Unforeseen (Thomas Prescott 1) Page 4

  Conner stopped mid-stroke and turned around. He was biting the inside of his cheek again, and said, “Tell me you’re kidding. Didn’t you read the book?”

  I could feel my heartbeat pulsate in my right shoulder and I was thankful for the chance to rest. “Nope. I accidentally dropped one copy in the Atlantic, and another copy accidentally fell into my outdoor fireplace.”

  “And Lacy didn’t tell you anything about me in regards to the book?”

  “Nope. I told her if she even mentioned the book I’d rearrange all the furniture in the house.” Which I’d gone ahead and done anyway. Lacy just recently stopped smashing her shins against the coffee table.

  Conner’s lips tightened, “That weasel Tooms didn’t so much as mention my name. Can you believe that shit? I make the biggest break in the whole case. Hell, the only break in the case and Tooms doesn’t even mention my name. That’s bullshit, is all that is. Fucking bullshit.”

  He wasn’t lying. Conner had been the one to stumble on the information leading us to the killer. Sorry—supposed—killer. I felt bad for the kid, I thought for certain his name would’ve surfaced once, if not multiple times throughout the book. In the back of my mind, I knew I was solely responsible for his name’s absence. If I’d sat down with Tooms, I would have given all the credit to Conner. I grabbed his shoulder, “That is bullshit. You know I would have set him straight, but I don’t think you, me, or anyone else deserves an iota of credit. It’s not over.”

  “What do you mean it’s not over? It’s been a year, Thomas. Tristen Grayer is dead. D-E-A-D. Dead. You need to quit reading that Pet Cemetery shit—it’s messing with your head.”

  I dug my paddle into the water and said, “I don’t read Stephen King. I read Michael Crichton.” I prefer to be confused shitless rather than scared shitless.

  We spent the rest of the hour talking about how big a bastard Alex Tooms was and swapped retribution recipes should we ever get him alone. Hypothetically speaking, of course. Conner wanted to take him to some island, Matinicus or something, and torture him until he wrote a revised version of Eight in October. I wanted to potato peel his entire body, let him scab over, and nearly die of infection. I’d get him to a hospital before the wounds became gangrenous.

  Yeah, I know, I’m a softy at heart.

  Chapter 6

   

   

  I somehow made it up the deck stairs, through the sliding glass door, and flopped face first onto one of the tan leather couches, the leather immediately bonding to my sweat-laden flesh. Lacy heard my wheezing resounding through the leather and let out one of her infamous cackles.

  Through a fit of giggling she said, “I have the best visual of you right now, and if it’s anywhere near what’s really going on, you are one pathetic loser.” She did a good Lloyd Christmas.

  I shouted through a crack between two cushions, “Water! Drinky! Dying!”

  Lacy needed to brush up on her caveman seeing as how the water was not poured down my throat, but down my back. My body went from being so hot to so cold so fast, I’m surprised I didn’t have a seizure. After the initial shock, it wasn’t half bad, that is until the water found its way down the crease of my back and into the mighty balloon knot.

  I tilted my head up, stretching the leather’s molecular boundaries, and yelled, “You are the devil!”

  The faucet ran again, and seconds later a cold glass was placed in my hand. After a tremendous effort on my behalf and a fair portion of my skin pulled from the bone, I was on my back and without lifting my eyelids successfully guided the cold glass to my lips. I chugged.

  The cold liquid moved down my esophagus into my stomach, rested for a microsecond, did a U-turn, started up my esophagus, exited my mouth, and came to rest on the tan leather sofa. My eyes opened at some point in the ordeal and were now transfixed on Lacy who, if you’re curious, was on her back, legs kicking, tears streaming.

  Something is definitely wrong when you are subjected to a practical joke at the expense of a blindy.

  I actually found myself laughing when I yelled, “What in the hell did you give me?” I licked my lips, but my buds only detected the acidic bile from my purge. The sofa was speckled in white, and I said, “Don’t tell me you fed me some of that soymilk crap.”

  Lacy had regained some control over herself and said, “Sorry, I couldn’t help it. I didn’t think it was going to work—” She started into another fit.

  I stepped over her and said, “I hope you pee yourself.”

