The Boulevard Monster, page 18
Physically, I was being eaten alive. Emotionally, I was in absolute agony. Mentally, all hope was lost. I closed my eyes again and tried to imagine Sera and Brianne sitting on the back porch swing with the new baby. I wanted this to be my last thought before I died. At first the image was blurred by the pain and despair, but it eventually solidified, and I saw my girl’s bright eyes and smiling faces, the baby’s fat cheeks and bald head.
I was focusing on the mental image, ready to die, waiting for Luther to take a chunk out of my neck like he had the naked Colorado man, when I heard another gunshot. I opened my eyes, and Ryan was staggering toward us, favoring his hurt ankle, his snub-nosed pistol outstretched. He was bleeding from the left side of his abdomen from what I assumed was a gunshot wound. Blood drizzled down his nose from a gash on his forehead. Luther craned his neck and bared his teeth at Ryan.
Ryan tossed the pistol aside, pulled out his hunting knife, and like Rocky Balboa encouraging Apollo Creed before the final round of their first fight, gestured for Luther to bring it.
Luther dashed from me to Ryan and tackled him so fast I didn’t see it actually happen. I only know it happened because Luther was on top of Ryan. When I got to my feet, Ryan jammed his knife into Luther’s thigh, and Luther threw his head back and viciously howled. The birds began attacking Ryan’s face in response.
Panicked, I searched the ground, looking for the 9 MM. I saw it about ten feet away, and as I ran for it, Ryan let out a blood curdling scream. I looked back and saw Luther pull the knife out of Ryan’s gut and then run it across Ryan’s neck. When I picked up the 9MM and aimed it at Luther’s back, I heard an engine approaching behind me. Reflexively, I spun around and pointed the gun at the oncoming truck.
It was a large tan Dodge with a welding rig in the back. The driver had the rugged look of a lifetime manual laborer, a man with oil in his blood. The stick figure in the passenger seat was probably his grunt worker, a newbie barely old enough to grow chin stubble. The rugged driver put the truck in park but stayed inside the cab, staring at me. They were both staring at me.
I glanced over my shoulder and Luther was the gone. The blue jays were gone. Ryan’s bloody, lifeless body lie in front of the Chevy. His legs were splayed. Both his hands were on his throat. I glanced at the Dodge, at Ryan, back at the truck. They thought I’d killed Ryan. Of course they did. I was pointing a gun at them. I was bloody. I had tears in my eyes. There was a dead body on the ground ten feet away.
Keeping the gun outstretched, I scanned the area for any sign of Luther. All I saw was two blue dots in a mesquite close to the river bed. As I slid my eyes back to the Dodge’s driver, I hollered, “What do you want?”
“Why don’t you put the gun down?”
“What the fuck do you want?” I hollered in misguided anger. I could feel my face reddening, tears gathering in my eyes.
“We…we…were over at a nearby derrick and heard gunshots and screaming,” the driver said. “We just…” he trailed off as I began marching toward him.
“Turn it off,” I yelled. He didn’t move, but he didn’t obey me, either. The newbie ducked down into the floorboard. I fired a shot into the back right tire, and the air hissed out. “Turn it off,” I insisted.
The driver complied and then raised his hands in the air. “We didn’t mean…we just thought someone needed help. Please, don’t shoot us.”
“Get out,” I said. Tears began falling down my cheeks. When only the driver’s door opened, I added, “Both of you. Out. Now.”
I took their cell phones and shoes, ordered them to walk out into the middle of the riverbed, and told them to turn around, close their eyes, and count to a thousand.
Repeatedly glancing at the counting workers, I shuffled over to Ryan and knelt beside him. His eyes were open, but unlike the girl I’d found in Randy’s truck, he didn’t look horrified. He looked like he was still fighting death, had fought it to the end. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, laying my hand on his chest. I didn’t want to leave him alone. I wanted to stay there with him. But I couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” I whispered again, taking his hand and squeezing it one solid time. “I’m so sorry. But I have to go.”
