The Sacrificial Daughter (9 page)

"If you think that all this is easy on me, then you are mistaken," her father responded. "I get my share of hate. I just know that they will come around eventually.

"Yeah, they hate you. I know it. I can see it on their faces...but you have power over them. I'm nothing, so they take their anger at you out on me. And then I come to you...and what do I get? A lecture about fighting!" She was angry. She was in a rage. But she was tired as well. Exhausted she slumped back on the couch, staring out the window.

The clouds were thickening and the day grew darker. She thought about her walk home and uninvited, an image of the Shadow-man came to her.

"Dad, what's with this town?" There was a touch too much silence from her father, which made Jesse take her eyes off the cold sky and glance his way.

"What do you mean?" He knew exactly what she meant. Despite the casual question, he was sitting stiffly in his chair, and where his eyes had held their usual focused intelligence a moment before, they were now guarded.

"What's with the empty streets and the overly crowded library?" she asked, watching him closely. "It's not normal." He started to shrug, which was the closest thing to lie that he ever attempted. "Come on, Dad. I want the truth. I could go ask Wild Bill I suppose..."

"You've met Bill Younger?"

"Yes, twice. Though he didn't introduce himself as Bill Younger. He called himself Wild Bill and he drives a black car with dark-dark windows. You know him?"

"Oh, yeah. I know him," James said, suddenly looking tired as well. "He's with the CID, which is a part of the Michigan State Police. He's a detective heading up a four person task force." He seemed reluctant to go on.

"And?"

"There have been a few murders in Ashton..."

"What?" If she could've jumped up she would have. Instead she had to be content with smacking her hand down on the leather couch. "And you didn't tell me?"

"I didn't want to worry you unnecessarily." Her eyes went big at this and before she could say a word, he continued: "Yes, unnecessarily. You are probably the safest person in the entire town. This man...the killer, doesn't pick his victims at random. They have to have a certain characteristic and you lack it."

He wasn't lying which had the effect of draining most of the fear right out of her. What took its place was a consuming curiosity.

"What's the characteristic? You have to tell me!" she demanded, sounding like an excited girl at a slumber party.

James shook his head. "I don't and I won't. It's a personal thing and though a part of me wishes that you..." He stopped abruptly.

"Me what?"

"Nothing. It's...nothing. Just be glad that you don't have to worry about it."

"How many people has this guy killed?" She felt strangely excited and it must have shown on her face and in her voice. Her father looked at her crossly.

"Listen, keep your voice down," he said with a touch of growing anger. "This is a very sensitive subject in Ashton. I will tell you what I think is appropriate, but you have to promise not to speak about this with anyone."

"Who am I going to talk about this with? I'm friendless, everyone hates me, remember?"

"Oh, I remember," he said and then smiled in an odd cryptic manner. "There have been at least three deaths for sure; one in 2006 another 2007, both boys. And then last year a girl was...strangled."

"Down by the berm? Mom told me not to go down there."

He shook his head. "No, she was found in the cemetery, which is out past the school. But the first boy that I mentioned
was
found next to the berm. As for where is safe and where isn't...who knows. The sites of the deaths have been particularly random."

Jesse was quiet as her mind worked through all of this information and her father sat silently as she did. Finally she spoke, "You said there've been three deaths for sure...did you mean three murders for sure? And were there other deaths?"

James bowed his head to acknowledge her deductive reasoning. "In 2008 three people with that characteristic I was talking about died and in 2001 the alleged killer's son was found drowned in their pool. At first..."

"His son? The police know who the killer is? Why hasn't he been arrested?"

"He was arrested," James replied. "Back in 2006 and put on trial, but he got off, partly due to technicalities and partly due to insufficient evidence." Jesse opened her mouth to ask who the killer was, but her father guessed this was her question. "The man's name is Harold Brownly... he's a neighbor of ours."

"No way!" Just like that, the balloon of her excitement and curiosity burst inside her leaving a nervous sick residue behind.