   

  When I woke up in the bathtub, the water was lukewarm. The hot bath and three Tylenol had tag-teamed my aching muscles, and I didn’t feel too shabby.

  I walked out of the bathroom and into the master bedroom sans towel, preferring to air dry. There wasn’t much in the room other than a queen-size bed and an old beat-up dresser I’d bought at a neighborhood garage sale. Sitting atop the synthetic oak dresser was a picture of my parents. The picture was taken on their fiftieth birthday. Exactly two years later, on their collective fifty-second birthday, the two had been flying back from a Rolling Stones concert when my dad’s company Lear went down.

  Next to their picture was a picture of Conner, Lacy, Caitlin, and myself. The four of us had been together for close to nine months and they’d been some of the best months of my life. Deep down, I wasn’t sure if I still loved Caitlin. I knew I didn’t not love her, if that makes any sense. This reminded me I still had to call her and I picked up the bedside phone.

  She picked up on the third ring and I said, “Hi, Cait.”

  Caitlin didn’t respond for a couple seconds and I envisioned her shuffling for the appropriate cue card. She cleared her throat and said, “I was hoping you’d call. We should still be friends, if not friendly.”

  Yikes.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to this and after consulting my list of Swiss replies I opted for, “Uh, how ya been?”

  “Come on, Thomas, we haven’t spoken for a month, and all you have to say is, ‘Uh, how ya been?’” She did a good impression of me.

  I wanted to say, “It’s the only thing I’ve said so far,” but I didn’t want to put myself into a corner. I thought of a conversation with a woman as a boxing match and thus far—what, five seconds in—I’d already taken a quick jab and was being set up for a swift right hook. “Look, I’m sorry, but it’s hard to stay friends with someone you love.”

  Oops. I quickly added the unequivocal, “—d.”

  This was the boxing equivalent of tying both hands behind my back and squirting lemon juice in my eyes.

  I mouthed her next words with her, “Thomas, do you still love me?”

  This was like Mad-Libs, all you had to do was fill in the blanks. I thought about the question while I wrote a Mad-Lib to myself on the back of an envelope: Thomas Prescott is a(n) adjective, adverb noun for getting himself in this adjective situation and should be forced to verb, noun for being such a(n) adjective adverb noun.

  Caitlin waited patiently for my reply, which sadly was, “I don’t know Cait. I just don’t know.”

  I scribbled in the blanks and read what I’d written: Thomas Prescott is a(n) ginormous, fucking asshole for getting himself in this confusing, uncomfortable, fucked-up situation and should be forced to eat shit, an onion, glass for being such a(n) stupid fucking idiot.

  I was brainstorming for an adverb besides “fucking” when Caitlin said, “You don’t know? Great, Thomas. That’s just great. I guess I’ll just wait my whole life until you figure that out. Grow up, you fucking coward.” The line went dead.

  I guess fucking was the only adverb.

  I threw on a pair of khaki shorts and a charcoal University of Washington hooded sweatshirt. Lacy came into the room, handed me a glass of pink liquid, and said, “I made you a smoothie, to, you know, smooth things over.”

  I took the glass from her and, after careful inspection, took a sip. “Strawberry-banana, good choice. Consider yourself forgiven. Although, I s
hould warn you, I will get you back and it’s going to be like a thousand times worse.”

  I already had a plan and it was mean, almost deranged. Diabolical actually. I couldn’t help it; I had to win at everything.

  Lacy put on her inculpable face, “You wouldn’t take advantage of a whittle, itty-bwitty, bwind girl, now would you?”

   

  I grabbed Lacy’s easel and paint bag and walked to the car. Lacy was in the passenger seat, Baxter asleep on her lap, the cooler at her feet.

  We headed down the long drive, snaked through a couple backstreets, and five minutes later I was merging onto US 1 southbound.

  Lacy asked what I intended to do about Caitlin and I told her I wasn’t sure. We explored my options for the next twenty minutes, and we both decided it would be in my best interest if I called her back and set up dinner for later that evening.

  I jumped on the Maine Turnpike, I-95, and after about five miles exited for Portland. At a population of 84,000, Portland is the most populated city in Maine. It would be a stretch to call it a metropolis. It was a tropolis at best. To be safe, we’ll call it an opolis. Olis, it was an olis. It’s an is.

