The Runaway (3 page)

Anne had been sick – a genetic disease of the heart. She never told this to anyone – not even Paul. Her medical supplies were something she had taken care of herself. That, coupled with the slight schizophrenic hallucinations made her into something else entirely once her disillusions had set in. She had tried aborting her child while she was still in her womb, for she feared she was giving birth to the devil. And that one of the many demented fantasies of Anne. Paul was obviously getting the hints, the subtle symptoms that she was pulling the crazy too. With all the crazy shit that life had already dished out to him – he would snap if there were more. He didn’t have money, and it was hard enough to resist his urges with Anne’s psychotic breaks – but all that changed when the little girl was born. Brooke. The cooling stream that flowed through the countryside. The soothing breeze from the waters caressing the woods around it.

Maybe that’s what the little girl should have been. For Paul. She was born into a warped distorted world – the childbirth left Anne highly disillusioned and paranoid, and Paul itching for a distraction. Was it clear how Paul wanted his relationship with Brooke then? Not exactly. For a psychopath like him, it was never black or white; or maybe his black and white was deranged too. Nothing happened between Anne and Paul
anymore– not emotionally, physically or in any other way. She just stopped being in the now, and was tucked away in a very disturbed corner of her mind. And Paul would be out manning his gas station or working in the mines. Apart from that no one knew anything else, or no further probing was required to know what led to Paul being Paul.

R
ichard had asked, “Did you know what happened to the girl, how she was treated by the mother – how she was coping with all this?”

No. He could read the answer off Wattson’s eyes. Paul was the target and the rest
was auxiliary. Richard shrugged – he was personally curious as to how their family was held together for more than 18 years, before the murders started. And it all started when Brooke turned 18.

Richard didn’t realise when he had dozed off with all the sheets scattered in his room and over him, but he rudely woken up by the shrill bell of the telephone. He sat upright and rubbed his temple thinking of gifting a less shrill telephone to his dear friend – if this is what he wakes up to on emergencies, he might just die one night by the sheer pitch of it. He caught the whispers down the hallway, and dragged himself up to the kitchen to get within better hearing range. He caught words like Paul and bodies, and he knew. It was like a free ticket to the FIFA finals – even though the happiness bubbling inside him troubled his humanity.

He shoved his humanity in a corner for now – he had a live experience to flourish in, and know about. He thanked the heavens for the day that he had Wattson owe him a favour – he’d cash in now. Though reluctantly, Wattson allowed him to accompany him to the crime scene – under the pretence that he was a criminal consultant, owing to his specialisation in criminology.

It was still dark outside – the sun had not even peaked over the horizon. The ride to the woods seemed never ending, as Richard absorbed in the palpitation, and the nervousness of his fellow riders. It had been a while since Paul had graced them with his artwork
, one of them retorted – all the wheels were set into motion to decipher what triggered his comeback after the hiatus.

“He was basking in the fame that the police from all over the world have earned him.” Richard offered. Wattson agreed, adding that maybe he thought with the stretched out gap that people have lost interest in the dollmaker, and he wanted to remind everyone of him.

“Could be… or he just wasn’t getting his preferred type of females”, Richard added thoughtfully. Wattson grimaced, knowing how close the point had struck home. Grim looks were exchanged – Richard inwardly chided himself for not having read all the case files before coming to the dump site. Did he miss something about Brooke?

The ride back to the station ended when the sun was climbing up the hills to a humid morning. It was going to be a long day today- not being very welcome in the station, Richard drove back to Wattson’s apartment
alone, and decided to complete his study today – at least off the material he had on his hands as of now.

The coffee machine’s capacity was failing him tonight – Wattson hadn’t come back from the station, there was no further news from him or anyone else he knew – so he just survived on Chinese takeout, coffee and crackers. He spent the entire day holed up in the guest room with piles and piles of files and newspaper clippings. And he could finally piece a one-sided story together.

Brooke was born within year of their marriage. A tiny underweight little thing wrapped in blankets was thrust upon Paul. Anne had barely survived the childbirth – with the high blood pressure, a weakened heart and a bat shit crazy mind. But Anne named her Brooke – it was her grandmother’s name – the source of all her good memories, if at all there were any. None of the case files could document their life till Brooke turned 18 – who could guess the gas station guy would turn Walhalla upside down? It was winter, somewhere around July that a hiker in the woods found the body of a mutilated girl dumped unceremoniously in the deep covers. That was his first kill – Selena White, Caucasian, and 17 years old. It caused a major ruckus in the silent corner of Australia, where each knew the other. For a substantial period of time, the townsmen resented every visitor or non-Walhalla folks, as they refused to believe anyone amongst them could even kill a bird, leave alone mutilate a young girl. A candle lit burial by the church graveyard was held for Selena, and none could look each other in the eye- as everyone wondered who among them could have been so demented as to harm the angel. Brooke attended the service, she wept silently – she was friends with Selena, well sort of, as much of a friend that a socially awkward, skinny girl could be to a cheerleader. Selena had saved her from the tormenting catcalls and snickering from the guys at school – she would always stand up for her, and she would always smile at her. Brooke would definitely miss her – one name less in the very short list of people she related to in that small town. She told all that she could to the local sheriff, when he was interviewing all those who had known Selena. After all, a murder in the sleepy town called for attention and could very well be a ticket to his glory.

