Goody One Shoe (23 page)

ART DOUGLAS DREW SMOKE
deep
into his lungs and watched the tip of his cigarette burn red in the dark. He
lounged on a stack of crates, sated and content in his favourite haunt, the
abandoned end of the docks, where the stench of rot and filth and sewage kept
the pussies away. Even the cops had given up all hope on this area, just
ignored it and assumed no one would want to spend more than one second there.

Cops were morons.

Blue smoke trailed into the sky. A perfect night. Not a
cloud, every star visible from his vantage point in the shadows, far from the
hot lights of downtown Grantham. When ash neared filter, he reached out and
butted his smoke on the peach fuzz of a young hooker’s ass.

She didn’t notice. Dead girls don’t flinch.

Nobody could call him a moron. He’d learned from his
mistakes. No more little girls from good neighbourhoods. People cared too much
about them. Searched for them when they went missing. Demanded justice when he
popped their sweet little cherries.

Since they opened those jailhouse doors and set him free for
the last time, he’d sworn to be smarter. He knew he’d never stop. How could he?
It was as much a part of him as his arms and legs, as his hot breath and his
cold heart. But from that day forward, just whores and skanks, junkies and
hobos. He’d only cast his line into toxic waters and reel in whatever mutant
took the bait. They didn’t need to be pretty. Didn’t need to be skinny. They
didn’t even need to smell good. He couldn’t smell anything anymore anyway.
Nope, they just needed to be part of the landscape. Part of the invisible
background that regular folks never see, never remember. Women, or when he was
lucky, girls, who nobody noticed had gone missing. Who nobody gave a rat’s ass
about if they never came back.

The other lesson he’d learned? No witnesses. He knew he
could only get it up for rape. What he’d discovered about himself is that he
got a powerful orgasm if he came as he choked the life from them. Shot into
them when their eyes could no longer see. Yeah, that was a pleasant surprise.
But like all cravings, all addictions, he had to feed it. And like all crimes,
he had to cover it up. Shooting his load into a rubber lacked a certain
satisfaction that filling a whore’s pussy held. But no condom equalled jail
time. Bastard cops had his DNA on file. There ought to be a law against that.
No damn privacy left in the world.

Except in his little slice of dock heaven. Private.
Peaceful. No one around to hear them scream. He patted her naked bottom and
flipped her over for one more go. One look into those open, dead eyes, and he
was ready and able. And when he was done, he’d slice her into chum and toss her
to the fish. They would feast tonight. She was a hefty one.

BILLIE SIPPED ON HER
morning
coffee. Sun streamed in the window and laid a hot slice of light across Peg
Leg’s blackness. How that cat didn’t fry up into kitty nuggets was beyond her.

She sat at her laptop, typed “Arthur Richard Douglas” into
the search field. Her pinkie hesitated over the Enter key. Was she ready to
dive headlong into this man’s world?

“Screw it.”

She flicked the key and the Google gods responded in a
nanosecond with a long list of links. A goldmine of potential leads. Tony was
right, Art Douglas was all over the system.

She pulled up an article dated seven years ago. An op/ed
piece about convicted felons and re-offending. It discussed the case of Art
Douglas, convicted of rape and aggravated assault. As if taking the virginity
of a young, innocent girl wasn’t enough, he piled on by burning her with the
tip of a lit cigarette. He served the full ten-year sentence. Not even a month
after his release and still on parole, he robbed a convenience store and
snatched a young girl from out front. Before he could do her any physical harm,
a citizen called the cops when they heard muffled screams in an alley.

Joe Chill still loved his dark alleys.

He did another three years for robbery and attempted rape.
The author of the article felt he should have done harder time, second
conviction and all. And since he was still bent on rape, his inability to
complete the nasty deed notwithstanding, it showed a pattern. Citizens needed
to be protected from scum like him. Well, that’s not what the article said. But
that’s how Billie edited it.

She nodded through the article. Damn straight, they all
needed to be protected. And if protection wasn’t going to come, then someone
needed to take the threat off the streets. Put justice right. Something the
courts seemed incapable of doing. Or at least doing well.

Another newspaper clipping had him walking out of prison
five years ago. It appeared he’d begun living a normal life. Gone straight, or
so his parole officer claimed. Though she found some internet chatter that
maybe he was responsible for the rape and murder of two prostitutes whose
bodies were discovered floating in the Grantham River. Speculation was, he must
have worn a condom, and the water had washed away any other evidence. Except the
cigarette burns on their bodies, his signature move. But that clue went nowhere
without an actual cigarette with spit or a fingerprint still intact.

