To her neighbors, Jennifer Johnson seemed odd, just a little off. How could she not? Her entire existence was a lie.
While the child at her breasts was really hers, the husband by her side…not so much. They shared the same innocuous last name—second most common in the United States—but he was not the father of her child, nor the love of her life.
That honor was held by a dead man.
The Johnsons didn't bother with baby gates because of their dog, who they called Buddy, the second most popular dog name in the country. Tall as a Great Dane with the snout of a Collie, the markings of a Siberian Husky and the thick coat of a wolf with one blue eye and one brown, that dog watched the baby as if he was operating some kind of military operation. It was adorable.
Buddy wasn't fixed though, something noted on by the homeowners association. A discussion ensued as to whether he was even allowed to be in the neighborhood, such a large hairy dog with such big balls. Is that what Hidden Bush was all about?
Of course, Mrs. Katagan's sin red tulips came up. Unfortunately, there was no stipulation as to the color of plants in the bylaws so while it irked her neighbors to see such glossy, colorful petals, the monotone beige of their homes reassured them that all was well and good in the neighborhood. Mrs. Katagan was a widow though, it did seem uncommonly brash to grow such flowers.
Once the neighbors got to know the dog and saw how devoted and adorable he was, they quickly forgot about his balls.
And the husband, John Johnson, everyone liked him. Tall, fit, and handsome, he had beers with the men and helped women with their groceries—didn't even have to be asked. He'd just start grabbing bags, talking about the weather, or something pleasant from the news.
He worked from home, some kind of remote job. He said they'd chosen this community because they liked it, which made people feel good about them. The world was changing, after all. Working remotely wasn't that odd. They'd let Mrs. Katagan’s flowers pass, they could let Mr. Johnsons's unconventional work life go. The Johnson's could live anywhere and they'd chosen Hidden Bush…that said something good about the neighborhood for sure. For absolute sure.
The wife was a bit odd though, everyone had to admit it. And they did, as often as possible in hushed whispers. She ran more than was probably healthy. Nursed that baby still…and it was 10 months now, the boy, James, was walking.
Mr. And Mrs. Johnson shared the housework as far as anyone could tell, but Mrs. Johnson never mentioned a job…shouldn't she do all the housework if he was the one working? Why did he so often do the shopping? And he'd been seen folding laundry under the flickering light of their tv at night…by a neighbor on a dog walk. She wasn't spying. Not at all. It was a mere coincidental glimpse.
The Johnsons never went on dates. Seemed like Mrs. Johnson didn't ever leave that baby. Many women suspected that Mr. Johnson needed to be saved from his wife…but to be truthful, they needed to be saved from their own marriages and were really just projecting.
After all, Mr. And Mrs. Johnson were a lie, remember?
Gray bleeds into the horizon as I slip out the front door. The air is heavy with moisture and the grass thick with dew. My SUV, the same Ford model that cops use, waits in the driveway—the garage too full for both our cars.
How do we have so much stuff? We don't, actually. But we pretend like we do because most people's garages are too full for both their cars. And we are pretending, earnestly, to be like most people.
And while most people don't have tunnels in their garages that lead to the woods for escape purposes, they do have gray plastic bin lined shelves.
Peter, whose alias is John Johnson—a name picked because it is ridiculously common, which really makes me wonder about the imaginations of most people—bought a four wheeler so we had something to keep in the second garage bay. He's taken it out a few times with some other guys in the neighborhood and definitely enjoys the thing. It reminds me of Costa Rica, of a time I don't think about.
I'm alone as I climb into the driver's seat—an unusual situation.
My dog, Blue, raised his head when I got out of my bed but I held up my hand. Stay with James. Blue, who we've called Buddy for the last ten months, cocked his head in question.
This is the third morning this week I've gone running without him. We used to go after James woke up and had some breakfast. He'd nurse, then I'd pack my son up in the stroller and we'd head over to the local park with its paved paths and go for our daily run. James napped as Blue and I jogged. But I can't take Blue or James with me now because I'm not running…I'm hunting.
