Side Effects: An FBI Psychological Thriller (10 page)

I did not crawl or climb but
jumped
into the grave. I expected the earth to be solid, the jump to punish my knees and ankles, but the earth was soft. Unnaturally soft. It swallowed my legs up to the knee. I immediately braced my hands on either side of me and went to push myself out, but my hands merely sank into the earth, affording me no leverage. I needed Christopher’s help.

Of course he was gone now.

I was alone in the open grave, stuck up to my knees. I began a frantic dig. If I couldn’t push myself to the surface, I would have to dig my way out.

I dug furiously around my knees, scooping up handfuls of dirt in both hands and tossing them into the farthest corner of the grave. All I needed was to clear my ankles; from there I felt certain I could pull one foot free, and then from there the other free. Except with each scoop tossed, it seemed as if the divot I’d created would regenerate, produce more soil. The faster I dug and tossed, the quicker the soil would replace itself. I was a woman making a futile attempt at bailing out a boat destined to sink. However if there was one saving grace, it was that
I
was not sinking. I remained no deeper than up to my knees; the soil around me was not rising.

And then Mike appeared at the base of the grave with shovel in hand, eager to change that.

“
What are you doing!?
”

Mike continued lobbing shovelfuls of soil into the grave as he spoke. His tone was conversational and airy. “You want to die, right? So you can be with Christopher again?” He then threw another shovelful at my face, and with a look of contempt added: “Oh, and me, of course.”

I wiped and spat soil away again. “No, no I was wrong; I don’t want to die.”

Mike continued shoveling, his contempt for me gone, the airy tone back. “Too late.”

“Mike, no! I’m sorry!
I’m sorry!
Please stop!!!
”

He did. But not because I’d asked him to. He stopped because someone had now joined him at his side—my oldest brother Dave.”

“Take a break, Mike,” Dave said.

Mike smiled, handed Dave the shovel and patted him on the back. Over his shoulder as he went to leave, he said: “See you soon, Maggie.”

“
Mike, wait! Oh God, MIKE!!!
”

“Would you shut up already?” Dave said to me. “You always were such a baby.” He scooped up a big shovelful of soil and grinned. Through fog and night his grin somehow shone down on me, illuminating the malevolence in his intent. “Now we’re gonna have some fun. You remember this, don’t you? No quilt and closet, but this is just as good—better even.”

My heart felt ready to explode from my chest. “
Dave, please!
”

He laughed as he lobbed shovel after shovel of soil.

“
Please!!!
”

Shovel after shovel, now chanting his trademark mantra: “
Smother! Smother! Smother! Maggie cries just like her mother!
”

“
PLEASE!!!
”

Dave stopped. Stabbed the shovel into the earth and began rubbing his right palm. There was a sizable wound on it. He winced as he rubbed it. “Where do you suppose this came from?” he asked me. He started wandering away, all of his attention now on his wounded palm, as though I was never there.

The soil was up to my waist now. I fought and wriggled but it was futile.

“
Help me! Someone, help me!!!
”

A third visitor appeared at the base of the grave. A man. His face, his body inexplicably cloaked in shadows no matter which direction he moved. A phantom.

“Please, help me,” I called up to him.

He grabbed the shovel, scooped up a mound of soil, and looked down at me with a face that held no face, only darkness. “Scared?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said desperately, all pride gone.

“Good—then look over there, please.”

I followed his gaze to the left of the grave where a video camera on a tripod stood tall, its little red eye glowing, recording, the camera angled downward, pointing directly at me.

“You are number six,” he said to me, and then lobbed his shovelful of dirt into my grave.

“Jesus, Mags, what is it?”

In retrospect, I feel a little embarrassed by it, but at the time all I could do was hug him and start crying.

“It’s not Irony Appreciation Day today, Dr. Cole,” I said.

“No?”

“Nope. It’s Martyr Day.”

Dr. Cole gave the same accommodating little smile he always gives when I try for levity when dealing with something heavy. “Suffering for your cause? I imagine every day for you since our last session has been Martyr Day.”

“Well, then today is Super Duper Martyr Day.”

His accommodating little smile became genuine, a tiny crinkle to his eyes. “Tell me,” he said.

“I drank too much the other night,” I said.

“You drank too much while taking a full dose of the drug.”

“Yes.”

Dr. Cole was the only person (well, besides Morris now) that knew about the bad dreams that come as a result of too much alcohol on the drug.

“Why?” he asked.

“Mike’s death hit me very suddenly.”

“
Mike’s
death?”

I nodded at him knowingly, as if I was just as surprised as he was. “Yeah…I guess it finally hit me. Maybe not a knockout punch or anything, but enough to make me order a third glass of wine.”

“How much did you end up drinking?”

“Just the three glasses.”

Dr. Cole frowned a little. “Well, that doesn’t seem too excessive.”

“I didn’t think so either. I guess you never can tell with a drug like this, can you?”

Dr. Cole didn’t answer, just scribbled some notes. He then asked: “Any sickness the following day? Fever-like symptoms like the time before?”

“No—just the bad dream. Perhaps the extra glass of wine was enough to cause the dreams, but not enough to make me sick.”

Again, Dr. Cole didn’t reply, only scribbled more notes. “Tell me about the dream.”

Analyzing time.

“Why do you suppose it was Morris who first knocked on your motel room door? Why not Mike or Christopher or your brother?”

I’d done some analyzing of my own before my session with Dr. Cole. How could I not? “Without Morris, I wouldn’t be here, discussing it all with you. He’s the reason I was in that hotel to begin with. He’s the reason I chose to go back on a full dose of the drug. His knocking on my door, getting the whole dream started…I guess it’s akin to his asking me for help. How’s that?”