I picked up my lucky Rangers cap, put it on, and sprinted to the Chevy. Before I got inside and peeled off, I shot out the remaining three tires on the Dodge and threw the worker’s cell phones and shoes into the thick mesquite. I felt bad for scaring the shit out of them. I’m sure they’re decent guys, but they thought I’d killed Ryan, which made perfect sense based on my actions and the scene. I had no doubt they would’ve called 911 the second I left. They would’ve given the cops my description and license plate number, and they might have followed me a ways and told the cops the direction I was headed. I couldn’t allow that. Luther would want to punish me for my betrayal, and since he couldn’t take his anger out on me at the moment, I knew he’d take it out on the next best thing. A better thing in his eyes probably. My family. Brianne. Sera. Dad. The baby. I had to get home. I couldn’t allow Luther to get to Brianne and Sera before I did.
Twenty-Six
Death of the Chevy
As I sped away from Ryan’s body, recklessly veering off the dirt road and smacking into mesquites, I pounded the Chevy’s warped wheel and cried and yelled obscenities, sorry I’d involved Ryan, that I had taken him with me, that I’d left him there alone, that he’d never get to meet his nephew, never get to hug Brianne again or say “Collier kids always stick together” in unison with her with a goofy smile on his face. I felt horrible, stupid, selfish, ashamed. If I would’ve gone after Luther alone and he’d killed me, maybe he would’ve left Ryan alone, moved on and found another patsy. But maybe he would’ve…I don’t know.
I tried calling Brianne’s cell phone the second I was on the highway and had a good signal. When she didn’t answer, I left her a message, told her to leave the house if she was home, take Sera and go to her mother’s apartment. Lock all the doors and wait for me.
Next I tried Sera’s cell, and when I got no answer from her either, my heart dropped into my stomach. I feared Luther had already gotten to them. My imagination ran wild with horrible possibilities I didn’t want to consider, causing me to push the pedal to the floorboard.
Two miles north of Mercy, going a hundred miles per hour, I was swerving around a Civic, honking like road-raged lunatic, when smoke began billowing out from under the hood. The heat gage was topped out. The Chevy groaned and moaned and slowed, forcing me to stop on the shoulder. I screamed, “No,” jumped out, and ran to look under the hood.
The smoke was coming from the radiator, which had been on the verge of rusting out on the bottom for years. It must’ve cracked when I hit one of the mesquites or hard bumps as I sped away from Ryan. It was bone-dry empty. Frantic, I grabbed the 9MM out of the cab and took off running down the shoulder of the road. I didn’t close the hood or take the keys out of the ignition or shut the driver’s door. I just ran.
When I reached the Toot ‘N Totum north of Jefferson, I was slimy with sweat and out of breath. The wounds on my face and arms and neck stung. Each time I inhaled, a sharp pain knifed into my chest where Luther’s shoulder had driven into my ribs.
Two cars were outside the store, a Jeep Cherokee and a Camry. I assumed the Camry belonged to the clerk because it was parked on the side of the building and had a full windshield visor propped on the dash to block the sun. After checking all four Camry doors and finding them locked, I used the butt of the gun to punch out the driver’s side window, quickly hotwired it (knowledge I learned from one Ryan Collier), and took off.
I drove down the alley behind the store to avoid being seen by anyone inside, and once I was a block away, I turned onto Washington and sped for home, terrified I was too late.
Twenty-Seven
Luther's Truth versus My Truth
Brianne’s Fit was parked in the driveway. A number of blue jays were in the trees and along the gutter on the edge of the roof. I parked curbside in front of the house and sprinted inside, my chest aching with each arm-pump, the 9MM gripped tight in my hand.
The front door was open, the screen door unlocked. I stopped in the foyer and listened to the silence for a moment before calling out Brianne’s name. When there was no answer, I walked halfway up the stairs and hollered her name again, then Sera’s. No answer. I thought about checking their bedrooms, but the thought that I might find either of them lying in a pool of blood with a horrified death expression frozen on their face kept my legs from moving any farther up the stairs. I wasn’t ready for that yet. Maybe they were out back, on the swing.
I run back downstairs, and when I turned into the kitchen stopped dead in my tracks. Brianne and Luther were seated next to one another at the dining table, two glasses of water in front of them. Brianne eyed me with a mixture of all things negative: disgust, anger, fear, disbelief. Luther eyed me with pure, unrestricted delight.
