A Good and Useful Hurt (18 page)

Mike found that he was able to work, but not able to draw—the apartment was just too awful for that.
Nights were his escape, but he knew Deb was worried that it was taking so long for him to talk to Doc. She never said as much, but he could see it in her eyes and hear it in her voice. He felt like she thought he was stalling, and he supposed in a way he was, but Doc would be a dangerous person to talk to about this. He could see to Mike being committed, if he wanted. Three days after Mike had first talked to Deb in the interrogation room, and eleven days from when Deb said the next of them would be murdered, he met with Doc.

He’d had Becky call him and tell Doc that Mike wanted to see him to discuss Deb’s death. She said that Doc sounded awful on the phone, and Mike wondered how much worse Doc was going to feel when they were done speaking. What would be worse, for him to listen to Mike and decide he was insane, or to decide that Mike was telling the truth? Mike didn’t know much about group hysteria, but he knew it described people going crazy together. If he was just infected with madness, could he pass it on? Mike believed everything that was happening was real, but wasn’t that how insanity worked?

Doc agreed to meet him in a park a few miles from the shop. Becky hadn’t mentioned if he’d questioned the location, and Mike was glad the she didn’t. Mike sat on a bench near the parking lot and waited for him. The sun was out, but it wasn’t warm enough to sit outside and talk. When Doc’s car pulled in, Mike walked to it. Doc waved to him, and then he reached across the seat to open the passenger side door. Mike got in and sat.

“Mike, I was horrified to hear about poor Deb. She was a lovely girl, and if there’s anything I can do to help you, please tell me.”

Mike let that thought roll in his head like hard candy and wondered if he might burst into laughter and ask Doc if he were
really sure
about that “anything” bit. Instead, he said, “Thanks, Doc. I need to tell you about something, and then I need you to tell me what you think. I’ll do whatever you suggest, no matter what it is. But one way or the other, I need your help.”

“Well, then tell me, Mike. We’ve been friends long enough. Just spit it out.”

Mike started with Sid. Told Doc about the bathroom and everything else. He told Doc next about Wes, and the others who’d come to him with ashes. He told him about what Jeffery had said about fixing up a car with a dead son. He told him about Sidney, a bathroom, and a pair of burns on a table. He told him about the trip to North Carolina. He told him about the dream. He told him about ashes and how to coax them from a bone in the woods. He told him about love, and Doc listened to all of it without expression.

When Mike finished, Doc said, “Alright. What do we do to prevent this man from killing again?”

Mike had not expected to be believed. Half the time he didn’t believe
himself
. It seemed just as likely that something was wrong with him, that something in his mind had been destroyed when Deb had died.

“Deb said we needed to get ashes from the other women he killed. She thinks some of them might know more about him.”

Mike felt like Doc was looking through him. The older man was inexpressive, but Mike could practically hear the wheels turning in his friend’s head. Finally, Doc said, “Mike, I will allow this possible delusion to exist for just a little longer because I consider you a dear friend. I’ll go and speak to my sister this afternoon; my niece’s ashes are kept in a little urn on her mantle. At some point my sister will use the bathroom or go to check on dinner. We’ll try her ashes on my foot. If you’re crazy, I’ll get you the best help I can. If you’re not—well, I guess we’ve got some work ahead if you’re not.”

“So you believe me?”

“No, none of it. But I do believe that you believe it. I like you well enough to try this myself, and if it works we’ll have something. If not, I’ll have a nice memorial to a person I loved very much, and a friend who desperately needs my help.”

“We have eleven days.”

“It will be tough to pull off, but we’ll do our best.”

“I never thought you’d take me seriously.”

“I don’t feel that I have a choice. If I were to commit or medicate you and then in eleven days read that a single mother was killed in her home, I’d probably put a gun in my mouth. Your Deb thinks time is of the essence, and so we must act quickly. I’ll be at your work as soon as I retrieve the necessary bits.”

“Have you ever heard of anything like this, Doc?”

“Frankly no, but the idea of humans marking each other goes back a great while. I suppose it’s just possible that this is some ancient magic that died thousands of years ago. Perhaps an Indian shaman of four thousand years ago ran a brisk business of tattooing dead relatives on tribesman. If it’s real, it’s been done before. Be ready for me when I get to your work, please. And Mike?”

“Yeah?”

