But Ken had learned that the secret to combat anything that pulled you like this was to understand that you really could not stop it. Ken considered himself a disciplined man, but the truth was, human beings were not built for self-denial. It was why diets rarely worked in the long run. Or abstinence.
The only way to beat it was to accept that it was there and thus channel it. He looked at Lorraine. She would leave eventually. He would follow her and get her alone and then... well, channel.
He swiveled on the stool and leaned his back against the bar. The girls were ugly. You could almost feel the diseases emanating from their very pores. None of them, of course, held a candle to Barbie. He thought about that house on the end of a cul-de-sac, about children and backyard barbecues and teaching his kid to catch a baseball and spreading out the blanket for July Fourth fireworks. He knew that Barbie had serious reservations. He understood her pessimism all too well, but again there was the unmistakable draw. Why, he wondered, if that family life leads to unhappiness, are we all still drawn to it? He had thought about that and realized that it wasn't the dream that had gone wrong but the dreamers. Barbie often claimed that they were different and thus not meant for that life. But in truth, she was only half right. They were different, yes, but that gave them a chance to have that life. They wouldn't enter that domestic world like mindless drones.
It wasn't that the life people longed for was inherently bad or unworthy--it was that the life for most of them was unobtainable.
"What can I get you, handsome?"
He spun around. Lorraine was standing there. A beer rag was draped over her shoulder. She had dangling earrings. Her hair had the consistency and color of hay. Her lips looked as though there should be a cigarette dangling from them. She wore a white blouse intentionally buttoned too low.
"Oh, I think I've had enough," Ken said.
Lorraine shot him the same half-smile he'd seen her give the regulars. "You're at a bar, handsome. Gotta drink something. How about a Coke at least?"
"Sure, that'd be great."
Without taking her eyes off him, Lorraine threw some ice in a glass, picked up a soda gun dispenser, and pressed one of the buttons. "So why are you here, handsome?"
"Same as any guy."
"Really?"
She handed him the Coke. He took a sip.
"Sure. Don't I look like I belong?"
"You look like my ex--too damn good-looking for your own good." Lorraine leaned in as if she wanted to share a secret. "And you want to know something? Guys who look like they don't belong," she said, "are our best customers."
His eyes had been drawn to the cleavage. When he looked back up, she met his eye. He didn't like what he saw, like this old barmaid was somehow able to read him or something. He thought about her tied down and in pain, and the familiar stirring came back to him. He maintained eye contact and tried something.
"I guess you're right about me," he said.
"Come again."
"About my belonging. I came here, I guess, to reflect. And maybe to mourn."
Lorraine said, "Oh?"
"My friend used to come here. You probably read about him in the paper. His name is Carlton Flynn."
The flick in her eyes told him that she knew. Oh my, oh my, she knew. Yes, now it was his turn to look at her as though he could see inside and read her every thought.
She knew something valuable.
33
MEGAN SAW THE KNIFE ARCHING toward her.
She didn't have any martial arts training, and even if she had, it probably wouldn't have helped. There was no time to duck out of the way or block the wrist or whatever would be appropriate for a situation like this.
They say that in moments like this, when violence and destruction are upon you, that time slows down. That wasn't really true. For that brief moment, as the point of the blade got closer to the hollow of her throat, Megan became something other than an evolved human. Her brain suddenly worked at only its most base. Even an ant, if you step near it, somehow knows to run the other way. We are, at our core, all about survival.
That was what was working here. The primordial part of Megan, the part that existed long before cognitive thought, took over. She didn't really think or plan or any of that. There was no conscious thought, not at first, but certain defense mechanisms come prebaked into our nervous systems.
She snapped her arm up toward her neck in an attempt to stop the blade from penetrating her throat and ending her life.
The blade sliced deep into her forearm, traveling freely through the flesh until it banged up against the bone.
Megan cried out.
Somewhere again in the deep recesses of her brain, Megan could actually hear the grating sound of metal scraping bone, but it meant nothing to her. Not now anyway.
It was all about survival.
Everything else, including reason, was taking a backseat to man's most primitive instinct. She was literally fighting for her life, and so one calculation dominated all others: If the attacker pulled the knife free, Megan would end up dead.
All her focus now was on that knife, but somewhere, in the corner of her mind, Megan spotted the blond hair and realized that her attacker was the same woman who'd killed Harry Sutton. She didn't bother wondering why--that, if she lived, would come later--but there was a fresh surge of anger now mixed in with the fear and panic.
Do not let her get the knife back.
No, time still hadn't slowed down. Only a second, maybe two, had passed since Megan first caught sight of the knife heading toward her. Again, working purely on instinct, with the blade deeply embedded in her muscle tissue, Megan did something that would normally be unthinkable. She used her free hand to cover the knife, slapping her palm against her own forearm--trapping the razor-sharp blade in her own flesh.
