CRIMINAL CHRISTMAS: A Set of 8 Holiday Suspense Stories, page 67
“Ten years? Which hunters are you talking about? The first group—the triple murder in 1983?” I glanced at the victim list then back at him. I saw him nod almost imperceptibly. “You were sixteen then. Do you mean they did something to you as a child? Would you like to talk about the hunters?”
“Not today,” he said simply. I watched him as his mood changed. It looked as though he employed some kind of mental technique to calm himself. His breathing became controlled and steady and I could see the hatred leaving his features. He gazed at me with a placid smile, perhaps it would be better described as ‘caressing me with his eyes’. “I’ve never spoken this much to a woman…to anyone.”
“What about your mother?” I asked.
“No. We didn’t talk that much. I liked to be alone. I used to spend most of my time in the woods. I used to find things to kill…animals.” He checked my reaction and then continued. “Dad used to take us hunting.”
“You and your brother, David?” I interjected.
“Yeah. I remember one time Davy managed to hit a deer and it went down. When we got to it, we found that it was only wounded. The deer seemed afraid, but it was injured too badly to run. Dad said we had to finish it off and put the poor thing out of its misery. He didn’t look too pleased about it. The funny thing was, I didn’t mind watching it suffer. I liked it.” He seemed distant for a moment, lost in his thoughts.
“Dad got out his hunting knife and tried to hand it to Davy, but the pussy wouldn’t take it, so I grabbed it. Dad started up like he was going to explain what to do, but I already knew what to do. I was in a trance. I held the deer, wrapped my arms around its head and shoulders, like I was giving it a hug. Then I brought the knife around and slit its throat wide open.” Tom smiled fondly. “Then it went limp. I felt the life go out of it. I realized—I did that. I took its life and I felt so intoxicated with power. Surprised the hell out of Dad and Davy. They just stood there and stared at me for the longest time. And it made such a goddamned mess. There was so much blood. It got all over me and my clothes. I was a sight.” He smiled widely, still far away.
I found it interesting that his fond memories of childhood were so very different from mine, which tended to involve a vacation or a trip to the beach with my parents.
“When we got back to the house, and mother caught sight of me, she nearly lost it. At first she thought I had been mortally wounded, but I was grinning from ear to ear. I couldn’t help it. Then she became afraid. Oh, the look of relief on that woman’s face when Dad and Davy walked in the door behind me…” he laughed and shook his head. “I just know she thought I’d actually done it.”
“Done what?”
“Killed Dad or Davy, or both of them.” He sat silent for a while, watching me, gauging my reaction. “Then Dad showed me how to butcher the deer. We cut it up and gave the pieces to mom and she put it in the freezer. That was fun. That was the only time Dad was fun, when we were hunting or fishing. He didn’t…trust me.” I detected bitterness in his tone. Then he smirked. “What are you thinking about?”
I suppose I had been staring at him, enrapt as he spoke about his childhood, and it had given me that lightheaded feeling again. His unusual eye color, a deep and vibrant blue that didn’t seem like it could occur in nature, made me curious. “Do you wear contacts?” I asked.
He seemed mildly perplexed. “No Rebecca, I don’t. My eyesight is 20/15.” He leaned toward me as he spoke, his expression so intense that it caused my pulse to quicken. “All the better to see you with.” I flinched, which seemed to amuse him. “It’s one of my attributes that makes me an excellent hunter. I can see a lot of things that other people don’t.”
“I know you do,” I muttered. Then I caught his sneer out of the corner of my eye. “What was that?”
“What?” he said, wide-eyed with innocence.
“I saw you smile. What’s so funny?” I asked, irritated that he enjoyed my unease.
“I didn’t smile. You must be seeing things.”
“I thought you wanted this book too. I don’t see why you need to be so damned unpleasant to me.”
“Unpleasant?” he said, feigning surprise. Then his face hardened into a cruel mask. “Are you sure you’re not seeing things?”
