Night Vision Page 11

  Oh my God, a fan, Inner Bitch said.

  Fans put these steaks on the table, IB.

  Yeah, but they don’t get to show up at our house.

  I kind of agreed with her on that one. The thing about writing airy-fairy self-help books like mine, was that you occasionally attracted a batshit fan. Apparently, straight to your front door.

  I went to stand beside Mason. Jeremy was on his feet, too, and so was the dark twin, with a distinctive touch-my-aunt-and-you-die glint shining from within her eyeliner. She hates makeup, my ass, Inner Bitch noted.

  “It’s really me,” I said, polite, calm, not inviting or friendly. He had brown leaning-toward-gold eyes and thick lashes. His long brown hair hadn’t seen shampoo in a while. He slouched like his backbone was tired. “What can I do for you?”

  He was smiling really hard. “I just…there’s so much. There’s so much. I’m Gary. Conklin. I read everything of yours–” As he spoke, he came toward me, and Mason stepped right into his path.

  He looked up at Mason. He was a head shorter and had kind of a baby face, round, with big eyes set deep, that turned downward at the corners. “Whoa, man,” he said, “You don’t need to be worried about me.” He leaned sideways, to see me around Mason. “I just…your books, it’s like you’re talking right to me.”

  “It feels like that to lots of readers,” I said. “It means I’m doing something right.”

  “I have to talk to you, though. I walked all the way here.”

  I looked down at his feet. He was wearing sneakers that were more holes than canvas. “From where?”

  “The shelter, um, St. Mary’s.”

  “In Binghamton?” It was twenty miles south on 81.

  He nodded.

  “You want something to eat, Gary?”

  “Rachel–” Mason turned fully, hands on my shoulders, leaning close, speaking soft. “This guy looks unstable,” he said, for my ears only.

  “Yeah, trust me I know. His head’s a fucking cyclone. But his belly’s empty.”

  “He could be dangerous.”

  “He reminds me of my brother.”

  The brother card got to him, but that’s not why I played it. It was nothing but the truth.

  “Gary, see the dock right there?” I asked, pointing at the square wooden dock that extended out from the shore. It was redwood stained, with a railing all the way around, and fish-pole holders mounted in four places. We had two Adirondack chairs out there, and a new one on the way, a double-wide one, for proper snuggling. “You go wait for me there. I’ll bring you a plate of food and we’ll talk a little, okay?”

  “You don’t have to feed me.”

  “We’ll talk. Go, sit. Look at that peaceful lake. It’s so calm. It always makes me feel better.”

  He looked at the water for a moment and I did, too. It was particularly placid today, its surface a smooth mirror reflecting the bright September sky. Finally, he gave a nod and went to the dock. He stood at the railing, despite the big chairs.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea, Rachel,” Jim said. Jim, the quiet guy, who never rocked a single boat.

  “I agree, but he’s here and he’s hungry. Besides, he’s scrawny. Look at him, Jim. I could take him even if I was still blind. And you’re right here, and Mason is coming over there with me, and I’ve got two strong kids here who’ll kick his ass if he gets out of line. Not to mention Jeremy and Josh.”

  Misty smiled. Christie did not. She had the guy in her laser sites and wasn’t even hearing me. My goodness, my niece was growing up kinda kick-ass. I liked it.

  “Give me a few minutes.” I was filling a plate as I spoke. We always cooked an extra steak to split up between the bulldogs, but they were going to have to muddle through with a couple of bites of mine and Mason’s.

  “Keep the dogs here,” I told Josh, who was my resident canine whisperer. Mason put an arm around my shoulders. We hadn’t had a chance to talk about the body that had been found this morning, because everyone had already arrived by the time he’d got back. And now certainly wasn’t the time.

  I said, “Hang back a little. I want him to feel safe.”

  “I want you to be safe.”

  “Perfect. Pick a distance that does both.” I kissed his nose. “I love you.” I said, in case the stranger was going to pull out a weapon and off me within the next few minutes. And I think Mason knew it.

