Stillhouse Lake

  But he'd drawn the line when the trolls he pushed in my direction went after my kids instead.

  I'd gotten a remarkable message from him just after that hideous campaign started, a heartfelt e-mail that talked about his own childhood traumas, his own pain, and how he'd pursued me to banish his own demons. The train he'd started couldn't be stopped; the crusade had taken on a life of its own. But he wanted to help me, and what was more, he could help me.

  By that time we'd been on the run out of Wichita, desperate and uncertain, and having him offer a hand? That had been the turning point. That had been the moment I'd retaken control of my life, with Absalom's help.

  Absalom isn't my friend. We don't chat, and I suspect he still hates me on some level. But he helps. He builds false identities. He finds me safe havens. He does what he can to control the constant online harassment. When I get a new computer, he images it from backups he keeps in a secure cloud, so I don't lose data. He writes the custom search algorithms that allow me to keep track of the Sicko Patrol.

  For this favor, of course, I pay him money. No need to be pals. We keep it strictly business.

  While the search is running, I make a cup of hot tea with honey and sip it with my eyes shut, gathering myself for the challenge. I always keep certain things within reach as I do this: A loaded gun. My cell phone, ready to speed-dial Absalom if there's an issue. And last but not least, a plastic garbage bag into which I can throw up, if necessary.

  Because this, this thing: this is hard. It's like sticking my head into a blast furnace, a writhing fury of mindless hatred and vile fury, and I am always shaken and scorched when I back away.

  But it has to be done. Daily.

  I feel the tension spiral down from my head, slithering like a cold serpent along my spine, my shoulders, and coiling heavily in my stomach. I'm never fully prepared when the search results come back, but today, as ever, I try to be calm, observant, distanced.

  There are fourteen pages of results. The top link is new; someone's opened a thread on Reddit, and now the gruesome descriptions, speculations, and howls for justice are ginning up again. I grit my teeth and click the link.

  Where's Melvin's Little Helper these days? Would love to pay that church lady hypocrite bitch a visit. They like to call me church lady because our family had been a member of one of the larger Baptist churches in Wichita, though Mel was spotty on attendance. I'd usually been there with the kids. There are plenty of ironic pictures posted on that theme--split screens of me and the kids at church, crime scene photos of the dead woman in the garage.

  On Sunday mornings, Mel had usually excused himself by saying he had things to do in the workshop.

  Things to do. I have to close my eyes for a moment, because there's a hidden monster's joke in those words. He'd never thought of the women he'd tortured and murdered as people. He thought of them as objects. Things.

  I open my eyes, take a breath, and move on to the next link.

  Hope Gina and her kids get raped and ripped and hung up like meat so people can spit on them. Mutilating Mel don't deserve a family. That one's accompanied by a crime scene photo of someone else's kids shot and dumped in a ditch. The callous hypocrisy is breathtaking. This troll is exploiting someone else's personal horror to make his point about mine. He doesn't care about children.

  He cares about revenge.

  I run through the rest in a sickening rush.

  You see his daughter? Lily? I'd bump that til its cold.

  Burn them alive and put em out with piss.

  I got an idea, find some working outhouse and drown the kids in shit. Then send her directions on where to find them.

  How can we make her suffer? Suggestions? Anybody got eyes on the bitch?

  On and on and on. I leave Reddit, go to Twitter, find more threats, more hate, more vitriol--just in concise, 140-character bites. Then the blogs. 8chan. The true crime message boards. The websites that are shrines to Mel's crimes.

  On the message boards and websites, the deaths of innocent young women are casual drive-by entertainment. Historical information. At least those armchair detectives aren't very threatening; Mel's family is just a footnote to the real story for them. They're not dedicated to our destruction.

  The ones who are more interested in us, in Melvin Royal's missing family . . . those are the ones who could be dangerous.

  And there are hundreds, maybe thousands of them--all competing to outdo one another with terrible new ways to punish me and the kids. My kids. It's a sick horror show, devoid of even a shred of conscience. None of them recognize that they're talking about people, real people who can be hurt. Who bleed. Who can be murdered. Or if they do recognize that, they absolutely don't give a shit.

