Mr. Coleman was found dead four days later, on Wednesday morning, his hands severed and his tongue removed. It was unexpected—nothing in the previous crimes, or in any of our profiling, had led me to think that the next victim would be someone like Mr. Coleman. The first two victims were older men, late fifties to early sixties, with families and jobs and good reputations in the community. Coleman was in his thirties, single, and the community pariah. Everyone hated him.
I expect widely hated people to be murdered now and then, but serial killers choose their victims through entirely different methods. What was it about this guy that put him into the Handyman’s sights?
* * *
“Are you going to Marci’s house again?”
It was Wednesday night and Mom and I were eating dinner. I kept my eyes on my food and answered blandly.
“Yeah.”
“Doing anything fun?”
“Just hanging around.”
“You know,” said Mom, poking at her food with her fork, “you could hang around here sometimes. I wouldn’t mind.”
“Yeah,” I said. I had no intention of ever bringing Marci here, but it was easier to just agree and then not do it.
“I’m serious,” said Mom. “You don’t have to just go to her house all the time. We have some board games, and movies, and I could make popcorn or something—”
“No thanks,” I said, still looking down. “Her house is fine.” I took another bite of food; as soon as I finished I could leave.
“Oh, I know,” said Mom. “I’m sure her house is great, and I’ve met her mother—she’s a lovely woman. And obviously her father is very nice.”
I shrugged noncommittally. “Yeah.”
We sat in silence for a minute, and I started to think I was free. Then I glanced up at Mom, and she still wasn’t eating. That wasn’t good—it meant she was thinking, and that meant she was going to talk again. After another long pause she whispered softly.
“I’m sorry there’s no father here.”
Oh, please no.…
“Mom,” I said, “can we please not start this?”
“I wish you had a good father, John, I wish it every day, and I try to be the best mother I can—”
“My father is fine,” I said, “especially because he’s not here.”
“Do you know how painful it is to hear you say that?”
“Why? Come on, Mom, you hate him more than I do.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m happy about it,” she said. “It doesn’t mean I’m happy about the way things turned out. Yes, he was a bad father, and a bad husband, and a bad everything, but that doesn’t make it any easier to grow up fatherless. You have no male role models, you have no positive male influence—”
“Wait, are you saying I’m going to Marci’s house because I’m looking for a male role model?”
“Officer Jensen is a good man, and you don’t have one at home.”
“And Marci is practically a model, and we don’t have any of those at home either. Maybe as long as you’re out shopping for new dads you can pick up some hot teenage girls in the next aisle over. We can place them around like lamps, liven the place up a little.”
“That is not what I’m suggesting at all.”
“I have a friend, Mom,” I said. “That’s it. You are always begging me to go out and make new friends, but then as soon as I do you start psychoanalyzing me.”
“I am not—”
“And then you wonder why I don’t bring Marci over here,” I continued. “Halfway through the popcorn and the dusty kid games from the laundry closet you’d tell her I’m only dating her because I don’t have a dad. That would be fabulous.”
Mom stopped, eyes wide. “You’re dating her?”
“What?”
“Like, officially dating?”
“No, I’m not dating her. We’re just … friends.”
“Well how am I supposed to know these things when you refuse to talk to me?”
“We’re talking right now, aren’t we?”
“I’m certainly trying to talk,” she said. “You’re just yelling.”
“I am not yelling.”
“Tell me about Marci.”
“I actually don’t even knock,” I said, sitting back and folding my arms. “I sit outside and peep through the windows while cutting myself with a razor.”
“And there you go again,” she said, shaking her head. “As soon as I ask you to open up about your life you start spinning some ridiculous lie you know I won’t believe. I’d expect someone with as much therapy experience as you to have a little more subtlety with his deflection tactics.”
“Ouch, Mom, bring up the therapy. Go ahead and mention how much it cost you, too, if that’s where this is going.”
“This is not about money, it’s about your life.”
“No, it’s about you getting into my life. It’s about your money and your expectations and your meddling and your everything else. It is always about you.”
She slapped me, hard, right across the face. I stared at her in shock.
“Don’t you ever say that again.”
My face stung, hot and red. She’d never struck me before—Dad had, of course, but he’d struck everybody. That’s why they got divorced. But Mom was different—hard as iron inside, but never physical. Never violent. I stared at her, expressionless, and she stared back with her eyes wide and her mouth pinched tight. She was determined, resolute. She was as surprised as I was.
My cheek throbbed in pain, but I didn’t raise my hand to touch it. I simply stared back. We sat that way for an eternity before she spoke again, softly.
“When you were younger I used to have nightmares every night about my little boy, all alone and small and away from his mommy. I used to check on you three times a night, sometimes four, seeing you huddled up in your blanket, a spark of heat in a cold, empty room. Some nights you came into our bed, and then one day you stopped, and you just called for me from your own room, and then one day you stopped that too, and you … didn’t do anything. You didn’t need me anymore, and you didn’t talk to me anymore, and then one day I realized I wasn’t Mommy anymore.” Her eyes moved, almost imperceptibly; she was no longer focusing on my face but on some phantom point beyond it. “I used to be April; I used to be ‘dear.’ Now I don’t know what I am.”
