––––––––
“Daddy?” she almost whispered as she gave him several more one finger pokes. She wondered why he had fallen backwards and gone to sleep after a loud BAM had made her jerk and squeal and had echoed through the woods like a roar of thunder until it faded away.
“Daddy, wake up! I want to go home,” she said, shaking his shoulder. When he did not respond, she lay down beside him to let him finish his nap. She wanted to be good, not get into trouble. Maybe he was playing a trick on her or testing her “obedience” and “patience.” He said she was his “Little Princess”, but she was four years old, nearing five, a big girl, not a baby, or a brat.
Time passed. Lightning changed. Shadows lengthened. Breezes played in the colorful leaves of trees, vines, and bushes, “doing their Autumn Dance” Daddy had said. He had told her wild animals lived in the Shelby Forest where they had been taking a walk on several paths until this strange thing happened, but he had promised he would never let anything hurt her. He had promised.
She sat up, grumpy. This “hike” was not fun anymore. Brown smudges stained her new red jogging shorts and top that matched her father’s. She tried to wipe them off, but dirty hands only made the problem worse. Dying grass grazed her bare legs. She found a slender stick and raked it through nearby blades where many ladybugs had gathered. One crawled up the stick and reached her index finger. She lifted her small hand and watched the red and black bug amble the length of it to the heel of her palm, tickling her skin as it traveled along. It suddenly flew into thick bushes, gone like its friends, soon to be gone into hiding for winter, “hibernation” Daddy called it.
Her attention returned to her father. He lay on the trail with his mouth slightly open and his eyes shut. Flies now buzzed about his face and some crawled on his dry lips and nose, a few even venturing in and out of its two dark holes, which she found gross. She fanned them away many times, but they kept returning until her hand and arm were too tired to continue the action.
She saw more insects gathering at his heart where his red shirt was torn and soaked. She placed her hand there to scare away the noisy flies. She wriggled it and tried again to awaken her father, but he stayed silent and still. Now, her dirty hand was wet, red, and sticky; and flies tried to land on it. She rubbed her fingers and palm on her shirt, and frowned at the mess it made.
“Wake up, Daddy! I want to go home. I’m hungry. I want juice.” She wondered if he had hurt himself when he had fallen backwards to the ground and hit his head. She remembered he had made an odd sound after the loud noise. She could not run for help because she did not know which way to go in this strange place. Besides, soon she would not be able to see any of the trails they had taken because the sun was going away. It was getting dark and cool in the dense woods, scary.
She shivered as goose bumps covered her arms and legs, wished for a jacket or blanket. She tried not to cry, but wanted her father to get up so they could leave. Her teeth chattered, a soft clacking sound, as moisture burned her eyes. She laid her weary head on her father’s strong shoulder to hide her damp eyes. His skin felt as cold as hers did. She told herself she had to be brave until he awakened. When he did, he would tease her and call her “silly pants” and they would laugh together about her being afraid when he was nearby to protect her. They would go home and her mother would be smiling again, not angry as she had been when they left for this adventure. It would all be okay once Daddy woke up and they left the forest near Memphis where they lived.
But he did not awaken. More time passed. Her fears grew bigger.
Exhausted and frightened, cold, hungry, and thirsty, she lay beside him, placed her head on his out-flung arm. She nestled close, like when they snuggled on the couch to watch cartoons. He was cold and silent. His chest was wet and sticky, like the hard dirt around his upper body. But he would not let anything or anyone harm her. He had promised, and Daddy always kept his promises.
She closed her scratchy eyes until she heard strange noises. She hoped someone had found them and would help her father. She sat up and looked around to find the small clearing bathed in the light of a full moon, surrounded by near darkness. Something moved in a cluster of trees, large and dusky, shadowlike. She hoped it was not a wild animal. She gazed in that direction. The shape did not move, but she felt as if it were staring back at her. Maybe it was like Beast in Beauty And The Beast that her father often read to her. Maybe a magical being was watching over her and protecting her as her father always did, until today. Maybe it was guarding both of them until Daddy awakened or Mommy found them and took them home.
