Chevy Stevens - Still Missing

My stomach heaved as I watched the tip of The Freak’s knife slice into the skin at the deer’s groin like it was butter. My nose caught the metallic scent of blood as he circled the deer’s privates, then slit all along down its stomach. I was struck with an image of his slicing into me with that same serene expression on his face. My body jerked, and he gave me a look.

I whispered, “Sorry,” gritted my teeth against the cold, and forced my muscles still. He went back to his humming and slicing.

While he was distracted, I looked around the clearing. A big stand of fir trees surrounded us, their branches weighted down with snow. Footsteps, drag marks, and what looked like the odd drop of blood disappeared around the side of the cabin. The air smelled clean, moist, and the snow crunched under my feet. I’ve skied on some mountains across Canada, and snow smells different in other areas, drier somehow, and it even feels different. The modest amount of snow and the lay of the land, along with the scent, had me hopeful I was still on the island or at least somewhere on the coast.

The Freak talked to me while he sliced. “It’s better for us to eat food off the land, food that’s pure and hasn’t been touched by humans. When I went into town I bought some new books, so you can learn how to cure meats and can foods. Eventually we’ll be completely self-sufficient, and I’ll never have to leave you alone.”

Not high on my wish list, but I have to say I was excited at the idea of doing something, anything, new.

When he finished slicing the whole deer open, and its stomach sack bulged out, he looked up from the carcass and said, “Have you ever killed, Annie?” As if a knife in his hand wasn’t threatening enough, he has to start talking about killing?

“I’ve never been hunting.”

“Answer the question, Annie.” We stared at each other over the deer.

“No, I’ve never killed.”

Holding the knife by the very tip of its handle, he swung it back and forth like a pendulum. With every upswing, he repeated, “Never? Never? Never?”

“Never—”

“Liar!” He tossed the knife up, grabbed the handle as it fell, and plunged it into the deer’s neck to the hilt. Startled, I lost my grip and fell onto my back in the snow. He didn’t say a word as I struggled to sit up. When I was back in a crouched position, I quickly grabbed the deer’s legs and braced for him to flip out because I’d fallen, but he just stared at me. Then his gaze dropped to the slit in the deer’s stomach, moved to my belly, and met my eyes again. I started babbling.

“I hit a cat with my car when I was a teenager. I didn’t mean to, but I was coming home late and I was really tired, and then I heard this thunk, and I saw it spin up in the air. I saw it land and go into the woods, and I pulled over.” The Freak kept staring at me and the words kept pouring out.

“I walked in the woods looking for it, and I was crying and calling, ‘Kitty, Kitty,’ but it was gone. I went home and told my stepdad, and he came with me back to the spot with flash-lights and we looked for like an hour, but we couldn’t find it. He told me it was probably fine and had run home. But in the morning, I looked under my car and there was all this blood and fur on my axle.”

“I’m impressed,” he said with a big smile. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I don’t! It was an accident—”

“No, I don’t think so. I think you saw his eyes reflect in the headlights and for a moment you wondered what it would feel like. And suddenly you just hated that cat, and then you floored the accelerator. I think the thud when you connected, when you knew you’d hit it, made you feel powerful, made you—”

“NO! No, of course not. I felt terrible—I still feel terrible.”

“Would you still feel terrible if the cat was a killer? He was probably out hunting, you realize—have you seen a cat torture its prey? What if the cat was diseased and homeless with no one to love it? Would that make it better, Annie? What if you could tell by looking at it that its owners were abusing it, not giving it enough food, kicking it?” His voice rose. “ Maybe you did him a goddamn favor, did you ever think about that?”

It almost seemed like he wanted my approval of something he’d done. Did he want to confess or just fuck with my head? The latter seemed more likely, so I’m not sure which of us was more surprised when I finally spoke.

“Have you ever… have you ever killed a person?”

He reached out and gently caressed the handle of the knife.

“A brave question.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve just never met anyone who’s…you know. I’ve read a lot of books and watched TV and movies, but it’s not like talking to a real person who’s done it.” It was easy to sound genuinely interested—I’ve always been fascinated with psychology, especially abnormal psychology. Murderers definitely fit that category.

“And if you did talk to, as you say, ‘a real person who’s done it,’ what would you ask?”

“I…I would want to know why. But maybe sometimes they don’t know, or don’t even understand it themselves?”

It must have been the right answer, because he nodded decisively and said, “Killing is a funny thing. Humans make all these rules about when they consider it to be okay.” He gave a quick laugh. “Self-defense? No problem. You find a doctor to say you’re insane, and that’s okay. A woman kills her husband, but she has PMS? If you have a good enough lawyer, that’s okay too.”

With his head tilted up at me, he rocked back and forth on his heels in the snow. “What if you knew how things were going to turn out and you could stop it? What if you could see something, something no one else could?”

“Like what?”

“It’s a shame you didn’t find the cat, Annie. Death is simply an extension of life. And if you witness death, the opening of a new dimension, you become aware of how unnecessary it is to limit yourself in this one.”

He still hadn’t actually admitted to killing anyone, and I wondered if I should leave it alone for now, but knowing when to pull back has never been one of my strengths.

“So what does it feel like? To kill someone?”

His head cocked to the side and his brows rose. “Planning on killing someone, are we?” Before I could deny it, he continued, but not in the direction I expected. “My mother died of cancer. Ovarian cancer. She rotted from the inside out, and at the end I could smell her dying.” He paused for a second, his eyes flat and dead. I was trying to think what to ask next when he said, “I was only eighteen when she got sick—her husband had died a couple of years before—but I didn’t mind looking after her. I knew how to take care of her better than anyone. But she wouldn’t stop crying for him. Even though I’d told her he left and that he hadn’t cared about her, not like I did, all she wanted was for me to find him. After everything I’d done for her…. I saw what he did to her. Saw it with my own eyes, but she cried for him.”

“I don’t understand, you said he died. What do you mean you told her he left?”

“He’d be gone for months, months , and we’d be fine. And then he’d come home, and I always knew when he was coming, because I helped her put on the dress for him, and she’d wear makeup. I told her I didn’t like it, but she said he liked it. He wouldn’t even let me eat with them. I know she wanted to feed me, but he made her wait until he was done. I was nothing more to him than a stray dog his wife had brought home from the pound. Later, after dinner, they went into the bedroom and closed the door, but one night, when I was around seven, they didn’t close it all the way. And I saw…she was crying. His hands…” His voice drifted off and he stared at nothing.