The Black Chronicle (12 page)

              The only thing which would indicate anything happened there at all would be the abandoned car and the bottle of alcohol left at the edge of the cliff.

              He knew how it would look. One day, weeks from now a father and son out fishing together would find his bloated corpse washed up on the shore. He would be identified by the license in his wallet and at the morgue they would find traces of drugs and alcohol in his blood. He may even be semi-famous enough now to be mentioned on the news.
Dr
. J
eremy Foster forensic psychologist and author known for his instrumental role in the Victor Matherport case was found dead today washed up on the shore of the Pacific ocean just outside of orange county. Police believe Dr. Foster took his own life.

              And to everyone it would all make sense. If you play with fire and all that. It would simply seem as though it was all too much for him. That the misery of life and his profession was just to taxing. But no, it wouldn’t just
seem
like that. It
was
that.

              His knees went weak and he let the bottle fall to the dirt. He thought of his father, dead by suicide, and then his brother and now him. He thought about the things we pass from one to another. Nature or nurture was a pretty fucking lopsided debate in the end wasn't it? The environment always wins.

              He leaned forward, feeling the expanse of space around him suddenly widen as he teetered. His phone began to ring. It rang and rang and rang...

              He was toying with her the way a cat might toy with a mouse; the way God toys with people. Sometimes he would call her, other times send email. Mary was half expecting a Twitter follow. She had just received a picture in her email of Cindy dressed up as the Blood Witch. The character Mary was best known for. Seeing her like that made it so clear how this was obviously all her fault. What was she thinking all these years? Even before this nightmare began, she was a terrible influence on her niece. The whole thing was juvenile and it was embarrassing. And the worst part of it all was that it was poor sweet Cindy paying for it. She couldn't just play along with this sick fuck any longer.  

              She had a gun, a Glock nine-teen hand gun that had sat in her nightstand untouched since she bought it three years prior. She forgot it was even there for the most part, but it had been a tremendous comfort since this situation had begun. Despite what a comfort it was to have it close by,  and she always had it close by now, even taking it to the bathroom with her- it was not going to help her fix the situation or find her niece.                    

              It was two nearly two A.M. when she decided to call Dr. Foster. He would probably get the wrong impression. Calling at this time of night said only one thing to a man. Therapist or not. Unless she broke down and continued crying with him on the phone, which was something she really didn’t want to do but most likely would anyways.

              The phone rang and rang and rang. Of course he was asleep but she didn’t care.  It had been four days of her living with this terrifying secret. The phone rang until his voice mail picked up. She hung up and called again. Finally on the tenth ring or so, he answered.

              “Who is this?”

              “It’s – it’s Mary…. We met t- today… in your office,” she stammered, suddenly more alert.

              “Okay,” he said, his voice slightly rising at the end of the word signalling a question, like why they fuck are you calling me this late?

              “I’m sorry… I have nobody else I can call.”

She could hear him literally sigh into the phone. She didn’t blame him. This guy had to deal with people’s problems all day long the last thing he wanted was a call at two in the morning from one more basket case. Of course he did give her his number but she had the hunch that he had done so out of a flash of unprofessionalism. Or least she hoped it was just a flash.

              “What’s wrong?”

              “Well… I would like to speak with you about it in person.”

              “Well Mary. I’m not sure if I will be available this week.”

              “I was thinking more like… now?” Another long painful silence. “I need your help. I'm begging you.”

              “Text me your address.”

              “Thank you so much.” She said hitting end on the phone and firing off her address to him.

              The first thing she had to do was clean up her face. She looked like a schizophrenic bag lady. The face was scrubbed and dabbed with cover up to hide the deep bags under her eyes. She had spilt a little wine on her jeans earlier so changed into a new pair, put on a sports bra under her t-shirt to hide the girls a bit and threw on a pair of fresh socks.

              She was surprised it only took him an hour to get to her place. Once she opened the door and smelt the faint scent of liquor hiding behind the mint gum he was chewing a hundred chomps a minute, she realized he was still up when she called. Perhaps he was at a party or maybe he was just at home by himself, taking the edge off.

              “Thank you so much for coming. Please come in.”

              And he did so as though he had been there a hundred times before. He walked past a picture of her winning a Scream Award, framed proudly on the wall next to a framed set of movie stills of the Blood Witch set. By time she locked the door and followed him into the living room he had already seated himself on the sofa.

              “I can’t tell you how thankful I am for you coming over like this… I can’t imagine what you must be thinking.”

                            “So what's wrong?” He asked sidestepping the pretence.

              “I don’t want you to get mad,” she said swatting a strand of her long blond her from her face.

              “I’m not mad.”

              “I know you’re not now but you may get mad. And I want you to know I just didn’t know who else to turn to.”

              “Okay. I won’t get mad.”

              She studied him for a second. He looked like a man who barely had the strength to get to give a fuck let alone express anything as strong as anger.   

              “I read your article. The one in Rolling stone. About the Mister killer.”

