I receive confirmation of Ralph’s sickness in his movie and photo files. In his email, I find subscription confirmations, forum postings and email correspondence in all things pedophile. It is in his web history that I hit the jackpot. Craigslist searches for rentals. Two postings he returned to more than five times. I go back to his email account, looking for correspondence on either listing, and find a two-week long email trail, and what looks like a final conclusion—a six month lease, written in some bogus ass name. Deposit was mailed in the form of a cashier’s check, and the lease began on April 1st.
Bingo.
That night, in my childhood kitchen, surrounded by carnage—my mother dying in front of me—the screams that came from my mouth weren’t cries of mourning. They were because when I stabbed her, when I shoved that knife in, again and again, when her blood soaked my hands and hit my face, I had experienced relief. My sick, twisted soul had taken her soul; extinguished her life. My mother, the person whose shoulder I had leaned on, who had packed my lunches, kissed my cuts, and been my inspiration, was dead. I had killed her.
That long, agonized scream was for the life I had taken, both hers and mine. It was a scream for what, in that instant, I had become.
Staring at that lease, looking at an address that could possibly hold Annie, I feel woefully unprepared. It is almost laughable when I look back at the last three years. Three years of thinking about death, about me taking the life of another. And now, when the time to act arrives, I don’t have the faintest idea of how to properly go about it. My failure with Jeremy, his body easily overtaking mine, my weakness against his strength, is too fresh in my mind. Maybe I can’t do it. Maybe I will fail. But it is there, that word that has been held off for so long, in my mind as clearly as its ‘wait’ predecessor. Go.
GO.
CHAPTER 39: RalphMA35
The police knocked on Ralph Michael Atkins’s door at 6:12 p.m. on Monday night. He and his wife, Becky, had just sat down to a meal of overcooked beef stroganoff. When the knock sounded, Becky threw down her napkin and rose with an annoyed sigh. Michael stayed in his polished dining chair, tilted his head, and listened. Then she was back, her lilac perfume competing with the smell of beef. “Michael? The police are here. About Annie.”
They questioned them together in the formal living room. Becky’s hand grasped Michael’s, and on certain questions, squeezed it to almost a breaking point. Their answers had been quick and concise.
No, they had no idea where Annie could be.
No, they hadn’t seen her, not since her birthday party.
No, neither of them had any criminal history.
Last night they were both here, all evening. Both of them can attest to that.
Yes, they will stay in the area and be available for future questions.
No, they can’t imagine who would want to hurt poor Annie.
No, they only own one computer.
The police searched their home thoroughly, then asked to view their computer. Becky led them to the study, and to the ancient PC that sat there. They stated that they would need to take it with them, and she agreed, signing a receipt that they provided, saying nothing to them about the laptop that she knew Michael to possess. After that, the police left, and they returned to their cold meal.
It was a meal eaten in silence, forks and knives scraping heavy plates, ice cubes settling into tea. Only a single sentence was uttered.
“I don’t know what you’ve done, Michael, but you are staying here tonight. All night.”
CHAPTER 40
Knife: Check. I push all my books off the old, faded suitcase they sat on. Unzipping it, I pull out the sole item it holds—a black stiletto knife. Depressing the button on its front snaps out a long, thin, ridiculously sharp blade. I had bought it in a moment of weakness. Or rather, four hours of weakness in which I had meticulously researched different knives and switchblades, looking for the most effective and efficient killing tool. My fantasies mostly center on death by blade. Knives result in more blood, more suffering by the victim, and a slower death if you stab the right places and avoid main arteries. Not that I was going to restrict myself on this mission. I stuff the knife in my sweatshirt’s pocket.
Gun: Check. When I moved out of my grandparents’ house, a pawnshop was one of my first stops. I applied for a permit, and now owned a Smith & Wesson Model 36. I carry my desk chair over to the fridge and stand on it, reaching back ‘til I feel the space between the wall and the appliance. My fingers brush the edge of duct tape, gritty and peeling at the edges. I reach farther, gripping the cloth bag that the tape holds to the fridge. Yanking on the cloth, I rip the duct tape off, and pull the bag over the edge, cradling it to my chest and stepping carefully off the chair. When I first got this gun, I made cleaning it a full time job. I loved the feel and the weight of it in my hand, loved examining the mechanisms that made it deadly. I haven’t cleaned or touched the gun in over two years. It is a bittersweet reunion.
Car: No check. I need a vehicle. I log online, trying to find the closest rental company. Enterprise’s site indicates that they will pick me up, so I call them first. It is almost five o’clock. The rep that answers the phone says that they won’t be able to get me until the morning. I start looking up taxi companies.
A knock sounds on the door—two quick raps.
Jeremy.
He had brought flowers, a ridiculous gesture now that he thought about it. He sweated in front of her door, the wilted daisies looking sad after sitting all day in his hot truck. This was his last stop of the day. He had pushed her to the end of his route, hoping that she had reconsidered his note, and that today would be the day that she would let him in.
The door swung open, startling him in its unexpected movement, and she stood there, smaller than he remembered, dressed in black. She reached forward, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him inside.
She left him standing in the middle of her apartment, in between the two bedroom areas, the stupid flowers weighing down his arms. She paced to a desk, leaning over the computer and typing furiously into it. She spoke, the words tossed over her shoulder at him. “Do you have a car?”
“A car?”
“Yes. A car.”
“Yeah. I brought you flowers.”
“Toss them. Trash can is in the kitchen.” She finished typing, then reached behind the laptop and unplugged it, coiling the cord around her hand in a quick, hurried motion. “Thank you,” she said suddenly, turning to meet his eyes, the words an afterthought. “Trash. Kitchen.”