“You’re the best, Dad!” I jump up to give him a quick, fierce hug before taking the dishes back to the kitchen. My enthusiasm fades though, as I contemplate the night ahead.
Fifteen minutes later, Dad is settled in front of the television and I’m off, Okiku trailing after me in eager anticipation. Dad’s usually away, so when Okiku gets her urges, I rarely have to sneak out while he’s in the house. As it is, I make sure he’s focused on the college basketball game before making my escape. I’m pretty sure he’d wonder at my need to bring a heavy backpack to a party, or why there are gloves, a lower face mask, and a dark hoodie inside, if he deigned to check.
I hop into my Bimmer and pull out of the driveway, keeping my breathing even, which I’ve found is the best way to keep calm.
It’s hard to explain what I feel when I go hunting with Okiku. On one hand, I’m constantly tormented by the idea that I might get caught, that the police might one day piece together all these unexplained crimes and find enough evidence to attribute them to me. On the other hand, I thrive on the danger. The idea that I am helping put the scum of the earth back where they belong—which, ideally, is six feet under—is an unnatural high that I both hate and enjoy.
It’s a nice night, so I’ve got the top down, and Okiku all but stands up in her seat, hair streaming in the wind as I tear through the silent streets that lead into busier intersections. Okiku’s finger moves toward the east and I comply, steering the car in that direction. I could never explain how Okiku can pinpoint where these people are, but she’s always been right. We’ve been indirectly responsible for closing some cold cases in the last several months, and I’m sure that if the Washington PD believed in either ghosts or vigilantism they’d be sending us gift baskets by the dozen.
She points north as I drive past a few more streets. Our destination is almost always an apartment complex or a cheap hotel a few miles from the interstate. Every now and then, it’s a private residence, nestled among other identical houses in the suburbs. It’s horrifying that perps like these live among us. But Okiku leads me past the rows of houses and into the commercial district of town. When she signals for a halt, I’m almost sure she’s joking.
“A Five Guys? Ki, why are we at a Five Guys?”
She shrugs. I suppose cold-blooded killers have to eat too, so I park and we venture inside. There’s a big crowd, and in my case, this is an advantage. The less obtrusive I can be, the better.
I sidle into an empty seat, the smell of fries percolating the air. I scan the throng of people, ready to tell her that she must have made a mistake—until I see him.
I don’t have Okiku’s second sight. I need to be within visual range of the person to make the connection, but that first recognition never fails to curdle my gut.
What I hate about most of these perps is how normal they look. Like they have the right to sit at any Five Guys in any town in any country in the world and be served a bacon cheeseburger and a side order of fries like everyone else. I hate that no one else around them can see them for the putrid waste of flesh they really are.
Mr. “Normal” here has red hair and brown eyes. He’s wearing a faded Rolling Stones shirt and jeans. He’s eating his burger like the only thing he’s ever murdered in his life was a cow.
The rotting corpses of the three girls crawling over his back beg to differ.
It always hurts to look at them. You can tell how long they’ve been shackled to their killers by their condition, and these poor girls have been prisoners for a long, long time. Their eyes have sunk almost below their sockets, and their hair’s matted and stringy, revealing bits of crumbling skull. Their bones show through parts of their skin, which sags at the elbows and shoulders. I’ve seen other, more decomposed dead children, but I avert my eyes anyway. I can’t look at them without seeing my own damage. Not too long ago, that could have very easily been me.
What hurts even worse is the living, breathing girl across the table from him. She’s blond and rosy-cheeked, nibbling at her fry. A possible victim? It churns my stomach, and I wish I hadn’t eaten dinner before we headed out.
Okiku is quiet, but her eyes are intent on the murderer. I can feel the shadows she keeps inside her snaking out. They reach hungrily for the man but are kept in check by the noise of people and the threat of discovery.
I’ve felt those shadows myself. I’ve woken up in the middle of the night enough times, pale and sweating—and bawling my eyes out, I’m not ashamed to admit—because the strange malice festering inside Okiku occasionally finds its way into me, the
festering, festering,
make them break
them take them