  There was a large marketplace to the right and I entered it, scanning the store fronts for a bookstore. I didn’t see any bookstores, but I did see a kite shop, and I made a mental note to swing by before Saturday. We drove for about a half mile before coming to a Super-Duper-Ultra-Hyper-Mart.

  There was one copy of Eight in October left, resting in the number three bestseller slot. Speaking of three, I couldn’t believe I was buying the book for the third time. I was going to ask for a waterproof/fireproof copy, but they’d probably have to special order it.

  I grabbed a case of beer and swiped the old Visa. Back at the car I handed the bag to Lacy. Rummaging through the bag, she found the book and said, “What’s this?”

  “You know very well what it is.”

  “I didn’t think you were gonna read it.”

  “I finally broke down and bought it yesterday. Actually, I bought it twice yesterday.”

  She shook her head, “Then why did you just buy it now?”

  “We’ll my first two copies met an untimely demise.” I recounted each book’s respective demise.

  “How far did you get?”

  I knew what she was fishing for and said, “Conner told me.”

  She winced. “You should have seen him. He read the book out loud to me, and when he realized his name was never going to show up, he lost it. He scared me, Thomas. He started breaking stuff.”

  “Don’t think too much of it, Lace. That Tooms guy really screwed him over. He’ll get over it.”

   

  Lacy didn’t know exactly how to get to the lighthouse and it was an excuse to use the Range Rover’s navigational system for the first time.

  I pushed the screen under the CD player and it instantly refreshed. I chose the audio option and the system became voice activated. It asked in a generic woman’s voice, “Destination?”

  I stammered, “Uh, lighthouse.”

  “There’s seventy-five lighthouses in Maine, you idiot.” Lacy remarked wisely.

  I mentally added Car Navigational Systems for Idiots to my book list and reset the system. The woman’s voice came on again, “Destination?”

  I prodded Lacy with my arm and she said, “Portland Head Lighthouse.”

  For the next ten minutes the generic woman’s voice shouted out commands every thirty seconds, and I finally had an idea what it was like to be married. Once safely in the lighthouse observatory parking lot, the woman shouted, “Put car in Park.”

  I put the car in park and she nagged, “Turn off ignition.”

  It took every ounce of self-control not to smash the screen with my fist. I made a mental reminder to call the company and have them change the voice to that of Bob Costas or Heidi Klum.

  Lacy took two sandwiches from the cooler and handed me one. After a bite I asked, “What’s so special about this particular house of light?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I think it was the first lighthouse ever built that’s still in existence. It’s special to me because I’ve seen it in so many paintings I have a mental picture in my head and I’ll be able to paint it.”

  “And you couldn’t do that in our front yard because—?”

  “Because I’m trying to lead a normal life. I refuse to paint a lighthouse landscape from our front yard. If I keep painting these things, I’ll never forget them.”

  She tapped the side of her head, “I’ll keep them up here forever.”

  “Lace, your vision will come back. One of these mornings you’re gonna wake up and the lights will be back on. You’ll see.” I laughed at my unintentional pun. “I mean you’ll see you’ll see.”

  She held up her beer and said, “Cheers to that.”

   

  The Portland Head lighthouse was an all-white stucco frame and stood on a large inlet of reddish-brown rock. Lacy asked me two questions before she made her first brushstroke: roughly how many yards away was the lighthouse, and what was the diameter of the sun in inches?

  I answered about two hundred yards and an inch and a quarter, respectively.

  I set two beers down next to Lacy and found the gravel path leading to the lighthouse. As I neared the lighthouse the sound of crashing waves grew exponentially louder.

  There was a large rock about thirty yards to the left of the lighthouse, which I started toward. When I finally reached the rock, I saw it was a bit larger than at first glance and chose his little brother to the left of him. I took a swig of beer and looked down at my lap—where, oddly enough—Baxter was fast asleep. I guess when you move at the speed of sound and weigh less than a nice T-bone you can sleep wherever you please.

