“Hello, John,” said Officer Jensen, sitting across the table from me. “You’ve met Officer Moore, and this is Cathy Ostler from the FBI. I know you’ve answered a lot of questions already, but they just want to ask a few more.”
The Handyman’s body never disintegrated. I thought. He was never a demon at all. There had to be a real demon in town somewhere, but where?
“Hi,” I said. Agent Ostler sat down, and Officer Moore leaned against the table.
“So,” said the woman—Agent Ostler. “Sounds like you’ve had quite a night.”
“You could say that.”
“Yes, I certainly could,” she said. “At ten o’clock at night we get a phone call from a dead serial killer, we hear the confession of another serial killer, and when we arrive on the scene we find a wanted fugitive from ten states away dead at the feet of a teenage boy who’s been previously involved in the deaths of one-two-three-four other people. ‘Quite a night,’ seems to be putting it pretty mildly.”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“Have you done anything?”
“Well, I’ve apparently witnessed too many crimes. How often can I almost get killed before you assume I’m guilty of something? Is there a specific legal limit, or do you guys play it by ear?”
“Nobody is accusing you of anything,” said Officer Jensen, scowling at me. He’s warning me to watch my mouth. “But even you have to admit that your involvement in this most recent attack is a lot harder to explain away than the last two.”
“Not really,” I said, hoping my confidence would make my story seem stronger. “The Handyman thought that certain community figures were leading the others into sin, so he killed them. He admitted that much in his letter. Then every news outlet in town made me look like a hero for saving the kids at the dance, and he came to the conclusion that I was one of the ‘bad’ community figures. He came after me. End of story.”
“And the barricade in your living room?” asked Officer Moore.
I’d had just enough time to hide the gun and the exhaust hose before the police showed up; there hadn’t been time to hide the barricades, so I tried to explain them away. “I was home alone,” I said, “and I saw a man sitting in his car in front of my house. I got scared—‘stranger danger’ and all that. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“If you were so scared,” asked Agent Ostler, “why did you crawl out the window to confront him?”
“I crawled out the window to escape,” I said. “He just kept knocking and knocking, and I thought he was going to get in. I thought I could drive away before he found me, but he must have heard the car.”
“He must have,” said Agent Ostler. “He also must have the fastest pistol in the world, to have hit your moving car with two shots so close together. The bullet holes were less than an inch apart.”
“I was going very slowly. I thought if I just put it in neutral and pushed it into the street, he wouldn’t hear me.”
“But he did.”
“Turns out it’s hard to steer while running alongside and pushing, so I hit the house. I’ve had an astonishing amount of bad luck over the last year.”
Agent Ostler stared at me, silent as a hawk, while Officer Jensen scowled at her. Officer Moore shook his head and spoke. “Everything you’ve told us makes a certain amount of sense,” he said, “obviously pending a full forensic analysis. The only piece we’re not sure of yet, and perhaps you can help us explain it, is—”
“How long were you going to keep Clark Forman’s cell phone?” snapped Agent Ostler.
I was very good at feigning innocence. “What?”
“The phone you used to call 911,” she said. “Not only is it half a dozen felonies to hide the evidence from a previous case, but it calls that entire case—and your involvement in it—into question. What were you doing with his phone?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t make me get official on you,” she said, her face harsh, “because I can put a stop to this friendly little meeting right now, and we can treat this like the federal case it is.”
Officer Jensen put out a hand to quiet her, and turned to me. “Just tell us where you got the phone that you called us with tonight.”
“I didn’t call you tonight,” I said. “He did. Why, was it Forman’s phone?”
They stared at me.
“Because that’s pretty scary,” I said. “Do you think this is the mystery accomplice you’ve been looking for?”
“He called the police on himself?” asked Agent Ostler, folding her arms.
“I guess he wanted to turn himself in,” I said. “Or at least confess to someone official, before he shot himself.”
Officer Jensen sighed, and Officer Moore leaned forward. “You said he set out tonight to kill you, and now you say that he killed himself instead. What happened to change his mind?”
“I don’t know,” I said, keeping my face blank. “Maybe I just have that effect on people.”
Agent Ostler scowled. “I am authorized to place you in protective custody if I have reason to believe you’re in danger. Believe me when I say that the kind of custody I’m talking about would be largely indistinguishable from prison.”
“He won’t run,” said Officer Jensen, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. “I can vouch for him.”
“You’re sure?” she asked.
“He’ll stay in town, he’ll participate in every interview, and he’ll facilitate the investigation in every way he can.” He looked at me pointedly. “Is that right, John?”
“Of course.” I nodded. “Anything you need.”
