Torture to Her Soul

  Killer.

  I watch attentively as the front door of the house just barely cracks open and the small dog darts straight inside. I continue to stare at it, even after all is still again, contemplating where to go from here.

  Reaching into the center console, I pull out the small caliber handgun, carefully double-checking to make sure it's still loaded.

  It's nearing midnight when I get out of my car and slowly make my way through the woods, watching my surroundings. No motion lights outside, I imagine, since the dog didn't trigger them. I'm thinking there isn't even any electricity.

  That makes it tricky.

  People take for granted the sounds that surround them. We tune them out naturally, but when they're gone, we miss them. They mask the unknown, and without that buffer, every creak and groan sounds grave and unnatural.

  I approach the house, heading around the side of it. I remember the layout from the visit with Karissa. I head to where her old bedroom window would be, recalling her story not long ago about the windows. Her mother made a habit of nailing them shut, but Karissa rejected it and jimmied hers back open.

  I try the widow, praying Carmela didn't catch it. It moves easily, barely making a creak. I haul myself up, careful to pull myself inside. My feet hit the wooden floor and I pause there for a moment, letting myself get used to the stuffy darkness.

  It's deathly silent.

  Once I've adjusted, I stand up, gripping the gun firmly as I stroll toward the door. It isn't latched. I remember. Karissa's bedroom door had always been broken.

  I make my way toward Carmela's bedroom, my footsteps so light they don't make a sound. Her door is shut. I grasp the knob, testing it.

  Unlocked.

  I take a deep breath to steady myself, wondering if this is how Johnny did it, if this is how he felt when he broke into my house, when he killed my wife in the middle of the night. Did he hesitate outside the bedroom door? Did he even for a moment consider backing out?

  Or was it easy for him, stepping inside, cocking that shotgun and destroying my life?

  Shaking those thoughts away, I turn the knob and push the door open. It lets out an awful groan. The world around me seems to fall into slow motion while I still move at the speed of light. The noise echoes, everything around me crystal clear.

  A dog growls nearby as the bed shifts.

  Carmela sits straight up.

  A second passes.

  I stare at that familiar face, into those terror-filled eyes. A lifetime plays out around us, a world of memories and all those missed chances, the flood of what-could-have-been.

  Could've been, but never will, because it's too late.

  The chance is gone.

  I raise my gun.

  Another second.

  I pull the trigger.

  BANG

  A single bullet rips right through Carmela's skull, dropping her instantly. I hesitated longer than she even felt it.

  The growling turns to frantic barking. I turn the gun, pointing it at the mutt. His ears are laid back as he viciously bears his teeth, coming right toward me defensively. My gloved finger rests on the trigger.

  I try.

  I try.

  I fucking try to do it, to pull the goddamn trigger, but I can't.

  I can't do it.

  "Fuck," I curse to myself, dropping the gun, abandoning it. The clank of metal against the floor makes the dog cower briefly. He whimpers before growling once more, terrified but protective, following me through the house as I head for the front door. I unlock it, opening it, holding it open for the dog to run out, but he backs away, staying in the foyer.

  I consider leaving him there.

  I almost do.

  But I can't.

  Again, I can't do it.

  Karissa's voice echoes in the back of my head.

  She loves him.

  He's innocent.

  On a whim I reach down and snatch ahold of the dog, lugging it outside with me. He barks and wiggles, frantic to escape my grasp. The second my grip loosens, he rears back, bearing his teeth as he clamps down on my forearm.

  Pain shoots through arm and I instinctively let go. Shit. The dog hits the ground and I expect him to run, to escape, but he just stands there, growling some more.

  Shaking it off, I do what I need to, improvising to ignite a spark, sending the porch of the house up in flames. I watch the fire spread, my thoughts drifting, a strange numbness running through me.

  The affects of watching death used to linger for hours, making my fingertips tingle and my heart race, my body twitching as I tried to come down from it, but there's nothing today.

  No euphoria.

  No adrenaline.

  Nothing.

  My heart isn't racing. There's no life inside of me.

  I'm a monster.

  Karissa was right about me.

  The only thing I feel at the moment is the throbbing of my arm and the stream of blood from the fresh wound running along my skin.

  I can't believe the mutt bit me.

  I save his life and this is the thanks I get?

  I wait until the flames start sweeping through the house before I walk away. The dog follows me to my car, growling, trying to intimidate me. I have no time to dawdle, no time to waste. Someone will see the fire and call it in, and I can't be here when they come.

  Nobody around here can know I exist.

  Opening the back door, I snatch a hold of the dog and throw him in the backseat before he can bite me again.

  Dr. Carter's once again half-asleep. He stands at his front door, blinking rapidly as he gapes at me under his dim porch light. "Another?"

  His voice is gritty, full of disbelief.

  He didn't expect to see me again so soon.

  He thinks my body count has risen again.

  It has, sure, but I don't need him for this one, just as I hadn't needed him when I killed Johnny. Ray would want evidence, tangible proof that justice was served.

  He'd want Carmela found.

  Shaking my head, I yank my shirtsleeve up, showing him the bite. Blood streams down my arm. I can feel it seeping into my button down shirt, staining the pristine white a dark shade of red.

