Authors: James Roy Daley
Alex said, “Someone told me that the killer was Debra’s boyfriend, but I don’t know about that. I know him pretty well. James is his name. It doesn’t seem to fit if you ask me.”
His words seemed to be a question that Mia didn’t answer. A breath of silence came between them, and although Alex had plenty left to say on the topic he held his tongue as long as he could. The silence lasted three seconds.
“
Yeah, I know James,” Alex continued. “He’s quiet sometimes, he’s loud sometimes. Jeepers-peepers, sometimes he tells funny stories. We went to a Halloween party together one year… Debra likes him quite a bit and I bug her about it all the friggin’ time. She takes it well. You’d like Debra. I’ll like, introduce you, if you want. I’ll introduce you to James too.”
“
No thanks.”
Alex made a dumb face. “Come on. Don’t be like that. They’re good people.”
“
I need to go to the police station,” Mia said. Then she put her hands over her face and cried her eyes out.
90
The Bakisi left Mia’s apartment and killed two boys. They were standing in a hallway, talking video games. The incantation took them both on a once, exterminating them quickly by crushing their hearts. Later, the medical teams involved would list the deaths as suspicious, but autopsies would show something different and force the unlikely assumption of natural causes. Not that the Bakisi would know this, or care. The Bakisi had no interest in the thoughts or politics of man, for the beast was untouchable and eternally alone. And man could do nothing to stop the instinctive nature of the creature, or condition it to the will of the human race. Nor could man understand the Bakisi’s unchanging and ageless temperament, which never faltered and never modified.
After the Bakisi killed the boys it searched the building––floating but not floating, touching walls and floors but not touching walls and floors. The molecules inside the being separated; they stretched over several meters. It was in this way––with condensing and expanding molecule densities––that the Bakisi was capable of traveling through its surroundings, suspended inside the atmosphere, drifting through the physical objects it encountered. Its science was indistinguishable to the human eye.
The Bakisi floated high above the building. It could see the trees, streets, people and cars. It could see the buses, buildings and sidewalks. It circled Martinsville like an eagle, in a wide tracking ring. It searched the beaches of the south and the forests of the north. It searched the hills, valleys and roadways of both east and west. Then it swooped down, gliding through the streets of Martinsville, checking the houses, schools, swimming pools and parks.
Hunting the woman scent, which for the time, seemed lost.
91
Alex pulled the car to the side of the road, bumping the curb, forty-five feet away from the mammoth doors of the police station. As the curb and rubber met, Mia wiped a hand across her chin and looked down. She eyed her legs for no distinguishable reason, thinking about the things she had seen. She noticed a smear of blood on her left knee and drops of blood on her right. She couldn’t finger the moment it happened, but it did happen. All of it: the bloodstains on her clothing was proof––solid, undeniable proof.
A deep, ugly sickness threatened to consume every last morsel of her being. But she didn’t want to be sick. She didn’t want to cry more. She had cried enough and wanted to get going, see the police and try to understand what the hell went wrong.
Keeping her eyes on the bloodstain, Mia said, “Thank you Alex. You’ve been great.” Then she lifted her chin, placed a hand on the door handle and applied some force. The door opened. Mia slid one foot outside.
Alex twisted towards her.
“
No worries,” he said with a soft, disadvantaged tone. “I’m glad to help you out.”
But the truth, Alex knew, was slightly different than he wanted to admit. The truth was––he was glad to have met her, regardless of the circumstance. He needed a woman in his life; he needed one bad.
Somewhere overhead, the Bakisi detected Mia scent. It changed course, and began moving in a straight line, faster and faster. Plummeting.
Alex said, “Hey Mia?”
“
Yeah?”
“
I know this is a bad time and everything, and I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. Honest I’m not. But if you want to hang out later and you like, need someone to talk with, I’m right down the hall. I’m less than sixty feet away. And I’m a good guy, a good listener. At least, that’s what my friends tell me.”
“
Thanks Alex. I appreciate that. You’ve been great.”
“
You know which door is mine, right?”
“
Five-fifteen.”
“
Five-fifteen. That’s the one. Don’t hesitate to give me a ring anytime, day or night. I’d love to see you again, under different circumstances of course. Maybe we could like, get together for a drink or something.”
Mia nodded, stepped outside and closed the door tight.
Alex rolled the window down and leaned out. “And don’t worry,” he said. “Things are bad now, but like, things will get better. I promise. Things always get better.”
“
Thanks again Alex. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“
Do you want me to come inside with you?”
“
No, no. I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
Mia walked a staggered line towards the giant police station doors, feeling a significant amount of sadness. Her parents were dead, murdered. But why––and what the hell happened?
Two police officers rushed past with shoulders wide and stern. They moved like they were in a hurry. Mia snatched a quick, careless glance, and realized that both cops had thick mustaches and wore dark, thick-rimmed sunglasses. With the uniforms, the men looked almost identical. And gay. It was a stupid observation, but for some reason it prompted Mia to stop walking and turn around.
Alex was still there, watching.
She looked at Alex and her thoughts changed route. She felt her fingers tighten into fists and her muscles tense. She hated it when guys offered too much attention. It made her feel like a piece of meat and today that was the last thing she needed. Guys were always hitting on her, it seemed. After a while it felt less flattering and more insulting.
But Alex seemed different than the others, somehow.
Sure, he wanted to get laid, of course—but he was sweeter than most guys she encountered. He was cute and he carried himself with a youthful quality she hadn’t seen in a while. And he did help her out in her time of need. He did. That had to worth something––a knock on the door, a cup of coffee, an open mind.