I froze mid-breath, thinking of the dark figure in the back seat of my car, and then again at the foot of my bed. The only explanation that made sense was that my mind had caused me to see these things. And I suspected it was in response to the stress I felt when I was with this man.
Enough. He had my nerves on edge again. It seemed like a good place to end the interview. I turned off the recorder. “It’s time for me to go.” I picked up my bag and stood.
“Why are you leaving so soon? You’re allowed another thirty minutes with me.” He seemed genuinely disappointed.
“I’m sorry. I need some time to see my aunt and uncle on my way home,” I said. “They’re in the mountains. I’d really like to avoid driving out there in the snow when it’s dark.” I gave myself a mental kick for telling him something so personal.
“I see, are they your surrogate parents?” A direct hit, and my face told him so.
My mouth hung slightly ajar.
“How old were you when your parents died?” he continued.
“Who said my parents are dead?” I countered.
“I just did, and you did…with your eyes.” He smiled kindly. “Initially, I thought that perhaps my age and the early loss of your father might have been the cause of your intense attraction to me, but that was when I labored under the delusion that I was twenty years your senior. Now that I’ve had to rule out the daddy complex theory—what is it that keeps you coming back? Why are you so drawn to me? Is it merely the bad boy aspect? Or is it something interesting?” He tapped his finger on the table as he awaited my response.
What was it, indeed? I squirmed, involuntarily. I had no answer for him. I certainly didn’t need this motherfucker peering into the depths of my soul.
“Tell me, Rebecca, should I do something bad to turn you on? Something very, very bad? I’m sure I could think of something you’d like.”
I didn’t like the look on his face as he said it, hard and unyielding. I cleared my throat. “That won’t be necessary.”
“I have done many things over the years that weren’t necessary.”
“What I would like for you to do is follow the rules here and remain in good standing so your visitation privileges aren’t revoked,” I said, my voice level.
“You would miss me wouldn’t you? Are you sure I shouldn’t try something small? I really don’t mind doing bad things.” Then he added in a whisper, “I’ve even been known to enjoy it.” He winked at me.
I searched his eyes, and found a darkness that stretched on ad infinitum. At first I mistook the iciness, the absence of kindness, for emptiness, but no. Something malevolent inside of him peered back at me, causing me to shiver. And whatever that dark entity was, it made Tom smile.
Chapter 11
It took a little more than three hours to drive from Walla Walla to where my aunt and uncle lived in Easton. The small town populated with less than 500 people, sat close to Interstate 90, the Snoqualmie Ski Resort, and was surrounded by the Mount Baker Snoqualmie National Forest. Easton saw a lot of snow during the winter so all of the buildings there had steep pitched metal roofs. My aunt and uncle lived in the woods about a mile out of town. It was remote. Their yard consisted mostly of forest with a small patch of lawn and a deck.
I felt the last of my stress dissipate as I drove up their long gravel driveway currently blanketed in about eight inches of snow. The sky was dark, the moon concealed by cloud cover. The only illumination other than my headlights came from the security light attached to their log cabin styled house.
Aunt Susan showered me with kisses as I entered the house and the warmth of their wood stove took away the chill from the winter air outside. Her pale-blue eyes and silvery-white hair reminded me of my mother. My aunt seemed to look more like her every year though she was now well past the age of my mother when she had died. “It’s been too long,” she said.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” I told her.
Uncle Harry gave me a wave of acknowledgment from the living room, but kept his ass planted in his La-Z-Boy chair. He had his feet up and I knew how loathe he was to leave his comfy place once he settled in. My aunt and I shared the couch next to Uncle Harry’s chair and I put my feet up on their coffee table, thankful that this was such an informal house, a place where I could relax completely, where I truly felt at home.
We all sat facing the 65” big screen TV, which must have been out of commission at the moment. A small table in front of it held the 19” TV that I recognized from their guest room. Did this qualify as a tragedy? I examined Uncle Harry’s face, wondering how he was taking the loss.
