“That’s strange.”
“What?”
“She just doesn’t leave very often. Even when she sees her kids, they usually come to her.”
“Maybe she had to get groceries?”
Maggie shook her head. “She pays a kid from town to deliver them to her. I even told her that we might stop by today, and she never mentioned anything about being gone.”
He could see the onset of fear in her eyes. He knew that it was probably his own paranoia, but his thoughts turned to Ackerman. He knocked, but with no better results. He reached out and grasped the doorknob. He twisted, and the door swung inward on its own inertia.
“HELLO?” Maggie called out but received no response.
“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. You get back in the car and drive halfway down the lane. You should be able to see anyone coming from all directions. Lock the doors and keep a sharp eye out. I’ll check the house. She’s probably upstairs taking a nap or something, but better safe than sorry. If I’m not back out in five minutes or you see anything strange, you get outta here. Call your father on the way.”
“Why don’t we just call him now?”
“Listen. Maybe it’s just a stupid macho guy thing, but I’m not gonna call in the cops because someone didn’t answer their door. I’ll check things out, and if anything’s out of place, we’ll go from there.”
“But what if—”
“I can take care of myself.”
“If something’s wrong, you’ll need backup.”
“You’re right, I will. That’s why you need to be ready to call your father.”
She let out a deep sigh. “Be careful.”
He walked her back to the car, returned to the front door, and stepped through the entryway. He scanned his surroundings and couldn’t help but notice the spotless condition of the hardwood floors, even in front of the main entrance. The floor was clear of debris and dust of any kind. He checked his shoes. A layer of dirt caked the soles.
He listened for a moment. Like a black hole waiting to consume the universe, the house exuded an eerie calm. The two-story farmhouse—that only a few moments earlier seemed to be a place of happiness, a place where grandchildren played in the backyard and freshly baked apple pies cooled on open window sills—now seemed to be a place of darkness; an ominous vortex pregnant with malignant secrets.
A voice in the back of his mind told him that something horrible awaited him, but a louder and more compelling voice told him to move forward. At that moment, he wished that he could let someone else reveal the house’s secrets, but that was something he couldn’t do. There could be someone in trouble here, and he had to do everything in his power to help. He wondered how much simpler his life would be if he could just walk away. “Hello?”
There was no sound.
He called out again, louder this time. “HELLO, IS ANYONE HOME?”
Nothing.
The two-story house was white with black shutters, and a wrap-around porch encompassed half its diameter. The front door opened into a spacious living room with a large picture window. Curio cabinets lined the walls with shelves populated by antique pottery and glassware. A partially open staircase was on his left and an open dining room, attached to the living room in an L-shape, sat to his right. He moved into the dining room and noticed a stack of mail on the table. Part of the stack had been opened, and part sat unread.
He looked back toward the flight of steps and decided to investigate the second story. He moved up the hardwood stairs without making a sound.
At the top, a bathroom door stood open on his left. He peered inside. The shower curtain had been pulled back, so he wouldn’t have to jerk it open and pray that no one stood on the other side. A closed door waited at the far end of the hallway with two additional doors along the way. As his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit corridor, the dark wood grain of the closed door seemed to swirl and pulse like worms in an open grave.
He crept forward, hugging the right wall. He balled his fists into weapons. If his own mother had stepped out of one of the rooms, she would have found herself lying flat on her back.
A door on his left was closed, but the room on his right was open. Light beamed through the doorway, casting strange shadows upon the wall. He peeked around the corner and, seeing no immediate danger, stepped into the room.
The space contained an exercise bike, a rowing machine, a small television, and some other baffling contraptions. A layer of dust covered them all. He saw that the source of the shadows in the hallway was a tree swaying just outside the window. He checked the closet and then turned his attention to the first of the other closed doors.