  After taking in the horizon for a dozen waves, I grabbed Eight in October and delved back into the massacre. I read close to eighty pages before my reading light plunged into the western mountains. In truth, the fourth murder was especially gory, and I took the liberty of stopping prematurely. But I did dog-ear the page on the off chance I ever built up the courage to revisit the scene. See, I already had nightmares of the guest bedroom. I didn’t need them solidified.

  Chapter 7

   

   

  The girl’s name was Ginny Farth. She was the fourth victim in two weeks. The call came in an hour ago, and we, the task force, were the first people to enter the crime scene of 14 Surry Woods Drive.

  The guest bedroom was small, about fifteen by fifteen. Ginny was scattered roughly one body part per ten square feet. The guestroom walls were painted Robin’s Egg Blue. The carpet was painted Ginny Farth’s Vital Fluid Red.

  Dr. Caitlin Dodds was clad in a white Bangor Medical Examiner parka, hovering over Ginny’s decapitated head. The doctor lolled the brunette frayed orb to the side. She looked up at Gregory, Gleason, and myself and stated blandly, “The bastard took the eyes again.”

  The three of us nodded solemnly. Honestly, I would have been disconcerted if he hadn’t taken the eyes. The eyes were the only constant in a sea of variables. There was no pattern to the killings. Only the eyes.

  I’d seen enough. I walked out of the room, down the stairway, past a sliding glass door, and noticed a thin light moving through the blackness. I’d assumed we were in the middle of vast woods. So why was I looking at a lighthouse?

  I slid the glass door open and walked out onto a long narrow deck then ambled down a half dozen stairs. Kicking off my shoes, I plopped down on the cold beach. The waves ran within a dozen feet of my outstretched toes and my shadow was forced to gargle every so often.

  What the hell was going on? I couldn’t get a read on this Tristen Grayer psychopath. Was he killing in lust? Macabre mutilations excite the lust murderer. For them, killing triggers a bizarre sexual fantasy that has developed in the dark recesses of their warped minds. But I couldn’t get a bead on what Tristen’s fantasy was. Was it rooted in the eyes? He’d left us nothing else t
o go on. We didn’t even have a picture of the kid for crying out loud. The neighbor, Elby, had said Tristen was badly burned in a fire years earlier. Is that why he takes the eyes? Because he’s disfigured and doesn’t want the victim to see him? Had the contemptuous stares from his childhood prompted these women’s deaths? And the sister. It had all started with her. Why had Tristen killed Ingrid? Because she was pregnant with his son? Because she didn’t want to keep the baby? Had he raped her in the first place?

  I heard footsteps on the deck and seconds later Dr. Caitlin Dodds plopped down next to me. I couldn’t help but notice her usually striking features go soft under the moonlight. In a couple hours Caitlin would try to piece Ginny Farth back together, a chore I didn’t turn green with envy for. Caitlin grabbed a handful of sand and tossed it on my bare feet.

  I said, “Well, doctor, where do we go from here?”

  She seemed miles away and it took four waves for my voice to hit her drum. She shook her head in disarray, “You’re the expert. You tell me what the hell is going on here.”

  I shook my head. “I’m baffled. I’ve never seen anything like this. Usually with killings of this nature, the killer knows the killee. How Tristen, a hick farm boy from Potato Town crossed paths with Miss Richwood here, I don’t have the faintest idea.”

  “So you don’t secretly know how he’s selecting his victims?”

  I tried to hide a grin. “Yeah, I have it written on a sticky note in a safety deposit box.”

  “Which bank?”

  “Swiss Miss in Manhattan.”

  She smirked. “Are you aware your bank also makes hot chocolate?”

  “You got me. Sincerely, I don’t have the slightest clue what this son of a bitch is up to. When he wants us to catch him, we will. Until then we’re going to have to sit tight and count bodies.”

  She nodded to herself.

  There was a clamoring of footsteps and Caitlin and I turned simultaneously to see Gleason and Gregory hovering over us. I looked at Gregory’s small shadow and remarked, “Where’s the rest of him?”

  He didn’t say anything and I prodded, “Don’t tell me that’s all of it?” I noticed his shadow flip me off.

  Caitlin and I stood up and joined the two, our four shadows resembling a small mountain range on the beachfront. Gleason asked, “Where do we go from here?”