She didn't think about this--about how she was actually trying to keep a knife in her arm. She only knew that whatever happened, whatever hell or fury was about to rain down on her, there was no way she could let this woman have the knife back.
When the blonde tried to pull the blade free, the blade running against the bone, a searing pain shot through Megan, nearly buckling her knees.
Nearly.
That was the thing with pain. Part of you wants to stop, but if you care about your life--and what person doesn't?--then that desire can override the network that controls your behavior. It may be something chemical, like adrenaline. It may be something more abstract like will.
But the pain meant nothing to Megan right now.
Survival and rage--they were all that mattered now. Survival, well, that was obvious, but she was also pissed off at everything--at this killer who harmed poor Harry, at Dave for abandoning her, at Ray for giving up on everything. She was furious at whatever deity decided that old people like Agnes should be rewarded at the end of their lives with the torture and indignity of losing their minds. She was livid with herself for not appreciating what she had, for needing to poke at the past, for not understanding that a certain amount of dissatisfaction was part of the human experience--and mostly, she was pissed off that this stupid blond bitch wanted to kill her.
Well, screw that.
Megan let out a scream--an unnerving, primordial, high-pitched shriek. With the blade still trapped in the meat of her forearm, she twisted hard at the waist. The blonde made the mistake of trying to maintain her grip, but Megan's sudden move knocked her off balance. Just a little.
Just enough to make her stumble forward.
Megan snapped her elbow straight up. The pointy bone landed square on the bottom of the blonde's nose, jamming it up toward the forehead. There was a cracking sound. Blood spilled down the blonde's face.
But that didn't end it.
The blonde, now in pain too, found new strength. She got her balance back and pulled at the blade with all her might. The blade scraped along the bone as though it were whittling it down. Megan still tried to stop it, but the blonde had the momentum now. The blade slid
out, popping free from the muscle with an audible, wet sucking sound.
Blood poured from the wound, bubbling out geyserlike.
Megan had always been squeamish. When she was eight, one of her "stepfathers" wanted to see the latest installment of Friday the 13th, and since he couldn't find a babysitter, he dragged Megan with him. The experience had been scarring. Since then--even now--she had trouble sitting through any R-rated film that contained violence.
None of that mattered now. The sight of blood--both her own and the blonde's--didn't make her cringe. In fact, she almost welcomed it.
For a moment, there was no pain in her arm--and then it came in a powerful gush, as though that nerve ending had been blocked like a bend in a garden hose that is suddenly let go.
The pain blinded in a white-hot fury.
With an animal-like snarl, the blonde raised the knife and came at her again.
Again working on instinct, Megan thought, keep the vital organs safe. The throat, the heart, the softest tissue. Megan ducked her chin, closing down access to her neck and chest. She turned her shoulder toward the blow. The point of the blade hit flat on the top of her shoulder bone.
Megan cried out again.
The pain grew, but the knife did little more than penetrate the skin.
Megan unleashed a kick that landed on the blonde's bent knee, forcing it back the wrong way. The leg bowed and crumbled. The blonde fell and immediately started scrambling to her feet.
For a moment Megan debated running. But no. The blonde wouldn't stay down. She was, in fact, almost back up on her feet. The blonde was younger and probably stronger and faster, but no matter what--no matter how this was going to end--Megan would be damned if she'd die with a knife in her back while she ran away.
No friggin' way.
Megan leapt toward her attacker, that one thought back in her head:
Get. The. Knife.
The two women toppled to the pavement. Megan focused on getting the knife. She grabbed the blonde's wrist with both hands. Blood was everywhere now, coating them both in crimson. In some distant part of her brain, Megan realized that she would have to move fast. She was losing blood, too much of it. If this continued, she would simply bleed out.
Megan pushed down on the wrist, but the blonde would not let go of the knife. Megan angled her fingers so that her nails dug into the thin skin on the inner wrist. The blonde cried out, but her grip didn't loosen. Megan dug deeper now. She tried to use the end of her nail to scrape the skin off the spot below the thumb where you check for the pulse. Wasn't that an artery?
The blonde cried out again, leaned her head forward, and then she sank her teeth into Megan's wounded arm.
Megan howled in pain.
The blonde chomped down through the flesh, her teeth nearly meeting. The bite, too, had drawn blood--the blonde's pearly white teeth were splattered with it. Megan dug her fingernail into the wrist even deeper.
The knife dropped to the pavement.
And that was when Megan made a mistake.
She was so focused on possessing the knife, in picking it up and stabbing this blonde until there was nothing left of her, that she forgot all the other tools in a human being's arsenal.
