? He didn’t even kick his legs or flop his hands; he just died, went quietly, much more gently than the asshole deserved.

The police called it an accident, and she went to live with an aunt she hadn’t even been aware of. Susan had been a pain in the ass. Strict. Made her go to church, and she was never ever allowed to speak of the things her father did. She once tried to confide in Aunt Suzy, but the woman shut her down with a firm “Don’t you ever speak ill of your father. He was a good man.”

He was good at beating her to a pulp. She ran away at seventeen and hitchhiked from Warsaw, Idaho to the big city of Seattle over the course of a few days. Along the way, she met the drummer of a band from Yakima named Madface Monkies. He had a big Suburban, and the second night she hung out with him, the bastard tried to rape her. He held her down, and when she said she liked him, that she would give in if he would just give her room to get her pants off, she kneed him in the balls and then backed up to the end of the big car and kicked him in the head until he didn’t move anymore. Then she took a gas can from the back of the vehicle and poured it all over the inside and the drummer. He begged until the flames took him. Then he screamed until they finished the job.

She sighs at the memory and stares at the screen for a few moments before coming out of her fog.

She changes gears and searches for information on the gas leak that is just a few blocks from her. She comes across a local forum, but they are just speculating about all the police and National Guards. There are a lot of angry people talking about their civil liberties being infringed upon. Some complain that the soldiers were cold toward them, wouldn’t tell them what kind of a gas leak it was or how dangerous it was. They just blew them off as cool as you please with a “We’ll have more information available tomorrow.” But it has been two tomorrows since.

A shot rings out on the street below, startling her out of her chair. It is loud and different than the fireworks she’s been hearing all week. She nearly knocks over her beer but grabs the rim of the bottle at the last second, picks it up and goes to the window. The street is bare of people, and there are only a few cars passing by. She cracks the window, and instead of the controlled chaos she is used to hearing—people shouting, cars screeching, bottles clanking—she hears barely a peep. Another gunshot rings out, and she is so startled that she slams the window shut and takes a deep pull on her straw.

A banging on her door scares her so badly that her lips come off the straw mid-sip, and some of the beer dribbles onto her t-shirt.

“Fuck me.” She stares down at the stain. “Who is it?” she calls out and wonders if she locked the door.

“Hey, kitty cat, just seeing if everything is cool,” Bob calls, his voice muffled by the heavy door. She used to tell him that she hated it when he called her kitty cat, but the truth is she loves the nickname. It’s just a good thing for him that he doesn’t know about her real-life claws.

“I think it’s unlocked,” she calls out.

The door pops open, and Bob’s straggly face pokes inside. He has a glass of wine in one hand but looks concerned. “You okay?” he asks, his eyes doing their best not to wander over the short t-shirt that barely covers her ass. She looks down at her state of dress and turns bright red. She hurries to her bedroom to find a robe or pants or something that covers her from head to toe. Bob comes in, quietly, and closes the door with a click.

“Oh my God, Kate, are you all right?” He is right behind her. His arm goes to her shoulder, and she spins around to knock it off, how dare he … but when she turns, his eyes are indeed on her legs, but they look far from interested.

Oh fuck!

She whisks the robe off her bed and slides it over her shoulders, letting the pink cloth cover her just past her knees.

“Who did that to you?” His eyes wide open, downright fierce. He stands back as if afraid to touch her, as if she is the victim of an assault. She knows that he is trying to be considerate of her feelings, but he has no idea how deep her masochistic tendencies go. He can’t understand what a release they are. She can make up some lame story about falling and put up with pity looks for the next month, or she can tell him the truth … well, part of it at least.

“Um, Bob, I know we’re neighbors and friends and shit, but you really don’t know much about me.”

“I know enough. Now who the hell hurt you?” he demands in that voice that sends a shiver down her spine. She wonders for the first time if she can screw him and not want to kill him. Then she wants to giggle at how fucking stupid that sounds.

“Wait, let me explain.” She sits down on the edge of the bed and crosses her legs. The robe falls open so that her thighs are exposed, but she is going to come clean. She stares down at her pale, smooth skin and runs a hand over the welts that will become bruises.

“It’s this thing, it’s … it’s consensual, okay?”

“What?”

“Don’t be so fucking naive, Bob. I like it. I have a friend … she” and she almost slips and says ‘he,’ “ties me up and takes a belt to me. Then she uses a flogger.”

At his confused look, she goes on. “It’s like a whip, but it has a bunch of tails on it. It’s like having your back scorched by a trail of fire ants over and over.”

“Fuck, Kate, I don’t know if I’m confused or turned on.”

“Shut up!” She struggles not to smile.

“So the secret Kate lets one loose. What next, are you going to tell me you like to dress up in furry animal costumes and have sex?”

“Oh that is really funny, pal.” She laughs out loud, and just like that, the tension is out of the room.