Blue can't come because he's too big a deterrent—literally. The dog is huge. No one would think of him as bait. But me, alone, sure, I could be taken down. I'm slim enough that I could be mistaken for weak and not particularly tall. I have a ponytail that bobs with each step. What more does a victim need?
I start the car, the rumble of the engine disturbing the quiet neighborhood. Mrs. Katagan's lights are already on across the street. I don't think I've ever seen her house totally dark. Does it give her comfort to have the lights on? Make her feel safe living alone?
Her dog, a chihuahua named Bruno, is a fierce little creature. He plays with Blue fearlessly. I think Blue is actually more afraid of hurting him than Bruno is of being crushed—which seems like a real possibility to me. And from the looks Blue gives me, I'm pretty sure he thinks the same. One paw swipe and Bruno could be buried.
Speaking of buried, I turn in my seat to make sure the shovel is still in the trunk. Its handle is propped against the back seats. I bought it at the beginning of the week when I started this hunt.
Peter noticed it yesterday while helping me unload the groceries, but he didn't say anything. He just gave me a look. The same one he gave me when he saw the cut out clippings I'd been gathering in the kitchen drawer. Not so much judging me, or even questioning me, just watching…making sure to keep track of where this crazy train is headed.
It takes about ten minutes to get to the large public park—this isn't our normal running spot. It's more forested, less tamed. The parking area is empty. When three women over the course of three months have been raped in this park, no one is jogging there at dawn…no one but me.
I'm not carrying a gun. The rapist uses a knife, and I've got one of those…two actually. One in an ankle holster and one in the thigh pocket of my black leggings. I've also got years of training and a thirst for justice. What more could a good little victim need to turn the tables and murder the serial rapist terrorizing her neighborhood?
The sky is fully gray now, but on the forested path darkness still lingers. Lightning crackles at the corners of my vision—hallucinations haunting my ravaged brain. But my mind stays sharp and true through the imagined storm.
My jog is easy and measured. I used to sprint until my heart hammered to be released from my chest—desperate to escape the madwoman forcing it into such intensity. I'm older now, though. Wiser. More dangerous than ever.
The dawn breaks into day and the path lightens. I slow to a walk as I approach a wooden bridge over a thin stream. Mosquitoes must swarm here in the spring and summer but as fall edges toward winter, the leaves giving us a final, brilliant salute, the air is clear. I stop on the bridge and lean against the railing, staring down at the shallow body of water. It tinkles over smooth stones, pebbles in sand and gold. Moss hugs the shoreline, its vibrant green a gorgeous contrast with the fall colors.
I miss Blue and James. Without a dog by my side, I feel like I'm missing a limb. Blue's constant, steady presence warming my left hip, the rhythmic taps of his nose reminding me he is there while we run…without Blue I'm lonely.
The ache of missing him reminds me of my other dogs—Blue's puppies. I had to leave them behind when I disappeared. They weren't with me and there was no going back. But a day doesn't go by that I don't think about Nila and Frank. Her fierceness, his goofiness…their absence hangs over me like a shadow.
Footsteps in the distance turn my head in the direction of the sound. Another jogger. Adrenaline tingles through my system. I wait, my breath even. The path is narrow, strung through with roots and littered with rocks. The trees tower, leaving not even a thin stripe of morning sky above. It's nothing but diamonds of blue between the yellow, gold, and burnt sienna foliage.
A wind rustles the branches, carrying the autumnal scent of leaves. The steps grow closer, more defined. The soft strike barely audible but very much there. Not a figment of my torture imagination. Not a ghost lingering in the shadows of my mind. A predator on the cusp of becoming prey.