“You poor thing,” I said. “What happened to your baby?”
“She’s gone. She passed away this morning at 10:34 a.m., we then observed a few minutes of silence.” Harry looked more like a man who had lost a family member than an electronic device.
“It was only silent until he set up the spare. God, but it was wonderful to hear myself think for a little while,” Aunt Susan said wistfully.
Harry grimaced. “There’s nothing more emasculating than having to watch a small screen. We’ll have to go into Ellensburg tomorrow morning to replace her. I can’t live this way very long.”
Nor did I want this big, beer drinking, NFL watching man to have to live like this, nay exist. I loved my aunt and uncle very much. It pained me to see Uncle Harry reduced to this. Aunt Susan decided to lift the mood. “Would you like a cookie, dear?” she asked me. Then to him, she said, “I know you would.”
She walked into the kitchen and he called after her. “I love your chocolate chip cookies, baby. I didn’t think you were going to let me have any.”
She returned in an instant with a decorative bowl full of the treats. “I had to hide them,” she told me. “Otherwise he would have eaten the whole goddamned batch.”
“That’s true,” Harry confessed. “You’re a good woman, Suzie.” He leaned in, grabbed two of the cookies and gave her a wink.
I took one and tasted it. “These are really good, Aunt Sue. Thanks.”
“Now, let’s get down to more important matters,” she said, sitting herself next to me on the couch. She faced me. “Why the hell haven’t we seen you in three months? What’s going on?”
“Well, first it was because I was depressed and drinking too much.”
“Oh-oh,” Aunt Sue said under her breath.
“But lately, it’s because I’m working on another book.”
“You should have called me! Why were you depressed?” Aunt Susan asked.
“Well…you did read the last book, didn’t you? Wouldn’t you have been depressed?”
“I hear ya, Pumpkin. That third one really blew chunks,” Harry agreed cheerfully. Aunt Susan shot him a look, but before she could scold him, he added, “What’s your new story going to be about?”
“I’m actually working on a non-fiction project, a book about a serial killer.”
“No shit?” Harry said leaning forward, his interest piqued. “Which one?”
“Thomas Eisenbrey,” I told them, and tried to gauge their reactions.
“The Hunter? I’ll be damned,” Harry said. “He’s a sick one if the news people got it right. Have you met him?”
“Yes. I just did my third interview with him at the prison out in Walla Walla.”
“I’ll bet it makes you feel creepy to talk with him,” Susan said in a knowing way as she gave my shoulder a gentle pat.
Yes, Aunt Susan, that’s one of the feelings that he gives me and the other ones I probably shouldn’t tell you about. I nodded in solemn agreement.
“What’s his deal?” Uncle Harry asked. “Is he some kind of crazy environmentalist that hates people who kill animals or something?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I replied, recalling Eisenbrey’s vivid description of the time he killed his first deer.
“Well, why did he keep taking out hunting parties?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t been willing to talk about that yet. I’ll ask him again.”
“How many people did he kill?” Uncle Harry asked.
“He won’t tell me that either. He’s been convicted of nine murders—eight prior to his incarceration, and one inside Walla Walla. I’m positive those are only a fraction of the killings he’s actually responsible for.”
“What has he told you?” Aunt Susan asked.
“We’ve talked about his family and his childhood, and a girlfriend that he strangled to death.”
“God Almighty, that poor girl! Wouldn’t it be a nightmare to be his girlfriend?” she said. It was a real blessing she couldn’t see any of the unsavory thoughts I had rolling around in my mind on that topic. “What did she do to piss him off?”
“She said something that irritated him, but he couldn’t remember what.”
“Maybe she said he had a small dick,” Uncle Harry offered. “Us boys don’t like to hear that sort of thing from a woman.” He gave Aunt Susan an accusatory glare, to which she raised an eyebrow. Then she smiled and winked at him, and he smiled too. I had to hand it to them, they had a bizarre way of flirting with each other, and judging by their expressions, that was definitely what it had turned into. Those two always joked around, flinging insults back and forth, but I couldn’t recall ever seeing them engage in anything I would call a real fight.
