Frank Zafiro - Beneath a Weeping Sky

His stomach clenched, but there was nothing left to come up. All he could manage was a watery gagging.

The next thing he could remember, she was gone. He remained on the bed, gagging and shivering, curled up into a small ball. The sounds of the apartment surrounded him. Familiar sounds. The creak of the ceiling when someone walked across the floor upstairs. The opening and closing of cupboards in the kitchen. His own labored, rattled breathing. The clink of a vodka bottle on the lip of a water glass. The drone of the television.

After what seemed like hours, he rose on weak legs and made his way to the bathroom. He stepped into the shower and turned it on as hot as it could possibly go. The water splashed down onto him, washing away the sick remains of his lunch and his own semen from his body. He used soap to lather up the wash cloth and scrubbed his skin until it felt raw. Then he stood under the shower head while the hot liquid poured onto his head and coursed down his body.

When he finally shut off the water and pushed aside the curtain, he half-expected to see her standing there in the bathroom, holding a towel for him. He was alone, though, and reached for the towel himself.

What do I do next?

As he dried off, he searched for an answer. He thought at first that maybe this would never happen again, but he realized that this was just the little boy inside of him hoping against hope. Little Jeffie, wishing his mommy and daddy would be perfect.

He knew better.

No, this was just the newest evolution of how things were to be. She had to know about his fantasies. She had to know that he dreamed of the power and control over all of the girls that ignored him at school. And she wanted to take that fantasy away from him before he could make it really happen.

She would come to him whenever she wanted. She would control it. She would take it from him. She’d take his fantasy, piece by piece.

She was still too strong.

He finished drying off and went to his room. He dressed quickly, then emptied out a small sea bag that his father had left behind one of the times he’d left in the middle of the night. He pushed some jeans and some shirts into the sea bag, along with a few paperback books he’d borrowed from the library.

As quiet as he could, he slipped out of his room and into his mother’s bedroom. In the top drawer of the dresser, he found a wooden box full of jewelry. Underneath that were a number of folded bills. He took both, slipping the cash into his pocket and bringing the jewelry box back to his room, where he put it into the sea bag.

His coat hung in the hall closet. He carried the bag with him, moving woodenly, without emotion. It was as if when he spewed out the contents of his stomach in the bedroom, all of his emotion had left him, too.

She didn’t look up as he walked to the door. He thought about not turning around, but something made him pause. He looked over his shoulder at her. She met his eyes. He saw no remorse in them at all.

“You’re leaving, then?” she asked, her slurred tone matter-of-fact.

He nodded.

“Well, good,” she said. With that, she turned her attention back to the television.

He waited. A hundred things that he might say raced through his brain, but in the end, one question won out.

“Cora?” he said. Since she wanted to be called by her name so goddamn bad, then he’d do it now.

She turned her gaze back to him. “What?”

He licked his lips, then asked, “Why don’t you love me?”

She smiled, a cruel grin that licked at her cheeks. “Because you are the reason my entire life has been wasted, that’s why.”

He expected those words to rock him in the gut like mule kick, but strangely, he felt nothing. He simply turned away from her and left the apartment.

His first steps down the street were light and euphoric. He couldn’t think of why he hadn’t done this years ago. Take some of her precious money and just go. He felt free. He felt like a new person.

His footsteps carried him to a bus stop. He got on without thinking. He sat and stared out the window at the wet, gray Seattle streets. His sense of freedom was short-lived. Already he felt a brewing, seething rage building in the pit of his stomach. He knew he could never be free of it. He knew he would have to come back and find her. Someday, when he was stronger. He’d come knocking on her door. She’d answer it, probably with a glass full of vodka, that whore’s drink, in her hand. He’d push his way in. He’d give her the back of her hand. Then he’d lay the whammo on her, better than his father ever did. He’d control it. He’d show her what power was.

He would.

Someday, he would.

The city bus stopped near the Greyhound terminal. He exited and walked across the street. Once inside the terminal, he stood in front of the list of destinations. He didn’t have much money. He couldn’t go far. But he had to go far enough. Where was that? Tacoma? Vancouver?

His eyes flitted down the list until his gaze came to rest on River City. That was clear across the state, on the other side of the Cascades. Far enough, but close enough.

He smiled.

Besides, it snowed in River City.

May 1996

RIVER CITY, WASHINGTON

Wednesday, May 8th

Day Shift

0909 hours

Detective John Tower tapped his pen against his knee. A half-cup of coffee, long cold, stood next to his open case file, but instead of looking at the contents of the file, Tower stared at the picture of Stephanie on the corner of his desk.

He wondered how he’d like it if it had been his girlfriend that had been attacked by the Rainy Day Rapist, only to have the case assigned to a complete moron like himself.

No, he corrected himself. Better yet, what if she were the next victim in line, relying on him to catch the guy before he was able to assault her?

Tower sighed. He dropped the pen on top of the case file and rubbed his eyes.

You can’t afford self-pity right now, John. Get your ass to work.

He opened his eyes again and paged through the case file. Nothing new jumped out at him on this, easily his hundredth time through the file contents.

Strike one.

None of the calls into the police tip line had resulted in anything of value, even though he’d run down anything remotely promising. They all just led down blind alleys, unfortunately. Most of the tips were the result of the Mr. Every Other White Guy composite that Lieutenant Crawford had released to the media. He’d spent countless hours contacting men who tipsters had been certain were “that guy on the news,” only to know within moments that it wasn’t the Rainy Day Rapist. Still, he had to interview each of them, get their alibi and then confirm it. That took time, but yielded no results.

Strike two.

On the scientific side of the house, there was nothing in the way of useful forensics that might help to identify the suspect.

Strike three.

There’d been no rapes or attempted rapes since the threats made against MacLeod a week and a half ago. While he was glad that was the case, there was a single positive to another criminal event — the potential for evidence.

Tower shook his head at his own morbidity. What kind of a sick bastard wished for a rape to happen just so he might have a shot at some additional evidence? It was stupid, anyway. This guy had been careful. There were no witnesses except the victims themselves and they didn’t see much that helped identify the bad guy.