Midnight Solitaire (2 page)

In the other room, the remains of the girl—Carey he thinks she said her name was—are on a dirty old mattress he’d found. She didn’t understand he’d come to save her, to rescue her, so she died screaming, as they all do, not yet ready to accept that which they need and asked for themselves. He knows their pain, feels it himself. He explained this to her as he skinned and dismembered her then used her blood and bodily fluids to paint the walls, ceilings and floors with his symbols and cyphers, but she chose not to listen. By the time he’d eaten her heart and liver, he’d marked her remains as well, communing with those to whom his offerings are made, those who might one day see fit to rescue him from this sentence he has endured for longer than he cares to remember.

For now he must exist in the world of Man. His world is much older of course, much grander, but he has been away for such a very long time that he sometimes forgets. He has been here since the early times…the first times.

Like so many others before her, Carey told him he was insane, sick and needed help, and while she was right, it didn’t make the things he knew to be true any less real. Now she understood, at least to the extent the poor creature ever could, that he had smelled her misery and released her from its chains. In reality, without even realizing it, her death had been her choice, not his.
She
had actually come to
him
. If nothing else, sweet little Carey knows that now, and realizes that sometimes lost souls like hers get exactly what they require, because they are created for very specific purposes.

By the time they find the man out on the highway and his girlfriend here in this condemned building, he will be long gone. Like always, they will release details of the murders and do their best to apprehend him, but the authorities will leave out or downplay the ritualistic aspects of the crimes. Some things are better kept from a smug, weak public. It helps him, and he is grateful to those who will never catch him.

What else can they do or say? Tell people there truly
are
forces in their midst they not only don’t fully understand but cannot even begin to control, stop, or in any way prevent or protect them from? Their only choice is to pretend, and then accuse those who disagree with doing the same.

No one intelligent, educated and grounded looks for that which does not exist. They have assured themselves and others that such things are the flights of fancy of the stupid and ignorant, the moronically religious and naively spiritual, the magic-believers and those who think there are still mysteries to this life.

And so, he becomes make-believe. At least until he stands before them and they’re wetting their pants, begging for mercy. Then they’re not so smug, these children whistling past the graveyards that will soon house their remains.

Confronted with pure evil, there are no believers or skeptics. Only lambs with bowed heads and racing hearts shuffling to slaughter while trying to make sense of things they can never fully comprehend. In the end, they are all make-believe, all there for the catharsis and entertainment of their god.

He rubs his tired eyes, his fingers stained with dried blood. In time the ghostly visions and demonic whispers will fade, as will all else, and he’ll fall away into a cradle of alcohol-induced, faithless sleep. But for now he continues to drink hard and fast, tethered to just another ritual, one he despises.

Is he asleep or awake? He can no longer remember.

It doesn’t really matter.

Outside, just beyond the grimy windows, the rain keeps on, driving, relentless, and determined to baptize even those things stranded beyond the reach of its salvation.

THREE

Despite the sun, the water is choppy and harsh. An occasional ocean breeze blows up off the canal, cuts through the recreational area with the subtlety of a razor and reminds that while spring is right around the corner, winter has not yet finished its mischief. Despite the chilly temperature there are quite a few walkers and sightseers here today. He takes up position at a picnic table of scarred and aged wood that overlooks the canal. Beyond a guardrail that consists of wooden planks painted white and fastened to cement posts, Doc watches the paved lane below. Narrow, like a sidewalk, a handful of people stroll, jog, power-walk, bicycle and rollerblade on it, coming and going along the cement path, hurrying as if to sneak in a quick visit before winter gives them all one last kick in the ass. Others stand watching the water, doing their best to enjoy the view on a sunny but brisk Sunday morning.

On the far side of the canal an identical paved path runs the length of the water. Bicyclers and such move along it as well, made smaller by the distance. Above them are thick woods along the incline of land that rises up to meet a crystal blue skyline. Scattered throughout, a few expensive homes are barely visible through the forest; the kind wealthy people live in, with flagpoles out front flying the stars and stripes alongside those belonging to local yacht clubs.

To his left, in the distance, the Sagamore Bridge extends over the canal, connecting Cape Cod to the mainland. With its enormous arched and open steel top, the bridge reminds Doc of the skeletal remains of a giant creature that died while spanning both shores, its carcass frozen in place and long since reduced to bone. Traffic is unusually light in both directions, even for this time of year.

He is suddenly distracted by a blur of white. A seagull lands on the railing not far from his table and stares at him as if trying desperately to communicate. Doc watches the bird’s small, attentive eye, hoping to hear him, to understand. The seagull hops down and walks along the grass, so close he’s within Doc’s reach. After another staring session, the seagull hops back up on the railing. In an attempt to fathom what the creature is trying to convey, Doc continues to study the bird and opens his mind to the possibilities, but a woman walking past startles it, and the seagull flies away.

He watches it soar toward the bridge, carried off on the breeze high above the waves, over the boats and trees. Wonder gives way to envy.

A thickly built middle-aged man of average height, Doc Banta dresses like a character straight out of 1950s film noir: black suit, white shirt, skinny black tie, black wingtips. Slicked straight back, his silver hair is thick for a man his age, nearly reaches his shoulders and contrasts nicely with his olive skin. Dark wayfarers rest on his hawkish nose, concealing icy blue eyes. Even his car, a cherry 1957 two-door Bel Air hardtop, looks like something out of an old movie.

He digs a pack of unfiltered Pall Malls from his inside jacket pocket, sparks one up with his Zippo and scratches absently at the salt-and-pepper stubble on his face.