Time stretches, the tinkling of the stream and brushing of leaves mingle with the thunder in my broken mind. I take in a clearing breath, refocus on the path, and the figure appears. A tall and athletic man. He's wearing shorts over calf length leggings and a black hoodie pulled up, so that his face is just a shadow. His pace is fast but measured, not a sprint, a run. A practiced jog.
He startles when he spots me and stops. His hand comes up and he pulls the hood back, revealing a clean shaven head and whiskey brown eyes. "Hey," he says. "I didn't mean to scare you."
I repress a laugh. "No worries."
"You probably shouldn't be out here," he says, turning to look around, scanning for predators hiding in the brush.
"No?" I ask, all innocence, as if I haven't been tracking this rapist across the state—following his progression as he moved closer to my home. To my territory.
I used to think of the world as mine to protect. A whole planet of injustice carried around on my shoulders. But when I fled from my life I had to let go of that notion. Recognize my own size. And settle for life as a normal person who doesn't devote their existence to weeding out the worst humanity has to offer.
But that doesn't mean I can let men who thirst for control and violence just have it. Not in my neighborhood. Not where I can stop it. I'm just not wired that way.
"Yeah," the stranger says. "I heard some women—" he cuts himself off, looks down at his feet, clears his throat. "It's not safe here. I heard," he tells his sneakers.
"It's not safe anywhere," I say, meaning for it to come out light and jokey but I can tell from how fast his gaze comes back to mine that it came out scary. Like, maybe it's not safe because I'm here.
He cocks his head, his eyes reassessing. I let my gaze slide over him, too. My mouth tightens. He doesn't fit the description of the rapist. Too tall, his head too bald, skin too dark.
The women described a man so pale he seemed almost like a ghost with dirty blond hair and black eyes. They described a monster who held a knife to their neck while he…I cut the thought off. I don't need to know the details to know it's got to stop.
Trauma messes with our memories. But no amount of trauma could turn this man into what those women described. I need him to fuck off so I can look like an easy target.
"Do you want me to walk you back to your car?" he offers. "I'm John, by the way." Of course you are…
"No thanks," I say. "I'm good, John." I don't give him my name.
He looks around the woods again. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'll be okay."
His brow pinches as though he can't just leave me out here. As if he is some kind of knight in shining fucking armor who wouldn't be able to ever forgive himself if something happened to me. Shit. He's about to say please…
"Please," he rubs the back of his neck. "I'd feel better if—"
I cut him off. "You'd feel better, John? We just met, and you want me to start adjusting my life so you can feel better? Get a grip." I turn away from him, and jog over the bridge, my feet landing on the earth, my attention falling to the path. When I glance over my shoulder a few strides later he's gone. Hopefully he turned back…it's not safe out here, after all.
Sweat runs down my spine as the morning ages. I stop to pull off my long sleeve running top, tying it around my waist. I pull the band out of my loosened ponytail and start to gather my shoulder length hair again. It's dyed a dark brown, with some "natural" highlights. I'm supposed to look like a normal woman with average hair who spends time in the sun.
Which I am…except for the whole hunting rapists hobby I've recently picked up.
I also wear brown contacts to cover the unique gray color of my eyes. They are probably my most distinguishing feature—gifted from my mother's side of the family and handed down to my son.
A twig cracks behind me. I keep fixing my hair. My heart beat stays steady. My mind smooth and empty—that's what an hour of running does for me. Clears the crazy, leaving a spacious emptiness…perfect for hunting.
I tie off my hair into a bun and then raise my hands into the air, stretching. Bending to one side and then the other. Come on. With my arms up I'm easy to take, just attack!
Nothing. I huff my disappointment and drop my arms. Maybe it was just a squirrel or something. But then I hear a breath, something a fuck ton bigger than a bushy tailed rodent is in the brush.
The victims said he'd attacked them from behind, burst out of the bushes and tackled them while they ran by. So I start to jog again, letting my left leg drag a little, as though my ankle is hurting. What kind of predator can resist injured prey?