He twisted the knob and pushed the door inward. He stepped to the side and scanned what portions of the room he could see from the hallway. The bed had been made with care, and decorative pillows covered its surface. A huge pile of stuffed animals, ranging from pink elephants to curious monkeys, rested in one corner. A shelf full of collectable dolls sat above the stuffed animal zoo. He checked the room but found no trace of wrongdoing.
One more bedroom…
Maybe my imagination is getting the better of me? This morning, I feel a presence that turns out to be nothing, and here I am chasing shadows. Maybe I’m losing my—
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Doubt and wishful thinking were now beyond the realm of possibility.
Blood covered the doorknob of the next room.
~~*~~
Marcus’s heart pounded, and his pulse throbbed. He reached out, grasped the knob, but then hesitated. Once again, he had blood on his hands. He turned the knob and gave the door a gentle push.
Blood was everywhere. The smell of rotting meat and decay filled the small space. Clumps of flies swarmed the room. Their buzzing stabbed at his consciousness like needles into his brain. He felt light-headed. The room spun. Bile rose to the back of his throat.
A man couldn’t have done this…this was a monster…a demon…the devil himself.
The newscaster had used the word “brutal” to describe the acts of random violence committed by the man named Ackerman. Now, it seemed to him that “brutal” lacked the proper depth. He searched for a more fitting word but found none. He wondered whether human language contained a word to describe such acts of lunacy. Perhaps only the language of the damned and the devil could describe the horror contained within the bedroom’s four walls.
One question remained.
Where’s the body?
He surveyed the rest of the room. Within the reflection on the dresser mirror, he noticed something out of place. The image on the mirror showed a pair of bloody hands jutting out over the door that he had just opened.
He turned around. Although he knew the image would be etched into his memory until the day he died, he pushed the door closed to reveal the bloody body of a kind and innocent woman.
Two large spikes pierced her hands, nailing her to the wall. She had been stripped naked. Long cuts defiled the flesh. They were not quick slashes or stabs. The killer had stuck the knife in just far enough to break the skin and then ran the blade down the entire length of the body.
He prayed to God that she had lost consciousness from the trauma of her wounds, but he knew that a killer like Ackerman would possess the knowledge necessary to prevent shock and prolong agony. At some point, he guessed that she had bled to death.
He tried to turn away but was unable to keep himself from thinking like a cop. He noticed that signs of decay had taken hold. The body showed evidence of hypostasis, and a milky film covered the eyes. Flies swarmed the remains.
He noted that things were wrong somehow. There was something about the hands and the blood, but he couldn’t concentrate. Emotion eclipsed deduction.
He imagined the last moments of her life. He could see her screaming with a pain that no one should ever have to endure. He saw her executioner smiling with the same sense of pride that a painter or sculptor receives after completing a beautiful and soulful masterpiece.
The victim’s cold, dead eyes were wide with unimaginable terror. They screamed out to him. They begged for help.
I could’ve helped her…I could have saved her.
He knew the look in her eyes. He saw it almost every night in his dreams.
If I had gotten here sooner, she might still be alive.
He stood transfixed. His entire body shook. Fury built up within him and boiled toward the point of eruption. It was a righteous rage, the kind that a person with a good soul feels when staring into the face of pure evil. It was the kind of rage that a father wields when confronting his child’s killer, or that a mother feels after discovering that her husband has been molesting their child. He could not allow another person to endure such pain. She deserved justice, and he would see to it that justice was done.
His thoughts turned to Maggie. He ran down the hallway to the front of the house and peered through the window. The car was gone.
He checked his watch. Seven minutes had passed.
Good girl.
The Sheriff should be on his way, but I can’t count on that
. He suspected that cellular coverage might not be comprehensive in such an isolated and unpopulated area.
He turned away from the window and moved back to the bedroom. There was only one thing that he could do for Maureen now. He scanned the room. It took only a few seconds to find a trail of blood leading toward a door on his left.
He moved with a purpose. He opened the door and discovered a set of stairs. He wasn’t paying attention to the blood trail any longer. The volcano had erupted inside him, and a blanket of red had fallen over his eyes like a shroud. The flower of his righteous rage was in full bloom.