But then things started getting out of hand – even for the power hungry sheriff, and Wattson was called in from AFP when the fourth body wa
s discovered in two months. Cooper’s Creek was officially off limits, even for the people passing by, and for visitors. All young girls were in strict curfews – almost everyone was, with a mass murderer at large. The arrival of AFP made matters all the more serious. The sleepy town was turned upside down. There were interrogations, the public had started shunning those with minor records – it was mayhem, going by Wattson’s reports.

And all this while, few knew Paul existed – the guy who ran the rickety gas station and worked in the mines
, and about his family. When the profile was distributed among the cops, no one knew Paul enough to place him as a probable suspect. It was not until a passer-by had noticed the vehicle that matched the description handed out by the rangers in the backyard of a rundown 2 storey house near the foothills. The incident was reported when the man noticed a black sedan with tinted glasses leaving the house late at night. Paul’s history was pulled out - his time in Australia. Richard referred to the mug shots – something was off about him and he registered to look into this later. He went through the autopsy reports of the girls found dead – the photos could test the limits of the sanest mind- Richard couldn’t imagine what could have driven the killer to such rage pent up inside him. Paul’s car’s GPS was tracked and could be placed at most of the dump sites – but by then the killings had stopped- until today. Paul must have had an idea that they was closing in on him and he went into hiding. The police was yet to locate him. Richard closed the case files. There were some indispensable facts that needed further ferreting – about Paul for once, Anne had died just after the fourth murder and Brooke was left all alone. Brooke was taken into witness protection as soon as Paul made it to the top of the suspect list. It was evident that he went into hiding as soon as a manhunt was issued for him.

The details of the case rattled him – it was difficult to fathom what Brooke must have gone through – lost a mother, and a monster for dad. But what intrigued and revolted him the most was that Paul was a sadist, and he liked killing teenaged girls who resembled Brooke. All the girls he had killed till date bore an uncanny physical resemblance to his daughter – brunette, white, tall and blue eyes. The reason behind killing them was because he got tired of the surrogates and would eventually discard them. His release would only ever be with her. Richard hoped this fact was not disclosed to her – it was too much for a daughter to bear. He really wanted to meet Brooke – but knowing the drill, he knew it would be next to impossible. He could only somehow find out where she was being kept and steal maybe a moment or two to talk to her. It was not actually concern that he felt – the writer in him wanted to know the depth of the superficial facts handed out to him, he wanted to get inside Paul’s home and know him better than just a madman obsessed with his daughter.

He faxed Paul’s image to one of his reporter
friends to get more information. It was well after sunset that Wattson returned. Richard had dozed off in the balcony. Wattson had fatigue lines all over his face, and a dejected air about him. Richard’s first thought was of Brooke – they say emotions make you jumpy and this case was making him do high jumps! Wattson simply shook his head and slumped over his arm chair. The victim’s parents were notified. And Paul was still running around free. Richard was at a loss – he had come looking for inspiration, instead he was just sucked in deeper into the messy affair.

Wattson turned in for the day – he was dozing off even during din
ner. Richard had saved him from dipping his head into the gravy boat. Richard was wide awake – the urge to catch Paul was getting a stronger hold on his mind with each passing moment. Perhaps it was the adrenaline speaking, but he wanted to do something actively and not be an observer. Smart he was, over achiever he was- he had accomplished so much at just 25 that he needn’t prove anything to anyone – but this… this was for himself, he hated to be outsmarted and he hated mysteries and Paul was both – for how could anyone remain in hiding in such a limited space that Walhalla provided? His reverie was broken by the email his smartphone received. It was a detailed manifesto on the history of Paul, back from his Miami days. He quietly prepared a report for Wattson and left the apartment to follow his hunch. Psychopaths like Paul seldom left their area of comfort and given his obsession with Brooke he had to be around her somewhere. The only missing piece was to figure where Brooke was hidden. It was close to dawn when he reached the site of the first dead girl. It was hard to say what spurred him on. It was pretty dark, just a couple of hours left for the dawn – people had stopped venturing out after sundown what with the mass killer at large. The woods were pleasant and quiet, with a cool breeze – touched with the fresh morning breath. The sun could just be seen from above the hills, with its feeble red orange haze slightly touching the sky. He breathed in the fresh air – yet he wasn’t relaxed enough. A morbid cloud hung over his mind that didn’t let the air seep into his cells. He pulled out a map of neighbourhood and flattened it on the moss covered pile of stones. He had hiked throughout the expanse, recalling the sites as he had visited, a few days back with the help of a local ranger. He marked the spot corresponding to the site on the map. It looked as if the marks were almost arranged in a pattern and the epicentre was Paul’s home, Brooke’s home. All the pieces were falling into place – it was always about Brooke, and all those girls were poor twisted representations who bore the brunt of the rage that was born out of not being able to get what he wanted. His desolate house was conveniently located near the densest covers of the forest – no one would ever hear the shrillest of screams from the depths of the woods. All perfect for him. But didn’t Brooke hear the girls’ screams?