He comes at me fast, but not that fast. His body barrels out of the brush—he's got twigs and branches on his coat and fashioned to his hat. A real master of disguise this one. No one would suspect a bush of being dangerous…it's almost as good a disguise as "female jogger with bouncy ponytail". Almost.
I let out a yelp, not too loud. I don't want to draw the knight in shining armor Jogger John over here. He'd want to call the police. Want to let the wheels of justice grind. I'm not into that. I like swift action. Blood on my hands, sweat on my brow, and a bodied buried in the ground.
My attacker tackles me around the waist, using his bulk to knock me down. I hit the ground, my palms flat and elbows bent. A smile twists my lips at the sudden jolt of pain. He rolls me over and straddles my hips. His blade flashes, then presses to the flesh of my neck. I hide the smile and meet his gaze—bringing false terror into my own.
His eyes glint with feral victory, the pupils almost as dark as the iris. Perspiration sheens his pale, round face, framed by greasy strands of hair. When he smiles a puff of his breath hits my face. It reeks of tuna fish and cigarettes.
Did he plan to be even more disgusting for his victim—or is this his natural state? The rapist's eyes narrow, as if he sees the question on my face. There should be no curiosity in my gaze, only abject terror. Right. I forgot.
"Please," I whimper. "Don't hurt me."
His smile grows—he likes that. "Do what I tell you and everything will be fine." The rapist says it like he's being magnanimous. As though he holds my fate in his pudgy, disgusting, about to be fucking dead hands.
"Okay," I nod, the blade of his knife pressing against the skin of my throat as I do.
He looks up and down the path, the branches on his hat shaking when his head turns. "I saw another jogger," I say. "He will be along any minute, you should just leave me alone."
The rapist's eyes leap back to mine and his lip raises in a growl. I try to look terrified. We need to go somewhere more private. I can't kill him right here. There will be blood all over the path—it is supposed to start raining but best to keep murder off the public trails.
He's got somewhere he can take me, somewhere more private. He's got some hideout. The rapist didn't come here by car, after all. He probably has some lean-to deep in the woods where he eats tuna out of cans and smokes cigarettes. That's where I want him to take me. Maybe I won't even need the shovel. I'll just burn him in his hovel. A good fire does wonders for physical evidence.
The nice thing about a grave in the woods though—especially in a park this wild—is that if I cover it just right, no one will ever find it. When you have fire, you have smoke…that could draw people…burial is probably better. Shit, I forgot to look scared again.
The rapist leans down and presses his lips to mine, trying to force his disgusting tongue into my mouth. It slithers against my lips and then thrusts, almost breaking through. He pulls back and I gag, coughing to the side. He backhands me, his strike stings but doesn't hurt—just fuels my fire. I taste cigarettes and tuna. Closing my eyes, my head hanging to the side, I pretend to whimper.
The rapist slides down to sit on my thighs and starts to cut off my shirt. He's left my arms totally free. I guess he expects that strike to cow me. I turn back to watch him. His hands are shaking as he tries to work the knife through the high tech moisture wicking t-shirt. The branches on his hat bob.
His beady eyes dart up to my gaze and he sees me looking. The rapist freezes. His mouth is slightly open because he's breathing through it. He's big but not muscled—out of shape and disgusting on every level humanity has to offer. Also, apparently stupid because his plan appears to be to rape me here on the path. After cutting off my shirt with his hunting knife that he straight up sucks at using. Try the serrated edge, dumb ass.
I sigh. I'm just going to have to kill him here. Unless…no matter what I've got to get that knife before he destroys my shirt entirely. I turn to the side as if I'm trying to wriggle free…but I'm not. I come back, using the twist of my body as extra leverage and strike hard and fast—the base of my palm coming up into his nose.
The rapist reels back, blood exploding. It spatters my already ruined shirt and hits my bare arms, neck, and face. He drops the knife—what a fucking amateur—and falls over cradling his face and crying.