  There are some, an unnerving skim of this unholy broth, who are true, cold sociopaths.

  I print it all out, highlight usernames and handles, and begin cross-referencing in the database I keep. Most of the names on the list are old hands at this; they have, for whatever reasons, fixated on us. Some are newer, zealous acolytes who've just stumbled on Mel's crimes and are looking to exact some retribution "for the victims," but it's really got nothing at all to do with Mel's victims. I rarely see any of their names mentioned. To this particular crop of vigilantes, the victims didn't matter alive, and they don't matter now. It's an excuse to let their vilest impulses out to play. These trolls are no different from Mel in many ways--except that unlike him, they probably won't act on those impulses.

  Probably.

  But then, that's why I keep the gun sitting next to me, to remind me that if they do, if they dare come near my kids, they'll pay the price. I will not let anyone hurt them ever again.

  I pause in reading, because whoever the psychopath is behind the handle fuckemall2hell, he's stumbled over a careless piece of court paperwork that has one of our older addresses. He's publicly posted the street address, looped in victims' families, called reporters, sent out downloadable posters that have our pictures on them, with the words MISSING: HAVE YOU SEEN THESE PEOPLE? It's a tactic these savages have adopted recently, trying to play on genuine humanity and concern. He's preying on the better instincts of people to rat us out so that predators can reach us more easily.

  I'm more worried for the innocent people now living at that address he's distributed, though. They might not have any idea what's coming. I send an anonymous e-mail to the detective in the area--a grudging ally--to let him know the address is being passed around again, and I hope for the best. Hope that the family living in that house doesn't wake up to packages of rancid meat and dead animals nailed to their door, to a flood of torture porn, to terrifying threats in their inboxes and mailboxes and on their phones and at their work. I clearly remember the shock of discovering the flood of abuse being leveled at my empty house, even though I was safely in jail and the kids had been spirited away to Maine.

  If the current residents have kids, I pray they aren't targeted. Mine were. Signs on telephone poles. Their pictures sent to pornographers as models. There are no limits for the hate. It's free-floating, a toxic cloud of moral outrage and mob mentality, and it doesn't care who it hurts. Only that it does.

  The address that this particular troll has uncovered is a dead end; it can't lead him to our door, or our new names. There are at least eight broken trails between where he points and where I now sit, but that doesn't comfort me. I've gotten good at this out of sheer necessity, but I'm not them. I don't have the same rancid drive. All I want to do is survive--and keep my kids as safe as I can.

  I finish checking, shake the stress out of my arms and hands, drink the cold tea, and stand up to pace the office. I want to hold on to the gun as I do, but that's a terrible idea. Unsafe and paranoid. I stare at the quiet gleam of it, the safety it promises, though I know that's a lie, too, as much a lie as any Mel ever told me. Guns don't keep anyone safe. They only equal the playing field.

  "Mom?"

  A voice from the doorway, and I turn too quickly, heart hammering, gl
ad that I don't have the gun now because surprising me is a bad idea, and it's Connor standing there, book bag dragging at his right hand. He doesn't seem to notice that he's startled me, or he's so used to it he doesn't care.

  "Is Lanny okay?" he asks me, and I force a smile and nod.

  "Yes, sweetie, she's fine. How was school?" I am only half listening, because I'm thinking that I didn't hear him come in, didn't hear the code, didn't hear the reset. I'd been too deep in concentration. Dangerous. I should be more aware.

  He doesn't answer the question anyway. He gestures at the computer. "Did you finish the Sicko Patrol?"

  It catches me by surprise. I say, "Where did you hear that?" But I answer my own question. "Lanny?"

  He shrugs. "You're looking for stalkers, right?"

  "Right."

  "Everybody gets mean stuff on the Internet, Mom. You shouldn't take it so seriously. Just ignore them. They'll go away."

  That, I think, is a maddening thing to say on so many levels. As if the Internet is a fantasy world, inhabited by imaginary people. As if we're ordinary people in the first place. And most of all, it's such a young male thing to say, this automatic assumption of safety. Women, even girls of Lanny's age, don't think that way. Parents don't. Older people don't. It reveals a certain blind, entitled ignorance to how dangerous the world really is.