He mustered enough courage to step into his home – the exterior was almost normal. Wooden fences, a small garden, rose bushes of vivid and rare colours – of 10 colours precisely.
The number struck him as odd. Strange coincidence – it should’ve been eight and now nine if counted the number of times he struck… Unless... there were more!!

Richard swore under his breath. This fact wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the report.
If at all they knew about this. He thought of letting Wattson know, but then he was overcome by the urge to find out more. He cautiously stepped into the porch – the house was sealed away by the police. Of the many skills he possessed, picking a lock was something Richard had picked up back in his wild days, which wasn’t that long ago. He comfortably let himself in.

The house was surprisingly normal too. A couch, a TV, wooden furniture, dining table adjoining the kitchen. Moderate supplies, a refrigerator with photos -except it was so very evident how Paul felt about Brooke from the images. He was always closer to her, somehow trying to get in between Anne and her, an
d there was absolutely nothing, no emotion at all on his face in the photo where he was holding hands with Anne. He peeped into the bedroom downstairs – obviously Anne’s. It was stark white, no paintings, just a plain wardrobe and a cracked mirror. Told a lot about Anne! There was a singular photo of Brooke stashed in the wardrobe drawer. The room seemed untouched after Anne’s death. Richard climbed the stairs – it creaked and groaned under him- so much for stealth! There were two bedrooms above. The smaller and slightly more colourful one was more like a teenage girl’s room – however, it was evident she took no personal interest in decorating her room. The room bore no record of her childhood, picnics, high school proms or anything at all. It had a few paintings done by her, in all probability hung by Paul judging by the height.

One of the creepiest things in the room was a collection of handmade dolls. They made his hair stand on end somehow – or maybe because he hated Chuck
y. Paul must have made them for his daughter. There was a shining wind chime near her windows, the only clean object in her room. Perhaps Brooke liked to stand by it and listened to its soft tinkle. He sat on her bed –matching covers and pillows but no toys anywhere near the bed. Rather there was a stolid lock on the door which seemed unusual for a girl. It was, he guessed, for Paul to lock her up when he was busy with his entertainment. However, for an unused bedroom, the room had no layers of dust, and the bed was messy. It was of course possible that she left in a hurry, yet, the room somehow looked as if someone had been there recently. Richard was sickened by the plausible answer to that question. He checked her wardrobe – it should be untouched too. And the bathroom- which had wet tiles. This puzzled him. The door was locked properly, but the windows had no accumulated dust. If Paul was coming back to her room to relive some horrid fantasy, why use her clothes? He checked the time – Wattson should be up by now. He dialled from his cell phone.

“Jesus! Rick… What the hell do you think you are doing?? Sneaking into Paul’s home in the middle of an investigation – that’s serious obstruction of justice…!”

Well, it’s not like Richard hadn’t expected the speech, but he had pressing matters to report.

“Ok prof! Save the lecture
... And listen up! Someone has been coming into Paul’s house regularly..!”

“Don’t you dare the subject…What??!!”

“Yes! Used toiletries. Wet tiles. Messy bed. I hate to think of the alternative to my theory, but I think your witness needs better guards!”

“Brooke wouldn’t. She knows the danger. I better check with the station. Meanwhile, the cops are on their way to his home. Don’t speak too much and don’t try to charm them for heaven’s sake. That works in some other world.”

Richard guffawed… “Well, it did work on you during your lecture… Otherwise…”

He stilled. He heard the creak and then a heavy silence. He slid under the bed in a smooth fall and cursed his height. He cut off the call. Last he could hear Wattson yelling, concern thick as custard in his voice. He stopped breathing. He heard the creaking resume. He hoped it was Brooke, or else he had no idea as to what he would do. Right now he was hoping to get arrested for trespassing when compared to the alternate mutilated image of himself that kept flashing in his mind. The footsteps were measured and soft, and they stopped before the door. He held his breath.