“Here, you can have another cookie,” she told him in a low husky voice, handing him the bowl. I had the distinct impression that cookie had become a metaphor for something else. The mood was getting a little uncomfortable. I let my eyes settle on the TV until they finished their silent message to one another.
Uncle Harry took a bite of his cookie and said, “I think she might love me.”
“You might be right, you silly old fart.” Aunt Susan stood up and bent over him, kissing the bald and shiny top of Harry’s head. A contented smile settled on his features.
My aunt and uncle looked so cute together and they seemed really happy. It made me realize just how alone I was, and how much I wouldn’t mind having what they had created together. I managed to stay and visit with them for another two hours and then drove back to Bellevue, to my own big empty house, and the mysterious presence that haunted me.
That night as I lay in bed, waiting for sleep to come, I knew it was time to clear my mind of Eisenbrey. I must go somewhere else, somewhere pleasant. I thought of that nice detective, Scanlon…Darryl…eyes the color of honey, the warm smile, and the phone number handwritten on the back of his business card. I sighed at the happy thought. What if I called him?
But the thought trailed off, replaced by another, blue eyes peering at me through steel bars, a hand outstretched…reaching through…inviting me. Inviting me where? Inside…
My eyes snapped open and I found myself sitting bolt upright, clutching the edge of my mattress.
I needed relief. The need was intense, but I couldn’t tell what would satiate me. It was maddening, like having an itch that was impossible to reach, a craving for some unknown entity I wasn’t even sure existed.
I felt a void inside me and I knew of only one way to deal with it. I went downstairs, prepared some vodka and orange juice, then brought it back to my bedroom where I downed it with a couple of sleeping pills.
Chapter 12
November 3rd, 2012
As I stood in front of the kitchen sink staring out into my backyard, I didn’t see lawn or trees or the little shed where I kept my lawnmower.
I stood beside the body on the beige carpet, and the blood, and the pieces of something I didn’t want to comprehend splattered on the wall behind him. I recognized the lifeless form as my father, although it seemed to have nothing to do with him. No, it was not really him, not anymore. I tried to fathom what had happened, feeling strangely disconnected from myself. It couldn’t be true, but it was. He was gone—taken from me while I wasn’t there to have any say in the matter. The reality of the situation started to take hold in my mind and I put my hand over my mouth, stifling my cry. A wave of nausea threatened.
This was terrible, unspeakable, inconceivable. How would my mother take it? She would be devastated. She needed me now more than ever, but where could she be?
My head turned toward the hallway and I sensed that something dreadful lay ahead, more horror to find, more nightmare to be revealed. I moved slowly, purposefully, up the hall, and then I saw the foot. My mother’s foot. Her sandal had fallen off and it lay on the floor not far from her leg. I could see her painted toenails, the pearlescent nail polish that I had put on for her just last night. I stepped forward and peeked into the bedroom to see the rest of her. More blood. Mom lay on her side, shot through the torso. Had she been running away, and shot in the back? It was possible. There was blood splattered on the wall and bookshelf she faced. Could the person who killed my parents still be here lurking in the house? That was possible too. But I didn’t really care. I felt tired and dazed.
I didn’t enter the room that held my mother; the hallway seemed to be the closest I could go to her. I staggered slowly back to the living room and dialed 911, and after I told the operator that they were dead, the sobs overtook me. I laid down the phone, unaware of whatever else the woman said, and sat out on the front steps in the sunshine, weeping, until the officers arrived.
And as I stood in my kitchen, twenty-four years later, the tears overtook me again. I let out a scream of frustration, then I hurled the glass I held across the room and it smashed into the cupboards. It was shattered. Who was I kidding? I was shattered. And nothing in the world could ever fix me.