Once in the kitchen, he ran to a door leading into a small office. He opened the door with such force that it nearly came off its hinges. He moved to the closet, opened the door, and searched inside. No killer.
He exited the office and headed for another door that led into a bathroom. The shower curtain was closed. Unlike earlier, when he would have thrown it open and prayed not to find anyone, he now hoped to find a killer hiding behind the curtain. He found nothing but an empty shower stall.
He returned to the kitchen and noticed that the blood trail led to the porch. He followed the droplets of crimson liquid to the back door. He noticed the spotless condition of the mudroom and entertained the ludicrous thought of how angry the grandmother would have been that the killer had tracked her blood across the immaculate floors.
He twisted the knob, but a deadbolt secured the back door. He undid the lock and left the house of pain behind.
As he exited, he felt as if a pressure lifted. Once again, he was surrounded by blue skies and open spaces. He wondered if the house would always carry the stain of blood and the smell of death, a taint that no amount of cleaning or coats of paint could conceal.
Once again, he stood surrounded on all sides by the beauty of nature, but the world didn’t seem as bright to him as it had before entering the grandmother’s house. He had felt that his new home was immune to the evil that plagued the rest of the world, but now he knew that darkness and ugliness could thrive and grow even in the center of the brightest light and the most breathtaking beauty. Somehow, such knowledge made the light seem dimmer and the beauty less magnificent.
The trail of blood had stopped, and he knew that the killer could have gone in any direction. As the adrenaline faded, he realized that his prey was long gone, and the hunt was over. He saw a few buildings scattered behind the house but decided not to bother searching them.
Although he would have preferred to never set foot in the house again, it contained the closest phone. He decided that it couldn’t hurt to call the authorities, in case Maggie couldn’t obtain a cellular signal.
He re-entered the tainted house and dialed nine-one-one. The operator asked about the nature of the emergency. “Send the police to…” He stopped and realized that he didn’t know the address.
He remembered the stack of mail on the dining room table. “Hold on.” He rushed to the table and returned with one of the unopened letters. “Send the police to 91244 Foxbrook Road in Asherton, the home of Maureen Hill.”
He heard the rhythmic click of a computer keyboard. “I’m not showing that address anywhere in the county, sir. Are you at the location where the police are needed now?”
“Yes.” He looked back down at the envelope and noticed something strange.
“Ok, I have your location. Do you need an ambulance, sir?”
He considered the request and said, “No, but tell ‘em to bring the coroner.”
The Sheriff stared at the body of Maureen Hill and gazed into her milky, dead eyes. He clenched his own eyelids shut, but the tears found their way free, nonetheless. The look of pain in the lifeless orbs was familiar to him. He had seen the same fear the last time he looked into the eyes of his wife, Kathleen.
The memories flashed through his mind. Coming home. Finding her mutilated body in their living room.
She had been dead for two days. Two days, and he hadn’t even noticed that her calls had ceased.
He had been in Kansas City at the time of her death, consulting on a missing persons case. But most of his time there was spent contemplating another active investigation, a serial rapist and murderer in the Virginia and Washington D.C. area. He had put a profile together for the investigators. The police used his analysis to isolate a suspect, but the man avoided capture and was on the run.
He was proud of his work on the case. The lead investigator had even thanked him personally during a press conference, stating that his profile played an integral role in identifying the possible killer. He remembered the feeling of pride he felt at the mention of his name on television.
Human nature
, he supposed. Everyone wanted his or her fifteen minutes of fame. More than that, everyone wanted to be recognized for his or her hard work and diligence.
And he was most definitely recognized for his role in the case, not by his superiors, but by the rapist and murderer he had helped to identify. With nothing to lose, the killer had decided to go after the families of his pursuers. The man raped and murdered Kathleen and then the lead investigator’s wife and stepdaughter.