  The timing wasn’t lost on me. This guy showing up the morning after a murder dream that might’ve been a…I don’t want to say vision. It sounds so hokey. But yeah. That. Coincidence?

  No such thing.

  Sandra handed me silverware and a napkin, and I carried the food over to the sdock. “Sit right here, Gary,” I said, standing beside the chair. He came away from the railing, sat in the chair, and I handed him the food.

  “Thank you. I haven’t had anything today.”

  “I’ll box you up some leftovers to take with you when you go. Go ahead, dig in. Get your belly full first, I can wait.” And I wanted to wait. I wanted to feel him first, you know, with my NFP. I went to the railing myself, leaned my forearms on it, gazing out at the water while he ate. It was always easier to feel someone with my eyes closed, probably because I’d done it blind for so long, without even realizing I was doing it. It only became a full-blown thing though, after I got my new corneas. Mason thought, in hindsight, his brother must’ve had a touch of…what I had. But in Eric’s case, it had made him crazy.

  I closed my eyes and opened my radar. What I got felt like sparks from a live wire. I tried to focus harder, but it was just chaos.

  Eventually the sounds of fork hitting plate went silent, and I turned to see that Gary had cleaned it. He leaned forward to set his empty dish on the decking.

  “So first, you should know, I don’t usually do this. Meet one-on-one with readers like this.”

  “Yeah, I–I know.”

  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Your books, they say things happen to you because you think about them.”

  I nodded slowly. “That’s a very simplified explanation. You attract the essence of what you think about, believe in, and expect.”

  “Isn’t that what I said?”

  “Not exactly. Say you think about dogs all the time. That doesn’t mean a dog’s gonna show up. It all depends on how you feel about dogs when you’re thinking about them. If you’re afraid of dogs, and you think about dogs all the time, other things you’re afraid of will start showing up. Could be a dog, could be a stalker.”

  Did you just say stalker? To a fan who walked here from Binghamton to meet you? Freudian slip much?

  “You understand?” I asked, to drown out the rightness of Inner Bitch’s comment.

  “I don’t have a problem with dogs. I like dogs.”

  A swing and a miss!

  “What do you have a problem with, Gary?”

  “Bad stuff.” Storm clouds darkened his eyes.

  “Bad stuff,” I repeated, and I sent Mason a yellow alert sort of look. He was standing under a river birch six feet away. He could make it to me in two long strides. But the kid could probably stab me faster.

  We should've searched him, Inner Bitch said.

  Now you think of it. “What kind of bad stuff?”

  Honest to God, I didn’t feel any threat coming from him. Hatred and anger wafted off him, but it wasn't directed at me. I usually felt that sort of thing like prickles on my skin, only not on my skin, exactly.

  Gary looked away, tipping his chin down just the way my brother Tommy used to do. There was something about him. I wanted to bring him inside and clean him up and fix his life.

  Like you tried to do with Tommy.

  Yeah, IB. Just like that.

  “What kinds of bad things, Gary?”

  And he flipped just like that, jumped out of the chair and glared at me, and then Mason was in between us, hands on the kid’s shoulders, saying, “Okay, now. Everything’s cool here, right? We’
re okay here, aren’t we, Gary?”

  I stayed behind Mason’s body like the Cowardly Lion, thinking yep, he could get to me fast enough, after all. Gary’s eyes had turned fiery, and he thrust out an arm, pointing at me. “You’re wrong, Rachel de Luca! I don’t think bad thoughts, but they come anyway. They come anyway and I can’t make them stop!”

  Mason’s voice was much harsher when he said, “All right, Gary, it’s time for you to go now. You crossed a line coming here, and it better not happen again. You understand me? It’s not okay, coming here like this.”

  And just like that, the fire was doused. Puppy dog eyes blinked at me through the lingering smoke. “It’s not okay I came here?”

  “It would be better if you asked first. That’s all,” I said.

  Are you out of your fucking mind?

  Mason’s eyes asked me the very same question.

