Authors: S.E. Green
Chapter
Three
I MET MY ONLY REAL
friend, Reggie, when I was eight and she ten. We shared bunk beds at a science and technology summer camp. We immediately clicked on a, let’s just say, weird level. We “got” each other. We let each other be who we needed to be. We were okay to sit for an hour and not speak. We were who we were, and that was fine with both of us.
When I was ten and she twelve, we attended our usual summer camp. There was this girl who picked on everybody. She was horrible. She’d rub poison oak on girls’ underwear. She’d pour acetone in shampoo bottles. She’d take pictures in the showers and pass them among the boy campers.
Pranks are okay, but hers were way too mean-spirited to qualify as pranks.
When I told Reggie that I wanted to make the girl pay, Reggie didn’t blink an eye.
And when I told her
how
I intended on making her pay, Reggie said, “Want some help?” I knew then that we were soul mates.
But I didn’t make Reggie help me—my thing is my thing. And when the girl showed up the next day with an oak rash on her ass, acetone burns on her scalp,
and
naked pictures all over the boys’ cottages, she never messed with anyone again.
Making people pay for their dysfunctional aggression allows me to deal with my own urges. I learned that a long time ago. When I first shared that thought with Reggie, she nodded and replied, “I get that.”
Reggie’s from upstate New York, and summer camp was always the only time we ever saw each other. She earned a full-ride scholarship to MIT.
She’s got to be the smartest person I know, and she’s got her cyberfingers in everything. Thanks to her I’ve learned a thing or two about hacking, about covering my tracks, about using different IP addresses so things can’t be traced. Of course I’m nothing at her level, but I can do basic things like get an address for Paul Dryer, otherwise known as the Weasel.
I grab my book bag. “Mom, I’m gone.”
“Set the alarm when you get home,” she yells from her bathroom.
There’s a late-night coffeehouse a few blocks away from our house. At first I went to be alone, to study, to drink coffee. Between Daisy, Justin, and my parents, I’ve always found it hard to concentrate at home.
Mom respects that I need my space, and as long as I’m home by midnight, she’s okay with me going to that coffeehouse.
Yes, at first I used to really go there, but over the past year I’ve used the time to prowl the streets. I drive the neighborhoods people avoid. I watch drug deals go down, hookers get picked up, and drunks stumble the sidewalks. I follow them . . . watch them . . . learn them . . . I absorb the fear that at first watching them caused but now only draws me in. It both puzzles and mesmerizes me.
I crave my night outings, and on more than one occasion have caught myself zoning out during the day thinking about them. Sometimes they consume me. They fulfill a part of me I’ve yet to figure out. I can’t help but wonder that if just watching these deviants causes my blood to race through my body, what will actually taking one of them down do to me?
That last thought rolls around in my brain as I drive my Wrangler straight to the Weasel’s address and park across the street. In the one spot not illuminated by a streetlamp, I get out my binoculars and zero in on his third-floor condo. Immediately I pull back.
The man’s not shy at all.
Naked, he strolls around his condo brushing his teeth and then talking on the phone. He gets done with that and goes on to ironing. Personally, I don’t care for being naked. I prefer clothes. Nakedness is too . . . unhygienic for my taste.
Time passes and he eventually dresses in khakis and a polo. He grabs his keys and leaves his condo. Minutes after that he strolls out the complex’s front door and, whistling, heads down the street.
My heart kicks in as I watch where he’s going, and it only makes me more excited for how the night will play out. He can’t be going far—he’s on foot.
From my Jeep I watch him head a couple blocks down and straight into a restaurant. I climb out and follow the same sidewalk path until I’m standing outside the door he just went through. I step to the right and peer through the glass into the full restaurant. I inhale some fortifying air, grab the handle, and step inside.
It’s packed, and no one really notices him sitting at the bar and sipping a white wine.
I remember hearing Victor say that a white wine was a sissy drink. I suppose that’s why the Weasel’s ordered it—to make himself look mild.
There’s a ton of people waiting for a table, so I merge with the group, standing along the wall, making it look like I’m waiting too. It’s a good thing this place is not just a bar, otherwise I would’ve already been carded and asked to leave.
Despite the fact it’s September and still warm outside, the manager has the heat on inside the restaurant. I prefer cold. Always have. My core body temperature runs hot.
It doesn’t take but a few minutes for a woman to approach the Weasel. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but he’s got the I’m-just-an-awkward-nerd routine down a little too well. And the woman is falling for it, big time—just like all the other women did. She’s probably ten years younger than him and too stupid to realize he really isn’t drunk.
Pity lays are what they give him. Or at least what they
think
they’re going to give him.