  It occurs to me, a little sickly, that I've helped him form that attitude because of how I've insulated him. Protected him. But what else can I do? Constantly terrify him? That can't help.

  "Thanks for the opinion I didn't ask for," I tell him. "But I'm all right with doing this." I sort the papers and file them. I've always kept both electronic and paper records; in my experience, the police are more comfortable with paper. It feels like proof to them in a way that data on a screen doesn't. In an emergency, we might not be able to pull data in time, anyway.

  "Sicko Patrol completed," I say, then shut and lock the file drawer. I drop the key in my pocket. It's attached to the alarm fob, and it's never out of my possession. I don't want Connor or Lanny to go through those files. Not ever. Lanny has a laptop of her own now, but I have strict parental controls enabled. Not only does it not give her the results, but I'll be alerted--and have been--when she tries to search keywords about her father, the murders, or anything related to it.

  I can't risk giving Connor a computer quite yet, but the pressure to give him online access is growing at an impressive rate.

  Lanny flings her door open and flits past the office, dodging Connor on her way down the hall. She's still wearing her goth pants and Ramones T-shirt, black hair fluttering in the breeze. Heading to the kitchen, I guess, for her typical afternoon snack of rice cakes and energy drink. Connor stares after her. He doesn't look surprised. Just resigned. "All the sisters in the world, and mine has to dress like somebody out of The Nightmare Before Christmas," he says. "She's trying to make herself not as pretty, you know."

  It's a surprising insight from a kid his age. I blink, and it strikes me hard that beneath her oversize pants and shaggy hair and corpse makeup, Lanny is pretty. Growing into her bones, turning tall and hinting at curves. As a mom, I always think of her as beautiful, but now others will, too. The edgy style keeps people at a distance and changes the standards by which she will be judged.

  That's clever and heartbreaking at the same time.

  Connor turns and heads off to his room.

  "Wait! Connor! Did you reset the alarm?"

  "Of course," he calls back without stopping. His door closes with finality, but no force. Lanny returns with her rice cakes and energy drink and flops into the small chair in the corner of my office. She puts the energy drink down and gives me a mock salute.

  "All present and correct, Master Sergeant," she says. Then she slumps at an angle functionally impossible for anyone over twenty-five. "I've been thinking. I want to get a job."

  "No."

  "I can help with the money."

  "No. Your job is to be in school." I have to bite my lip to keep from complaining that my daughter used to like school. Lily Royal had liked school. She'd been in drama class and a programming club. But Lanny couldn't stand out. Couldn't have interests that made her special. Couldn't make friends and tell them anything approaching the truth. No surprise it made school hell for her.

  "This girl you got into the fight with," I say. "You understand it can't happen? Why you can't get into these things?"

  "I didn't get into it. She started it. What, you want me to lose? Get the shit beat out of me? I thought you were all about self-defense!"

  "I want you to walk away."

  "Oh, sure, you would. That's all you do, walk away. Oh, I'm sorry. I mean run."

  There's nothing quite as scorching as a teenager's contempt. It has a breathless sting, and it lingers for a very long time. I try not to let her see she's scored points, but I don't trust myself to speak. I pick up the teacup and head for the kitchen, the comfort of running water to rinse away the dregs. She follows, but not to hit at me again. I can tell by the way she's hanging back that she regrets having said it and isn't quite sure how to take it back. Or even if she wants to.

  As I put the teacup and saucer in the dishwasher, she says, "I was thinking of going out for a run . . . ?"

  "Not alone you don't," I say, which is automatic, and then I realize she was counting on it. A nonapology apology. I hate even giving up the control of letting them ride the school bus, but venturing out on their own around the lake? No. "We'll go together. I'll change."

  I change into leggings and a loose T-shirt over a sports bra, heavy socks, good running shoes. When I come out, Lanny is stretching lithely. She has on a red sports bra, no shirt, and black leggings with harlequin patterns down the sides. I just look at her until she sighs, grabs a T-shirt, and pulls it on.

  "Nobody else runs in T-shirts," she grumbles at me.

  I say, "I'm going to want that Ramones shirt back. It's a classic. And I'll bet you can't name a single song."