I stood up calmly, carried my dishes to the counter, and dumped the uneaten food in the garbage. I stood there for a moment, staring at the wall.
“I’m sorry I slapped you,” she whispered.
I reached out to the counter, to the knife block by the sink, and pulled out a long kitchen knife. Mom gasped behind me. It was the same knife I’d threatened her with nearly a year ago. I turned, walked to the table, and set it gently in front of her.
“Remember this the next time you doubt me,” I said. “Of the two of us, I’m the one who held back when an argument turned violent.”
I walked out the door and drove away.
* * *
“Hi John,” said Marci’s mom, opening their front door. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Why?”
“Your teacher died,” she said, pulling me inside. “I’m sure you’re just sick over it.”
“He was a pedophile,” I said. “He was leering at your daughter. I say he got what he deserved.”
“He deserved to be fired, and worse.” Her voice was hard. “But he didn’t deserve to die.”
Didn’t he? Pornography leads to violence—that’s exactly how Ted Bundy got started—and a pedophile in a position of control over minors, like Mr. Coleman, was a crime just waiting to happen. He’d worked at the school for years, so there were bound to be students and former students coming out now with tales of illicit offers, molestation, perhaps even rape. If he hadn’t done it yet, he would have. What was so bad about stopping it for good?
Logical or not, it wasn’t an argument I wanted to get into at that moment. I needed to analyze the new evidence, and for that I needed Marci.
“You’re right,” I lied, “nobody deserves that. Is Marci here?”
“She’s upstairs in her room,” said Mrs. Jensen, “and I’m so glad you’re here. Perhaps you can cheer her up.”
Cheer her up? I thought, following Mrs. Jensen up the stairs. Even if her mom’s upset over the death, why would Marci be? She hated Mr. Coleman.
We stopped outside a closed, narrow door, and Mrs. Jensen knocked softly.
“Marci, honey?”
“I want to be alone for a while,” said Marci, her voice soft and cracked. She’d been crying.
So she was upset. People with empathy are so weird.
“John’s here,” she said. “Do you want to talk to him?”
There was a pause, then a shuffle of stuff being moved around behind the door.
“Sure,” said Marci at last. She opened the door, rubbing her eye with the palm of her hand. Her clothes were rumpled, and her eyes were red and raw. She saw me and laughed awkwardly. “I’m sorry, I look hideous.”
“You look fine,” I said.
“Come on in,” she said, standing to the side and gesturing into her room. “Sorry it’s a mess.”
“Keep the door open,” said Mrs. Jensen sternly before turning to go back downstairs.
I walked into Marci’s bedroom, which was indeed a mess, and sat on the desk chair. Marci sat on her hastily made bed, cross-legged, and combed her fingers through her hair.
“Seriously,” I said, “you look fine.”
“Good, then screw this.” She stopped fiddling with her hair and fell backward, lying down on the bed with her legs still crossed. “This is the worst thing ever.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking around the room. It was full of posters and photos and knickknacks, some of them new but some of them obviously several years old. The room wasn’t so much decorated as attacked. “Your mom said the same thing,” I continued, “but I didn’t expect you to take it this hard.”
She laughed hollowly. “You didn’t expect me to take it this hard? I’m the one who got him killed!”
“What?”
“This never would have happened without me. I’m the one who reported him, I’m the one who got him into the public view, I’m the one who made him a target. I may as well have just pulled the trigger myself.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said.
She started crying again. “You don’t know what it feels like to be responsible for this.”
Oh, I knew what it felt like—I just didn’t know what it felt like to feel bad about it.
“Listen,” I said. “If you were responsible, you’d have done the world a favor. But you’re not responsible because this is not a punishment killing, so exposing him doesn’t lead straight to his death. There’s nothing about the Handyman that suggests she’s punishing people; the first two victims were completely innocent of anything.”
“How could this not be a punishment?” she asked. “Didn’t you hear about the eyes?”
“The eyes?” This was new.
“Oh damn, that’s not even public yet.”
“Your dad told you something?” I asked, leaning forward. “What was it?” Something about the word “eyes” was bothering me—niggling at my memory, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Not tonight, John. I can’t do this anymore.”
“But this is important! If the manner of the killing changed then it’s a new clue, or it’s an escalation from the killer. If you’ve got something new you’ve got to tell me.”
“Don’t you even care?” asked Marci, sitting up. Her face was wet. “Somebody died last night, and it was my fault!”
“Of course I care,” I said. “If I didn’t care I wouldn’t be trying to stop her.”
“I’m not talking about her,” she said, her eyes pleading, “I’m talking about me.”
She started sobbing again, and flopped back down on the bed, curling up on her side.
I knew I had to say something, but what? I’d felt awkward enough talking to Marci when she was happy, and now that she was sad I had no idea what to do.
Eyes … eyeballs … It was right on the tip of my brain.