"Yes," James replied, shaking his head with a pained expression in his eyes. "I'm sorry. When I bought the place I had no clue. Nobody told me. I'm actually thinking of suing the realtor and the previous owner."

"Great. That'll do me a lot of good when I'm dead."

"This is why your mother and I didn't want to tell you so soon. We didn't want you to over react. Look, I've seen all the police reports..." Here he paused and lowered his voice, "...I've even spoken to his therapist. He's assured me that a girl like
you
will be perfectly safe."

That entire evening she pondered on the concept of having a killer as a neighbor. His house wasn't directly behind hers, but was one house over, yet only a six-foot tall fence separated his yard from theirs.

From her bedroom, if she stood at the right angle, she could see into what looked to be his master bedroom on the second floor. When she climbed up on her bed and peeked through the mostly drawn curtains, she could also see a little into the living room on the main floor.

There wasn't much to see. The house was dark for most of the night except for around ten p.m. when a light came on and stayed on. However, she saw no movement whatsoever, not even the ghost of a shadow, nor the ghost of the Shadow-man. The killer and the Shadow-man were one in the same, she was pretty well sure of that. Her father had described Harold Brownly as the biggest man he had ever seen. She had described the Shadow-man...at least mentally... as "freaking huge" and she too had never seen someone so enormous.

Over all, the killer's house gave her the creeps and except for periodic glimpses, which she would undertake in the most stealthy manner possible, she kept her curtains drawn as tight as they would go.

When she wasn't looking into the killer's house, Jesse sat with her ankle propped up and encased in a bag of ice. She worked steadily on her homework until after eleven when thankfully she finished her stupid essays—complete with bibliographies. They hadn't been asked for, but she knew what sort of teachers she was dealing with.

Too tired to do anything more, Jesse took a last peek at Harold Brownly's silent home and called it a night.

The next morning she woke with a vow on her lips: "There will be no tears today!"

She was living fifty feet from a mass murderer, what could she possibly fear from a bunch of whiny children and a few nasty teachers.

Nothing
, her voice of reason said.

Of course in order to maintain her vow she would need a different mindset than the one she had adopted the day before. She had, for the most part, tried to be as sweet and accommodating as she could. Today would be different.

With bleary red-rimmed eyes she went to work resurrecting her old self. She was adept at cutting and styling her own hair and had been doing so since she was twelve-years-old. Jesse had learned the hard way that there was nothing more vindictive than a hairdresser whose husband had just been laid off. Without fear, she hacked off her shoulder length blonde hair, colored it jet-black and then spiked it up.

In a half hour she had gone from Barbie to something else entirely. Though it was hard to tell what exactly...certainly not an Emo-punk or a Goth-vampire wanna-be.

"Someone you don't want to mess with," she said to the cold-eyed girl in the mirror. And that was a true statement. Jesse next applied only the barest accentuating make-up, leaving off attempting to cover the gash above her right eye, entirely. She liked it raw looking.

Next came the clothes that were sure to have her mom steaming. Loose black jeans, a plain black t-shirt and finally, her jungle boots—her favorite pair. They were light and supple, yet would leave a tread mark on someone's cheek if they weren't careful.

After she laced up her boots, she stepped back and looked appreciatively at herself, but then sighed. Since she was about to ask her mom for a favor she would have to at least throw her a bone. From her closet, she pulled out a long sleeve, button up white shirt. Rolling the sleeves halfway up her arms she then tied the shirt about her mid-drift.

"Time for breakfast," she said to herself. Then louder she called out in her sweetest voice, "Mom?"

"Downstairs," came the distant reply.

As Jesse trotted down the stairs she called out again, sweetly, "Mom, can I please, please, please get a ride to
and
from school? I really-really need this." It was either a ride from her Mom, a long and possibly dangerous walk, or worst of all, a bike ride to school.

"No, I can't. Sorry. I have a meeting this morning. Then I'm at the blood bank in Barton all afternoon."