As time passed and moonlight revealed the continued presence of the unknown creature that was lurking almost behind a huge tree, she—even at her young age—somehow knew that whatever was partially obscured in the woods was not a friend or helper. It waited. It watched. It branded a shadowy animalistic image onto her vulnerable and creative mind. Mommy, help us.
She started to cry even though she did not want to act like a baby or “scaredy cat.” She cried until all she could do was make funny noises in the back of her throat. Her chest hurt. Her eyes hurt. She was cold and shaking. She was tired and sleepy. Hungry. Thirsty. Scared. Still, her father did not awaken, Beast did not leave, and Mommy did not come to find them. No one came. No jogger. No Ranger. No policeman. No friend. No one.
“Daddy, wake up,” she pleaded once more before she snuggled against him for warmth and protection. She wanted to avoid staring at the scary form semi-hiding in the woods that must have frightened away all of the animals, insects, and birds. She wondered where they had gone, as some were “nighttime roamers” Daddy said. Even the flies on her father’s face and chest had left. It was quiet, eerie. All she heard was the wind as it played in the changing greenery surrounding her.
Then, she heard something else, very soft at first, then slightly louder. It was the song she and her father sang together when they were being silly. But the song came from ... Beast.
“Once I had a little dog and Bingo was his name-o, B-i-n-g-o, B-i-n-g-o, B-i-n-g-o, Bingo was his name-o...”
She felt her heart beating fast. Her breathing was loud and rapid. She saw what appeared to be large eyes watching her, gleaming round lights in the blackness, somehow illuminated by the bright moon. She closed her eyes tightly and pressed her cheek against her father’s body, facing away from the menacing creature. She used one hand to cover the ear that was not muffled by her father’s stiffening abdomen, but could still hear the gruff singing. Daddy, please make him go away, her fearful mind pleaded as his blood stuck to her dirty hair, face, hands, arms, and clothes.
She wanted to scream, Stop scaring me! Be good! Go away! But feared that might provoke an attack, and she did not want her father harmed because she now knew he was hurt, bleeding.
Until she fell asleep from exhaustion, Jennifer Anne Jordan knew Beast stayed there, his indistinct image in the autumn setting stamped into her brain. Watching...Waiting...
––––––––
Memphis, Tennessee
October 15, 2001
“Screw Jack. Figuratively, not literally. It’s been two months since our last girls’ night out. After 9/11, we need this reprieve. Let him stew for a while. It’ll be good for him. I need a refill.”
When Jennifer Jordan stared at her best friend with a lifted brow, Amber Saint Clair only smiled without a hint of apology for her comments, waggling an empty margarita glass invitingly. Subtle lighting glowed on the small group of women sitting with them at a marble-top table. Music from a grand piano at the edge of the lobby was played loudly to be heard over the buzz of voices in the crowded bar of The Peabody Hotel, a popular gathering place for locals and tourists.
Jennifer ignored the temptation to concur. Instead, she slung the strap of her purse over her left shoulder and said, “Sorry, but I need to get home and work something out with him.”
“Why? You know it’ll end the same way.” Amber stared across the table, her tawny eyes reflecting gold light. “As usual, he’ll ‘closing argument’ you into silence and compliance.”
Frustration knit Amber’s arched brows in an expression that Jennifer recognized, and she swallowed a sigh of agreement. Please, God, not another futile confrontation with him tonight.
Leaning forward, Jennifer managed to fake a playful smile as she said in a sultry stage whisper, “But making up after an argument is so much fun. Literally...and figuratively.”
While the others laughed, Amber made a crude sound, her brow arching even higher in an expression of disbelief. “You’re joking through those pearly whites and we both know it.”
Sometimes best friends can be a pain in the ass, Jennifer reflected. “Be good, Amber, or I’ll have to remind you of the times you’ve been wrong or stubborn about men,” she teased.