  “I’d rather be blind than to feel the way you do right now,” I told Gary. “I’m really sorry you’re going through this.” I meant it.

  He relaxed, like a full-body sigh. “Do you know what it is, Rachel? What’s making the bad thoughts come?”

  “I know people who would. People who fix this kind of thing for a living.”

  He got my meaning. First time today. “I don’t like doctors.”

  “That’s okay, don’t get all knotted up over it. Look, Gary, if your car’s out of gas, you go to a gas station. It doesn’t matter if you like gas stations or not, you go. You go because it’s where the gas is.”

  “I don’t even have a car.”

  Note to self. No metaphors with Gary.

  “Come on. I’m gonna have Mason give you a ride to someplace you can stay tonight. Okay?”

  He lowered his head, like he’d lost the battle. “Okay.”

  “His car’s over there. The black one.”

  “That’s a cool car,” Gary said, and he walked across the dirt road, and the lawn to the driveway, and Mason’s car, which we all called The Beast.

  When he was out of earshot, I said, “Mason–”

  “No.”

  “You don’t get to tell me no.”

  “This time I do.”

  “He reminds me of my brother.”

  “He reminds me of my brother.”

  His brother had killed my brother, if you’re keeping track.

  “Mason, come on.” I put my hands on his chest and looked up at him. “He’s sick, not dangerous.”

  “Those two things are not mutually exclusive.”

  “Put him in the motel in town. Leave him some cash. I’ll get him in with a shrink tomorrow. He needs help. This is how I want to handle it, Mason.”

  He looked at me hard and there were so many arguments he could’ve made. Like what about the boys, and my sister, and her kids, and so on. But he didn’t. He blew air through clenched teeth, and said, “Fine. I’ll put him in the motel. One night, Rache. We get him hooked up with social services and mental health, and leave his ass back in the city. You can put him up at the Hilton if you want, but there. Not here. Okay?”

  “Okay. And thank you.”

  He looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. He went and got in the car, started it up. It had this deep, loud rumble to it that testified to my man’s manliness as he drove the homeless, helpless, slightly scary Gary to a motel a couple of miles from our front door.

  Yeah, Mason was probably right. I might’ve made a bad call just then. I hoped not.

  “Gary Conklin, right? You have a middle name?” Mason asked.

  “Robert.”

  “Gary Robert Conklin. Nice. And you’re what, twenty-four, twenty-five?”

  “I turned twenty-three my last birthday.”

  “And when was that?”

  “July.”

  Close enough for a background check. “Where were you staying before the shelter, Gary?”

  He broke eye contact, stared out the window.

  Mason gave him several seconds, but when he didn’t answer, had to move on. It was a short drive to the motel. Too short, if you asked him. “You told Rachel you don’t like doctors. So you’ve seen doctors before, then?”

  “Everybody’s seen doctors before.”

  “Who was the last doctor you saw, Gary? Do you remember his name?”

  “Her name,” Gary said.

  Mason thought Rachel would have kicked him for exhibiting subconscious remnants of sexism. He was woke, he swore he was.

  “Dr. Guthrie. But she was wrong."

  “Do you take medicine, Gary?”

  "I shouldn't have gone to your house," he said.

  They pulled into the motel lot, and Mason headed into the office to get the kid a room. When he came back out, Gary was standing next to the car, arms full of leftovers in Tupperware.

  Mason held up the key. “Got you a room for the night,” he said, walking while he talked. It was only across the parking lot. He unlocked the door to room twelve and opened it wide, stepping inside with Gary right behind him.

  The fan unloaded his leftovers onto a small table, and Mason said, “There’s a little fridge over there to put the food in for the night, and here’s your key.”

  “Why do I have to stay?”

  “Because Rachel wants to help you make your life better.”

  “She thinks I’m crazy, doesn’t she? I’m not, you know. I just have bad thoughts.”

  “They make a pill for that.”