Luther was in black slacks and a white button-up. There was a slight crimson smudge on the shoulder of the shirt where he’d been shot. Comb tracks lined his slicked back hair. A small red spot colored his skin below his right eye. He had his left hand on top Brianne’s right one.
Barefoot and her hair a frizzy mess, Brianne looked as if she’d just woken up. She was wearing sweat pants and a long Snoopy T-shirt. Her thin lips were pressed together, tight.
I looked out the kitchen window above the sink. “Where’s Sera?” My eyes slid back to the table, to Brianne. “Is she here?”
She slightly shook her head.
“Don’t worry,” Luther said, his tone disturbingly calm, that wide unbreakable grin spread across his face. “She went to a friend’s house after school to study for a math test.”
I glanced at his hand atop Brianne’s, and my grip tightened on the gun handle. “Get your hand off her. This is between you and me.”
“I don’t think she sees it that way,” Luther said.
I made eye contact with Brianne. Her eyes fell to the gun in my hand, ran across the blood and bite wounds and peck marks on my arm, the gash and swelling below my eye on my face. “Whatever he’s told you, don’t believe him,” I said. “He has powers. He’s manipulating you.” I glared at Luther. “Get your hand off her!”
“She knows everything, Seth. She knows what you did to Randy and the girls…and Ryan…and your dad.”
“What are you—” Dad. I pointed the gun at him. “What did you do to my dad?!”
“I didn’t do anything, Seth. Now relax and put the gun down.”
“What did you do to him?!”
“Seth, you know I’m not the one who killed him. Now lower the gun. We don’t want anyone else to get hurt.” I looked at Brianne. She was terrified, coiled in on herself and pushing against the back of her chair. “Seth, you’re scaring your wife. Put the gun down so we can talk.” I lowered the gun.
A thick silence fell over the room. Luther kept smiling at me, Brianne staring, scared. I felt like I was made of sand and would collapse with the slightest breath of air. I spread my weak legs farther apart to balance better, gave Brianne my full attention. “I didn’t do anything to anyone, Bri. I promise. I didn’t kill anyone.” I pointed the 9MM at Luther. “He did. He’s the monster. Look what he did to my arm.” I held it out. “He tried to fucking eat me.”
Brianne shook her head in disbelief. “You’re delusional, Seth. You need help. You don’t know what you’re saying. He’s a detective. His name is Jayson. He’s not a monster.” She placed her left hand over her belly, and her eyes welled up. “How could you do it?” she asked. “How could you kill Ryan? He loved you. Looked up to you. All he ever wanted was your approval.”
“I didn’t kill him. And…and…” My mind stuttered, glitched, which made me appear even more guilty and crazy. It was just too hard to straighten out all of Luther’s lies in my head much less deliver them verbally in a coherent manner. I pointed the 9MM at Luther again. “He killed Ryan. Not me. And…and…I tried to stop him.” I shook my head. “And he’s not a detective. His name is Luther and he’s some kind of monster. A vampire or alien…or something. By touching your hand he’s making you feel—” I broke off when Luther leaned over and whispered something in Brianne’s ear.
“What did you tell her?” I stepped forcefully forward. “What did you tell her?!”
“The truth, Seth. The truth.”
“Your truth is not my truth, Luther.” I wanted to knock that shitty, pompous grin off his face. Shoot it off.
“Just relax, Seth. Calm down. You know my name’s not Luther. It’s Detective Jayson Jakes. I work with Detective Morrell and Sergeant Adair. You know that. I’ve spoken to you several times over the past year, remember? We talked about Randy and the missing girls.”
“You’re a liar,” I said through gritted teeth.
Brianne’s eyes stayed locked on me as tears ran down her pregnancy-rounded cheeks.
“Don’t get angry. I’m here to help you,” Luther said. “Somewhere deep down you know Luther doesn’t exist. You know he’s a just figment of your imagination. An alter ego. Someone your subconscious invented so you could deal with your actions. It’s okay to admit it. Sometimes people’s minds collapse. Like what happened to your dad. It’s not your fault.”