The thing about the Weasel is that he doesn’t have a type. The women in the courtroom had been tall/short, chunky/skinny, blonde/brunette.
This one wears her black hair short and displays big boobs that definitely don’t look fake.
“Miss?” The hostess waves at me. “Table?”
I snap out of my staring. “I’m waiting for someone.” I check my watch to make it look true.
“It’s going to be an hour wait at this point. Want to go ahead and put your name in?”
“No, thank you.”
She gives me a polite smile and goes back to hostessing. I go back to staring.
The Weasel and Big Boobs progress in the get-to-know-you-drunk thing, and sometime later they stumble from the restaurant—her really wasted and him faking it. I see her pass him a car key. They’re going somewhere not on foot.
It didn’t occur to me they would drive, and so as normal as I can make it seem, I head from the restaurant, jog the couple blocks back to my Jeep, and hope they are still there when I return.
They are, leaning up against her car out front, making out. I watch, a little disgusted at their sloppy display, waiting for them to make the next move.
He pulls away from their groping and climbs into her car to drive. Twenty minutes later they arrive at a Cape Cod. They go inside and I know, based on what I heard in the courtroom, how it goes from here. She wants it, the Weasel refuses (as he did with all the other women), choosing instead
talking.
The talking I’m sure convinces the women he’s harmless.
An hour later he finally emerges. He walks the perimeter of her house before heading from the neighborhood, getting into a cab, and pulling away. Miss Big Boobs will be his next victim—this I’m sure. I hope I’ll be there to take him down.
Chapter
Four
I SPEND THE NEXT UNEVENTFUL
couple of days going to school, doing my normal routine, and eagerly thinking about the Weasel. Each night I spy on him as he does his naked routine in his third-floor condo, and I fantasize about how I’m going to make him suffer.
On the third night I park in my usual spot, get out my binoculars, and see him naked, standing in his bathroom, meticulously shaving his face, arms, chest, legs, and pubes.
No evidence.
Tonight will be the night. My whole body vibrates in expectation.
While he continues his ritual, I start my own with the supplies I bought from the surplus store and the one I stole. . . .
I stuff my springy red hair into a full-face ski mask, slip my leather gloves on, and tuck my long-sleeve dark tee into my black cargo pants.
No evidence.
Into those cargo pockets I put a Taser, the stolen tranquilizer gun, zip ties, and my lock pick. This is my first time and my personal kit will likely change as I fine-tune my methods. I recognize this and am looking forward to that evolution.
The Weasel drives from the underground garage in his perfectly normal Corolla and pulls right past me.
I don’t immediately follow. I know where he’s headed—the Cape Cod and Miss Big Boobs.
About twenty minutes later I pull onto her street and right past the Weasel’s Corolla. He’s already gone inside.
I park in the darkness under a tree and cut my engine. I lower the face portion of my mask and take a second to calm my anticipatory nerves. This is it. The night I become me. The start of everything. In my mind it goes two ways: Either I kill him. Or I don’t kill him.
If I kill him, he deserves it for how he raped all those women. If I don’t kill him, I’ll make him suffer, and I’ll enjoy every minute of it. It’ll curb the urges I have lived with for years and have only mildly satiated. Tonight is the night I completely fulfill that dark, missing side of me that has persistently been clawing at my insides. I want to do this. I
have
to do this.
When I feel ready, I climb from the Jeep and stay to the shadows as I approach the house. At eleven in the evening no one’s out in the sleepy, family neighborhood.
I skirt along the side yard and make my way to the back door.
Years ago Victor taught me how to pick a lock. It was all for fun, of course. He had no clue I’d really be using the skill.
He also taught me how to shoot.
I crouch at the back-porch door, fumble with the pick, and accidentally drop it through the wooden slats beneath my feet.
Dammit.
I step down and scramble through dirt and leaves, looking for my pick.
I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I dropped the pick.
I push aside more leaves.
Where is it? There!
Its silver glints a teeny bit in the moonlight, and I reach for it, noting my hands are shaking.
No, no shaking hands. Be calm.
I pick it up and fist it tight to not only force my hands to stop trembling but also to ensure I don’t drop it again. Next time I’ll pack two.
I crawl back up onto the porch and concentrate on a steady hand as I try again. The lock makes a silent
click
,
and beneath my mask I smile.
I step over the threshold, silently close the door, and immediately hear classical piano. I give myself a second to orient and slowly head toward the music. Halfway down the hall, I stop, close my eyes, and blow out a very—long—calming—breath.
My eyes snap open, and I focus on candlelight flickering from a room just ahead. A vanilla scent wafts through my senses. As I draw closer, I hear whimpering and the sound of clanking metal. The two combined mute the throb in my ears and have me stepping through the doorway.
