The Skull Ring (5 page)

"Chopped off?" Julia was hooked, despite herself. She loathed the public's unending appetite for atrocity, the hunger for controversy, the prurient fascination for the dark side of humanity. She’d even made it her stock in trade, trafficking in human misery to deliver juicy headlines for her Memphis editors. She was as guilty as anyone for wallowing in bad news, but she could understand it. She had her own built-in dichotomy, the black past that she kept re-entering like a prospector probing a shaky mine shaft.

"Sure. Now, a chopped finger doesn't seem so bad compared to being gut-hauled, but the thing is, the pinkie wound was
healed
. A stump of scar tissue. Meaning the injury had been inflicted years ago."

"So? He could have had an accident, caught it in a textile machine or a car door."

"He could have," Rick agreed, adjusting his already-perfect jet-black curl. "But pinkie amputation is another ritual practiced by the you-know-whos."

"Our old buddies, the Satanists." Julia shook her head. "Rick, you've watched too many 'X-Files' reruns."

"I've got plenty more evidence. Let me buy you a beer at the Whistle Gate and I'll tell you all about it."

"No, thanks," she said, smiling to disarm him. Then she thought about going home, with darkness falling and her house waiting and the clock in her bedroom still stuck on 4:06.

Better the Creep you know, I suppose
.
At least this one has a face.

"On second thought," she said. "I haven't eaten out for a few weeks. Might do me some good to see what civilization is up to these days."

Rick's chest swelled visibly. "Great.
Great
!"

"I'll meet you there. Six-ish."

He backed down the hall, grinning like a kindergartner who'd put a worm down a girl's dress. "Wonderful. I'll get us a good table."

As Julia went to her desk to put her notes and papers away, she wondered if Dr. Forrest would approve.

CHAPTER FIVE

Julia got home after dark. The Subaru's headlights swept over the house as she drove up. Lights blazed from the neighboring apartments, and Mabel Covington's front porch light was on, a flotilla of moths seeking out its heat. Even though the forest hovered dark and thick, Julia was determined not to be afraid.

Music spilled from one of the bottom apartments, the Rolling Stones' "Sympathy for the Devil." Mick Jagger was the one that needed sympathy. Hobbling out on stage with his cane and hearing aid, but still dressed in Spandex and feather boas. The Devil had obviously not kept his end of the bargain in that deal.

A tan boxer barked at her from the ragged grounds of the apartment. The dog was friendly, but it made a habit of dropping smelly little presents around Julia’s door. She was torn between shooing it away and feeding it snacks, and in the end they’d reached an uneasy truce in which Julia gave the dog a pat on the head instead of bacon bits, and Fido kept his poop to the edge of the driveway.

Rick had practically invited himself over to Julia's for a nightcap. Julia had deflected him, casually mentioning her fiancé and all the work she needed to get done. Now, entering the dark, silent house, she almost wished she'd accepted his offer, assuming he could keep his hands in his pockets. Maybe a little platonic companionship would ease her sense of isolation.

But she wanted to beat the fear alone. Even with Dr. Forrest helping, Julia knew that only one person could clean the mental house. Only one person could go into those rooms, sweep away the cobwebs, roll up the shades and let in the light. Only one person held the key.

She flipped on the living room light and closed the door, cutting off the Stones in the midst of their endless "whoo-whoos." No wooden blocks awaited her, spelling a cryptic message. She laid her purse on the coffee table and gave a cursory glance around the room to make sure everything was in its place. So far, so good. No sweat. No problem.
No Creeps here, ma'am.

But now the real test came. Could she walk down the hall into the bedroom? Could she look at the clock?

Sure you can.

Even though now you know there's at least ONE Creep in Elkwood. A Creep who went to the trouble of binding his victim's hands and feet before eviscerating him. A Creep who knew how to operate the business end of a knife. A Creep who did it slowly, making sure the victim expelled the greatest amount of blood and endured the deepest possible suffering. A Creep who took pride in his work.

Rick had taken great joy in sharing the grisly details over dinner. He knew she'd worked crime for
The Commercial Appeal
and hoped to impress her. She had to give him credit for originality. He was the first man who had ever tried to talk his way into her bed with a Satanic murder theory.

But her bed might already be occupied. That very same murdering Creep might be under her blankets this very moment, his sharp toys carefully resting on the pillow like a lover's flowers. Maybe he had a ring of black candles waiting for the touch of a match. Maybe a red pentagram was painted on the floor, some demon holding its foul breath in anticipation of being summoned.

Like HELL
, she thought, laughing, though the sound came out like the choking of a horse. She accepted the idea of God, something big behind everything. In the house of her head, she could give God a little shelf in the cupboard. But the idea that evil existed beyond the minds of humans, well, that was a wider leap of faith than she could make. She was merely crazy, not bug-brained insane.

But remember what Dr. Forrest said. You're not crazy. You just suffer from a "behavioral disorder." Something with a safe, handy label like "delusional" or "borderline personality" or "non-specific anxiety" or whatever diagnostic bricks the doctor cared to stack.

And, ultimately, she was in control of her own behavior. She could walk right into that bedroom, turn on the light, look at the clock, and then get on with the rest of her life. Conjuring up Satanic cults did little for her peace of mind.

She left the mace in her purse. She could do this alone, just like Dr. Forrest recommended. Down the hall, with every step bringing a slight creak of the floor in the silent house. The bedroom door was open. She reached around the wall, quickly, and flipped the switch.

The room was empty, her bed neatly made. The digital clock said 10:13. She checked it against her wristwatch. Right on time, just like clockwork. She was about to leave when a draft rippled the curtains. Muffled music leaked into the room from across the road.