“Alright then,” said Agent Ostler, “you can go. But I assure you that we will be watching you very closely.”
* * *
“John, you’re okay!” Mom ran across the police station lobby and grabbed me in a hug, crushing me with the force of it. I flailed my arms, patted her on the back, and pulled away just far enough to breathe. “I was so worried about you. I can’t believe you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” I said, pulling further away. “Just give me some air.”
“I never should have gone away tonight,” she said, “I’ll never do it again.”
“Please, no,” I said. “Don’t let one crazy killer justify any more smothering. I’ll go insane.”
“This is the third crazy killer, as I’m sure you’re well aware.” She stooped to look straight into my eyes, though she didn’t have to stoop far. “Tell me you had nothing to do with this,” she said. “Tell me right now, right here, that this was an unprovoked attack.”
I looked back, my face blank and innocent. “I have never seen that man before tonight. I didn’t even know he existed.”
“You swear?”
“I swear.” I looked past her and saw Lauren beyond, arms folded, face pale and tight; she was scared, but she was angry, too. She knows I planned this, and she knows I tricked her into getting Mom out of the way. Will she tell the police?
* * *
It was nearly two in the morning when we left the police station, and even later when my mom finally fell asleep. I lay awake turning restlessly in bed. At three in the morning, still wide awake, I crept outside and into the forest, searching in the dark for Max’s gun. It was still there, a good fifty feet into the trees, untouched and unsuspected. I wiped a streak of dirt from it with my hand, hefting it, then bent back down and buried it deeper. Agent Ostler was still too suspicious; I couldn’t let her find me with a gun, even an unfired one. I walked back to the mortuary, let myself in the back door, and spent the next hour putting all the coffins away and imagining a hundred different killers—silent, invisible, unstoppable. Where is Nobody?
By 4:30 I couldn’t stand the waiting and called Marci’s cell on our kitchen phone. It rang seven times before her voice mail picked up; I hung up, counted to three, and dialed the number again. She answered on the sixth ring.
“John?”
“Are you okay?”
“John, it’s four thirty in the morning.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m … I’m fine. What’s wrong?”
“Hold very still and listen very closely. Do you hear anything?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just do it.”
Pause. “I can hear the water softener cycling in the basement.”
“That’s it? Are you sure?”
“That’s it,” she said, more awake. “Now tell me what’s wrong. Is there something in my house?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know if you’d even be able to tell.”
“John, are you … drunk? You’re not making any sense.”
“I’m worried about you,” I said. “That’s a new thing for me, and I’m not very good at it. Look out your window.”
“You’re freaking me out, John. Just tell me what’s wrong.”
I took a deep breath. “I think she’s coming for you.”
“The Handyman?”
“The Handyman died last night; he came to my house, ranted for a while, and shot himself in the head.”
“Holy crap—”
“But I think there’s another one,” I said. “One that we haven’t talked about.”
“You said he attacked you?”
“I’m fine,” I said, “now listen—you’re the one who needs to be worried. Turn on your light, turn on all the lights in the house, and then go into your parents’ room.”
“How’s that going to help?”
“This killer won’t touch you if there are any witnesses—or maybe it can’t touch you around witnesses. I don’t know. It makes everything look like suicide.”
She gasped.
“And I think…” I’d never told her about the demons—out of everything I’d shared with Marci, that was the one secret I’d kept. Do I dare tell her now?
I honestly don’t think I have a choice.
“This is going to sound weird,” I said, “but you have to trust me. I think this new killer might be supernatural.” I waited for her to laugh or scoff, but she was completely silent. I continued. “The Clayton Killer and Agent Forman were both … something. Creatures, demons, I don’t know. I’m telling you this because I think the new killer is the same thing. I don’t know if it’s coming after you or … I don’t know. I just want you to be safe.”
There was a long silence.
“Marci?”
“You were there,” she said slowly, “in his house.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s how I know. I know it sounds insane but you have to trust me.”
“Brooke was there too.”
“I…” That was a weird thing to say. “Yeah, she was.”
“Did she see it?”
“The demon? I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“She wouldn’t be scared now. Not after what she’s gone through, and with you to help her.”
“Marci, are…” I paused. “Are you okay? Did you turn on all the lights like I told you?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I was just thinking. Sometimes I wish I could be…” Pause. “Okay, my lights are on.”
“Go into your parents’ room,” I said. “Stay there until everyone else wakes up; it’s the safest place right now. I’ll be there at seven.”
“Thanks.” Pause. “I love you, John.”
Love. Somehow it always comes back to love.
Do I love her too?
“I’ll be there at seven,” I said, and hung up the phone.
When I got to her house at 6:50, she was already dead.