In order to get the knife and make it her own, Megan had to release the wrist. The blonde, realizing exactly that Megan was solely focused on the knife, reacted. First, she finished her bite by tearing back on the flesh, ripping it off, and spitting it out on the ground.
The fresh wave of pain made Megan's eyes roll back.
With Megan still reaching for the blade, the blonde shifted her weight. Megan tumbled off balance. She fell headfirst to the right, unable to get her hands in a position to break her fall.
The side of her skull banged hard against the bumper of her car.
Stars exploded in her head.
Get. The. Knife.
The blonde scampered closer and threw a stomping kick at Megan's head. It landed flush, crushing her skull against the bumper again. Megan could feel consciousness slipping away now. For a moment she really didn't know where she was or when it was or any of that. She didn't even know about the blonde or feel the next kick. Only that one thought remained.
Get. The. Knife.
The blonde stood and threw a kick to Megan's ribs. She fell forward, confused, dazed. Her cheek felt pavement. Her eyes closed. Her arms were splayed to the sides, as though she'd been dropped from a great height.
Megan had nothing left.
A beam of light passed over her, maybe from a flashlight, maybe from an oncoming car. Whatever it was, it made the blonde hesitate just long enough. With her eyes still closed, Megan's hand ran along the pavement.
She still knew where the knife was.
The blonde screamed and jumped down to finish Megan off.
But Megan had the knife now. She flipped over onto her back, the handle of the knife against her sternum, the blade up in the air.
The blonde landed on the sharp point.
The blade dug deep into the blonde's belly. Megan didn't let it go at that. She pulled up, slicing through the stomach, until the blade stopped at the ribcage. She could feel the sticky warmth on her as something poured out of the wound.
The blonde's mouth opened in a silent scream. Her eyes widened and then they locked on Megan's. Something passed between the two women, something deep and profound and base and beyond rational explanation. Megan would think about that look for a very long time. She would replay it in her head and wonder what she saw, but she would never be able to voice it to anyone.
The blonde's eyes opened a little more and then, with Megan watching, something in the blonde's eyes dimmed, and Megan knew that she was gone for good.
Megan heard footsteps as she began to collapse back to the pavement. Her head was nearly down when she felt hands grab her, hold her gently, and then cradle her to the ground.
She looked up and saw his fear.
"Megan? Oh my God, Megan?"
She almost smiled at Dave's beautiful face. She wanted to comfort him, say that she loved him, that she would be fine--even her base instinct, she'd remember later, was to love and comfort this man--but no words would come out.
Her eyes rolled back. Dave disappeared, and there was only darkness.
34
BROOME SHIVERED IN THE COLD.
There were six more cops by the well now. One offered him a blanket. Broome frowned and told him to buzz off.
There were bodies in the well.
Lots of them. One piled on top of the other.
The first one they brought up belonged to Carlton Flynn.
His corpse was the freshest and, ergo, most horrid. It reeked from decay. Small animals--rats and squirrels, maybe--had gnawed on the dead flesh. One of the officers turned away. Broome didn't.
The ME would try to find a time and cause of death, but despite what you see on television, there was no guarantee he'd find either. What with the outdoor temperatures and the animals feasting on vital organs, there would be tons of room for confusion.
Of course, Broome didn't need scientific evidence to know the timing. Carlton Flynn, he was certain, had died on Mardi Gras.
For a few moments, when the body was brought up with a pulley and rope, they all just stood there solemnly.
"The rest are little more than skeletons," Samantha Bajraktari said.
That didn't surprise Broome. After all these years, after all the twists and turns and new developments and sightings and rumors, it all came down to this. Someone had killed these guys and dumped them down this well. Someone had gotten the men to come to this remote site, murdered them, and then used a handcart to drag them to a well about fifty yards off the beaten path.
There was no doubt anymore. This was the work of a serial killer.
"How many bodies?" Broome asked.
"Hard to say yet. At least ten, maybe twenty."
The Mardi Gras Men hadn't run off or taken on new identities or traveled to some remote island. Bro
ome shook his head. He should have known. He'd always believed that JFK was killed by the lone gunman. He'd scoffed at UFOs, at Elvis sightings, at fake moon landings, at pretty much every dumb-ass conspiracy theory. Even as a cop, he always suspected the obvious: the spouse, the boyfriend, the family member, because in nearly all matters, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.
Stewart Green would probably be near the bottom of the pile.
"We have to tell the feds," Samantha said.
"I know."
"You want me to handle it?"
"It's already done."
He thought about Sarah Green, sitting in that house all these years, not able to move on, not able to mourn, and all this time her husband had probably been dead in the bottom of a well. Broome had gotten too involved. That had clouded his vision. He had wanted to rescue the Greens. He had convinced himself there was a chance to do that; that despite the odds, he would find Stewart Green whole and bring him back.