  "Come in," he says, waving for me to step inside, his eyes frantically darting all around before he shuts the door behind me. I follow him down the hallway, to the kitchen, trying not to drip blood on his floor.

  Not because I care about his things.

  More like I don't want to leave more of myself behind than I have to.

  This isn't the first time he's sewn me up, and it won't be the last. I take a seat at his kitchen table as he flicks on the overhead light and gets down to business. His supplies are gathered, the bare minimum needed: just a needle and some thread.

  I'd do it myself, but I can't sew for shit.

  I know.

  I've tried.

  "I just need to grab the anesthetic," he grumbles, heading for the doorway, but I reach out and grab his arm, stopping him. His panicked gaze darts down to where my hand clutches him before he meets my eyes.

  "Don't bother," I say, letting go of him. "Just get on with it."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I wouldn't say it if I wasn't."

  Nodding, he proceeds to clean up the blood and disinfect the wound. It burns as the peroxide seeps into the small gashes lining the circular injury. I can make out the imprint of teeth, the skin already bruising in the familiar pattern.

  The veterinarian eyes it warily before getting to work.

  I hardly feel the needle when it goes in.

  "Run in with an animal tonight?" he asks, making the first stitch.

  "I don't think that's any of your business."

  "No, you're right," he mutters. "It isn't."

  Just a few stitches to close the biggest gash and he's done, pushing away from the table to clean up the mess. "When was your last tetanus shot, Vitale?"

  "You'd know better than I would."

  He pauses, con
templating. "You should probably get a booster, just to be safe."

  "I'm not worried about it."

  "You should be. Tetanus is—"

  "The least of my problems right now."

  "Well, at least let me get you some antibiotics."

  "Don't bother," I say. "I'm not going to take them."

  He shakes his head, turning to me. He's wide-awake now. He knows his chance for peaceful slumber is over. "It's amazing you're still alive, you know."

  "I know," I admit, standing up. "I'll get going now."

  I leave before he can offer any more sort of inane care, heading back out to my car. I pause beside it, seeing the dog in the backseat, still growling at me.

  My gaze turns to the doorway, to where Carter stands, watching me. I motion with my head toward the backseat. "You think you can do something with this for me?"

  His eyes widen. "The dog?"

  "Yes."

  "You don't mean..." He turns his head toward the back yard. "You don't want me to... do you?"

  His stammering makes me laugh.

  "I'm not telling you to kill it," I say. "I'm just asking you to do something with it. Tie it up out back, just temporarily, until I can make other arrangements."

  Opening the back door, I let the dog run out. I don't wait for Carter to say anything else, to even confirm he'll take care of the thing. Without another look, I get in the car to leave right away.

  It's nearing sun up when I reach my neighborhood in Brooklyn, a touch of light spanning along the horizon. I'm exhausted, and frustrated, wishing I felt something more.

  I pull the car into the garage, knowing I'm going to clean it out first thing, and head inside to get what I need. A towel, bleach, something to get rid of the dog hair. Something to wipe away the memory.

  I always expected to feel relief.

  I expected to feel a burden lifted.

  But as I step into the house and come face-to-face with a concerned Karissa in the kitchen, what I really feel is a heavier weight pressing upon me. My chest constricts when I see the worry in her eyes… worry about where I've been, worry about what I might've done last night.

  She can't even begin to imagine...

  "You're home," she says, her voice low like maybe she's really saying it to herself.

  I respond anyway. "And you're awake early."

  "I couldn't sleep."

  "Me, either."

  I quickly kiss her cheek, making sure not to linger too long, before I head straight upstairs. I strip off my clothes, tossing them with the dirty, making a mental note to discard the button down before Karissa finds it. I head into the bathroom and wash up before pulling on a fresh suit and heading back downstairs.

  It only took a few minutes.

  She's still in the kitchen.

  The scent of coffee clings to the air as she brews a fresh cup in the machine. I walk right past it, opting for a bottle of water from the fridge.

  "If you need me," I say, "I'll be in the garage."

  "Doing what?"

  "Cleaning out the car."

  "You just did that not long ago."

  I don't bother to respond, not knowing what to say, as I head back out. I half expect her to follow me, but she doesn't. My own relief startles me. As much as I love having her around, I felt an inkling of something when I looked in her eyes, something I haven't felt in a long time.

  Regret.

  I've never regretted anything.

  I certainly don't want to start now.

  There hasn't been a murder in Dexter, New York in over a decade. Not a single arson. Not even an assault. The only crime the small community sees is thievery, but one night in town, I destroy it all.

  It's front-page news of the Watertown Daily Times.

  Community Shocked by Violence

  I stroll into Cobalt two days later, clutching a copy of the newspaper. Kelvin watches me curiously, not bothering to bow his head as I walk right past. I hear Ray's voice echoing through the club, loud and angry. Something has him in a bad mood.

  He's about to get much, much happier, I think.

  The yelling is coming from the office in the back. I stop by the bar, grabbing a beer to soothe my nerves, and head toward his office after taking a swig. I knock on the door, his grumbling cutting off at the sound, before he snaps, "Somebody's interrupting. I'll call you back after I deal with them."