Sarcasm was the first thing that came to Jesse's mind:
What? Something more important than me? How is that possible?

She stopped on the stairs and rubbed her eyes, feeling the grit of a poor night's sleep in them. Despite just getting up, she was still tired from the day before and this affected her judgment. Jesse yanked off the white shirt and threw it in silent anger at the wall. She was back in black just like her mood.

"Maybe your dad can give you a lift home," Cynthia Clarke called out.

More sarcasm sprang to mind, but she bit it back. It was true her father had given her a ride home the evening before, however that was under special circumstances and she knew him too well to think he would make a habit out of it. There were more important things to him than his daughter.

No tears, remember?

"Right," Jesse whispered. No tears meant she would have to control her emotions. The girl took a moment and sat back on the stairs. With steady breaths she cooled somewhat and her mind was able to think past how her mom was being...and more importantly how she was going to be. Cynthia was going to be a pain, no doubt about it.

"Jesse?" her mom called from the kitchen.

"I'll be right down," she answered back, satisfied that she had kept any petulance out of her voice. It had been close.

She went back to breathing. After thirty seconds she was calm enough to think about her transportation predicament. Her choices were down to the long walk or the embarrassing bike ride. There really wasn't an actual choice involved. She realized this after a brief image of the Shadow-man flashed in her mind; it brought her to a decision quick: she would have to take the bike.

"Damn," she swore, but not in anger. She swore in disappointment. The bike meant that she wouldn't get to wear her favorite coat. It was a gorgeous coat: three-quarter length, coming in tight at the waist and flaring out at the hem...but not too flared. It was black, dark, beautiful. She loved herself in it, but it would be altogether goofy looking on a bike.

Which meant that she would have to wear her leather instead. It was nice also. Black, of course. It came up high, ending just below her ribs. It was very smart looking but there was no getting past it; she would freeze on her bike.

Deciding on oatmeal and a cup of coffee to get her warmed for her ride, she scampered into the kitchen, ready to face her mom.

"Oh, Jesse," her mom moaned, sounding as if she was in pain. "Look at you. Your hair! Why do you do this to yourself?"

The real answer:
to survive
would never be understood by Cynthia Clarke. She did understand about teenage angst, however. So Jesse played that up instead.

"What? You mean, why do I dress in a way that I feel most comfortable expressing who I am?" Jesse asked, glancing around at the still unfamiliar kitchen, trying to remember where the bowls were kept.

Cynthia rolled her eyes. "The girl that came down for breakfast yesterday is who you are. Pretty...sweet...intelligent, that is who you are. Not this." She pointed with disgust at Jesse's hair and clothes.

Her mom was right, the girl from yesterday was truly who Jesse wanted to be. She loved dresses and high-heels, she loved her hair long and flowing, she loved how boys...those who didn't know her...looked at her when she was all made up. The only thing was, that girl, the one with the satin tresses and the big blue eyes, was weak. She was easily hurt and tears fell from eyes at the least provocation.

She couldn't be that girl, not yet.

"Mom, I swear to you that I will wear a long, white dress on my wedding day...and if you ever take me to New York, like you've been promising me for ages now, I'll leave every stitch of black clothing behind."

Jesse found the bowls and then began opening drawers one after the other, searching for spoons. On her third attempt, she found them. Behind her, Cynthia sighed loudly.

"I think I should call your father."

While preparing her oatmeal, which demanded gobs of sugar and a pint of syrup, Jesse remarked: "Dad never notices anything. He saw me yesterday all jazzed up and didn't say boo about it."

"Please go change."

"No, I can't." With her mom staring at her in a huff, the microwave seemed to be taking an age to heat up her breakfast. Jesse could feel her mom's eyes boring into her back. Her emotions started to spin a little inside of her, becoming slick and hard to latch onto.

"If you change your clothes, I'll...I'll drive you both ways to school. There and back, I promise."

