Stevens Chevy - Never Knowing

When I told Evan what happened he freaked out and wanted me to tell the cops I wouldn’t do it. I told him they thought I was their only chance to find him, and if they didn’t he’d keep killing. Finally we agreed I’d take it one day at a time. He came home on Monday — God, I was happy to see him — but I still couldn’t relax. We finally sat down and did the guest list, but then Billy called to see how I was doing. I left the table so I could talk to him out in my shop and when I came back in Evan said, “One of your boyfriends?” “Ha, ha. It was that cop I met the other day. Sorry for taking so long — we were talking about John.”

“No worries.”

But I was worried. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I should say next time John called. We went for a long walk with Ally and Moose that night and rented a comedy, but I couldn’t tell you one thing that happened in that movie.

Evan said he hates seeing me so scared and upset, but I can’t help it. While I’m making dinner for Ally, while I’m tucking her in at night, while we’re brushing our teeth in the morning, all I’m thinking about is whether the police will catch John before he kills someone.

I’ve read every article on his victims. I know about Samantha, the pretty blond nineteen-year-old who was camping in a provincial park with her boyfriend. He was shot twice in the back as he tried to escape. They found Samantha’s body a couple of miles into the park. Her arm was broken in three places from a fall, and as she fled through the woods something jabbed straight through her cheek. The Campsite Killer covered her face with her Nike T-shirt, then raped and strangled her. I used to have the same shirt.

I know about Erin, the brunette softball player who decided to go camping by herself and was found two weeks later by someone’s dog — he brought her hand back to the campfire where his owners were roasting marshmallows. The police had to use dental records to identify what was left after the animals got to her.

Sleep has become my nighttime nemesis. I wander the house or watch late-night TV while the clock ticks. I have baths, showers, drink warm milk, and lie on Ally’s bed stroking her curls while she sleeps. If Evan’s home I curve my body around his, try to match my breathing with his, and daydream about how beautiful our wedding will be. Nothing helps.

When I’m not reading about John online, I’m researching serial killers: Ed Kemper, Ted Bundy, Albert Fish, the Green River Killer, BTK, the Hillside Stranglers, the Zodiac Killer, Canada’s Robert Pickton and Clifford Olson, and too many more. I study their patterns, their triggers, their victims, every detail of their horrific crimes. That’s in addition to the books by FBI profilers and psychologists.

I compare theories and arguments — psychopath, mental defect, chemical imbalance, dysfunctional childhood? I take pages and pages of notes and when I finally do fall into an exhausted sleep, I have nightmares of women leaping off diving boards onto pavement or running through fields of broken glass. I hear their screams. I hear them beg, but they’re begging me to stop chasing them. In the dreams they’re running away from me .

It was my birthday on Friday, but I wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. Evan tried so hard to cheer me up. He’d obviously taken Ally shopping — she gave me a beautiful green cashmere cardigan — and he spoiled me with a new mountain bike. I made sure to exclaim over their gifts, forced down three pieces of the pizza they made, and laughed in all the right places at the movie we rented. But my head was filled with thoughts of Julia.

Growing up I often wondered on my birthday what my real mother was doing, if she even remembered the date. Now I wondered if all these years I’d been celebrating, Julia had been tortured with memories of me forcing my way out of her body, of John forcing his way in.

When I first held Ally in my arms after she was born, I couldn’t imagine ever letting her go. I’d been scared I wouldn’t be a good mother, would screw it up somehow, but as soon as her little fingers grabbed mine, I fell head over heels. I also became fiercely protective, watching carefully if anyone held her, taking her back if she fussed. It was hard being a single mom — money was tight and I had to carry Ally in a Snuggie on my back when I worked in my shop — but I loved that it was just her and me against the world. Before Ally, I never felt like I had roots, and in my darkest depressions I thought it wouldn’t matter if I died, no one would miss me. But when I had her I finally had someone who loved me unconditionally, who needed me.

She’s growing up so fast — gone are the days when she’d play imaginary fairy games with me like wiz-a-boo and pansy ears. I don’t want to miss one moment of her life. I don’t want to be distracted when she tells me stories about her teacher, Mrs. Holly, whom she idolizes because she has straight long blond hair and can tap-dance, or about a bug Moose just ate, or when she sings all the songs from Hannah Montana . I don’t want to rush her to bed at night or out of the house in the morning. But I’m so afraid John will call and hear her in the background.

We managed to stop the media spread because nothing was confirmed, and was in fact denied, but rumors are still floating around. Hopefully the gossip will fade before it gets to Ally or any of her friends. I’ve started casually asking how things are going at school. Nothing seems to have changed. But what if it comes up later, like when she’s a teen? And if the truth ever does get out, how would people treat Ally once they knew who her grandfather was? Would they be afraid of her?

I watch her play with other kids or roughhouse with Moose, and all the things that just seemed like part of her personality before frighten me now. The way she gets so angry sometimes that her face flushes and her hands ball. The way she kicks or slaps or bites when she’s frustrated or overtired. Is it just part of her spirit, a normal six-year-old learning to cope with her emotions, or something more serious?

I find myself looking in the mirror, studying my features, thinking about the man who shares them. Wondering what else we share. Then this morning I realized why I keep dreaming of women running away from me, why studying those serial killers freaks me out so much. When I read about them, I see my traits. Serial killers have grandiose fantasies — my whole life I’ve daydreamed and fantasized. They’re obsessive-compulsive — when I’m into something, the rest of the world disappears. They have tempers, mood swings, depressions — check, check, check. They also tend to be solitary, and I’ve always been a loner, preferring to focus on Ally and work. I’ve never wanted to kill anyone, and as far as I know murder isn’t hereditary, but sometimes when I get really angry, I’ve broken things, pushed or shoved people, thrown objects, had fantasies about driving my car straight into a wall, of hurting myself. What would it take to turn that rage outward?

Of course, it’s easy for me to zero in on my negatives and heap them all on John’s genetic doorstep. But like you just pointed out, how do I know those traits didn’t come from growing up adopted, or even from Julia? And I probably won’t know because she’ll never let me close enough to find out. Billy said she confirmed the earrings were hers. Knowing how much the sight of them messed me up, I can only imagine how she felt. I wish I could talk to her. I even picked up the phone once, but this time I dropped it.

Evan left Saturday morning. He was excited because he has a big fishing charter coming up from the States, but he was also concerned about leaving me like this. He told me to stop reading books about serial killers, but there’s no way I can just stop researching. I have to find something, some insight or clue, that might help stop John.