The Weasel stands in a shirt and boxers, with a face mask of his own and his pecker hanging out. The woman lies naked and handcuffed to the bed, gauze shoved in her mouth.
She sees me and immediately starts thrashing.
The Weasel turns, and through the face mask he wears I see his eyes widen.
This is it
echoes across my mind, but I don’t move. The Weasel seems confused for a second, then quickly snaps back to reality and makes an awkward lunge for me. I clumsily dodge away.
Face your attacker
. My sensei’s words float through my brain. I’m doing everything wrong. I’m in the opposite direction!
I redirect and go toward him, blunder with the snap on my cargo pocket, and yank out my Taser. He tackles me to the floor.
Umph!
All the air leaves my lungs, and somewhere in the back of my mind I think,
I should’ve had the Taser out and ready.
We roll a few times across the floor, our panting breaths filling the air. He lands on top of me and reaches for the Taser at the exact second I remember my death grip on it. I raise it up, point it toward his back, and hope to God it doesn’t hit me, too. I squeeze the trigger, barbs fly out, and his whole body arches away from me.
That was close.
Too
close.
With a grunt, I shove him off me and scramble to my feet. My heart kicks into overdrive as I watch his full body spasm and listen to his shrieks.
Slim justice.
I take in the barbs suctioned to his butt and lower back and experience a moment of both gladness that I hit him and disappointment that it wasn’t his pecker I pinged. I’ll have to practice my aim.
Before the .3 joules runs its course, I turn his short pudgy body over onto his stomach, and like I’ve seen cops do on TV, I use zip ties to secure his wrists, thighs, and ankles. I pull extra tight. Probably too tight, but I don’t care. So what if his extremities experience blood loss.
I pick up the Taser and give him another jolt just to see him spasm, just to hear him yell, and to surge the blood through my veins again. His limp pecker catches my eye, and pure adrenaline spikes every nerve in my body as a new thought springs to life.
On the bedside table lies a butcher knife he would have used to intimidate and torture his latest victim. I walk over to it, pick it up, and its large blade catches the light of the flickering candles. Holding it in front of me, I slowly stalk back across the bedroom to his hog-tied form.
He sees me coming, and his body begins violently shaking with the fear he more than deserves to feel. I wave the blade in front of his face, and he whimpers like the pathetic rapist that he is. The snivels roll through my body, fueling it with a desire for righteousness.
“P-p-please don’t,” he begs.
Please don’t what? Do to you what you’ve done to so many others? Make you pay for your disgusting self? Assure no one else will ever suffer by you again?
He responds to my silence with a high-pitched wail that heats my core to near boiling. With one last wave of the blade, I run it up his bare shaved thigh and draw a stream of blood. He screams even louder, before falling completely silent as realization dawns that I left his precious pecker alone. But as soon as that sinks in, he starts screaming again.
I yank his mask off and cram it in his mouth, and he goes blessedly mute.
The woman’s thrashing body has my attention swerving over to the bed. I disengage the Taser cartridge and go to her. Crying and whimpering, she stares wide-eyed at me.
I cover her naked body with a blanket and pull the gauze from her mouth.
“Please,” she croaks. “Please help me.”
I look around the room. I had thought about this part really well—how to help her and stay anonymous at the same time. I take the phone off the bedside table and lay it right beside her head.
“Please”—she jerks at her restraints—“are you sure he’s secure?”
I nod as I dial 911. The sound of the operator answering shoots realization through me.
I have to get out of here.
I bolt from the scene, through her house, across her yard, and back to my Jeep.
She’ll be okay. Help will come soon.
I climb into my Wrangler, take my ski mask off, and shove it in my glove compartment. The Weasel’s blood catches my eye.
Shit
.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
It’s on my glove compartment, my clothes, my door handle, and anything I touched with my gloved hands. I messed up. Big time. I’m such an imbecile. I’ll have to be more careful, more alert, more organized next time. No fumbling, no awkward dodging, no leftover blood. I need to have it all figured out. It has to be cleaner. Premeditated.
Okay, think. It’s eleven forty-five, and I have to be home in fifteen minutes. I have a change of clothes, and I have a first aid kit with alcohol wipes. I’ll shove my blood-streaked clothes in a plastic bag and immediately wash them when I get home. I’ll wipe my Jeep down with alcohol and then wash it tomorrow and detail the inside. No one will know anything.
Quickly I change, and as I’m slipping out of my cargo pants, my fingers brush the tranquilizer gun still in my pocket, loaded with enough stolen sedative to destroy a man three times the Weasel’s size.
I didn’t kill him after all. . . .