  Gary frowned hard, like he was working a jigsaw puzzle in his scrambled-up head. The poor guy. Mason sighed, and tried to be kinder. “Nobody thinks you’re crazy. Sometimes you get sick, you take medicine, you get better. There’s nothing crazy about that, kid. That’s life, is what that is. That’s all. It happens to everybody from time to time.”

  “It does?”

  “It does. I’ll see you in the morning, okay Gary?”

  “Okay.”

  We relaxed on our balcony that night, Mason and me, in our comfy robes, with drinks in hand. There was a lopsided, almost full moon rising over the reservoir, and the little bit of vodka in my Coke was smoothing all my rough edges out.

  Jeremy and Misty had invited Josh and Christie to go to the newest Marvel movie with them. Christie had laughed and rolled her eyes. Josh lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. So we had the place to ourselves–you know, aside from the two bulldogs snoring like bulldozers on our bed.

  “Alone at last,” I said, taking a nice big sip while regretting that it was two thirds of the way gone. “I hate to bring it up while we’re in such a beautiful moment–”

  “Then don’t.”

  I looked at him and smirked. “We have met, right?” He closed his eyes, probably resolving himself to the inevitable. “Tell me about the body today.”

  He sighed, but he talked. “White male, mid-fifties, once-red hair going gray. You now how that looks?”

  “I know exactly how that looks.” Having seen it up close while I strangled him. “Cause of death?"

  “Don’t know yet. But there were ligature marks.”

  “What about the car?”

  “Yeah, you nailed that, too. Jaguar in the parking area at the trailhead. Car’s registered to a Dwayne Clark of Dilmun, a small lake town just past Ithaca.”

  “Shit.”

  He understood the thousand-and-one emotions conveyed by the single word. He was the only one who possibly could.

  “Any forensics?”

  “Wrapped in burlap.”

  “Burlap. Burlap. Burlap…” I snapped my fingers at him. “The Craig’s List Ripper!”

  “Hasn’t been active since the nineties.”

  “How can anyone say that for sure?”

  “No bodies found since twenty-eleven.”

  “He’s hiding them better.”

  “They were all women.”

  “All but one.”

  “Right, but that one was in drag,” Mason pointed out.

  “You think the burlap’s coincidence, then?” I bounded ou
t of my chair.

  My drink sloshed dangerously, so I downed it and headed inside for my phone. Unlike Mason, I respected my no-devices-on-the-balcony rule. I grabbed it off the nightstand, started tapping, and found what looked like a decent report on the Craig’s List Ripper.

  I scrolled with my thumb, speed reading while Mason looked over my shoulder. “Look at this crime scene.” I tapped on a photo where one of the serial killer’s victims had been found.

  “It’s very similar,” Mason said, spreading the image larger, really studying it. “This might be better on the desktop.”

  “Way ahead of you.” We hurried through the house. My office was the 30’ by 30’ third floor in the peak of the house, with its own mini balcony. Its front was entirely glass, and faced the reservoir. My desk was on the back wall, facing the front and all that glass, with a desktop and a laptop ready to roll.

  I sat, and he stood behind me, looking over my shoulder as I read aloud.

  “The Craig’s list Ripper, also known as the The Long Island Killer, the Gilbo Beach Killer, blah blah blah. Yes. They were all strangled. Several bodies found near water.”

  “Not all in burlap, though. Not all in one piece, either.”

  “There’s no such thing as coincidence, Mason.”

  “We’re five hours away from his dumping ground.”

  “We’re five hours away from one of his dumping grounds. The only one we know of.” I looked up at him, daring him to argue.

  “What are you doing, babe?” He tucked my hair behind my ear. “Internet research? That’s not your forte. What does your NFP tell you?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing about this guy.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  I pushed away from the computer, got up from my chair and paced across the room, closing my eyes, and trying to recall the dream or vision or whatever the hell it had been. “It felt like a woman. And there was…there was a needle,” I said snapping my fingers, because I’d just remembered it. “She drugged him first. We need to get to that body and check for a track mark in the crease under the left butt cheek.”