“Don’t pay any attention to her, Jen, just go on home and have some fun,” Darcy drawled, her words slurring from the effects of two jumbo margaritas. “We’ll stay here until we get outrageously drunk and throw our panties into the fountain so the ducks can play with them.”
“Oh, yes,” Amber said, “go join Jack. I’ll call tomorrow to see if you survived him. Now, let’s see if we can get that waitress over here for another round,” she told the others.
“Behave yourselves, ladies, and I’ll see you soon. I’ll call you tomorrow, Amber.”
Amber scowled, nodded, and exhaled a loud rush of air before Jennifer departed.
Well, it could be fun, Jennifer reasoned as she drove the few blocks from the hotel to the apartment she shared with John “Jack” Jackson, if she did not suspect that he would not back down on his latest quarrel with her. She only knew that neither would relent, not this time. Damn, what did he expect from her? To be a doormat? To obey his every whim and wish? To let him be the boss instead of a partner in their relationship? Somewhere along the way, he had changed, and not for the better. She did not know why or exactly when the alteration began, but it had. It was not as if she could change her entire personality and behavior to suit his desires. She could not become someone else, though God knew she wished she could at times, but for other reasons.
Jennifer’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as annoyance nibbled at her. She was who she was, and he would have to accept that reality, her eccentricities and all. After she had exposed them to him, he had told her she was “excessively wary” and “stubborn”, but she had reasons.
She wheeled her white Lexus into the garage of the converted warehouse that was now expensive apartments overlooking the bluff of the Mississippi River. Expansion had come to downtown Memphis in the form of trendy apartments and luxurious homes. A famous actress lived only a mile away down Riverside Drive. Gleaming yachts were moored off Mud Island, visible from the terrace of the fourth floor apartment she shared with Jack, his apartment.
The garage entrance and center-driving lane were sufficiently lit, and the attendant was still in his booth. Security was tight almost everywhere after what happened in New York, the Pentagon, and in Pennsylvania last month. Terrorist attacks. Twin Towers gone, downed airplanes, and bomb threats on America soil! How could those horrible events have happened and would more occur? Her feeling of longtime earned sense of security had been shattered, just as everyone else’s. She needed to feel safe again as she had as a young child, before that first horrible tragedy struck when she was only four years old. That was the event that had made her what she truly was.
Jennifer parked in her assigned slot, locked her car door, and walked rapidly toward twin elevators. Low heels on her pumps clacked against a concrete floor, echoing eerily. The lengthy walk to the elevators made her nervous at night or if the attendant was gone. Perhaps, she reasoned, she experienced anxiety because the yellow-bulb-lit-center-area with unilluminated surroundings of thick concrete pillars and various sized vehicles reminded her of that moonlight clearing in Shelby Forest that was surrounded by darkness and peril long ago, also during the changing of seasons.
Lately, she felt as if something or someone evil lurked in the dim shadows around and beyond the vehicles or behind columns. Waiting...Watching...An obscured threat...
Logic and Jack told her it was ridiculous, even “paranoid” to be afraid of wild imagination. Memory promptly provided contradiction: a blood stained four year old found cringing in fear and cold beside her murdered father and babbling about a scary beast in the trees who had been singing “Bingo” to her. The horrid and unsolved crime was now labeled a “cold case”, and her account of the incident dismissed as delusions of a traumatized and frightened child. She had been seen by a child psychologist and then a psychiatrist to rid her of those impossible ramblings, until she was old and smart enough to agree with him and her weary mother so she could escape continued and useless treatments. She was fortunate they had not committed her to a psych ward during her initial hysterics and continued refusal to accept “truth and reality”. After she realized that no one was going to believe her about the Beast, she had been compelled to dupe them to halt the standoff.
A cardboard box containing their blood and dirt stained clothes, investigative notes and gruesome photos sat on a metal shelf with her father’s name, date of death, and case number written in black magic marker on one end. Twenty-seven years had passed and no new evidence had surfaced to re-open his case. No justice had been done. It was as if everyone—except her and the shooter—had forgotten about Wade Jordan’s evil slaying in the woods like an animal.
