During his time as a protector of the peace, he witnessed many atrocities. He beheld injustices that consisted not only of the acts that men committed, but also of the punishment, or lack thereof, that they received. He had seen good people, who had committed crimes out of desperation and necessity, sentenced to the harshest degree of the law. By the same token, he witnessed justice turn a blind eye to certain individuals because of the size of their bank account or the amount of power that they wielded.
His time as a caretaker of chaos had left him not only haunted by painful memories, but also plagued by soul-shaking visions that tormented him upon entering the deepest recesses of sleep.
His heart raced as the events of a fateful night from his past played out deep inside his mind. He knew that he was dreaming and that nothing could erase the events recorded forever upon the pages of his memory. The fact that it wasn’t real didn’t make the experience seem any less authentic. He could feel the same chill in the air. He could smell the same scent of the river nearby. And he could hear the same scream that called to him on that night; a scream that his dreams would never allow him to forget.
Through the endurance of countless nights of restless sleep, he had learned that if he focused hard enough and screamed with enough ferocity inside his mind, the echoes from his subconscious triggered a reaction in the conscious side of his brain. Through the act of silently screaming, he could break the chains of sleep and save himself from reliving the painful events of his past.
He awoke alone, drenched in sweat from forehead to rib cage. The clock read
5:15
.
He stumbled down the hallway to a room containing the device that would transport him from semi-consciousness to alert coherence. Entering the kitchen, he headed to his trusty coffee pot.
Caffeine…every aspiring insomniac’s best friend.
Moving to the living room, he flipped on the television and cycled through the channels. He sat on a folding chair. Unpacked boxes surrounded him. The television and the coffee pot had been the first items to be unboxed.
Only five channels came in clearly, and he found himself forced to choose between a multitude of infomercials or a local news program. Since he had yet to come to the place in his life where he felt the need for knives that could cut through a tin can as easily as a tomato, a boxed set of the greatest country songs from the 60s, or a can of spray-on hair replacement, he switched to Channel Four News.
As he sipped his coffee and watched, an image flashed onto the screen that drew his attention. He was certain that he had never seen the face that stared back at him, but he sensed a vague familiarity in the man’s features that he couldn’t pinpoint. He also recognized something in the man’s eyes that he knew all too well. The man’s gray eyes reflected a hunger that dwelled in the darkest regions of a tainted soul. He saw a raging fire inside the man and knew that neither food nor drink could quench his thirst or appease his never-ceasing appetite. He had seen a similar hunger on a night from his past that he could never remember to forget. He turned up the volume.
“Most recently, Ackerman is believed to be responsible for the brutal murders of three men, including two Colorado State Troopers. But there was an unexpected twist to the story. Ackerman allegedly took one of the men’s family hostage and forced them to play a sadistic game. This is what a representative from the Colorado State Patrol, Major Christian Steinhoff, had to say at a recent press conference.”
The image cut to a man at a podium who expounded upon the details of the incident with the family, describing the miraculous survival of one of the victims, a woman named Emily Morgan. A picture of the woman flashed onto the screen. Her pale features seemed luminescent.
“Francis Ackerman Jr. is considered armed and highly dangerous. He is believed to be responsible for the brutal slayings of an undetermined number of men and women since his recent escape from a mental institution in Michigan and is wanted for questioning in several other ongoing criminal investigations. In an interview yesterday afternoon, a representative from the Dimmit County Sheriff’s Department told one of our reporters, Julian Harms, that this man will likely be remembered as one of the most prolific serial killers in U.S. history… In other news, presidential candidate and front runner, Paul Phillips, will be speaking in San Antonio...”
In the last moment before politics replaced the killer’s image, Marcus felt frightened and yet curious in regard to the killer from the TV.
What could drive a man to commit such terrible acts?
He realized that the world was a vast sea of infinite possibilities. Any number of circumstances could account for an ordinary man’s departure from the world of the mentally stable and socially acceptable into the realm of the criminally insane.
He considered that—sometime in the not too distant future—a scientist might discover that the root of all serial killers and violent offenders did not stem from a connection with an abused childhood or dark suggestion from the realm below. Perhaps, the root of insanity was actually yellow dye number five or red dye number forty, either of which could be found in the common Twinkie.
The concept of
Insanity by Reason of Twinkie
brought a smile to his face and allowed him to stop thinking about the killer from the TV and, if only for a few precious seconds, the dark deeds of his own past.
~~*~~
After shutting off the TV and moving to the porch, Marcus decided to explore the large farm he had inherited from his aunt, Ellen, who to the best of his knowledge had never even seen a farm, let alone owned one. Ellen had raised him after the murder of his parents. According to a note left with her last will and testament, the ranch had been her dream.
Now, it was his dream—a new beginning.
As he sat on his new front porch, he stared awe-struck at the early morning sky. He wondered if anyone else ever looked at the sky with a similar sense of wonder. Was it a miracle of divine creation to them, or was it more like a priceless work of art that had been locked away, forgotten, and never looked upon with curious eyes? For the first time in a long time, he felt at peace.
But his peace was short-lived. As a sense of awareness crept up his spine, it faded away like a mirage.
I’m not alone. I’m being watched.
Fear extended its cold fingers throughout his body, but he pushed the feeling away as best he could. A man like him wasn’t supposed to be frightened. He was supposed to be strong. He was supposed to be the protector, not the victim. He was supposed to be the shepherd, not the lamb. It was the worst kind of fear, a menace without a name. He had never been afraid of a danger that he could see and fight. The only thing that scared him was the unknown. When his time did come, he planned to go down swinging.
He couldn’t help but remember the eyes of the predator from the television.
Francis Ackerman Jr.
He tried to convince himself that his dread was merely the product of an overactive imagination, but a former cop’s intuition told him differently.
Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he caught a glimpse of movement. With a quick look in that direction, he could find no trace of the beast that stalked him.
A thousand questions raced through his mind.
What are the killer’s methods? Does he carry a gun?
In his experience, men like Ackerman didn’t attain the same satisfaction from killing with a gun as they did with knives or bare hands. That could work in his favor, but it didn’t always hold true.
He reasoned that remaining watchful and waiting for the killer to make a mistake might be the best plan, the best offense being a good defense. But he hated defense. He favored action over reaction, but only if the action was properly calculated.
He thought that he heard a noise to his right, but his heart beat with such force that he wondered if the sound had really come from within his own chest.
He watched.
He waited.
A few minutes passed, but nothing happened.
He felt foolish.
Maybe the only real threat is the impending danger of cabin fever?
After all, he had grown up in a place where another person was seldom a stone’s throw away. Now, he was truly alone for perhaps the first time in his life.
He pushed away the still-lingering sensation of dread and decided to continue with his planned exploration. He looked toward the horizon and spotted a small hill in the distance that would give him a better vantage point to see at least a partial layout of his new property.
Upon arrival at the hill, he sat down and leaned against a lone tree, converting dry ground and tree trunk into a makeshift recliner. He gazed across the South Texas plain and realized for the first time why they called it God’s country. It wasn’t simply because only God could have made such beauty, but also because if he were to scream as loudly as his lungs would allow, God would be the only one to hear him.
The memory of his aunt’s death crept into his mind and cast a shadow on his newfound peace. She was gone, but not forgotten. She could no longer laugh or cry or feel joy or pain, all of which were true tests of one’s verifiable existence. Yet, somehow, he couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around the thought that he would never see her again. Never again would he tell her how much she meant to him. Never again would he wake up to the smell of pancakes and bacon—at least not ones that would taste as sweet as the ones she had made for him. Never again would he be able to ask for her advice and counsel and receive the small tidbits of wisdom that lightened the burdens of his past and gave his tired soul a few moments of serenity.
Or will I get to see her again?
He had no real answers. He believed in Heaven and Hell and felt confident that his aunt was making her famous pancakes for the divine creator of the heavens and Earth at that very moment.
He just wasn’t sure whether he would get to see her wonderful new home. He suspected that his destination would be different.
He dug into the dry ground and pulled up a handful of loose soil. He let it slip from his grasp and be scattered by the wind. As the handful of earth was taken by the breeze, he could almost feel the fragility of his own life and of all life that existed on the planet. He knew that this was the way of the world: to be held by the hands of creation, live for only a second in the eyes of Father Time, be scattered to the wind, and then be returned to the ground.
~~*~~
The man in the dark shirt watched Marcus from a distance. He lowered his binoculars. Earlier, the observation of his quarry had almost elevated into interaction when he was sure that Marcus had sensed his presence.
A disturbing look had passed over the younger man’s face. He was sure that he had made little sound, if any, but somehow Marcus had known he was there. He had ceased his movements and remained still and invisible.
As he watched, he saw the same look in the young man’s eyes that he saw when he looked in the mirror at his own gaze.
He saw the soul of a predator and the instincts of a killer.
He consulted his watch. It was time to go. He had a feeling that the games would begin soon. And he would need to be ready.
Marcus glanced at his watch, and the hour shocked him. He had spent the biggest part of the day in quiet contemplation, yet it had felt like only a few minutes. In all his life, he had never stopped to smell the roses, never taken the time to relax. He had the time to do so now, and the sensation was liberating.
He stood, dusted off his jeans, and continued his exploration. He crossed a large meadow filled with tall, brown grass and topped another hill. From the hill’s apex, he could see a farmhouse in the distance and felt relieved to learn that his neighbor was a lot closer than he had previously imagined. He had learned from Maggie that his only neighbor was a kind woman whose husband had died.
He tried to think of her name.
Marsha…Marjorie…Maureen. Maureen Hill…that’s it
.
The distance to the house blurred its details in his vision. It was white and two stories, but he could see little else. He checked his watch again. With prior engagements, he didn’t have time for a visit.
Oh well, I’m supposed to bring a fruitcake or something. Or is she supposed to bring me a fruitcake? What the hell is a fruitcake anyway? And who makes these rules? I’ll just bring her a basket full of Twinkies tomorrow.
He retraced his steps back home, cleaned himself up, and drove into his new hometown of Asherton.
~~*~~
The deputy knocked on the ornate oak door to the Sheriff’s office. “Come in,” a voice said from the other side.
The elegance of the Sheriff’s department shocked Marcus. The intricate woodwork, plush leather chairs, and soothing natural tones of the walls and decor seemed to be stolen from a New York law firm. It was not the kind of ambience he had expected to find at a local sheriff’s office. Then again, he’d never been in a local sheriff’s office, and television was his only frame of reference. He knew better than to believe everything he saw on TV.
He stepped into the office, and the deputy closed the door behind him. The Sheriff sat behind a beautiful mahogany desk, watching a film of some kind on a computer screen. The Sheriff didn’t turn to greet him. The older man seemed hypnotized. His interest piqued, he moved around the desk enough to see the screen.
As he rounded its corner, he scanned the top of the desk. The papers and files formed neat, tidy stacks. He noticed a file under one of the stacks with his name on it.
Great. Second day in town and they’ve already put together a file on me.
His eyes darted over the other papers. Nothing of importance. Files labeled with the name
Francis Ackerman Jr.
A flyer for an auction, a two-story white house displayed prominently on its face. Several of the typical bureaucratic forms that filled the tedium of most cops’ lives. He thought back on the hours he had spent filling out reports, hours that should have been spent on the street protecting and serving.
But it’s all part of the job
.