The window was open. Why hadn't Walter shut the window when he finished checking the locks? These mountain people expected everybody to suck down fresh air all the time, even when the mercury dropped.

Julia frowned and parted the curtains. She didn't have a backyard. The forest grew right up to the rear of the house, the autumn canopy so thick that the distant streetlights couldn't penetrate the trees. The smell of loam and damp wood drifted in the dew. She closed and latched the window. Then she saw the muddy footprint on the floor.

The print showed only the outline of a heel. A small broken oak leaf was stuck in the tread marks. Walter must have left it.

Then why hadn't he left tracks all through the house? And he'd wiped his feet well, she'd seen him.

Julia knelt and touched the print. The dirt was damp.

Electric worms crawled up her spine.

Someone's been in the house
.

For real, not for pretend
.

And The Creep might still be here
.

She grabbed the phone off the bedside table. She punched a nine and a one, and was about to touch the one again when she looked down at her own shoe. Mud ringed the heel.

No, not mud.

Fido had broken the peace treaty. Julia’s smelly trail was marked from the living room.

"Oh, poop," she groaned, putting the phone in its cradle. She'd almost made a fool of herself. The cops could have been in here, responding to her breaking-and-entering report.

She could hear them now.

First cop: "You want to run a test on that, Lieutenant?"

Second cop: "Sure. Got the measurements already."

First cop: "Wait a second. This ain't mud."

Second cop: "Shoo. Smells like dog crap. What's that on your shoe, ma'am?"

Julia cleaned up the mess and put on a Natalie Merchant CD. Nothing bad could happen while Natalie Merchant was singing of motherhood and gratitude. She checked her e-mail, spam jokes from co-workers and a few posts from her St. Louis Cardinals newsgroup. The Cardinals were about twenty games out, as usual. But with the season winding down, the hot prospects were up from the minors, getting some playing time.

She deleted the messages because one of the newsgroupies was giving away the events of the day's game. Julia had taped it and wanted to watch it free of spoilers. She sat on the sofa and flipped the remote so that the videotape rewound. She punched the answering machine and stared at the blank TV screen.

The only message on her answering machine was the one from George Webster, telling her that Walter Triplett would be out to check her locks. She reset the machine, wondering if Rick would call.

That wasn't a date
, she reminded herself.
That was definitely “hanging out
.”
But I hope he knows that.

She didn't want to spend all her office time fending off advances, but being noticed was always flattering. Rick was different from Mitchell. Not quite so pushy, respectful of her opinions, interested in more than just making money—

Whoa, girl. Back up a little. If you start down the road to where you compare other men to the one you're marrying, the potholes are going to bounce you out of a happy future. That’s as bad as comparing shrinks.

And her future
would
be happy. She'd move into Mitchell's three-story house in Colliersville, join a tennis club, maybe volunteer for a library board. Social evenings with Mitchell's lawyer circle, the men talking shop, the few female lawyers trying to shoehorn into the conversation, the wives comparing vacation packages. She would wear pearls and heels and scan the fashion magazines to find out which perfume maker was conducting the most extravagant ad campaign. She would eventually give in and wear makeup, hiding all the damage done by time and gravity.

Mitchell would let her continue in therapy as long as she didn't take it too seriously. His circle would view it as just one more of the fringe benefits of affluence, a way to pass idle time, the same way one passed time by taking crafts classes. Mitchell would have an affair in his forties, maybe even more than one, when the first gray crept into his hair and he thought he'd missed out on something in his youth. Julia would accept the dalliances, get a facelift and Botox injections, maybe have some plastic surgery to lift her breasts so that Mitchell could still proudly display her.

They would inherit two of the seasonal homes owned by Mitchell's parents, the others going to his sister. He would choose Santa Monica, and would humor Julia by taking Martha's Vineyard as well. Julia would sit on the beach in the fall, sipping margaritas and rum punch. She didn't drink much now, but she would take up the habit in earnest, because everybody drank in Mitchell's circle. She might even become an alcoholic, a solidly fashionable occupation for the wives of overachieving men. The new disorder might even overwhelm her current one.

And would that be so bad? The fear slowly eroding into a great gray fog, the memories growing dimmer and more distant. The past lost in the wash of years instead of being probed, mined, collected, and analyzed. The past as past only, nothing to do with the wobbling, hazy present that ended at arm's reach, in the soft, cold bite of liquor, easy amnesia a swallow away.

A metallic click and whir brought Julia back to the blank TV as the tape finished rewinding. Tears burned in her eyes, refusing to fall. She wiped them away and pressed the remote. The screen flared to life and the tape started. Julia put her thumb on the fast-forward, ready to skip the pre-game analysis.

The game wasn't on the tape. Instead, the screen was filled with a man's smooth-shaven face, his eyes fevered and bright. The man was pointing at the camera as if chiding both the camera operator and the audience. At high speed, the man looked comical, making wild hand gestures like something out of an old Keystone Kops short.

Julia was positive she had set the tape for ESPN2, the network of choice for also-ran teams like the Cardinals. She double-checked the schedule lying open on the coffee table. There, Cardinals vs. Astros, 4 PM, Channel 27. VCR’s were notoriously complicated to program, but she'd taped much of the season without being thrown a single curve.

Unless her memory of setting the VCR had been a tiny little game she had played on herself, another trick to scare herself stupid. And didn't delusional people lie to themselves?

No. I didn't spread the blocks out on the table this morning, and I didn't tape this . . .  this WHATEVER
.

She stopped the tape and let it play at regular speed.

The man's face crowded the edges of the screen, the close-up so intense that she could see drops of saliva spraying from his mouth as he spoke. The man's manic voice thundered forth as she thumbed up the volume on the remote.