Dr. Cole nodded slowly. “I’d say that’s a solid assessment.”

“Do I pass?”

“I’d say we’ve only just begun.”

I sang the chorus to The Carpenters’ “We’ve Only Just Begun.”

No accommodating smile at my levity this time. There’s a line.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Your husband and son led you to the open grave,” he said. “Why do you suppose it was them who led you?”

“At first I thought it was symbolic—like if I kept going on this path with the drug I would be joining them soon. I thought this especially true when Mike started to bury me, telling me it was what I wanted.”

“But you don’t think that now?”

“No,” I said. “I think that was just my guilt seeping into the dream. My guilt for not mourning Mike’s death the way I should be.”

“So then what do you think? Why
did
Mike and Christopher lead you to the grave?”

Unlike the Morris knocking on my door answer, I was less confident with this one. “I don’t really know…my gut—my
heart
—wants me to think they were trying to help me. Sounds crazy, right? I mean, it’s my dream after all; the content, no matter how cryptic, is coming from inside
my
head.”

“You said the grave read ‘I am number six.’ What do you think that meant?”

This one was easy.

“Victim number six. The one we found in the open grave in upstate Pennsylvania. That’s what it meant.”

“And then after that?” Dr. Cole asked.

“After that?”

“Recount it for me again, except add your interpretation of
why
it happened, what it meant.”

“An essay question?”

Got the accommodating smile this time. Felt like extra credit after the red ink slashes that was my Carpenters bomb.

“Okay,” I said. “I jumped into the grave when I thought Christopher was in there. When I sank up to my knees, unable to pull myself out, it was my mind’s way of telling me I was trapped. This became all the more evident when my brother David appeared and started burying me alive, looking to suffocate me like he did when we were kids.”

“Your claustrophobia.”

“Yes.”

“His chant about making you cry like your mother.”

I frowned. “Well, I don’t think
that
really meant anything. It was just something he always used to say—I probably dreamt it to give the whole thing more authenticity, make it all the more frightening.”

“You don’t see your mother’s frequent tears at the hands of your father, and later your older brothers’ as relevant?”

“No.”

“You often consoled your mother after her torment; and she you. What was it you did for her?”

“I just hugged her, that’s all.”

“And what did she do for you?”

“She sang to me.”

“What did she sing?”

“‘All the Pretty Little Horses.’ All due respect, Dr. Cole, I think we’re getting off track.”

He did not look as if he agreed, but he nodded anyway, gesturing for me to continue.

“When David was burying me, he suddenly complained of a wound on his right palm. This told me there was a strong connection between our guy and what David was doing.”

“The wounds on the right palms of all the victims.”

“Yup. When the faceless man appeared after David and asked me if I was scared, and I admitted I was, he said he was glad and asked me to look at the camera fixed by the grave.”

“You already stated you believe your guy is using photographs or video of his victims as his trophies.”

“Yes.”

“And you believe victim number six had a fear of being buried alive, not unlike your claustrophobia.”

“Yes.”

“And you believe your guy’s primary fantasy is all about fear; it’s what he aims to capture on film.”

“I’m pretty confident. But it’s
true
fear he’s after. Fear of death is not enough for this guy. The burning of the homeless man after he’d confessed his horrific fear of fire makes all the more sense now. In light of my theory, our SAC gave us the green light—grudgingly I think, but we’re desperate—to dig deeper into the victims’ pasts, see if they did have significant phobias, and if so, see if they sought help for them. See if there’s a connection somewhere.”

“And what about the excessive bludgeoning?” Dr. Cole asked. “What ultimately kills them?”

“I don’t know that yet,” I said.

“The wounds on the right palm?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you feel strongly that his primary urge, what fuels his fantasy, is all about exploiting men’s fears.”

“Yes.”

“Why would a man feel the need to do such a thing to other men do you think?”

I shrugged. “Lots of reasons. He has his own deep-seated fears, maybe. Those fears make him feel like less of a man. Seeing other men freak might eradicate those insecurities.”

“Have you considered the possibility that he was heavily bullied as a child? That perhaps his victims are all culprits?”

“A bullied kid exacting revenge years later?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a good theory. Morris originally considered it before I came on board, but the significant discrepancy in age of all the victims—nineteen to sixty-five—makes the theory highly unlikely. Still, Morris dug; who said the bullies had to be our guy’s peers, right? Adults can be just as cruel to children.”

“Sad but true.”

“Yeah, well, background checks have the victims’ places of birth spread out all over the east coast. Morris even dug a little deeper in the lottery-winning chance all victims might have relocated to the same town at one point or another. No luck.”

Dr. Cole picked up his notebook and pen again. “So, in conclusion…”

“What do we have?”

“Yes,” he said.

I took a deep breath. “What we likely have is a guy who abducts men of all ages and races, finds and exploits their darkest fears, and then somehow, for reasons we don’t know, wounds their right palms, and then gratuitously bashes their heads in, all while filming it.”

I considered my spiel. Out loud it didn’t sound like much at all. In fact: “I walked in here this morning thinking we’d had a breakthrough. Now I’m not so sure—it still seems too conjecturish.”

“Why not wait until you and Morris do your investigating this afternoon—perhaps you’ll look back at this fear theory of yours as the most significant catalyst in solving the case.”

“I’d like to be there now—looking back on it all.”

“I’m sure.”

With a tiny smirk I said, “You know, Dr. Cole, if you’re right, if this fear theory I got from my dream
is
the primary catalyst in solving the case, then I have drugs and alcohol to thank for it.”

Dr. Cole shook his head, the accommodating little smile there, but only just.

I decided to quit while I was ahead. “Same time next week?”