“If this doesn’t work, you’re going to speak to a friend of mine. He will not be supportive of this sort of delusion. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Your buddy is going to say that I’m crazier than a shithouse rat?”

“Yes.”

Mike tattooed Doc with the design of a small bird on his foot.
He used the ink with the niece’s ashes for the black outline. Doc sat in silence while he worked, and left as soon as it was finished, barely allowing Mike time to bandage it. Mike could see that his friend had reflected on it all, and he probably thought that both of them were crazy—Mike for conceiving it, and Doc for considering it.

When Mike finished he went back upstairs. Lamar and Becky were working, but Mike had no energy for them or for work. He went to the bathroom—no Sid—and took a sleeping pill.

He woke on a playground that he dimly recognized from somewhere in that weird ago of childhood. Deb was sitting next to him on a bench swing.

“Where do you go when I wake up?”

“I don’t go anywhere, Mike. I just am. Regrettably, we don’t have so much as an air hockey table unless you imagine it.”

“I talked to Doc.”

“Are you sleeping in a mental health care facility?”

“No. He believed me. A little bit anyways.”

“The niece?”

“I have ink with her ashes in it at work.”

“Why didn’t you use any on yourself yet? We could be that much closer to knowing who he is!”

“I wanted to talk to Doc first. Depending on what he says, I will tomorrow.”

“You still think this might all be a hallucination.”

“Part of me does, yeah. How else would I think of it?”

“As truth, as love—as whatever you want, I guess.” She kicked back with her feet, and the swing flung backwards.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Deb. I don’t trust myself. What if I’m just fucked up from what happened?”

“You are fucked up from what happened—don’t be stupid. I’m just worried about time. You know he wants to kill her while the baby watches? He wants the child to watch because he wants to do it in front of a person and not get caught. He loves the attention as much as he hates it, and he’s getting hungrier for it.”

“So after Doc either puts me in a padded room or decides to help, what’s next?”

“Let Doc tell you what to do. He’ll know which family to approach first and how to go about it. It’s what he does.”

“I can’t draw. I can’t do anything.”

“It will come back to you—it always has. It’s what you are.”

“There’s something I never told you about the bathroom in the apartment.”

“I know about Sid. I wish you would have told me, though; I would’ve thought it was neat.”

“She’s the one who told me to come for you.”

“I know.”

“Can you talk to her now?”

“I don’t think so. I would if I could.”

“I miss you. I miss you so much. I’d sleep all the time if I could.”

She kissed him across the lips and wrapped an arm over his shoulders. “I miss you too. It will get better. It will all get better after you catch him.”

“How can you be so sure we will?”

“I can’t imagine anything worse than if you and Doc couldn’t.”

Mike could think of nothing to say to that, so they sat in silence and let the wind rock them. It was as good as it could be.

The phone insisted Mike wake, and he did.
Rolling over, he glanced at the clock and saw that it was only four a.m. The phone was ringing, but there was another noise, a pounding at the door. Mike turned on the phone and headed to the door. Doc said, “Let me in!”

Mike did as he was told. Doc brushed past him with a blast of cool night air following him, shoving his phone in his pocket as he went. His eyes looked as though they’d caught fire. He sputtered and sprayed a garbled mess of words, and Mike said, “Have a seat, and I’ll get some coffee started.”

When Mike had finished with the grinder, beans, and water, he sat across from Doc. He looked at the twin scorch marks and Doc did as well, squinting his eyes and shaking his head.

“So you believe me?”

“That would be the tip of the iceberg, my friend, the tip! This is a full-blown revolution, a secret revolution to be sure, but one nonetheless, and we are at the forefront! My niece sends her regards.”

“How is she?”

“Better than the last time I saw her. It was wonderful to speak with her, and as we spoke, her condition improved. She wants me to poke her mother with some of the ink, as if by accident, but I’m convinced my sister would descend into madness were I to do so.”

“She might just think she was having really vivid dreams.”

“I suppose. I’ll certainly consider it. Now, on to the matter at hand: you need a new tattoo.”

“Why, can’t you just tell me what she said about the man?”

“I could, but it would only settle half the issue. We need their collective memories gathered up in one vessel. You will need to be tattooed with my niece, just as I will need a tattoo from the ink containing the bits of Deb. It will be that way with all of them, for both of us. We have so little time. I did a little research before I rushed over here, and I made a list of all the addresses of next of kin for the other six slain women. We need to start today.”