Charles Albright, the Eyeball Killer. I stopped abruptly, shocked by the sudden recollection. I’d mentioned Albright to Marci and her dad just a few days ago. I’d mentioned stealing eyeballs to a man who already had a strong reason to hate Mr. Coleman, and a few days later Mr. Coleman was killed, and his eyes were either damaged or stolen. Was it just a coincidence?
Or was Officer Jensen the Handyman?
Obviously it wasn’t the Eyeball Killer himself—Charles Albright was in jail, happily drawing pictures of eyes on the walls of his cell—but it might be a hint or a clue. Maybe it was a message to me: “I killed the man you were talking about, in the manner you were talking about. You have to know that it’s me now.” Was he getting tired of waiting for me to figure it out? Was this little piece of escalation designed to spur me into action?
But it didn’t fit. If Officer Jensen was a demon, and wanted me dead, why not just kill me? And how had he become a demon? Even if Nobody was a genderless shapeshifter, able to assume a man’s identity as easily as a woman’s, why choose Mr. Jensen? Marci and I hadn’t even talked yet when the first victim died.… I paused, feeling sick. We didn’t talk before the first killing, but we talked right afterward, specifically because Marci’s dad had told her about me. Had he been orchestrating this entire thing, bringing us together and planting these careful crime scenes, all for some purpose of his or her own? What could Nobody possibly be planning?
There were so many holes in the idea—yes, if Officer Jensen was human he’d have great reason to hate Mr. Coleman, because he was harassing his daughter, but a demon masquerading as Officer Jensen wouldn’t hate him at all. There would be no reason to break his pattern and kill Coleman when the eyes of any other victim would serve just as well. There were too many pieces that didn’t fit at all.…
… and yet there were other pieces that fit almost too perfectly. Marci’s dad had pushed us together. Marci’s dad had told her the secret of Coleman’s eyeballs, knowing she would tell me. Marci’s dad.
Marci.
I looked at Marci again, curled up on her bed, sobbing. Was it her? If Nobody was a shapeshifter then she could be anybody—Marci, Marci’s dad, even my own mother. If Marci was a demon, that could explain why she’d been so friendly to me. She was a smart, popular, beautiful girl who’d never given me the time of day until three weeks ago. What was her plan? What did she want? If she wanted to kill me, why not do it now when she had the chance—why lie there and pretend to cry?
The skin of her waist was exposed where her T-shirt had rumpled up away from her waistline; I could see her smooth, pink skin, the soft ridge of her hip, the intoxicating outline of her breasts and backside pressing against her clothes.
I could kill her now—strike first, before she knew I’d learned her secret. And then with time and the proper tools I could learn all her secrets; I could pry her open and find the demon inside. I could finally understand.
My hands were shaking, trembling in time to Marci’s sobbing body.
Get up and leave.
I shifted in my chair, moving just slightly to see more of her exposed back. But then, without any conscious decision, I found myself moving away, turning from her completely. My rules against looking at girls. I faced the wall, breathing heavily, focusing on the tacks and creases in the corner of an ancient poster.
I shouldn’t be here. I was acting paranoid, seeing demons everywhere I looked. I was a threat to Marci, and a threat to myself. I had to leave.
I stood up. “I have to go.”
Marci rolled over. “Please don’t go, John, I’m sorry, I’m just a wreck—”
“No, I have to go.” I took a step toward the door as Marci stood up. Her T-shirt cascaded back down around her body, and the desire to stay welled up even stronger, a bursting, violent geyser in my pit of my stomach. I forced myself to look away again; everything I’d thought tonight was stupid and paranoid. I was losing control. “I have to go.”
“Why?”
There was something in her voice, but my mind was too muddled to read it. Was she sad? Confused? Sorry? Happy? Angry? I was destroying our friendship; I was abandoning her in her hour of need.
I was saving her life.
“I’m sorry,” I said, but my voice sounded stiff and robotic. I tried to think of an excuse, anything to make me look less cruel, less suspicious, less hollow. Nothing came. I put a hand on the door frame and ground out a final good-bye: “Don’t hate me.” It was the best I could do.
I walked down the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door, ignoring Mrs. Jensen’s confused farewell. I had to think, and I couldn’t do it here. I couldn’t risk any more than I had. But I couldn’t just stop, either—something had happened to Mr. Coleman’s eyes, and I needed to know what it meant. I needed to solve this puzzle and stop this demon—but how? I couldn’t talk to Mom, I couldn’t talk to Brooke, and now I couldn’t talk to Marci, maybe ever again. I supposed there was always Max, but that’s not what I needed—another dumb kid with tunnel vision. This was a real demon, not a regular killer, and trying to treat it like a regular killer had gotten me nowhere. Either Mr. Coleman’s death literally made no sense, or it made perfect sense within a set of factors I hadn’t considered. I’d missed those factors thus far because I was brainstorming with people who didn’t acknowledge the supernatural, but that had to change. It was time to visit the only person left who I could talk to about demons.
It was time to visit Father Erikson again.