Blood Ties (4 page)

Later that night Samantha Beckon got off work. She hated smelling like a bag of Fritos. Like Grace, Samantha’s family had no money to speak of, and she had to work at the Galaxy 10 movie theater to pay her way through college. Tonight she had been pulled to concessions—her least favorite job—where the intermingled smells of buttered popcorn and jalapeno nachos had not only conquered her uniform, but had actually seeped into her pores.

Normally Samantha worked the ticket booth, where she spent most of her time staring aimlessly out the window. She had seen Grace a few times and recognized her from Chemistry 301. In class Samantha sat in front of Grace, but was unaware that her cheap perfume choked Grace out. Moreover, her lion’s mane of curly, red hair blocked Grace’s view of the chalkboard.

It was well past two in the morning, and all Samantha wanted to do was get back to the dorm. The bus pulled up, and she was surprised that her old friend Jack, the regular driver, didn’t greet her. She presented her pass to the gruff replacement, and, despite being overwhelmingly tired, offered a genuine smile.

“Where’s Jack?” she asked.

“Just go sit down, will ya?” said the brusque driver, who resented the fact that he had to drive all the way out to LIC— on the outskirts of town—to drop off one person.

Samantha took a seat at the very rear of the bus. She avoided looking at the driver’s reflection in the rearview mirror, with the corners of his mouth pointing downward. She scooted down and prepared mentally for the long, tense drive, wishing Jack were there.

Samantha did not expect to be dropped off at the actual bus stop two blocks away from LIC’s campus. She heard the whoosh of the compressed air cylinder as it opened the doors—her audible cue to hurry up and get off the bus. She took a step down the stairs and looked into the pitch-black night. Something didn’t feel right to her, and she turned back to the driver.

“Could you please drive me up to the gate? Jack always does. He never drops me off here.”

The driver stared straight ahead. “I’m not Jack.”

Samantha had barely touched the sidewalk when the driver closed the doors and drove off. “Fucking asshole,” she said under her breath as she waved her way out of a cloud of black exhaust, coughing diesel fumes. However, she felt that was the least of her problems.

LIC was definitely not a party campus. This was the weekend, and the bulk of the students had gone either home or to New York City. The streetlamps barely lit the cobblestone street, which was totally devoid of life. However, there was one small storefront window with a blazing neon fleur-de-lis. Its scarlet haze lit Samantha’s way to the back gate of LIC’s campus. She was unnerved, thinking she might actually have fared better on some desolate, backwoods road populated by raving, inbred hillbillies. Her stomach fluttered, and she glanced to her side as she quickened her steps.

In her peripheral vision, Samantha thought she saw something in the distance, coming up fast. She broke into a jog, the plasticky tapping of her cheap work shoes filling the air as they hit the cobblestones. She looked back and saw a tall shadow of a murky figure gliding toward her on the buildings’ brick walls. The shadow seemed to be alive, not naturally conforming to the bends and corners of the buildings.

Samantha took off into a full sprint toward the gate, calling out to whoever would hear her. But no one heard her pleas, and the gate was still far, far away. It seemed like the figure was right upon her, and Samantha knew she had to take a lifeor-death stand. She turned and swung wildly with her junky purse, but no one was there. She found no relief in that, and immediately started running again, digging through her purse simultaneously. She found her phone and tried to dial 911 as she ran, but her bouncing steps and trembling hand kept making her misdial.

Samantha hurled herself to the gate. She made a judgment call to hide in the guard shack. It hadn’t been used in decades and was more ornamental than functional. Time and weather had worn down its lock, making it easy for Samantha to enter. She dropped down, afraid even to breathe for the noise it might make. She huddled deep in a corner, keeping the door closed with her foot.

The doorknob rattled. Samantha covered her mouth to keep from screaming. Then suddenly a loud thud shook the door. It was followed by a series of scratches and pounding overlaid by Samantha’s manic screams. Then, all at once, everything was silent outside the guard-shack door.

Samantha quieted down. Her eyes, mascara dripping and running from them, stayed on the door. Not seeing anything, she slowly leaned forward. The glass window behind her crashed in, and the figure’s hand grabbed the back of her shirt, then the nape of her neck. It yanked her back, slamming her against a small, metal shelf populated with safety manuals from the 1970s. They fell on Samantha like blocks of colored snow.

She threw them off and escaped the shack, running as fast as she could toward her dorm, which was on the other side of campus. Breathless, she came upon the student counseling services building. She could vaguely see Bao through the window. He was on the first floor, and his back was turned to her.

Samantha was about to scream bloody murder when the figure’s massive arm clotheslined her neck, collapsing her trachea. She was laid out on her back, but could still see Bao as he turned in her direction. He looked like he was already scared of something. Samantha kicked at the air, but kept missing the figure that loomed over her.

At the window, Bao just missed the figure dragging Samantha into the darkness. By then she was suffocating from her collapsed trachea, but death was too slow in coming.

Even though the figure had been instructed not to feed, it was just too hungry. It took near-erotic pleasure in snapping Samantha’s bones in its mammoth hands—first pulverizing her legs, then her arms, and finishing with her back. Before the merciful unconsciousness of death arrived, Samantha’s bleary eyes saw the killer’s canines growing longer as its face came down upon her.

And that face belonged to Grace.

Chapter Four

You can spend minutes, hours, days, weeks, or even months over-analyzing a situation; trying to put the pieces together, justifying what could’ve, would’ve happened…or you can just leave the pieces on the floor and move the fuck on.