No, Jennifer had not forgotten “Daddy” or that frightening episode. Beast’s shadowy image remained imprinted indelibly in her mind’s eye, featured subtly in all of her freelance artworks. A “quirk” that Jack disliked and mocked. It was something she could not change, even if she could control that inexplicable impulse. It had come to a choice, perhaps an ultimatum: either she had to capitulate, or they had to break up, or he had to accept the presence of Nimue.
The left elevator’s doors finally opened, and she stepped inside with a feeling of relief. Her wide green gaze scanned the darkened areas of the garage for an unseen threat until they hummed shut. Polished surfaces reflected her blurred image. The muted light overhead made her auburn hair look almost maroon, a dark cloud nestled against her pale face and throat. She eyed the beige jacket, slacks, and shoes on her slender five feet seven inch frame. Her concession to color was a vivid blue blouse, a paean to Amber’s insistence she wear something other than her usual “drab” clothes.
“You look like you’re trying to blend into the woodwork,” Amber had once teased. Her best friend had threatened playfully to go into her closet and throw out all of her black, gray and beige clothing if she did not buy and wear something that made her “stand out and look alive.” Amber had urged, “Stop hiding from the wicked world, Jen. Wear brighter lipstick, and a smidgen more make-up. Accentuate those green eyes and flaming locks. Wear French panties, or none at all, to make you feel free and sexy. Do something daring, girlfriend, and you’ll feel better, stronger.”
Saying and doing such things were easy for Amber with her golden beauty, ready laughter and enjoyable personality. As for herself, Jennifer felt safer and calmer when blended into the background of public life and places, camouflaged from whatever had heightened her longtime alert and apprehension recently. It was not terrorists, as Amber and Jack believed, but why argue?
There had been a brief period during her psych therapy when she almost had convinced herself Beast was only a delusion created by the mind of a petrified child. If only to end her torment and insistence of her mother and doctor, she had urged herself to believe what she saw was nothing more than an odd shaped tree with vines swaying in gusts of wind; and the “glowing eyes” were only moonlight playing on those of an owl or other nocturnal creature. But the song, the eerie singing, could not be explained away. Then, she had reasoned that Beast was not evil, perhaps an angel in disguise sent to comfort and protect her at a cruel and vulnerable moment. That was why it had not harmed or approached her and had sung that familiar song to her.
But after becoming an artist and working at home, the strange creations had begun. Good or Evil, real or illusory, Beast had come to life in her subconscious mind and slyly in her works. She had not noticed his appearance in the beginning. It was like a game of Where’s Waldo or the optical illusion drawings where one held a picture of swirly lines or repetitious images close the face and stared at it until a cleverly obscured image sprang forth almost in 3-D. As she was touching up one of her freelance paintings, which were always woods scenes and mostly in the fall season, she recalled finding Beast masking himself in a clump of thick wind-swept grass. After checking her past paintings, she discovered him “hidden” in all of them! How, why, when, he got there, she did not know, but she knew soul deep she had put him there, as if during trance painting.
The intimidating discovery had caused her to question her sanity. Then, it frightened her after she realized she was still haunted by her father’s killer and that awful day long ago. It caused her also to realize that perhaps she had seen Wade Jordan’s murderer, that she was a witness to that crime, and her subconscious mind was trying to bring forth the villain’s identity. So far, no real person’s face had replaced Beast’s, and perhaps never would if she hadn’t seen it clearly. Until or if she “saw” the evil person, she had nothing to tell the police, nothing to reopen the “cold case.”
The intimidating discovery also caused her to be relieved she had not signed or sold any of those paintings at that point. That was when Nimue had come to life, their creator’s guardian, in the event the murderer worried about her remembering him one day. That was when she had realized why she stayed on-guard, wary, apprehensive, camouflaged: fear that the killer was waiting....Watching....Ready to attack her if he suspected she could expose him...
Maybe you’re just being paranoid. He knows you didn’t recognize him. That’s why he waited around for so long, to make certain you weren’t a threat to him. If he’s seen or purchased any of your paintings and guessed who Nimue is, he has to realize you don’t remember him.