  My insides instinctively tense at his obvious anger, but outwardly I show no sign of distress. I hear him stomp across the room, the door yanked open, his voice calling out. "This better be good."

  He sees me standing there, his expression shifting with surprise. He wasn't expecting it to be me.

  "Vitale," he says. "Do you need something from me?"

  "No," I respond, holding the paper out, tapping it against his broad chest, "but you needed something from me."

  I can tell he's annoyed, but he reins it in, grabbing the paper and glancing at the front page. I stroll past him, not waiting for an invitation, and take a seat in one of the chairs on the opposite side of his desk.

  "Perdio!" he exclaims, shutting the door as he lingers behind me. "You did it, didn't you?"

  I read the article while sitting in traffic. I know exactly what it says. Police are working to identify the female body found shot and burned in the old house in Dexter. Nowhere in the article lists her name, but it's only a matter of time before they figure it out.

  "You did it," he says again, sounding awestruck as he walks over and plops in his chair. He scans the paper for a moment before his eyes meet mine. "You fucking did it."

  I don't respond.

  I don't have to.

  His elated laughter tells me no words are necessary. He slaps the paper down on top of the desk as he leans back in his chair, eyeing me.

  "I gotta be honest, Vitale," he says. "I didn't think you'd do it. I really thought you'd gone soft, that you'd gotten too weak to handle business. That girl got under your skin, and I thought she broke you… I thought you forgot who you were, that you forgot why we were here… that you forgot what that family did. What they stole from you. I thought she made you forget, but now I'm thinking maybe you didn't forget at all."

  "I'll never forget."

  Ray glances down at the paper once more. "And you didn't forgive, either."

  "Of course I didn't," I say. "There's no forgiveness for what happened. They paid for their betrayal, so it's over now. I took care of it. It's done."

  He stares at me, not responding to my declaration. It makes my stomach clench from anxiety. After a moment, his eyes drift back to the newspaper on his desk as he drums his fingers against the old wood.

  "You know, I had a run in with that detective not long ago," he says. "That Jameson prick."

  "So did I. He always has questions."

  "Yeah, but this time he knew things, things he shouldn't know. He connected dots he shouldn't be able to connect. Maybe you aren't getting sloppy, but someone's getting mouthy, and I don't like it. I don't like being harassed. One reason I've always relied on you, Vitale, is because you kept them at bay. But that isn't working anymore. It isn't working, because there's a rat in our midst."

  "Any idea who?"

  He eyes me hard. "A few months ago, the picked up your girl, didn't they? She went down to the station with them."

  It's like he's doused my body in gasoline and lit a match right in front of me. The cold tension that seizes me makes my heart ache in my chest. Anger brews in my gut. I stare back at him, those words repeatedly rolling through my head. I can't believe he'd say that.

  Can't believe he'd suggest it.

  Sitting up straight, I point my beer at him, not liking where this is going. "Don't say it unless you mean it." I take a swig, having to force it down my throat. "Some things can't be taken back, Ray, so I'm warning you…"

  "You're warning me?"

  "I'm warning you," I say again. "Don't say it unless you mean it."

  He hesitates.

  St
rained silence chokes the room.

  After a moment, he looks away, opening a drawer in his desk and grabbing a large manila envelope. He pauses as he holds it before opening the top flap. He glances inside, pulling out the contents, and holds it out so I can see. My gaze drifts from him to it, and I tense at the photograph… a photograph of Karissa, standing outside the police station, Detective Jameson right beside her.

  No.

  No fucking way.

  She wouldn't do that.

  She wouldn't talk to them.

  Not about anything.

  Not about me.

  No way.

  Ray drops that photograph to the desk before pulling out another… and another… and another… dropping each one on top of the last. A dozen, maybe more. I stop counting. I stop looking. My eyes meet Ray's. He doesn't look smug at all. I sense no satisfaction.

  No, I see pity.

  Pity.

  Fuck his pity.

  "She wouldn't do it," I say. "It's a misunderstanding."

  Ray says nothing to me before grabbing his phone and dialing a number. As soon as the line picks up, he mumbles, "Come in here for a second, will you?"

  Moments later, there's a knock at the door. It opens, and in walks Kelvin. He glances between us nervously before focusing on his boss. "Sir?"

  Ray motions toward the photographs. "Is this a misunderstanding?"

  "No, sir," he says right away. "I followed her straight from the house in Brooklyn… she was inside the police station thirty, maybe forty minutes, before that detective walked her out. They stood out front for a few minutes, maybe five. I couldn't hear a lot of what they were saying, but he told her to come back if she had any more information."

  As soon as he finishes, Ray motions toward the door, and out Kelvin goes again, leaving us alone.

  "You had her followed," I say. "You had him tail her."

  "I'm surprised you didn't," Ray counters, not an ounce of remorse in his words. "So unlike you to be so trusting. It's a good thing I wasn't snowed. That girl has Rita blood pumping through her veins. You think you can believe a word she says to you? The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, Vitale."