“Bullshit! You are Luther. You forced me to bury those girls.”
“It’s time to stop the lies and self-deception. You know that you and Randy kidnapped and killed those girls. You got rid of Randy and tried to blame him for everything. You killed Ryan because he was getting too close to figuring out the truth. And you killed your dad because he found Randy’s wallet and pocket knife in his garage and questioned you about it. Just admit it, Seth. We have a strong case against you. We know you’ve been burying the bodies on your construction sites. You’re going to jail. The least you could do is tell Brianne the truth because she...” he lay his hand on her belly, his slender thumb gently moving back and forth. “And this baby deserves that much.”
“The truth? The truth?” I met eyes with Brianne and saw not a woman but a terrified little girl. Someone whose mind and emotions were teetering on the edge of a cliff. “Brianne, I didn’t do it. He’s lying. I swear. He’s a fucking monster. The Boulevard Monster. He made me—”
She slowly shook her head. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t. Ryan was right when he thought you were hiding something. I was right when I questioned your actions before the wedding. The signs were all there. Don’t lie. Not anymore. Please. The only monster here is you, Seth. You. You need help.”
“Brianne.” I begged her with my eyes, lowered my tone to a personal, sensitive level only she knew. “You know me. You know me.” I tapped my chest, although looking back, I shouldn’t have done it with the gun. “You know I would never hurt anyone. He made me bury the bodies. He told me that if I didn’t he’d kill you and Ryan and anyone else I loved. I had no choice.” Tears began falling down my cheeks. I felt like a giant wall inside my chest holding my emotions at bay had collapsed. “But when you told me you were pregnant, I knew I had to break ties with him. I decided I was going to try and kill him. It was the only way. But then Ryan confronted me and…” I trialed off when Brianne closed her eyes, her head drooped, and she covered her ears with her hands. She didn’t believe me. There was nothing I could say to change that. She’d heard enough, hurt enough. “Bri…Bri?”
She wept, loud. I’d never seen her cry that hard. It stung to hear it. Luther stroked the back of her head, ran his fingers through her hair—what I should have been doing. He loved watching me hurt watching her hurt. I should’ve known he wouldn’t have just killed her before I arrived. That wouldn’t have been painful enough. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “I know the truth hurts.” He cut his eyes at me. “But it’s all over now. He won’t be able to hurt you anymore.”
He winked at me—fucking winked at me—and a rage exploded inside my chest. I aimed far enough left that Brianne wouldn’t be in danger and fired at him. She screamed and toppled back in her chair, hitting her head against the wall. She crashed onto her belly and her sobs ceased.
Luther nudged her with his foot. She was out cold. “Now it’s just you and me,” he said, his blue eyes aglow with devilish desire. “But don’t worry, I’ll deal with her later.”
With a guttural, animalistic howl, I quickly covered the short distance between us, firing the 9MM again and again and again. I hit him once in the thigh, and once in the same shoulder he’d already been shot in, and although he jerked back with each hit, he didn’t go down. In fact, his eyes never left mine. I dropped the gun and lunged at him as he bared his teeth. We crashed into the dining table, flipping it over on top of us. The glasses shattered on the floor. My lucky Rangers hat flew off.
I scrambled on top of him and jammed my thumb into one of the bullet wounds in his shoulder. As I was reaching my other hand for his neck, I could hear blue jays chirping outside, some slamming into the double-paned kitchen window. Luther wrapped his hand around my wrist and took control of me.
For the second time that afternoon, I was paralyzed by the power of emotions that I didn’t want, didn’t need, couldn’t control, couldn’t handle. Luther pulled my thumb out of his bullet wound, and my eyes rolled back in my head as my heart and thoughts were consumed by any and everything dreadful—hurt, terror, paranoia, doom, depression. All at once.
My arms and legs trembled, and Luther let go of my wrist and shoved me off of him. I rolled onto my back, two or three feet away from Brianne. As the horrible feelings slowly receded and I regained control of my thoughts and emotional core, I glanced over at Brianne. Her eyes were closed, but I could tell she was breathing. The hairs dangling over her nose flared with each exhale.