Forums filled with angry citizens demanded Douglas and his
ilk be strung up, imprisoned for life, put to death, or castrated, chemically
or physically. Sprinkled in and among the insanity and blood lust was the
occasional cry for forgiveness. For understanding. For reform.

Billie crinkled her nose. Fuck forgiveness.

She returned to the Google homepage and typed his name in
again. She took a few deep breaths, hovered her cursor over the link to images,
and clicked.

Her screen filled with pictures, some of old men, some
little boys. As with all searches, the page was peppered with bare breasts and
the occasional penis. But most of what came up were mug shots. Close-ups of an
angry man, with a crooked nose and bushy eyebrows. Those brows matched the
mouse beige of his hair. In some pictures he was younger, his hair long, bangs
nearly covering his eyes. In others he had aged, his nose more crooked, scars
on his cheeks and forehead. His hair was cropped short and his face was never
fully clean-shaven, though he didn’t have a beard or moustache. Time and prison
life had not been kind.

She clicked on one of the pictures of a younger man. Stared
intently at the face that had been behind the muzzle of that gun. He wasn’t an
ugly man. Not back then. He was only in his mid-twenties. Life had only beaten
him down on the inside and hardened his soul. The outside would have fooled
anyone into thinking he was just your average Joe. She would have passed him on
the street, sat beside him on the subway, ordered a coffee from him, and never
known he was the man who had gunned down her family. Not realized that he cared
so little for other human beings that he was willing to snuff out the life of
an eleven-year-old girl with just the pull of one trigger.

The squeal of the shower tap turning off cut through her
thoughts. She sped her mouse around the counter, favourited some of the sites
with Douglas’s history, shut down her internet and email, and opened her new
client’s manuscript.

Bruce came out of the bedroom with one towel around his
waist and rubbing his hair dry with another.

Billie poured him a coffee and handed him the steaming mug.
They were taking turns staying at each other’s apartments. Just like Doc
insisted. It was lovely to snuggle into his warm frame each night, wonderful to
have company and not be so lonely.

But damn. She needed some time to herself.

“So, I was thinking. I haven’t had any episodes. You know,
no fugue, no murderous rampages.”

Bruce took a gulp of coffee. “Nope. Just one unofficial
judicial intervention that won’t happen again without your sidekick.” He
grinned.

“I think I’d like to go to church tomorrow.”

“Okay. We can stay here again tonight if you like, then it’s
just a quick walk. Better than the subway ride from my place.”

She put her mug on the counter, took his hand, and pulled
him toward her. “I was thinking I’d like to go alone.” She traced a cross
through his chest hair, then encircled it inside a heart. “Do you mind? You
don’t even go to church.”

“I don’t mind. I can watch the game. Keep Peg Leg company.”

Might have to hit him over the head with it. She drew out a
long sigh.

“Oh, I get it.” He put one finger under her chin and lifted
her face. ”You need a break. Had enough of old Bruce already?” He planted a dry
peck on her nose.

“Not at all. But I wouldn’t mind some time to myself. Catch
up on laundry, maybe seek out some new clients.”

Stalk Art Douglas.

She looked up at him, her eyes as saucer-like as she could
muster without vomiting. “Is that okay? You’re not upset?”

“As long as you’re not breaking up with me, it’s totally
cool.”

She took his mug from his hand and placed it beside hers.
“Definitely not breaking up.” She slipped her T-shirt off her Saturday-braless
body and slid off the stool. She snatched the towel from his waist, hopped to
the bedroom, and lunged for the bed.

Bruce landed beside her.

THE GARAGE DOOR SQUEALED
its
displeasure at being forced open after so many months sitting idle. Dust
billowed up from the concrete floor and the smell of old oil and paint thinner
sent a spasm of memories through Billie.

She ran one finger along the side of the eighty-five Impala,
its black body marred by a thick, ashy layer. She rested a bag of rags and
cleaners on the floor, pulled on the latch of the driver’s side door, and
inhaled the scents that reminded her of her grandfather ─ Armor All and
pine air freshener. The dust on the inside was just a mist across the dashboard
and the steering wheel. She folded the old bedsheet that covered the seat and
slipped it from the car, then set to work making the interior sparkle. An hour
later, she slid into the driver’s seat and gripped the wheel.