“Do you still feel me?” he quietly asks the air, the water, the trees, knowing one day he will once again look eye-to-eye with the ones he truly wants to ask. “Do you still feel my love?” For now the hatred drives him, as it has for some time, and for now that’s enough. It’s all rehearsal for the showdown, a final confrontation of horrific violence he cannot escape. For now, Doc thinks,
listen to the wind and you’ll hear them whispering in answer
.

He missed the bastard by mere days, but over the last several months he’s been getting closer. It’s only a matter of time. The last victim, a young woman and her boyfriend, were killed not far from here. A local news station did a story on them. It said the young woman, Carey Sinclair her name was, often came to the canal to rollerblade. It was one of her favorite spots. Remembering the photographs he’s seen of her and her boyfriend, Doc tries to imagine her here along with him. In a way she is. On a vast stretch of Cape Cod highway, on the far side of the bridge perhaps five minutes from here, The Dealer drove them off the road, killed her boyfriend and kidnapped Carey. Gutted the poor bastard, left him for dead in the street. Didn’t want him, didn’t need him. The Dealer had come for the girl. The newspapers say he’d taken her back across the bridge to the mainland, all the way to some abandoned shithole he’d found in Brockton, a small city nearly an hour away. There, he’d done his work and performed his rituals on a helpless twenty-three-year-old kid. Just thinking about it, remembering back, knowing what it’s like, what the parents and loved ones of those two kids are feeling, what they’ll feel for the rest of their lives makes Doc’s blood boil. The authorities posture publicly, like they always do, but nothing will come of it. The Dealer’s long gone, same as always.

But Doc knows where he’s headed, because he’s headed there too.

An enormous SUV pulls up into a nearby parking space. A man in his forties gets out, accompanied by a teenage girl. To the casual observer it would appear that Doc hasn’t even noticed. But he misses nothing, takes it all in without once turning his head. The man, in a blue sweat suit with white stripes, stops to tie the laces on his Nike high-tops then adjusts his freshly dyed hair. He’s one of those middle-aged guys who makes online profiles and lists his age as twenty-nine even though it’s really forty-six. The kind who dresses like the star of an old Run-DMC video and thinks teenage girls find him irresistibly cool rather than laughable. The kind who calls every female he encounters hon.

The girl, probably his daughter, is reed thin and no more than fourteen or fifteen. Her coat hangs open to reveal a low-cut blouse and cleavage clearly enhanced by a pushup bra. Her jeans are so tight they appear to have been spray-painted on. In a pair of brown UGG boots, she skip-walks to the railing and looks out over the water. Her makeup is too heavy for a girl her age, applied with the intent of making her appear older, but only serves to showcase a young girl desperately trying to appear sexy and worldly and failing miserably at both.

It isn’t until the man joins her at the railing, slinks his arms around her from behind and pulls her close that Doc realizes this is not his daughter after all.

At least he hopes not.

Doc smokes his cigarette, stares at the ocean and pretends to ignore the giggling and grope-fest happening less than ten feet from where he stands. The girl is trying, that much is obvious. But it’s also clear that just beneath her studied exterior, there lurks an awkward and uncertain little girl with virtually no self-esteem struggling to find her identity and thinking maybe she’s found it in the creep in the tracksuit.

“Be right back, baby,” the man says, pointing to a small building farther down the lot that houses a public bathroom. “Need to drain the main vein.”

The girl gives an obligatory laugh then turns back to the canal as the man struts towards the restrooms.

Doc holds his ground. By the time he’s finished his cigarette, dropped it to the pavement and crushed it beneath his shoe, the man has vanished into the building and he is alone with the girl. He turns, looks directly at her. She seems to sense his eyes on her and glances nervously over her shoulder at him. She smiles. Hey, she says. Doc nods but says nothing, just stares at her, his wayfarers masking his eyes.

“What?” she says defensively.

“How old are you?”

“How old are you?”

“Forty-nine.”

“Wow, you’re older than my dad.”

“How about your boyfriend, is he older than your dad?”

“Jackie?” she laughs and shakes her head. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Doc says nothing.

“It’s none of your business,” she tells him.

Doc looks back out at the water.

“Besides,” she says, “I’m nineteen.”

“Try again.”

“What do you care?”

“I had a daughter once.”

“So?”

“She would’ve been right around your age.”

The girl smiles in a manner she thinks is seductive, leans against the railing and folds her arms across her chest. “What’s my age?”

“Fifteen.”

“Sixteen,” she says defiantly, and then, realizing he hasn’t bought it, adds, “Well, in a month and a half anyways.”

“Got a cellphone?” Doc asks.

The girl blanches, clearly offended. “Ah, duh,” she says, holding up a Blackberry as if in evidence.

“Call somebody to come pick you up.”

This worries her, and the smirk on her face fades. “Why?”

Doc turns and walks along the narrow sidewalk to the restrooms. He can feel the girl watching as he goes, but she doesn’t follow or say a word. By the time he’s reached the door, Doc hears whistling.

The interior of the men’s room is relatively clean and empty, but for whistling Jackie, who has finished his business and taken up position in front of a large mirror. He inspects himself and smiles wide, pointing at his reflection with both hands. “Hell yeah, my man, that’s what I’m talking about!”

Doc stands just inside the doorway. He removes his sunglasses, folds them closed and slides them into his jacket pocket.

“How’s it going?” Jackie says, moving toward the door, and then, realizing Doc has no intention of moving, hesitates and smiles nervously. “Excuse me.”

Doc doesn’t move.

“Want to let me by, chief?” Jackie says, chuckling as if they’re old friends. He reeks of sweet, cheap cologne. Very slowly, Doc shakes his head no.

Jackie grins at him like the fool he is. “What’s the problem, pal? Just want to get by, OK?”