Simultaneously this made Jesse want to scream in anger and burst out laughing. This was a promise that would never in a million years be kept. Nothing was more important to Cynthia than her precious volunteering. Where would she be without it? She would be nothing more than the wife of the town's biggest ass and the mother of the town's biggest bitch.

"You'll be there right at three?" Jesse asked. She was pissed. "You know they lock the doors at three?"

"I could be there around three-thirty," Cynthia responded with a lie.
If
she made it at all, it would be closer to four-thirty. That was how she was. Always an hour late whenever Jesse needed her, but her tardiness was
excused
...there were more unfortunate people than Jesse who needed her.

Jesse shook her head. "An hour up at the school all alone...with a
killer
on the loose..." She let the words hang out there all by themselves as an unspoken accusation.

He mom made another noise that made it seem that she was in pain. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but your father asked me not to. He's sure you're not in danger and he thought that you might over-react."

"First off, I don't think you
can
over react to something like this," Jesse shot back. "Second, he could be wrong you know."

"Can you remember the last time he was wrong?" Cynthia paused as if for an answer. "Because I can't."

In truth, Jesse couldn't either. Yes the man was unsympathetic and emotionally stunted, but he was never wrong. "There is always a first time, isn't there?" she asked. "Don't get me wrong; I really, really hope that he's right. I'd just feel better if I knew why he was so sure. He won't tell me."

"And I won't either because you have the irritating habit of doing the exact opposite of what we ask of you. If I told you that this guy only kills boys with blue hair, you wouldn't know what to do first, get a sex change or go to the salon."

"Ha-ha, Mom. I should know..."

"Stop. Just stop talking about this," Cynthia demanded. "I'm completely freaking out about living so close to this guy. I haven't slept at all since we moved...I keep checking and re-checking all the doors and windows. Every time I hear something, I flip out...my stress level is up to hear." Her hand went above her head.

"I bet you're freaking," Jesse said with some sympathy. "I could barely sleep last night myself. If I'm really as safe as you two think, I wish I had never found out we have a murderer as a neighbor. Maybe we should get a gun?"

Her mom started laughing, mockingly. "
You
of all people think we should get a gun? You hate guns. You've always hated guns."

She did hate guns...but at the moment all the scary statistics that had been fed into her at school didn't come close to counter-balancing the fact of the Shadow-man. He was just too present in her mind and she realized that even this little conversation was causing her chest to tighten.

"I know," she replied feeling a little embarrassed. "I guess core convictions aren't what they used to be. It's just that he's so big...and he scares the crap out of me...and he lives so close to us. Of course..." she paused to laugh. "If he came over to borrow some sugar, I'd probably shoot him on the porch."

Her mom nodded. "Yeah, about that, don't let him in the house. If you're here by yourself, lock everything and keep the curtains drawn tight. And always have a phone handy."

"Don't worry about that...I may even barricade the door when you leave." It was supposed to be a joke, but she could easily picture herself doing exactly that.

"Just don't scuff up the hardwood floors," her mom replied, making sure to let Jesse know where she ranked in the hierarchy of things that needed protection. One-step below wood flooring.

Now her chest tightened from another emotion. "Would you also like me to try not to bleed on the carpet?"

Cynthia's face went tight. "I don't need your cheek right now. In fact, I'm late." She got up and threw on her coat. As she walked to the garage, she called out over her shoulder, "I'll see you later...probably around eight."

When the door to the garage shut, Jesse replied quietly, "What happened to picking me up at three-thirty? Was three-thirty just a lie?" She knew it was. If she had taken up her mom's offer she would have been waiting for hours...alone as the day turned darker and eventually slipped away altogether.

Jesse heard her mom's Lexus pull away.

"Cynthia Clarke," she said in a big voice attempting to impersonate a game show announcer. "What's more important: Handing some stranger a cookie and a cup of orange juice,
orrrr
protecting your daughter from a mad killer?"