She didn’t have many occasions to drive, the subway being so
easy and convenient and cheap. If the new owners of Grandmother’s house hadn’t
let her keep the car in the garage, she would have had to sell it. But they
did. So she didn’t.

How many times had Grandpa let her sit on his lap and take
the wheel while he barrelled down the highway at twice the speed limit? Her
father would have killed him had he known. Too much bacon and salt did the job
for him instead. Grandpa keeled over on bowling night, his teammates’ attempts
at CPR fruitless. His heart gave out two years before he had to witness the
death of his son.

She held her breath and turned the key. The engine turned
over with a rumble. She gunned the gas pedal and the motor sputtered out the
cobwebs, filling the lines with oil. It was the sound of power and freedom. Of
the open road and endless possibilities.

Her heart pitter-patted. She’d have to go driving more
often. Maybe take Bruce on a road trip.

She eased the car into gear and manoeuvred into the
driveway, climbed out, and closed the garage door. She clicked the padlock
shut, climbed behind the wheel and found the nearest touchless car wash.

Billie read the slip of paper again: checked the street sign
and the address over the door of the rundown garage. This was definitely the
place. The last known employment for Arthur Douglas. But that was a year ago.
He could be anywhere by now.

She crouched down in the seat and sipped her coffee, her
eyes glued to the building. It took almost an hour, but finally someone
appeared inside the open overhead garage door. He rolled out from under the
body of a rusty sedan, got up from the creeper, pulled a rag from the pocket of
his coveralls, and wiped his hands.

It was the face from Google images. Hardened, scarred,
angry. Wider than before, like freedom came with a better menu. Or maybe a
less-healthy one. His hair remained short-cropped, like a military cut, but
with more forehead, his hairline receded, his hair thinner. His brows were
bushier than ever, that weird opposite thing that happens as men age. More hair
in the ears, nose, and brow. Less and less on the head.

Adrenaline filled her belly, like hot wax dripping into her
stomach.

He picked up a pack of cigarettes that rested on the trunk
of the car, lit a match with his fingernail, sucked smoke into his lungs, then
exhaled. His body shook with uncontrolled coughs.

Maybe she didn’t need to do a damn thing. He was killing
himself, slowly but surely. She smirked. No way. He didn’t deserve a natural
death. He didn’t deserve to walk this earth one day longer. Her hatred for him
had been all-consuming for twenty-two years. It began the moment her father’s
knees hit the alley floor. With every passing year and everything she’d learned
about Douglas in the past week — the rapes, the allegations of serial murder —
her hatred turned malignant.

Every moment of every day was scarred by the vision of him,
by her memories, as fuzzy as they were and as focused on the gun. She was
traumatized anew by her imagination conjuring the sight of young girls, raped
and ruined and never able to be the same.

The man had no right to live.

He guzzled from a greasy travel mug, slammed it down on a
scarlet tool chest, and butted out his cigarette. He disappeared from her view.
Seconds later the articulated door rolled down with a shudder and a bang. He
reappeared at the side door, followed by another grease-stained man who slammed
the door shut and locked it behind him. He waved at Douglas. Douglas offered a
lame salute and climbed behind the wheel of a rundown Chevy Malibu. The engine
groaned and the car shook. Just like accountants who don’t balance their own
chequebooks, he was a mechanic that didn’t care for his own vehicle.

She started her car, took a right, and followed from a
distance.

Half an hour later, they neared the abandoned docks. She
scanned the street, her stomach in knots and her body quaking. The farther she
drove, the fewer cars occupied the streets. Traffic had been camouflage for her
stalking endeavour. But as the gut-wrenching stench of dead fish overtook the Impala,
she was alone with Art Douglas in the worst end of town. Alone with a murderer
and a rapist. No sidekick. No other living soul knew where in the hell she was.

Douglas kept glancing in his rear view mirror.

She lost her nerve, put on her signal and turned left at the
last street before the docks. At the next corner, she turned left again, then a
third time, and parked behind an abandoned building. She crawled through a
broken window on the main floor, partly covered with plywood, and picked her
way through the dingy building until she found a window at the back. In the
distance, he stood next to his car smoking another cigarette, safely behind a
chain link fence just inside the dock entrance, padlocked against the outside
world. He paced the locked gate and scanned the roads.

She’d spooked him. Gotten too close. But she had him now.
And she wasn’t about to let him go.