—Tupac Shakur

S
hocked out of sleep, my screams echoed through the apartment. Julie rushed in—forever my rescuer.

“Another dream?” she asked as she rocked me in her arms.

I just wept. “It seemed so real this time. So real.”

Later that morning I stood in front of the mirror. “Alright, Grace, get your shit together,” I repeated over and over again. I just couldn’t get that dream out of my head. I took a deep breath, formulating yet another apology.
Sorry, Jules, about waking up like a maniac. You know how I am before that first cup of coffee. Tee-hee
.

I made some ramen noodles and joined Julie, who was already in the living room watching TV. I could tell she was irritated with me because of her squinty-eyed smirk. She was tired of losing sleep and having to eat crow with the landlord. She said sarcastically, “You’re up early. You must be pretty rested, huh?”

“Whatcha watching? I asked, trying to change the subject.

Julie huffed a bit through her nose as she flipped through the channels. “Nothing.”

I made a peace offering with the noodles. She brushed them off, but gave me an
I forgive you
smile.

Julie landed on a news conference already in progress. I sat on the floor, fixing my eyes on the police tape draping the area around LIC’s student counseling services building. The camera panned to the highly stylized reporter from New York City, who was unaware she was being broadcast live at that moment…while she was adjusting her Spanx.

“That’s a first,” I said. “A news conference in this Podunk town? What happened? The cows robbed a bank?”

The reporter straightened up when she finally saw the cameraman motioning to her. She was flustered, but carried on with her report, her shirt haphazardly tucked into her exposed undergarment. “Local police made a shocking discovery last night. A young woman was found dead on the bucolic campus of Long Island College. She was last seen alive in the early morning hours, after getting off work. The murder may be connected to a string of gruesome attacks across the country—possibly the work of a serial killer who has been operating for more than twenty years. The body of the girl has not been recovered yet, but her head was. It was displayed on the stairs of the counseling building—a possible taunt to police. A janitor has been taken into custody as a person of interest but is not considered a suspect at this time. The manner of death is still under investigation.”

I could only think,
Really? The manner of death is not
ob
vious to you?

The reporter cut to Police Chief Carl Murphy, who stepped up to the podium. He was a tall, gaunt man, whose normal demeanor was controlled and calculating. But today he was shaking.

“Hello, I’m Chief Murphy. First I’d like to say my thoughts and prayers go out to the victim’s family. I’m so sorry they have to endure this tragedy. To my right is Mayor Bataglia.”

The mayor just nodded and didn’t say anything; he was still over the legal limits of alcohol consumption from his overnight binge.

The chief continued, “And to my left is Special Agent Adams of the FBI. Please hold any questions until the end of the conference. Thank you.”

Chief Murphy kept it short and sweet. What else could a man who only ever dealt with burglaries and the occasional rowdy student do?

Agent Adams was not merely cute. He was not merely handsome. This man was the kind of good looking that could make you say, “Oh my effin’ God” loudly and inappropriately in the middle church—at your mother’s funeral. He swaggerwalked to the podium, making everyone forget about Chief Murphy. Agent Adams’s deep, resonating voice caused all the female reporters to swoon—and a few of the of the men too.

“The FBI has been tracking and collecting information about this potential serial killer, and putting it all together in a crisis management database,” said Agent Adams.

I looked back at Julie, who actually seemed worried; that was a first for someone who never let anything get to her. Then I turned back to the TV and that stud of a man.

“Any current or new leads will be cross-referenced against all of the other data to try to connect the dots,” he continued. “We are asking the public to call in with tips. Even if you think something is inconsequential, please call. Most solid leads come from tips that do not appear to be relevant initially. And let me reinforce the importance of communication. We are recommending a temporary curfew for children and young adults. This initiative is designed to deter copycats and prevent other related crimes. At this time I’ll take questions.”

As Agent Adams pointed to reporters, I noticed he was wearing a silver ring with an inordinately large lion’s head on it—something that would be found on a family crest.

He finished up. “Now with that, let me give the podium to Mayor Bataglia for some final thoughts.”

The mayor was taken aback that the microphone had been passed off to him. He blinked his eyes fast, as if that would sober him up quickly, as he and Agent Adams switched places. “Uh, I would like to let the people know I will do whatever possible to bring justice to those responsible,” said the mayor, hoping his inept assistant would put some words up on the teleprompter. Chief Murphy passed him a photo, and the mayor went on. “And we will remember Samantha Beckon in our prayers.” He raised the photograph of Samantha, showing it to the crowd.

That looks
like
the
girl
from
my
dream!
I dropped my ramen noodles and didn’t even hear Julie fussing about the mess on the worn-out, green-shag carpet. I stopped breathing for what seemed like hours. My heart tried to pound its way out of my chest. I tried to collect my thoughts, believing this was just another hallucination. I just kept thinking,
Okay, I’m
ju
st imagining this
. Yeah, yeah… This chick just happened to look exactly like a girl in my chemistry class. The one who sometimes had that funny smell. She sat in front of me, but I’d never gotten a good look at her face. No, that couldn’t be the girl from my dream. It just couldn’t be. Ugh, maybe I was just stone-cold, fucking crazy.

I looked at the TV screen, which showed a close-up of the red-headed girl’s face. I rubbed my eyes, trying to make her look like somebody else.

Crap
. Dream Girl still looked the same.