The Killing League

TICKETS TO THE BIG DANCE





16.

Florence Nightmare

Ruth Dykstra walked in the front door of her small, two-bedroom house. She shut and turned all three deadbolts, then fastened the door’s security chain. She walked through the cramped living room, set her purse in a fuchsia colored armchair by the door and went into the kitchen.

She set the mail on the kitchen table and put a pot of water on to boil for tea, then walked back into her living room and stood for a moment. Something felt strange to her. A buzzing in her gut worked its way to her arms and down to her fingers. She drummed them in a fast, staccato rhythm against her ample thighs.

Ruth looked around the living room, momentarily calmed by the tidiness of the room. There were two chairs, a table, a small television that went mostly unused and a mocha colored throw rug in the middle of the floor.

Her eyes were drawn, as always, to the paintings that took up most of the wall space in the living room. They were of various shapes and sizes, colors and shadings. But they all shared the same artistic style, the same palette, and the same name signed in the lower right hand corner.

Dykstra.

Each painting contained an image of a face. Not the same face. In each work, the countenance was unique. But all of the creations shared a similar theme. The individuals represented on the canvases were all twisted in agony. In pain. The mouths and eyes screamed for mercy. Cried for compassion. Begged for life. Clearly, the artist seemed to say, all of these protestations stood no chance of being answered.

The strange sensation Ruth Dykstra felt earlier had vanished. That was one of the reasons she painted. It gave her pleasure, yes. In fact, she was compelled to paint, it wasn’t a choice. But they also brought her comfort. Through them she was able to relive every one of her achievements.

She went back into the kitchen, shut off the burner, and poured the hot water into a cup. She dunked the teabag a few times, wrapped the string around it and the spoon, then carried the tea to the kitchen table.

She went through the small amount of mail she had received that day. A bill from the utility company. A flyer from the grocery store.

And an envelope with a gold ribbon around it.

She was about to tear it open when she looked to see from where it had been mailed.

There was no postmark.

She jumped to her feet and snatched the biggest, longest knife from her knife block. She went through her entire house, the two small bedrooms, the one tiny bathroom, the closets, and the one-car garage.

There was no one. Nor was there any sign that someone had been in her house.

But someone had. She was sure of that.

She went to the kitchen counter and stood at the table, looking at the card with the gold ribbon.

No, she wasn’t imagining things, like she had done often when she was a child. Before they started giving her all kinds of medication. Medication she had stopped a long time ago.

She took a deep breath, sat down at the table and used the knife to open the envelope.

A single small square of paper with a formal script fell from the card.

Ruth Dykstra, you have been selected as a competitor in The Killing League. Based on your most recent murders, including cute little Patricia Sirrine (how clever to inject her eye!) you are sure to be a worthy opponent. Below are your travel instructions and ticket. If you don’t follow these instructions, the good folks in law enforcement will soon be hearing about your involvement in the mystery deaths at the hospital. In other words, I’m looking forward to meeting you! Good luck!

The Commissioner

A ticket fell out.

Ruth Dykstra looked at the ticket attached to the inside of the card. She read it, then read it again. It had her name, a date, a time, and detailed travel instructions.

Her face had gone ashen gray and she looked at the knife still in her hand. She considered applying it across one wrist, and then the other. She always knew some day, even though she was too smart to ever actually get caught, that something beyond her control could happen. Something that would result in people learning of her achievements.

She took another deep breath, put the knife down, and sipped from her tea.

No, she wouldn’t cut her wrists open. Some day maybe, but not now.

She needed to find out who this person was, who had found her, and who had started this so-called tournament.

Her jaw set. She felt a coldness in her chest, felt it spread throughout her body and soothe her frayed nerves.

She was upset and angry and ready to find the person responsible for this league. She would find the person and take care of him.

But she was also curious.

And deep down, she knew she could win.