Looking Mia up and down, Alex waved.
Mia returned the gesture, just as the image of her father came to her. He was propped up against the counter. His face was swollen and red; blood ran down his neck.
Satan is with us
, he had said.
Satan
.
Jesus.
Mia wanted to think that her father had gone crazy, but she didn’t. Something happened; something she didn’t understand.
Alex, who had no idea that Mia was so upset, opened his mouth, preparing to unleash one last mouthful of words, one final awkward attempt to bring Mia into his life. The words never came.
The Bakisi came instead.
Mia was thrown to the concrete ground. Her neck snapped twice; it tore open and a jet stream of blood cascaded into the air like a fountain.
Alex found himself jumping out of the car and running towards her.
What’s happening here? he wondered.
Then ice-cold fingers circled his neck and a pressure he had never known crushed his throat. He heard a woman scream. His eyes bulged and his face was forced into his chest. With knees buckling, Alex fell to the ground and rolled. And in his final moments, before the police would come running (those same two men that Mia assumed were gay), he watched blood gush through a growing hole in his dress shirt, knowing—but not quite understanding—that his ribcage was being pulled apart.
92
Three bedrooms, one bathroom, one common room and two exits: that was Debra’s cottage. The common room was a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, and the gateway to the outdoor patio (which overlooked the beach) all in one. On the other side of the cottage, a hallway with a door at the end of it divided the four remaining rooms: two bedrooms on one side, bed and bath on the other.
It was in this hallway that James found himself hiding.
After James had fallen, he searched until he found the shotgun. Then he ran inside the cottage, threw the box of shells on the dining room table, pulled the box apart and pumped shells into the chamber. This took time, lots of time. Too much time. And when he was ready to step outside again––to save the screaming woman, or shoot the screaming woman, or pull down his pants and give it a good yank, or do whatever it was that his crazy mind was thinking of doing––he felt it was too late. The screaming had ended. The time had come and gone.
James stepped outside slowly, biting on his lower lip. Not enough to make it bleed, just enough to make it hurt. His heart rate stabilized. He no longer felt a sense of urgency. He felt something else, something comparable to stupidity. Creeping outside, into danger, into a dark open space––it wasn’t exactly the play of the day.
He returned indoors like a coward and swiftly locked both doors. Then he turned the lights on, closed the bathroom door and the bedroom doors. It was all about the common room and the hallway now, nothing more. The common room was almost empty. The hallway was as clean as a whistle. The other rooms were shut off and were no longer an issue.
He looked over his shoulder, scratching his head. Where was it? Where was the killing machine? What was it waiting for? Where was it hiding?
Come on––
After sneaking from window to window James cowered in the hallway. His fingers gripped the weapon like he was trying to kill it. His eyes were wide and glossy; his hair was a damp and tattered mess. He could smell the oak and pine of the cottage, and occasionally he would mumble, and give himself warning: stay quiet… stay quiet… stay quiet…
Because it was here, the killing machine was here. He needed to keep his wits.
93
Thoughts and conversations swirled through Debra’s mind in sporadic isolated chunks. A surge of anger and frustration raced throughout her frayed and battered emotions.
She hated James. Hated him!
She slammed a hand against the steering wheel before pushing on the gas pedal. The engine awoke from its half-slumber, pitching up two notches. The trees blurred in the darkness; the road raced beneath the wheels. Small drops of rain bounced lightly against the windshield, and then the raindrops grew––size and weight doubling, tripling, quadrupling. Just as Debra flicked the wipers on a crack of lightning thrashed against the skyline.
Debra, alone now, took her eyes from the road and looked into the sky. She heard the rain before seeing it, like angry fists pounding against a steel drum. No rhythm. All rhythm. Waves of rhythm. Titanic drops of rain slammed the car. She blinked twice, astounded by the sudden downpour. She pulled her foot from the gas pedal, pressed the brake and threw the wipers on full blast. But her vision had narrowed. It was becoming non-existent––even with the vehicle slowing, even with the wipers blasting and her body arced towards the windshield, the rain was in control now. The rain had taken the land.
Noticing that her window was down a couple inches and water was getting inside the car, Debra lifted a hand from the steering wheel and crushed a finger against a button on the door. The window hummed, then closed. Alone in the car, the dusty seats and stale air caught her senses. Her finger tapped the button, once, twice. She opened the window a little bit, just a crack, and then closed the window again. Her thoughts turned to smoking––the taste, the smell. But why smoking, she wondered. She hated smoking and had given it up long ago, so why here? Why now? She hadn’t smoked in weeks.
But what about girls-night––when was that? Last night?
She pushed the thought away. Girls-night didn’t count.
She thought about the rain. She thought about the difficulties of driving and considered stopping at a convenience store. Yeah. Stopping at a convenience store. That would be nice, a nice little break, but not to buy cigarettes, of course. No. She just wanted to get out of the rain for a minute or two, pick up a bottle of juice, or a cup of coffee, or maybe one of those super-fattening but terribly delicious chocolate ice-cream bars, but not cigarettes. Buying a pack of cigarettes would be stupid, a total waste of time and money. The pack would go stale. She wouldn’t even smoke it. And besides, she didn’t enjoy smoking now. It tasted bad, like the bottom of an ashtray. Hell, she wasn’t sure why she started in the first place.
Her (smoking) fingers tapped the window button.
Tap; tap; tap.
Well, maybe she knew why she had started. Yes, on second thought, of course she knew. She was young and foolish. It was the cool thing to do. Her friends were doing it, and even if they weren’t doing it they thought she was cool when she was doing it. Wasn’t that right?