“Why do you like it?” he asks in a quiet voice as though he weren’t sure he was going to ask the question at all.

“I don’t know. I just do.”

“Is it about sex?”

“You sure do have a lot of questions.”

He steps close and studies one of the bruises; she follows his gaze because he has found a dandy. It is red and livid, raised up on her flesh, and it will be blue by tomorrow. She will wear pants for the rest of the week, but she feels liberated now that she has told Bob one of her secrets. She feels free, and she doesn’t stop him when he moves toward her and drops into a crouch. He raises the wine glass and takes a sip while his eyes rove over her pale skin.

He leans over to look at one of the marks where it comes up her inner thigh. She feels suddenly bold and lifts her leg just a bit as if offering it to him. He runs one hand over a mark on her lower thigh, just above her knee. His hand is soft and warm, and she likes how it feels. She has a sudden desire to part her legs and pull him down between them.

“So it’s not about sex? Did you go to Catholic school?” He is trying to be a smartass, but she appreciates the humor and gives it right back.

“No, but I have a Catholic school dress. Want to see it?”

He stands up so suddenly that she jerks back in surprise. She shakes her head as if shaking off a dream and stands up just as quickly. What the hell was she thinking?

“Whoa, I’m really sorry!” he backs up, hands out. Lucky it’s him. She knows half a dozen ways to take one of his proffered hands and break the elbow like a twig.

“Oh, it’s not that. I thought I heard something outside again,” she says hastily to cover how nervous she feels. She is flushed, and she is sure her face is glowing red. What the fuck is she thinking? She can’t have a man, not in a normal way; the other won’t let her!

“I should go.” He turns toward the door so fast that his wine splashes around and some dribbles onto the hardwood floor. “Ah, hell.”

He heads for the kitchen and comes back with a paper towel. He is dabbing up the fluid when more shots ring out. They both turn toward the sound and in a flash are at the window. She cracks it again, and now screams can be heard out in the night. Another shot crackles across the road, but this one is deeper, louder, a fierce sound spoken with conviction.

“Shotgun, probably a twelve gauge,” Bob mutters.

“What the hell is going on?”

“They keep saying it’s a gas leak, but that is such bullshit. Something crazy is going on out there. Please tell me you’re staying in tonight.”

She is so touched by his concern that she wants to wrap her arms around him, but the urge dies when she thinks of the other.

“I’m staying put, mister. I don’t have a rendezvous planned tonight.”

There is less than a foot between them, and she can smell the wine on his breath. They stare at each other for a few seconds, and she has a crazy desire to lean in and kiss him. How would that beard feel against her face? Would he kiss her hard, press her lips back, or would he be gentle and take the time to nibble at her tongue?

She breaks the look first and stares outside. “Why don’t you have a girlfriend, Bob?”

“I did, but we broke up six or seven months ago. It was a bad relationship, unhealthy. She wasn’t ever happy, wanted to argue all the time. After a while, I didn’t like her anymore, all I liked was the sex.”

“Oh. So that part was good?”

“I’m a guy. Guys are like windup toys. You turn the key, and when they run out of energy, they are content to just sit around.”

“So where is your key exactly?” She surprises herself by flirting with him and then wants to bite her tongue in half. Shut the fuck up, her own voice screams inside her head.

“You have to get more wine in me before I reveal any secrets.”

A few more gunshots echo outside, but they seem to be farther away, Bob’s face shifts to concern again.

“I can stay, or you can hang out at my place if you like,” he offers, his voice full of innocence.

“Stay for a while,” she says and slurps the rest of the beer with her straw.

“Okay, let me grab something real quick.”

He leaves for a minute, and she slides her robe aside and studies the welts on her legs. She runs her finger over one that is turning blue. It will be a beauty in the morning. What are you? she asks herself again. What are you doing? she asks when the first question remains unanswered.

“Just having a little fun,” she whispers after a long silence.

The splash of burgundy is shocking against the carpet, red on tan like a tie-dyed t-shirt gone wrong. You try to roll over, but the pain makes you pay for the effort. Your hand is pressed to your neck so that you can still feel spreading warmth against your palm. It flows in a pulsing rush, and if you had a throat, you would probably scream.

How long until you pass on? How long until the blood stops pumping through your heart? It’s going to sputter to a halt soon. Sure you’ve had murmurs before, but this is going to be the granddaddy of them all, the last shuddering pulse of the most complicated muscle in your body running on E.

A spasm rips along one leg and then the other. It’s like a jolt of electricity that leaves both appendages numb. You wish you could raise them a few inches. This would make a little more blood available to your brain, but you can barely move your head. In fact, if you could do that, you would take your eyes off the form that lies next to you. The vacant eyes gray-lined, bloodstained, one off-kilter as it tries to stare at the red hole just above his nose.