              That got his attention quick. He sat more upright and stared down his nose at her as if he expected something unwelcome to come next.

              “I was really impressed with what you wrote. How you got him to trust you. How you had to fully understand his delusion so you could relate to him and get him to tell you were those bodies were.”

              Jeremy looked up at the door. This was obviously making him uncomfortable and she didn’t blame him but they both understood that he was in for the duration now.              

              “I guess I should start by explaining to you what I do. Like I said I’m an actress. For slasher films. I’m known as a ‘scream queen’” she said using her fingers to hang invisible quotes over the title. I also own and am the editor of a magazine for those types of movies. Called Rue Morgue. As you can imagine, being a woman, in that industry tends to attract a lot of attention from… Well creeps really. Mentally ill people in some cases. I’ve seen it all believe me.”

              “Okay.”

              “Okay, so I get this video…” she began to tear up and fanned uselessly her eyes with her well manicured hands. “I’m sorry… it’s just… Oh god… This is so fucked up... Maybe I should just show you.” She said and waited for a response.

              “Sure,” he said. What else could he say?

              She left and returned with a laptop which she placed on the coffee table and set closer to him so they could both see the screen. She hit play on the media player and the video began. Jeremy waited patiently as the first minute passed. It was nothing but an empty white room. Then Mister stepped into frame. His white ghoulish face sneering scornfully at the two of them from the screen. Jeremy quickly looked up at Mary and he could see by her face, that this was real. Or that at least she believed it was.

              Mary couldn’t bring herself to watch it. She turned away from the screen.

              “That girl is my niece.”

              He watched the horror unfold. The pliers, the screaming, Mister's little speech.

             
If you go to the police. If you tell anyone. I will kill her. I will kill her in the most creative and painful way I can think of. And trust me. I will know. I know more then you could possible realize.

She could see on his face the moment when it all clicked into place for him. She received the video from Mister who has abducted her niece. She had either already read the article or found it online after the fact, and felt that he could help her in some way, without running the risk of contacting the police, as Mister warned her not to. 

              Jeremy stood up, suddenly uber alert while Mary just stared down at the floor, softly crying.

              “Since you’ve gone through all this to speak with me, I’m going to guess you haven’t contacted the police?”

              She shook her head.

              “How long ago did you receive this?”

              “Four days.”

              “
Four days
?” He exploded, and then quickly caught himself. “And the girl’s parents?” he asked. She shook her head again for no.

              “Mary, you can’t just do nothing. You can’t just wait.”

              “I know! That’s why I came to see you!”

              “Well what do you think I can do?”

              “You’re a forensic psychologist. You worked on this case. You can help me figure out what he wants.”

              “Yes I am a forensic psychologist and I've done profiling for the FBI but I’m not a criminal investigator. It's not like the movies. Criminal profiling does not catch criminals. It's simply a tool to aid investigators. And I
haven’t
worked on this case. The man in that video is not Victor Matherport.”

              “I’m so sorry!” She said bursting out again into long painful sobs.

              “It’s okay. It’s okay. We’ll figure this out,” he finally had to assure just to get her to stop.

              “Tell me what to do, Tell me what I should do.”

              “Well, for starters you have to call the FBI and after that you have to inform her parents.”

              She looked up at him, he mascara starting to run and soil her sad, beautiful face.

              “Okay. Okay I will call them. He just can’t find out… If he kills Cindy….”

              Mary hoped he understood her indecision. It was pretty obvious Mister had been following and watching her. How else would he know who her niece was? She was sure Dr. Foster knew what a terrifying situation this was for her. Hell, she would bet that if Mister had fixed his psychopathic fixation onto him he would move clear cross the country to get away from him. He’d probably move to Canada. He’d be watching hockey and wearing mittens by Tuesday.

              “Okay listen. I will go to the Bureau for you. I know the guy that is in charge of the Mister case.”

              “You see! That’s why I came to you. I knew you could help me. Thank you so much Jeremy.”

              She came close and wrapped her arms around him. It was the kind of hug a girl may give her father after he had screamed at her for being bad. He looked down at her sorrowful face, could feel her firm body quivering against his with each soft sob. He knew it was all kinds of wrong but he couldn't help but be strangely intoxicated by her beauty and vulnerability. Or maybe it was more about
his
own vulnerability. Either way, he needed to leave. He wiped the mascara from under her eyes with his thumbs.

              “I will go speak with them first thing in the morning. I will call you as soon as I'm done. They are going to want to meet with you. Don't worry. It won't be anywhere public.”

              “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

              “I better get going. Stay here. Don't go out for food, nothing, order in.”

              “Believe me, I wasn't planning on going anywhere.”

              He went to leave then stopped and asked, “Do you own a gun?”

              “Yeah, I do actually.”

              “Good. Keep it loaded.
But be careful
.”

              She saw him to the door, and then let herself fall onto to the couch, the first glimmer of hope in days starting to ease the tension in her heart, but Jeremy’s last piece of advice kept repeating in her head negating her mild elation. Keep it loaded, keep it loaded.