Darkness greeted the agitated woman after the doors opened on the fourth floor. Only the muted overhead light from inside the elevator erased a square section of blackness ahead.
Damn, why can’t the manager keep things running smoothly and safely! She pushed the red Stop-button on the control panel and fumbled inside her purse for her extra key chain with a small penlight attached to it. It lay entangled with a comb and other items at the bottom, and she pulled it free as she grit her teeth in annoyance. She thumbed on the switch as she punched the release button and exited as the buzzer sounded with impatience at being stalled beyond its time limit.
Inky shadows gnawed at the narrow stream of light that she wielded like a mini sword. Plush carpet over thick wood colors cushioned her footsteps, and usually muffled most sounds from the four domiciles, two located on each side of the structure. She noted that an odd smell hung in the air. It grew stronger as she made her way down the long corridor, as they lived at the end apartment. She wrinkled her nose and frowned. She surmised the pest control company must have done their October spraying and must have used a new chemical, a terrible odor and malfunctioning lights about which she would complain to the manager tomorrow.
Jennifer realized she was walking slowly, dreading and expecting Jack’s black mood. Her nerves were rattled because she knew he would still be angry. She knew him, or used to know him. Jack did not get over disagreements—no, quarrels—easily or quickly. Maybe she should tell him the truth, the whole truth. She did not consciously paint the same almost obscured Beast in all of her freelance works; she just did it, and she did not know how. The why, she suspected. The haunting image was just there in the finished paintings, lurking somewhere in the trees, bushes, or grasses.
Beast’s presence seemed to flow from her brush, from so deep inside it was a visceral reaction instead of a conscious decision, as if it were done during brief hypnosis. It was as if the monster insisted on plaguing her by secreting himself onto every canvas except her professional works. None of her wildlife illustrations for textbooks had even a miniscule hint of the sinister creature. She signed her contracted works with two fanciful J’s: J J, with the date below them. Her freelance paintings carried the signature Nimue. Only her business manager—and Jack and Amber—knew the identity of Nimue, and all were sworn to confidentiality, her mother left in the dark. Nimue, the real name of the Lady Of The Lake in King Arthur and Merlin tales. Nimue was fanciful, magical, the contrast between Good and Evil, whisperer about the forgotten, the unknown. Lady watched. Lady waited. It was the same with her and Beast. Together, they were Nimue.
Jack disliked and ridiculed “childish and silly notions” of Beast’s presence, and her choice of and using a pseudonym, a contract he had drawn up for her, and the way they had reunited. In July, he had begun urging, later demanding, she exclude the creature, “take your art seriously” and take public credit for her woodsy works, which featured forest scenes with or without native animals, and sold quickly, easily and for a good price. From somewhere deep inside her mind’s recesses, she could not capitulate, even if it cost her their relationship and made his behavior worsen weekly, sometimes daily. She had told him she did not want or need intrusive and disruptive publicity and the hard work of art shows to increase sales; she wanted privacy. She wanted safety and obscurity from the evil human beast who had slain her father, if he were still alive and around... As a highly successful lawyer, John Jackson could not understand or accept her “secrecy any longer.”
If she told anyone it happened without her control or awareness, they would think she was crazy. That was why she had told only three people—if “Uncle Sam” was not included on that short list—that she was Nimue. She had not told the entire truth, even to Amber who would urge her to see a “shrink” or go to the police with her suspicions, so she endured feelings of guilt. Her mother could not handle knowing about Beast’s survival and return, so Linda had not been told, as her mother only wanted peace and escape from anything to do with that horrific night of death and loss.