“How exactly are we going to do that?”

“We must convince them to let us have ashes, and we must hope that all of the girls were cremated. Your bit of disinterment’s success aside, I believe such an act would be dangerous to replicate. It’s possible, I suppose, that even with just what Deb and Annie know we can find our man. With each family we can convince to help we’ll be that much closer to catching him. Mike, if we’d known to do this after Annie was killed, Deb would still be alive.”

Mike was caught dead by the thought. He’d considered telling Doc about the ashes after his niece had been killed, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do so. Deb had been no help in the matter either; she’d thought it hugely inappropriate. Now Mike didn’t know that he’d ever forgive himself; he was even angry with Deb over it. Surely the thought had to have occurred to her while they talked. Was she angry about it as well?

Mike steadied his voice as well as he was able and said, “You’re right. Which family should we talk to first?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You go downstairs and get the necessary equipment, and I’ll start looking up some information on my laptop.”

Mike went down to the dark shop and shut off the alarm—his fingers fumbled on the buttons, and for a second he felt sure that he was going to do it wrong and have the cops over to check on things. He gathered up two needles, a box of gloves, and ointment. Deb’s ink was already upstairs. He locked the store before heading back up the stairs.

Doc spoke while Mike worked to set up a little station at the table.

“Maybe if I presented myself to them as some kind of researcher—the truth would be best, of course, but who would believe a total stranger spouting such insanity? It’s just such a sensitive subject.” He paused, thinking. “I think it will have to be the truth, even as damning as it is. What do you think, Mike?”

“I have no idea, Doc. I had a hard enough time telling you, and I was half hoping you’d just tell me I was crazy. What do you want me to do?”

“It doesn’t much matter—just do a couple of short lines next to the bird. What if I had presented this matter to you as a mental health professional before you’d heard of the phenomenon? Could you have taken it seriously? Now we add in the elements of grief, I’m more likely to be shot for asking than I am to be drummed out for being a lunatic. Not that I’m overmuch concerned with my career coming to an end, but I’d like to avoid its cause being a complete dissolution of my professional and personal contacts. I’ll do it if I’m forced—I’d certainly not let ego be the cause of the young lady’s death—but it would be a horrible thing to both fail and lose my livelihood. We could even be arrested.”

“I’m not worried about any of that. We need to figure out a way to do this. What can you say to make this OK?”

“Are you done?”

“Yeah. I’m going to clean up, and then I’ll do mine.”

“I’ll get back on the computer, then. Every one of these families is going to need to be approached differently.”

Mike cleaned up the small tattoo setup and went to work making a new one. It was mindless busywork, but he was perfectly happy letting Doc do the heavy lifting on this one. He couldn’t imagine presenting someone with the reality of the proposition, but he could think of no other way. In the end, Doc couldn’t either.

They settled on talking to the family of the fourth girl killed, Angela Johnson, because from the pictures they saw on the newspaper’s website they somehow looked the most approachable.
The parents looked nice in the few pictures Doc had found online, nice and blue collar.

Doc wanted Mike to come in with him, but Mike refused, saying that there was nothing he could say that Doc wouldn’t have thought up first. Mike wanted to call before they showed up cold, but Doc shut down the idea. Doc figured on both of the parents being home as it was a Saturday, and Mike hoped that was the case: If the woman was alone, Mike doubted Doc would get through the door.

While Doc drove them to the Johnson household, Mike missed two calls from Becky but ignored both of them. He wondered what she might want, but he just had too much to deal with otherwise to care all that much.

They rolled into exactly the kind of neighborhood Doc had expected. Not affluent but not poor, well-kept lawns and landscaping, but not so well kept as to have been done by professionals. It was exactly the kind of neighborhood where Mike had imagined in his wildest moments that he and Deb would’ve ended up.

Finally, Doc stopped the car and got out. He didn’t look back, but gave a curt nod to a man mowing his lawn as he crossed the street. Doc knocked three times on the door, and a woman answered. Mike watched her speak to Doc, then a few moments later a man joined her, and then Doc was ushered inside. Mike braided his fingers together and closed his eyes, hoping against hope for Doc, and for all of them.

Five minutes later his phone buzzed. It bore a text message that read: “Come on in.”

Mike sighed, braced himself, and left the car, images of disaster whirling through his mind.