  "'I Wanna Be Sedated,'" Lanny immediately shoots back. I don't respond. Lily had been medicated a lot, that first half year after The Event. She hadn't been able to sleep for days, and when she finally had fallen into a restless doze, she'd woken up screaming, crying for her mother. The mother who was in prison. "Unless you'd prefer 'We're a Happy Family'?"

  I say nothing, because her song choices are completely on point. I turn off the alarm, open the door, and call for Connor to reset it. He grunts from somewhere down the hall, and I have to hope he means yes.

  Lanny rabbits ahead, but I catch up at the end of the gravel drive, and we head east on the road at a good, loose lope. It's a perfect time of day, with the air warm, the sun low and friendly, the lake calm and dotted with boats. Other joggers pass us heading the other direction, and I open up the pace, Lanny pulling easily up. Neighbors wave at us from porches. So friendly. I wave back, but it's all surface, this trust. I know if these good people knew who I really was, knew whom I'd married, they'd be just like our old neighbors . . . distrustful, disgusted, afraid to be anywhere near us. And maybe they'd be right to be afraid. Melvin Royal casts a long, dark shadow.

  We're halfway around the lake before Lanny, gasping, calls a halt to lean against a swaying pine. I'm not winded yet, but my calf muscles are burning and the points of my hips ache, and I stretch and keep up a light in-place jog while my daughter catches her breath. "You okay?" I ask. Lanny gives me a filthy look. "That's a yes?"

  "Sure," Lanny says. "Whatever. Why do we have to make this so Olympic-level?"

  "You know why."

  Lanny looks away. "Same reason you signed me up with that Krav Maga freak last year."

  "I thought you liked Krav Maga."

  She shrugs, still studying some fronds down by her shoes. "I don't like thinking I need it."

  "Neither do I, baby. But we have to face facts. There are dangers out there, and we need to be ready. You're old enough to get that."

  Lanny straightens up. "Okay. G
uess I'm ready. Try not to run me lame this time, Terminator Mom."

  That's hard for me. While I was still Gina, but after The Event, I'd taken up running, and it had been grueling and exhausting until I built up my strength. Now, when I stop holding myself back, I run like I feel breath on my neck, as if I'm running for my life. It's not healthy or safe, and I'm well aware that driving myself that hard is a form of self-punishment, and also an expression of the fear I live with every day.

  I forget, despite my best efforts. I'm not even aware of Lanny falling back, gasping, limping, until I'm around a curve and realize that I'm running alone in the shadow of the pines. Not even sure where I lost her.

  I end up stretching against a tree and, finally, perching on a handy old boulder as I wait. I see her in the distance, walking slowly, limping a bit, and I feel a surge of guilt. What kind of a mother am I, running a kid into the ground like that?

  That sixth sense I've developed suddenly drenches me in adrenaline, and I straighten up and turn my head.

  Someone's there.

  I catch sight of a person standing in the shadows of the pines, and my nerves--never calm--go tight. I slide off the boulder and into a ready stance, and I face the shadow head-on. "Who is it?"

  He gives me a dry, nervous laugh and shuffles out. It's an old man, skin like dark, dry paper, gray whiskers, gray curls tight against his scalp. Even his ears droop. He leans heavily on a cane. "Sorry, miss. Wasn't meaning to worry you. I was just looking at the boats. Always like the lines of them. Never was much of a sailor, though. I spent my time on dry land." He wears an old jacket with military patches on it . . . artillery patches. Not World War II, but Korea, Vietnam, one of those less clear-cut conflicts. "I'm Ezekiel Claremont, live right over there up the hill. Been here since half forever. Everybody this side of the lake calls me Easy."

  I'm ashamed for assuming the worst, and I advance and offer my hand. He has a firm, dry grip, but his bones feel fragile beneath it. "Hi, Easy. I'm Gwen. We live up over there, near the Johansens."

  "Aw, yeah, you're some new folks. Nice to meet you. Sorry I haven't been up that way, but I don't do as much walking these days. Still healing up since I broke my hip six months back. Don't get old, young lady--it's a pain in the ass." He turns as Lanny lurches to a stop a few feet away and braces herself, bent over with her hands on her thighs. "Hello. You okay, there?"