Jennifer’s thoughts were jerked back to reality as she coughed again and her eyes smarted. The smell was stronger and worse now as she neared their apartment entrance. The pungent odor stuck in the back of her throat and taunted her nostrils when she took a deep breath, and coughed several more times. Her nose detected the additional smell of fresh paint, a scent she knew well from her occupation. Odd, the end of the corridor was pitch dark. She focused the penlight on the fire escape door. No wonder the hallway was so black; someone had painted the door’s window an obsidian color that blocked out the landing’s and moon’s lights. She told herself to hurry and get inside as her penlight’s battery was getting dim and flickering. Soon, its energy would be drained and it would be totally dark. Hopefully, Jack was home and the power was on inside.
Jennifer realized the dog she had heard barking, faintly at first, then louder now, was their pet. The animal sounded frantic and its barks slightly muffled. Jack must have left Baby out on the terrace and forgotten about her again, as he had a bad habit of doing lately. He always had an excuse about getting lost in a legal brief or summation, his world narrowed to law books and obscure cases.
How, she fretted, could she continue on and especially marry a man and have his children when he could not even take proper care of a family pet? He had become an impossible partner. If only she could tell him the whole truth and he would believe her, maybe they could... No, that would never happen. It was past time to end their misery, to break their engagement, to move.
Jennifer wished she had stayed with the girls, drank too many margaritas, and even thrown her lace panties into The Peabody Hotel fountain inside the lobby. Maybe she and her friends could have marched along on the red carpet with the row of ducks and their uniformed escort after they left the water to enter a private elevator to be carried to the roof to their palatial dwellings for the night. That was a popular event morning and night with both locals and tourists. She could have had fun tonight, could be having fun right now, except she had felt compelled to come home early to resolve matters with Jack. Now, this added annoyance, their dog left out to bark for Heaven only knew how long. The manager would be knocking on their door first thing in the morning to complain about the noise and perhaps fine them. She was surprised neither the manager, nor any of their neighbors, nor the police were pounding on their door at that moment. Yet, except for Baby’s muffled barking, it was silent, too quiet. It was as if no one was home tonight to complain about the noise, and stench and hall lights. Any lingering guilt over their earlier quarrel was smothered under rising irritation.
Jennifer arrived at their door and reached for the knob to insert her key. Her action caused the door to swing open, and her momentum propelled her inside the dark apartment. She dropped the penlight and it scurried away like a fleeing mouse, one she did not chase.
“Jack, I’m home. You left the door unlocked again. What happened to the lights on our floor? That hallway is black as soot. Why is Baby outside barking her head off? The manager and neighbors are going to be furious with us.” The awful smell was worse inside the apartment, and she frowned in displeasure again. “What in Heaven’s name is that terrible odor? Did you burn something or did the exterminator come tonight?” No response. “Jack, are you here?”
Still no answer from him. No candle or flashlight filled the living room to her left where thick drapes were drawn on the windows on either side of a fireplace, and no exterior street or moonlight could penetrate that darkness. But both sources allowed a small amount of light to shine through the sliding doors leading to the terrace, located beyond the dining area. She heard the ding of the elevator as it arrived at their floor, and heard its door open and close. She stepped backwards and peered in that direction. “Anybody there? The hall lights are out,” she remarked unnecessarily.
No one responded. Strange. If the electricity was off, how were the garage lights on and the elevators working? Had someone sneaked past her to leave or to return home and refused to speak to her, or had someone simply pushed the wrong floor’s button? Since the electricity was on elsewhere in the converted warehouse, that meant only their floor was having problems. Had anyone reported the trouble to the power company? Maybe all of her neighbors were gone for the evening and did not know about the power failure. But what about Jack? Where was he? She trembled. Why were chill bumps running over her body?
Jennifer closed and locked the door behind her. To check if the problem was only in the corridor, her shaky hand fumbled on the wall for the switch plate. She pressed a control and a single overhead light came on, a sort of nightlight similar to those some hotels used at the entry. The dim pinkish bulb cast a soft glow over her, illuminating only the area closest to her. She placed her keys and purse atop the painted Bombe chest beside the door, Jack’s one concession to her decorating preferences, the remainder of her possessions locked away in storage. Possessions she would soon need when they ended their relationship, as she had moved in with him. Yes, it was time to go.
