Authors: Chelsea Cain
“Their spleens are about the same size,” Jeremy said. “I read that on the Internet, too.”
“How’d the goats do?” Archie asked.
“They all died,” Jeremy said. He leaned forward, so close to Archie that Archie could feel Jeremy’s breath on his face, and he
put his mouth near Archie’s ear. “I wanted to know what it was like to be her,” he said. “To be Gretchen Lowell.” His lips brushed Archie’s ear. “And I liked it. I liked cutting into him. Reaching into his body. I liked the smell of it.” Jeremy paused. “It reminded me of Isabel.”
Archie tried hard not to react. Jeremy was testing him.
Jeremy sat back and looked at Archie for a long moment. “You can leave,” he said.
Archie nodded. “I know.”
“But you’re still here,” Jeremy said.
“Because I’m interested in you, Jeremy.”
Jeremy looked down at the scalpel. “You were nice to me when I was a kid,” he said. “My father and brother—I just reminded them of what had happened to Isabel. I could see it when they looked at me.”
Jeremy’s upper lip started to twitch, and Archie could see the kid he’d met so long ago in the young man sitting in front of him. Lost, damaged, angry. Jeremy’s eyes narrowed with accusation. “I wanted you to take me away,” he said. The corners of his mouth went down and his lips trembled, as he fought back tears. “You know what they do.” His voice rose. “They’re criminals.” His face was so full of pain, it broke Archie’s heart. “Why didn’t you take me away?”
Archie had never thought about it. He’d been so focused on catching the Beauty Killer, on solving Isabel’s murder, on protecting Jeremy from Gretchen and from the press, that he’d never really thought about protecting him from his father. “I’m sorry,” Archie said. It was really all he could think of to say.
Jeremy started to cry. He cried like a child, body rocking, nose running, face pink and ugly. Gretchen had fucked Archie up, but she had broken Jeremy Reynolds.
Jeremy took several gasping breaths, sat perfectly still for a moment,
and then calmly lifted the scalpel and pressed it into his chest below his left nipple.
“Don’t,” Archie said. “Please.” He watched as Jeremy dragged the blade over the heart scar that was there, in an effort to more approximate the scar on Archie’s own chest. But Jeremy was pushing too hard, and the skin split and spread apart, blood oozing from the fatty gash.
Archie put his hand around Jeremy’s wrist. “It’s too deep, Jeremy,” he said. Jeremy was trembling, his face feverish, the scalpel still sliding through flesh and muscle. Archie had to get the scalpel out of Jeremy’s hand. “Why don’t you let me cut myself to look like you?” Archie said.
Jeremy froze and glanced up. It was the first time that Archie saw something clear and solid in his gaze. It wasn’t too late.
Archie held his hand out, palm up. “Give it to me,” he said.
Jeremy lifted the scalpel out of his flesh and looked at it, blinking. Then he wiped the bloody blade on a corner of the towel he was sitting on, and handed the scalpel to Archie.
And waited.
“Okay,” Archie said.
Jeremy was close. Archie felt like he had won his trust. Passed his tests. Now he could do this. Archie had survived ten days of torture at the hands of Gretchen Lowell. What were a few more scars?
He looked at Jeremy’s arms and thighs, the triangle-shaped scars, the scars that Gretchen had carved on Isabel and none of her other victims.
He lowered the blade to his thigh, on the inside, just above his left knee, and he pulled the scalpel over his skin. It was easy. The blade was sharp and it didn’t hurt. An inch-long line of blood formed instantly.
“She had a sock with a brick in it and she’d hit Isabel in the head,” Jeremy said.
Archie looked up.
Jeremy did remember.
And although Archie knew he should be thinking about Jeremy’s fragile psyche, about closing the case, about gathering more evidence against Gretchen, all he could think was: I am not alone.
And he was glad. It was what he was after, wasn’t it? He wanted Jeremy to remember because it would mean that there was someone else who knew. Someone else who had survived. Someone else as damaged as Archie was.
He didn’t want to be alone.
Neither of them did.
Jeremy was staring past him. The half-carved heart on his chest was still bleeding, and Jeremy must have gotten blood on his hands, because it was smeared on his face and arm.
“She swung it hard,” he said. “It hit her here.” He touched his scalp, behind the left ear. Archie remembered Isabel’s autopsy reports. It matched the site of a small fracture the ME had found on her skull. “Then she tied her up.”
Jeremy stopped and looked at Archie, his gaze flickering down to the small cut Archie had managed on his leg.
Archie lifted the scalpel again and drew another line of blood in his thigh. He did it slowly this time. He had to be careful. If he used anything but the lightest touch, the scalpel would cut too deep.
Jeremy continued. “Isabel was in the backseat. I was in the passenger seat. She didn’t tie me up. We didn’t talk. She drove us to the woods.” His voice was flat now, dissociative, like someone reporting the details of a dream. Archie wiped his blood off the scalpel onto the towel.
“It must have been a timber road,” Jeremy said. “She had to get
out and open one of those Forest Service gates. We drove for a long time. She didn’t say anything. Isabel woke up and was crying in the backseat. I could hear her, but I was too afraid to turn around or say anything.”
Archie pressed the blade to his flesh again. There were four children listed as presumed Beauty Killer victims, all subjected to torture and found with Gretchen’s signature heart carved on their chests. Archie could never get Gretchen to confess to any of them. She lorded them over him, the final prize, just out of reach.
“We parked at the side of the road,” Jeremy said. “And Gretchen got in the backseat with my sister.”
Archie pressed the blade in harder. He wanted to feel it. He deserved to feel it. Gretchen had dangled the children like confections. But Archie had never wanted her to confess, because he would have had to hear her confession, to listen to what she had done to them, and to correlate that with all the nights he thought of her, his dick in his hand. Feel it.
“She cut her with an X-Acto blade,” Jeremy said. “She had a package of blades, and when one got dull she’d replace it with a new one. Isabel cried. She looked so afraid. Gretchen cut off one of her breasts. She said that Amazons used to cut off one of their breasts to make it easier to shoot a bow. When she’d freed the flesh from the muscle she threw it out the window and said, ‘Now she’s an Amazon.’ ”
Archie felt something. But it wasn’t pain—it was loathing. And for the first time in years, it wasn’t directed inward. He loathed her. He wanted Jeremy to keep going. He wanted to hear every gory detail. Because every horror she committed just made him hate her more. The rage moved through his veins like endorphins.
“I don’t know how long it lasted,” Jeremy said. “Hours. After a while Isabel’s eyes glazed over and she got really pale and limp. Gretchen put a new blade in and cut her throat. She showed me
how to do it. She said that it was something everyone should know. Little bloody bubbles came out of her neck. After she was dead, Gretchen carved a heart on her. It was only then that I knew who she was. The Beauty Killer. I’d seen some of the stories on the news. We sat there for a long time. It got dark. I started to cry, and Gretchen held me and stroked my hair. She didn’t say anything after that. I thought she was mad at me. We sat in the car the whole next day and night. I got out to pee. And then I got back in. She got out sometimes, too. On the second day I said I was hungry, and she started the car and drove back into town. Then she parked and got out and walked away. I didn’t know if she was coming back. I didn’t know if I was supposed to follow her. So I waited. And after a while I fell asleep again.”
Archie set the bloody scalpel back on the tray.
Jeremy sat shaking his head. “Why didn’t she kill me?”