David Jackson - Pariah

Dear Detective Doyle,

Fooled you!

Did you like it? As practical jokes go, you have to admit it was pretty damn good. Go ahead, laugh about it.

Next time it really will be your family on the slab. I can get to them, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.

You getting the message now, Detective? People just aren’t safe when you’re around them.

Why don’t you go away and think about it? Far away. From everyone. Think about it real hard, and maybe then you’ll get some idea of what you put me through.

Sweet dreams, Detective.

‘What’s it say?’

‘Crap you don’t need to hear.’ He folds the note over, then tucks it and the envelope into his pocket. ‘Let’s go.’

His mind is made up now. All that remains is to figure out how to break it to Rachel.

He worries about his plans.

It seems to him that he plans things meticulously, knows exactly what he wants to do, but when it comes to implementing them he just gets, well, carried away. Like he starts off as the driver and suddenly finds himself in the passenger seat.

He hadn’t set out with any intention of killing the girl.

His objective was just to rough her up a little. Well, a lot, actually. Enough to keep her in the hospital for a while. Get her into the ICU, drips in her arm, monitors on her brain activity — all that shit. Long enough to get Doyle in there. Give him a little scare.

He’d done his research. The hooker was roughly the right height and shape, her hair was long and dark, and she wasn’t too skanky-looking as whores go. Her face was nowhere near as attractive as the one on Doyle’s wife, but that wasn’t so important. When he was done with her, the face was the last place people would be looking for recognizable features.

So he called her up. Told her he’d traveled all the way from Chicago for a business meeting and wanted to relax a little before heading back to the Windy City. Put her at ease by telling her to meet him at his nice hotel on Seventh Avenue.

There were many things he didn’t tell her, of course.

He didn’t tell her she would never make it to his hotel. Didn’t tell her that she wouldn’t even make it out of her own apartment building. Didn’t tell her that his call was just a ruse to get her out of the apartment without her feeling that, at that very moment, she was about to be attacked.

He was waiting for her in the hallway. It was black out there because he’d removed the light bulb. He waited patiently until he heard her take the locks off. Waited until the door opened and a dirty yellow light leaked out and she stepped into the gloom and turned to lock up.

And then he pounced.

He rammed into her back, driving her through the door and into the apartment. She yelped, then whirled to face him. He saw first the shock and then the fear. He’d expected that reaction. He believed he cut an imposing, formidable figure. Although the ski mask and the baseball bat may have added to the effect.

He expected also that she’d run. Maybe even put up a fight. This was a woman of the streets, after all. She would have learned something about how to handle herself.

So he didn’t wait. Didn’t try to reason with her. He just let the baseball bat do the talking. Let it sing through the air on its way to connecting with her ribcage with such force that he heard bones crack. Let it whistle a little before bouncing off the back of her skull.

And then he closed the door behind him. Stood panting over the woman who was now balled up on the floor, her blood-streaked hands spread across her head in a pathetic attempt at protection.

So far, so good. He’d stuck to the plan. The next phase should have been straightforward: smack her around a little more, throw her into the van, dump her somewhere and then give the hospital a call.

Except that’s not how it went, was it?

What actually happened was that he got a little over-zealous. The old baseball bat became a little too verbose. Became a veritable chatterbox as it arced and swung and pummeled and smashed.

Not how it was meant to happen. Not at all.

Hell, why would he have bothered putting on a ski mask if he hadn’t intended the girl to survive? What would be the point in that?

So why the deviation? Why the fuck didn’t he just stick to the sequence of events that he outlined at the beginning?

Thinking about it now, he realizes that a part of him — a subversive element buried within his subconscious mind — has been having other ideas all along. It concocts its own, darker plans. It allows him to think that he’s just being businesslike, that he’s just taking one logical step at a time. And when the moment is right, it asserts itself and shows him as the monster he truly is.

And right now, looking back on what he did to that wretched human being, ‘monster’ does not seem too strong a word.

Especially since he enjoyed it so much at the time.

At Doyle’s request, he drives Rachel home in her car. He tells Amy to ride in Daddy’s car with Nadine, and waits for the whines. Instead he gets a ‘Yay!’ So much for being pleased to see him.

Doyle takes his eyes off the road for a glance at Rachel. Little more than a murmur or two has escaped her lips since they left the hospital.

No biggie, he thinks. She’s been through a lot. Me, I got plenty to say. I just can’t find the words.

‘You okay?’ he asks.

She doesn’t look at him. Just keeps staring straight ahead.

‘This is hard for me, Cal. I haven’t experienced anything like this before. It’s scary.’

‘I know, babe.’

‘I don’t know what the hell is happening to us. Who could do something like this?’

‘I really don’t know. But I’m gonna stop him. Okay? I’m gonna get this sonofabitch.’

They lapse into silence again. Doyle can sense a pressure building up in his wife.

‘You said you’d call me.’

A few simple words, but Doyle knows there’s an avalanche of emotion waiting just behind them.

‘I know. I tried. I couldn’t get through to you. Obviously you had no cellphone, and-’

‘When? When did you try?’

Be careful here, he thinks.

‘Earlier this evening. It’s been kinda hectic today.’

‘I understand. What with the death of Tony Alvarez and all.’

Shit. This ain’t gonna work out well.

‘You heard about Tony, huh?’

‘Yes, I heard. Eventually. You want to hear how my day went? I spent the morning trying to come to terms with what happened to Joe. Then I spent the afternoon doing exactly the same thing for Tony. And for most of this evening it looked as though I would have to do it all over again. Only this time for you, Cal. For you.’

‘Look, I’m okay. We’re both okay. He was just trying to frighten us, that’s all.’

‘Well, he did a damn good job. I’ve been worried ever since you told me about Joe. And when I heard about Tony, you know what my first thought was after I got over the shock? I thought, Christ, I need to call Cal. I need to find out what’s going on, check he’s okay. Because that’s what wives and husbands do, Cal: they check on their loved ones when bad things are happening around them. And then I thought, No, why should I call? He should be calling me, just like he promised less than twenty-four hours ago. He should care enough to pick up the telephone and pass on a few reassurances to his wife and daughter that he’s not wearing wings just yet.’

Her words are broken by sobs, and she brings a hand to her mouth to stifle them.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Hush. It’ll be okay.’

‘Don’t shut us out, Cal. Whatever happens, we’re in this together. Remember that.’

He just nods then. He has an answer, but he knows she’s not ready for it. Not yet.