Richard heard a deep breath being exhaled, and a muttering of swear words. And then everything went dead quiet. Did he dare peep from under the bed? Just as he was preparing to slide out, he felt the sharp jab of a broom’s end hitting his ankle. He yelled out loud, hoping he would be granted an honourable death. The prodding continued to a painful level indeed – and Richard was forced to slide out of the bed.

He kept his eyes closed. Was he too young to die? Could he look into those demented eyes and welcome a very painful death?

“Who are you??!”

OK! Paul had a very feminine voice – rather like the bells in a church. Was that he how he lured his victims?? By singing? Now his active imagination was on defence mode.

“You are bigger than me, and you are so not from here… are you dad’s friend??”

What??!

Richard glanced up. He could see a freckled face, big ice blue eyes and long dark tresses hiding most of her face. Brooke. He tried to smile, but fear had paralysed him to the extent that he couldn’t even make himself sit up. Clearly the girl was frightened out of her skin. He tried reassuring the best he could with his gestures. All the while trying to calm his over agitated nerves. He could hear the blood rushing in his veins, and his heart pumping furiously. All his senses were screaming in his mind on red alert. He glanced at the broom in Brooke’s hand and laughed silently. He was silenced immediately as he heard the front door open. He quickly grabbed her before she could make another noise. He stuffed her inside the wardrobe and slid under the bed again. Where was the police when they were needed the most? Didn’t Wattson say that they were coming here to pick him up??

There was a noise of feet shuffling, followed by the clang of utensils. Whoever it was, didn’t make his presence unnoticed. After a while, the stairs creaked again.

And then Richard heard a raspy, nasal voice hiss Brooke’s name.

“Where are you honey? Daddy’s home!”

Richard broke into a cold sweat. He was sure Paul knew that there were two in his home. And he wouldn’t deign a moment’s hesitation before slaying him to reach Brooke. He was running out of options. Nothing came to his mind to form an elaborate rescue mission. It was the end of the line. Paul went on coaxing Brooke out of her hiding place. He made the floor creak all over her room. Richard swivelled his head from one side to the other to keep a check on approaching shoes. And then, he froze. Two stone cold grey – somewhat like rotten blue- eyes were looking at him. You talk of looking at the devil right in his eyes – maybe this is how that felt. His lips were drawn back in a sneer, and white gleaming teeth and a pointed nose. They sneer was of a predator who knew his prey was trapped, and would sit back and bask in its squirming. Richard couldn’t make a sound. In a flash, the look in Paul’s eyes changed, and it was almost as the rage in his eyes could melt him on the spot.

“Spoiling my Brooke, are you?”
Did he sound jealous? Or was it his ruse to coldly kill Richard?

Paul let out a soft whisper and called out to Brooke. Richard prayed to all the gods he had been introduced to once in his childhood, prayed that he wouldn’t look into the wardrobe till the police arrived – as he could do nothing if he found Brooke first. He didn’t realise how time
crept by as Paul sat staring at him, sneering at him. He knew Paul had to succumb to his body’s discomfort at some point in time. But then he saw his expression change and he whipped his head around and was gone in a flash. Richard took his time to slide out from under the bed. He looked at the wardrobe and tiptoed downstairs following the noise of furniture being smashed. Paul was held captive by three cops and the other was cuffing him. He couldn’t believe his eyes – all that hue and cry, all those victims, and it now ended in his very kitchen.

Close to midnight, Richard sat in the back of an ambulance with Wattson, riding his way back to his place. He was still shaken after what happened. Once Paul was subdued, he told the cops where Brooke was hiding. Wattson went up to get her. Richard would never forget the look in Paul’s eyes – the hunger, the rage – of the man still fighting till his last breath.
He dragged his eyes away from Paul to locate her. Brooke was escorted down the hall to the garden. Anger, fear and hurt was still so evidently etched all over her face, but she stilled as she saw Richard.

“You found me!”

She looked at him furtively
. Richard had no reply to that. Sheer dumb luck. He shuddered to think what would have happened otherwise.

Paul was beside himself with anger, but he went deadly quiet as Brooke passed by. He simply looked at her, and then in a flash he looked at Richard. The atmosphere was heavy with the night’s drama, the people around, and the vehicles
blaring. But it was all silenced; it was all somewhere in the background, as Richard met his eyes. Unadulterated hatred. Fury. If he didn’t give a damn about his pride, he would have quelled and hidden behind the wall to escape his eyes.

They still haunt him Richard thought,
emerging from his long chain of thoughts. He remembered the blurry uneventful ride back. He recalled searching for Brooke; he wanted to make sure she was fine before he left. He sure as wouldn’t meet her again ever. His heart went out to her, to think what she went through – all these years, and tonight. He wanted to say goodbye. But he didn’t want her to think of him as her hero. It was too much for him to take.