J. Rain: Hail Mary

He described her running from him through the house, of her nearly tearing his eyes out as she fought back. And as he described raping and killing her, I let my mind go somewhere else. Where it went, I don’t know, but I could only barely hear his droll monotone. When he was done talking, I came back.

“ Since then, there were a few other incidents, and, like I said, one other killing.”

“ And who was that?” I asked.

“ A girlfriend in Anaheim. I was tired of her.” He shrugged like, what are you gonna do? “So that’s it. Just two killings. Hardly a serial killer.” He took a step toward me. “When I described raping your mother, when I described killing her and leaving her to die, how did you feel?”

“ Fuck you.”

“ I can see you’re upset, Knighthorse. Angry. Horrified.” He frowned, seemed to have a thought, raised the shotgun toward his father and fired. His father, whose face had been buried in his hands, never saw it coming. The shot blasted the back of his head clean off. Bert Tomlinson convulsed, then fell backward where he landed on his back, eyes wide open.

“ You see,” said Gary. “Nothing. My own father. He protected me all these years. Shielded me. Permitted me to get away with some heinous shit, all because he said he loved me. All because he said he knew I was a good boy. Look at him now. Dead. Stupid man. He should have put me away. It’s his own fucking fault.” He turned back to me. I was, admittedly, too shocked to do much else other than to stare. “You see, Knighthorse, if I don’t give a fuck about my own dad, why the hell do you think I would give a fuck about your own slutty mother? I saw the way she looked at me. She was practically begging me to rape her. The bitch.”

He was still too far away for me to lunge at. Any lunging would result in his whipping his rifle around and blasting the top of my own head off.

“ I guess I was wrong, Knighthorse. That’s three. With you, that’ll be four. I guess I really am an honest-to-God fucking serial killer. How cool is that?”

I said nothing. The stench of fresh blood filled the air. It was all I could do to breathe normally.

“ And here you are, Knighthorse. Big, bad fucking Knighthorse. Football hero. Private fucking detective.” He gently stroked his swollen nose. “You thought you were pretty cute the other day, didn’t you?”

“ Cute is rarely used to describe me,” I said.

But he wasn’t listening to me. “So what did you hope to accomplish tonight? Maybe talk my dad into turning me in? Maybe get some answers? Get some closure, as they say?”

I said, “Tonight’s about one thing only.”

He began to bring his shotgun up toward me. “And what’s that, Knighthorse?”

“ It’s about killing you.”

He paused at that, but only briefly. The shotgun continued up, and he would have fired it a split second later, if I hadn’t raised my own hand.

As soon as I did, I heard a muffled sound, followed by a red hole that appeared in his forehead just above his right eye. Gary Tomlinson looked briefly confused, and then he looked dead as he collapsed to the ground.

I stood above him, staring down, as my father appeared from the brush wearing his sniper’s gilly suit. Camouflage. His face was painted black and his eyes were wide and empty as he came over and looked down at the man laying dead at my feet.

“ Over the right eye,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m losing my touch.”

I was sitting with Jack.

It was late, nearly eleven p.m., and the golden arches was about to close for the night. Sometimes they would let us stay after hours, as they cleaned and polished and mopped. I think the manager took a liking to Jack. It was hard not to like Jack.

We were both drinking decaf coffee.

Jack had listened quietly while I summarized the other night, about the two deaths, about the tape recorder that had captured it all, about how the police had all the evidence they needed to close my mother’s case, and the case of the murdered girlfriend in Anaheim.

I finished with something that had been on my mind since the incident at Irvine Lake. “I smelled my mother’s perfume,” I said. “It was like she was with me that night.”

Jack gripped his steaming coffee with both hands. There was a smudge of dirt on his chin, and his fingernails seemed especially dirty. But he didn’t seem to care about the dirt. And since he didn’t care, I sure as hell didn’t care. He looked at me for a good twenty seconds before speaking.

“ She was with you that night, Jim, as she’s with you every night and every day. She’s with you every time you think of her and often when you don’t.”

“ You mean in my heart.”

“ Not exactly, Jim. I mean, she stands with you, or sits next to you. Often she hugs you or holds your hand.”

I took in a deep, shuddering breath. A deep, deep breath. Talk about an emotional few months…and now this. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“ She’s with you in spirit, Jim.”

I shook my head. This wasn’t making sense. “She’s here now?”

“ She’s been with you every time you’ve sat with me.”

“ But I don’t see her.”

Jack smiled gently. “She’s sitting in the chair next to you, watching you, listening to you, laughing with you, and always sending you her love.”

“ I don’t know, Jack…”

“ You smelled her perfume, Jim.”

“ I was in the woods, for crissakes. There’re flowers everywhere.”

“ Flowers that smell like your mother’s perfume?”

Behind Jack, the McDonald’s staff was going about their various closing routines. The lights in the rear of the dining room turned off. The lights directly above us were still on.

“ You can see her,” I said.

Jack held my gaze. “Yes, Jim.”

“ Because you’re God.”

“ No, Jim. Because Mary’s sitting next to you.”

I looked at the seat in question. It was empty, of course. No shimmering mommy-shaped glow. No hovering ball of light. Just a yellow, metallic swivel chair with a smear of ketchup.

“ The seat’s empty.”

“ Do you feel her, Jim?”

“ I don’t know. We were talking about her. She’s in my thoughts…I don’t know.”

“ Close your eyes, Jim, and feel her.”

“ Do I have to?”

“ Just try it.”

I did as I was told, and with eyes now closed, I was acutely aware that I was sitting across from a bum in McDonald’s at closing time, looking like a fool. Beyond us, I could hear the sounds of trays being stacked, faucets running, orders being given to clean this or that. I smelled the golden hint of fries, the grease of burgers, and even ketchup.

“ Do you feel her, Jim?”

“ No.”

“ Keep your eyes closed.”

I kept them closed, feeling both ridiculous and oddly calm. It had been a helluva week. A helluva past few months. A helluva past two decades.

“ Good, Jim.”

“ But I don’t feel anything.”

“ Now look at your forearm, Jim.”

I looked, coming out of a semi-meditative state. My arm, I saw, was covered in gooseflesh. Just like the other night at the lake “What about it?” I said.

“ Do you feel anything, Jim?”

I thought about that. “A tingling in my arm.”

“ What do you think’s causing the tingling?”

“ A heart attack?”

Jack chuckled lightly. “Try again.”

“ My mother?”

The older man nodded. “Remember this feeling, Jim. Remember this sensation, and you will always know she is around, with you, touching you, loving you, remembering you.”

I took in a lot of air. My lungs ached with the effort. I closed my eyes again and couldn’t help but notice that the tingling along my arm had risen up to my shoulders and around my neck.