Chapter 15

15

Voss

Parked across from Duli’s Diner, I have the perfect view of Nola’s rental vehicle parked off to the side. And after an hour of watching it, I’ve come to the realization that I’d never make it as a full-on stalker. Staking someone out has to be the most boring fucking job in the world. In this case, Nola makes it worth the suffering, as good as she looks in her little waitress uniform, but as a general rule, sitting idle is enough to make me want to stab my eyeballs out with a toothpick. I don’t mind hunting someone down, it’s the long hours of watching, waiting to catch a glimpse of prey, that whittles at my patience. I’m convinced, wherever she is, though, I’ll find my quarry.

It’s been an hour, and I’ve witnessed about two dozen people come and go. The white van is nowhere in sight, and neither is anyone who looks remotely like Carl.

Not that I’d necessarily recognize him nowadays. It’s been nearly twenty years since the night I took off. My mind swirls with memories of his face in what few details come to mind, but all I can see is a vague image, a mask of indifference. The face of a kid who’d been bred not to care about anyone, or anything.

“Boo!” Carl leaps out in front of me on my way to my bedroom.

I fall back against the wall behind me, eyes locked on what looks to be an expressionless mask, though it’s hardly discernible in the surrounding darkness of the corridor. “What the hell is that?”

He snickers, tipping his head to the side. “What’s the matter? Scared?”

Not wanting to admit every bone in my body is shaking, I frown and push off the wall. “No. But what’s it for?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Through the holes in the mask that’s made from papier-maché, I’d guess, I can see his eyes, focused on me. “Better make sure grandfather doesn’t see you. He’ll be pissed you used all his newspaper for that.”

“What makes you think it’s newspaper?”

“What else would it be?”

“Feel it. Unless you’re too chicken.”

I reach up to touch the mask, but hesitate, drawing my hand back. “Just tell me.”

“See if you can guess.” Always a game with Carl.

My fingertips make contact with the smooth surface, and at the soft, almost rubbery texture, I wrench my hand back. “What did you do?”

“Relax. It’s not human.”

“What is it, then?”

“Remember the cat I skinned?”

Horror prickles my nerves at the memory of hearing the cat screaming. “How … did you … with the fur?”

“Soaked it. Used grandfather’s flesh knife.”

I gulp back the urge to throw up at the thought that he’s wearing a cat’s skin on his face. One he tortured and mutilated in fun. “You’re sick.”

“You know what’s sick? Dirty little whores who think it’s funny to play games. Let’s see how they like my game.”

“What are you talking about, Carl?”

“We’ll see how funny it is when they’re scared shitless. When they scream. Just like that cat.”

I stare through the windshield, still lost to memories. Wasn’t until I got to high school that I learned some of the cruel shit the other kids did to him. Legendary stories passed down by the upperclassmen about how they tamed the freak, by giving him swirlies in the girls’ bathroom, how they snuck a used tampon into his sandwich, or let him touch a few of the cheerleaders tits, only to turn around and have the football players beat his ass for fondling them.

I did my best to hide the fact that we were blood, but when word got out, I faced my own version of hell, both in and out of school. Wasn’t a girl in the state of Illinois who’d date the freak’s nephew. I’d have probably been just as isolated and cold, if not for my mother and the hope she instilled in me to break free, someday.

The masks he wore eventually evolved into a variety of skins—innocent animals he captured and tortured in fun. Their carcasses littered the woods of the estate, the empty eye sockets filled with ground bone, so fine, it almost looked like sand. I never understood why he bothered with such a ritual, but my guess is, even he couldn’t stand to see the emptiness staring back at him. Other critters eventually ate their remains before my mother, or grandfather, found them, but it wouldn’t have really matter if they had. He found a way to earn my grandfather’s approval when he learned taxidermy, and would offer gifts he horrifically mutilated and preserved.