I snatch the knife off the path and kick him the rest of the way off me. Blood is spurting from between his fingers, and he is wailing like I just broke his nose and he didn't deserve it. The next 30 minutes are going to be a shocking course in reality for this dumb motherfucker.
I stand up and knock off his hat. He stirs, looking up at me, seeming to realize I'm still there. "Oh, you thought I'd just run away." I shake my head. "Nope. I'm going to kill you."
Those beady eyes widen. I fist his hair and pull. "But first we are going to take a walk." Rapist stumbles to his feet, following the pain, the leaves on his jacket tremble with his movements.
Spotting the faint trail he used, I drag him into the brush. The rapist is taller than me so has to bend to follow the pull of his hair. At some point he will start to fight back. I need to get him as far from the path as I can before my words penetrate enough for him to overcome the pain of his broken nose and his survival instincts kick in.
He may even have another knife on him. A thrill runs up my spine. This could get challenging.
We get fifty feet into the woods, then sixty. Seventy. And he is still just weeping, snotting, and following me down the barely there trail. The trees tower above us, the autumn brush pulls at our clothing with its half bare branches. The blood spatters on me dry and start to itch.
Up ahead a rock formation comes into view. The rapist’s path leads towards it. I'm not surprised to find a crevice in the rocks—a cave. "This where you've been living?" I ask, staring into the murky darkness. Clouds have moved in, the predicted rain storm gathering, darkening the sky.
The rapist doesn't answer, just keeps crying the same pathetic sound he's been making since we started this march. I release his hair and step back, the knife ready but low. If he has another weapon this is the moment to use it…but he just stands there in his ridiculous camouflage blubbering like the school bully just stole his lunch money.
But this isn't school and there are no bullies here. Just a rapist and the woman who is going to end him.
I'd guess I'm about a thirty minute jog to my car. A quick glance at my watch which Rapist does not take advantage of, tells me that James is probably waking up around now. Peter will give him breakfast, but if I don't get back in two hours or so my boobs will explode with milk. "On your knees," I tell Rapist.
He looks up at me. I'm not holding him in any way. He could run for it. I'm just standing here, his weapon in my hand, spearing him with my gaze. "I'm sorry," he says.
And he does look it. With blood covering the bottom half of his face and tears in his eyes. But I don't give a flying fuck about Rapist or his emotional state. I've got two hours to end him, bury his body, and get back to feed my baby. This train needs to get rolling.
"On your knees," I say again.
He turns and runs. Thank god. I might have felt kind of bad if he'd given me no fight at all. Rapist sprints toward the cave—probably to grab another weapon. I don't need the one I've got—that's how good I am. I drop the knife and follow, lengthening my stride, and leaping onto his back. He stumbles, falling to his knees, screaming—the sound shrill and terrified.
Birds squawk in a nearby tree and take off en masse. Yeah, Rapist, not cool. Someone could have heard that. My feet under me, the height difference is perfect. Make your hand thin. I hear my trainer, Merl's, voice in my head as I flatten my right palm and press the thumb against the side of Rapist's neck. Lightening fast I slide it around his throat, bringing my body close to his.
My left forearm presses against his windpipe and I grip my left bicep, locking it in place. He struggles but he's already lost. My left hand comes behind his head and Rapist is in a choke hold. He scratches at my arm, tearing at the skin with his filthy nails. Better my arm than his next victim's pussy.
I take in a slow, deep breath as he struggles. It won't be long. He tries to punch at my body behind him but that whole slim and not that tall thing really works to my advantage in this position. He can't get any force behind the blows. Rapist tries to punch my face but the same issues plague him. I'm too tiny. He's too big. And my choke hold is too strong. Die motherfucker. Die.
Preorder Relentless, book 16 of the Sydney Rye Mysteries, coming winter 2023: emilykimelman.com/RL
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