Even in the darkness, she knew how the apartment looked. Beige carpet. Beige walls. Minimal but oversized beige furniture, all in wood and leather. Only a few pictures and personal items that were located on a plain odd-shaped bookcase indicated that anyone really lived there. The settings always made her feel and think: bare, stark, empty. Now, an added thought joined those old ones: Like our lives have become... Amber was right: she lived “in a beige world.”
Suddenly vexed with herself for allowing her existence to become so sad and lacking, she called out louder, “Jack? Are you in your study? Dammit, can’t you hear Baby barking?” The open entry door explained why she had heard the animal’s sounds so easily, as the apartments were supposed to have soundproofing features. She also was annoyed with herself for taking so long to relieve their pet’s misery and agitation. Out on the walled terrace, Baby was barking so frantically and probably for so long that she sounded almost hoarse. No doubt the dog had heard and seen her return home and was seeking escape from her seclusion by increasing her barks and actions.
After Jennifer—her eyes partially adjusted to the low lighting—walked through the dining area to the sliding doors and opened them, Baby bounded inside and circled her rapidly, whining. She knelt and attempted to soothe the animal by ruffling its blond hair with one hand, but Baby shoved past her into the apartment. “That’s it, girl, go find Jack.” She whispered, “And bite him.”
She glanced at the slobber smeared and nail scratched glass doors, and knew both Jack and the manager were going to be angry with the animal for that damage, as Baby normally did not attack the glass sliding doors. She stepped outside as something caught her gaze: an empty wine glass was on the glass-top table. So, Jack had been outside with Baby and drinking wine, perhaps escaping the horrid smell indoors. Where was he now and why had the dog been left outside? The stench?
Tension throbbed at the back of her neck and up the back of her head. She moved to the wall and peered over its edge. Traffic flowed smoothly, a steady stream of headlights and gleaming metal. Beyond the bluffs, the mighty Mississippi River undulated past in a shimmering reflection of lights from the M-shaped bridge and slow-moving barges. Relief swamped her. What had she expected? To see his crumpled and bloody body lying on the sidewalk or in the street below?
That was the trouble with a vivid imagination: it always conjured up problems and fears where there should be none. But if that were true, why did Baby also feel agitated? She was accustomed to being alone when they were gone or while Jack was at work, since she worked at home. The golden retriever sent forth a mixture of whines and howls and muffled growls, so unlike her nature, even after being confined to the terrace for a while. Maybe the smell upset her.
Where was Jack? If he was home, why did he not answer her or join her? Was he lost in his own world in his study while pouring over legal briefs? Wearing ear buds with music or an audio book blocking out her voice? Intentionally ignoring her? Asleep? Gone? If he had left due to an emergency, why had he not called her on her cell phone? Why had he carelessly left the door open, and left Baby outside? Something was wrong; she felt it in her bones. Should she call the police? And tell them what? I pissed off my boyfriend, went out with my girlfriends, and now he isn’t home so we can settle an argument? Should she leave the apartment in case there had been a burglar inside? No, that meant going back into the dark corridor where evil could be lurking. She should not be afraid now, as she had a big dog to protect her. And the garage attendant would not have allowed anyone who did not live there or have permission to come inside get past him.
Jennifer went inside, leaving open the sliding door to bring in fresh air and to expel the bad odor. She felt her way along and flipped on one of the kitchen switches that controlled fluorescent tubes under the cabinets. Her eyes adjusted to the soft lighting of the one nearest to the sink as she realized the stench was almost overpowering to her senses. It burned the back of her throat; yet, she saw no cause for it. No fire. No smoke. The stovetop was clear. No bowls or dishes with sticky food were left on the granite counters. No “accident” by Baby on the floor.
There was only a clean wine glass in the wooden dish drainer. She had picked up the other wine glass from the terrace table, brought it inside and placed it in the sink. Strange that Jack would use two glasses in the same evening. Or maybe someone had dropped by after her departure, and they had gone somewhere after having a drink there. But why wash only one glass?