He became obsessed with the eyes, which I found pinned to walls in the back shed where he worked, along with a female mannequin he told my mother and grandfather he used to create art. We all believed him, until I caught him carrying the damn thing into his bedroom one night. After some time, he moved on to his preferred prey. Young women—street workers, mostly. When my mother and grandfather were out of the house, I heard him having sex with the women in the next room.

Except, the women were silent.

Drugged and passed out.

He couldn’t get off unless they were unconscious. Said he couldn’t stand when they tried to talk to him, or ask a bunch of personal questions. He’d have his way with them throughout the night, then dump them on the side of the road somewhere, without paying them a dime, before morning. For years, he did this, sometimes bringing me along to pick one up, until he effectively perfected it. His unsettling charm never failed to lure them into the car, but only when he got them home did that charm flip to something evil and sinister. And in his effort to taunt me, he’d make a spectacle out of it, with loud moans and thumping of furniture, his way of throwing it in my face, on nights when I tried to talk him out of it.

Wasn’t long before he grew tired of the routine. And when the police started snooping around, he realized dumping them alive was too risky, even if, most times, they couldn’t remember his face.

I catch sight of Nola through the diner window, buzzing from table to table. Never still. I wish I could say my only purpose for sitting in that car was to catch a sadistic psychopath, but I’d be lying. Something about the woman intrigues me. Her tenacity and dedication to her son reminds me of my own mother, and truth is, she’s not exactly hard on the eyes.

I try not to think too much about her curves, but goddamn, the way she looked in those jeans at the grocery store had me imagining them bunched at her ankles like cuffs. She’s an enticement I can’t afford. A distraction that’ll cost me the game, if I’m not careful.

A couple of hours watching cars and people coming and going, and I’m ready to crawl out of my skin having to sit so long. I’m more likely to stumble upon something significant after her shift, so I fire up the vehicle and head back to the apartment to grab some lunch. Along the way, I catch sight of Oliver, caught up in a circle of three other kids who look at least two grades older, a few blocks from the house. I slow the car to a crawl, and seconds later, it becomes clear the circle is a trap, and Oliver is the mouse, when one of the kids gives a hard thrust to his chest, knocking him back a step.

Oliver adjusts his glasses, and holds his stance.

Admirable, but even the smallest of the other three looks like he could pummel Oliver into a pancake and eat him.

Everything tells me to keep going. He’s not my kid. Not my problem. But the bigger kid swings out, knocking Oliver flat on his ass, and something twists inside of me. Maybe it’s whatever miniscule amount of empathy I can muster, having been a mouse myself, when I was a kid. Or maybe something about the older kid just rubs me the wrong fucking way.

Regardless, I pull the car to a stop alongside the curb a few houses down, and stare through the rearview as the boys knock him around.

“Don’t do it.” I close my eyes to extinguish the scene, but the anger remains in the red haze that greets me behind shuttered lids. “C’mon, kid.”

I’ve got too much invested in Nola right now, and hell if I need my conscience getting in the way.

Fuck. I climb out of the vehicle, lighting up a cigarette to ease the frustration of having to give a shit. With a casual stroll, so as not to alert any of the boys getting their jollies off on knocking Oliver to the ground each time he tries to get up, I approach them like a rhino about to stomp all over an ant hill. The older kid pins Oliver to the ground, rears back a fist, and hammers it into his face.

“Talk, Retard! Or I’ll rip your tongue out with my bare hands! Quit fucking pretending!”

Good. He got a hit in. Now I have reason for what I’m about to do. Two of the kids back off, as I approach the unwitting one, who apparently hasn’t caught a glimpse of me, yet. Nabbing the back of his jacket, I shove my cigarette between my lips, while I wrench him up off Oliver and pin him to a nearby lamppost.

Eyes wide, he stares back at me, mouth gaping as if to scream, and I grip his throat.

Gently, of course.

“The human tongue isn’t as easy to rip out as you might think. Not without a hook, or something to grab hold of the muscle. But the windpipe can be crushed with one tight grip.”

Beneath my hand, the boy’s throat bobs with a harsh swallow.

“Oliver, you know where this kid lives?” A quick glance back shows Oliver pushing up to a sitting position, chest rapidly rising and falling, and he nods, pointing to one of the houses across the street.

“Good.” Turning back to the kid, whose face is screwed up in panic like he’s about to piss his pants, I inhale a drag of my smoke and blow it in his face, still pinning him with my other hand. “I now know where you live. And if I catch you fucking with him again, I’ll string you up to this lamppost here by your tighty-whities for the whole neighborhood to see what a shit-stain you are. Do you understand?” I’m bluffing. Obviously. I wouldn’t waste a roll of toilet paper on this little shit, let alone a minute more of my time.

But he nods, anyway.

I drop him, letting him slump to the ground, and as all three kids take off in opposite directions, I reach out a hand for Oliver. His nose is bleeding, and the red plum below his eye socket will undoubtedly be black by the time his mom gets home from work.

Oliver slaps my hand away, clambering to his feet with a pissed-off expression, as if I was the one who made his nose bleed.

“Let me tell you something, Oliver. As a kid who grew up on the streets, the last thing you want to do is bite the hand that just bitch slapped your enemies.” I tug at the cuffs of my sleeves and straighten my slacks. “You want a ride home?”

Glancing to the right shows the big kid staring out his front window from the house across the street, and Oliver nods, following after me. As I toss my smoke and fall into the driver’s seat, I catch Oliver’s eyes wandering over the interior of my car.

“Those kids fuck with you every day?”

Eyes directed toward his hands set in his lap, he nods.

“Here’s a quick lesson for dealing with shitheads.” Arm resting across the back of the seat, I turn to face him. “First, that kid, if he’s smart, he won’t retaliate, but if he’s stupid enough to try, you’re not going to let him rattle you. Bullies love that shit, and you don’t need to give him the satisfaction. Second, if anyone gets in your face, you always look ‘em dead in the eyes. No turning away, like you did back there.” I point two fingers at my own eyes to prove my point. “You hold your bat-shit little stare just like you did to me at dinner. Even if he threatens to stab the bastards out of your head, you don’t look away. In your mind, you establish your limit before you snap. And let me tell you kid, when you become good at keeping to that limit, they’ll see it on your face. The trick is to make them believe that you’re a little crazy. Use that mute mouth to your advantage by watching. Observing. You look for weaknesses.” I tip my head to guide his eyes to mine. “Use it against them. Understand?”

Fingers fidgeting in his lap, he nods.

“Good.” Twisting back in my seat, I fire up the vehicle and head back toward his house. I have a feeling, if the kid could talk, he’d probably blow me away with the shit inside his head, but physically, he’s small and weak, which makes him a target. He’ll always be a target, unless he starts using that brain of his to protect what he lacks in strength.

Without doubt, the savvy mind can wreak more havoc than brawn. Carl was a fine example of what happens when a scrawny kid gets pushed too far. When he constantly redefines his limits for the sake of self-preservation. Smart enough to negotiate his way out of just about anything, but abused too many times to really understand—or care, for that matter.

I keep my eyes on the road, making my way down the block. “You watched your father die?”

With a huff, he turns toward the window, then glances back toward his hands before nodding.

“I watched my mom die, too. You and I, we’re a different breed, Oliver. We already know the worst kind of pain. The pain of knowing no one can ever really protect you from the bad shit.”

With the driveway in view, I glance over at him, where he seems to stare off at nothing. He’s a hard read, this kid. Can’t tell if a single word I’ve spoken has made it through his skull, or if I’m just an old man wasting his breath on what will probably be the next school shooter.

“Anyone ever teach you how to incapacitate someone using pressure points?”

Eyes wide, he shakes his head for the first time, telling me he might be absorbing some of this crap, after all.

“C’mon. I’ll show you a few tricks I know.”