Jennifer put her hand to her nose as the horrid odor almost sickened her. The new chemical the pest control company had used after she left could not be safe if it smelled this bad, and why had the sprayer come by at night, and why had fussy Jack allowed the man to do his job so late? If he was home and just not responding for some reason, she would go find him so they could have a serious talk about their problems. No, break up. They shared the same apartment; yet, they were miles apart lately. As soon as she gave Baby some water to soothe her dry throat, she—
Strange sounds came from the animal and halted Jennifer’s actions. Her scalp tightened. Chills raced over her body again. She tensed. Something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. Baby knew it, and she knew it, too. She reached inside a drawer to find something to use as a weapon of defense. Her shaky fingers found and clutched a heaving wooden meat tenderizer. She turned and forced herself to head toward the dark living room, beyond the L-shaped kitchen and dining area. That’s where Baby was, but the beloved pet was obscured in shadows and by large pieces of furniture and their arrangements in the spacious room. She did not know why she did not run into the bedroom or her studio or Jack’s study or the bathroom or the guest room and bolt the door against whatever lurked in the darkness ahead. She certainly should not entrap herself on the terrace or in the corridor. Besides, if a burglar was in there, Baby would be attacking him loudly.
Compelling herself onward, Jennifer slowly but helplessly navigated the dining room and reached an end table next to the oversized sofa. She wished she had turned on all of the kitchen lights and the dining room chandelier, as the one fluorescent tube and small pink entry light gave off little illumination to expose whatever was upsetting Baby so badly. Her hand tapped the base of a brass lamp with a touch sensor, causing instant light to come forth. As if some unknown force controlled her shaky hand, she immediately gave it two more taps for the brightest level.
Her reaction happened fast and simultaneous but seemed as if it took forever and in slow motion. Her gaze widened in horror. Her breath caught in her throat. She went pale and cold. She felt frozen to that spot on the floor. Baby crouched at Jack’s feet, whining and swaying as if beside herself with anguish. Yet, the animal was intelligent enough to stay clear of the peril nearby.
Jennifer unknowingly moved closer to the grisly situation. Her shocked gaze locked on the gory sight before her. The stench almost choked her as she gagged, her hands overlapping her mouth. Her green eyes watered. Tears ran down her cheeks, over her hands where some rolled down her forearms and others dropped onto her new blue blouse. Her rapid respiration caused her lips and throat to dry. She found it difficult to swallow, to breathe, to believe what she was viewing. Yet, she could not move, could not look away, could not escape this horror.
Jack was sitting—if one could call his uncontrollable position that—on the floor with his buttocks against the raised stone hearth of the gas fireplace. To keep him in place, his legs were splayed on the floor and his elbows were propped awkwardly at his sides on the rough stones. Even with his head cocked backward slightly, from her higher position she could see his face, or what was left of it, which was not much. From singed eyebrows to mutilated chin, there was white, bleached bone showing. His eyes were no longer blue, just two frightful orbs in destroyed sockets. Exposed white teeth—with remains of raw flesh at the cheekbones and jawline—created an eternal grimace of someone who had died a painful and horrible death. He looked like some sort of a rag doll on a macabre poster for a horror film. The words Batman and The Joker shot through her dazed mind.
Jennifer felt weak, nauseous, paralyzed, mesmerized by evil and disbelief.
It must be Jack, her muddled mind decided, as he wore the same sweater—a gift from her last Christmas—the same sweater he had on when she left earlier. He was Jack’s size. He had Jack’s hair. Those were Jack’s slacks. His shoes. In his home. With their dog whining at his feet.
Baby threw back her head and howled like a wild thing, like a beast in a nightmare.
Jennifer was startled to awareness. She screamed, and screamed again, sounds torn from her aching throat and belly as reality slapped her forcefully in the face: Jack had been brutally murdered in their home while she was out partying, plotting a break-up. And from the still wet blood on his slit throat and sweater, the torture and slaying had happened not very long ago. Could his killer be lurking nearby? Was this the grisly act of a new or the old Beast? Was it watching . . . Waiting . . .