Grayson

Over the past twenty-four hours, Foster’s attack has gone viral. The once-peaceful fanatics and protesters have clashed and began to war with each other. Fights, riots. Hysteria. Cops in riot gear clog the streets. The news is saturated with reports of this brewing insanity. Law officials from across the state are being called in to help reinforce order.

I haven’t slept in as many hours.

The chaos has become a shelter of sorts, helping to keep me hidden while the taskforce focuses their efforts on Bangor. London remains on the reporters’ tongues, but she’s disappeared from the spotlight.

Uneasiness rattles me. Not knowing where she is—where Nelson is—keeps me from sleep. Restlessness is creeping in. I crave a release. The compulsions never stay checked for long.

As I walk the streets, I’m starting to wonder if I’m a contagion, spreading psychosis, infecting minds. It could all be in my head. What I’m witnessing might be a warped sense of the world, and I’m seated in London’s therapy room right now wearing a straightjacket.

I scrub my hands over my face, disoriented, craving caffeine. Sleep deprivation. It’s a fucking killer.

I pull my hoodie down low and head into the daytime work crowd as they navigate Rockland. It’s the same path Nelson takes to the crimes scenes. He passes right by the Refuge.

I duck into the heaving cluster, like little worker ants migrating down the sidewalk. The large wooden sign is a beacon for the bar. Agent Nelson has seen the sign before. Random ads popping out at him online, beckoning him to the bar with a promise of easy targets. Relief.

I take up my post across the street at a coffee shop. Two birds. One stone. I order a large coffee from a hungover barista, then seat myself near the window, where I can keep watch.

By the time I’ve drained the mug, Nelson still hasn’t shown.

I leave a few dollars on the table and then head out. I can’t risk staying in one place for too long. Maybe Nelson can’t risk temptation during the day. As I reemerge into the daylight, pain slices through my skull. Black spots fill my vision.

I move into an alley and press my back to the brick. Breathe through the discomfort. The lingering scent of lilac that still clings to my jacket diffuses some of the pain. I use the reprieve to make it to the bus stop.

I need sleep. Even the greatest minds can’t function without it.

On the ride to Bangor, I think about the little China doll girl and her mother. How her situation seemed so easy to fix. Take her mother out of the equation, and she might have a chance at a better life.

Or maybe not.

She could wind up in a terrible foster home with terrible people.

I know all too well about the monsters who prey on the system.

I blink the dark spots from my vision, eyelids heavy. My thoughts are getting muddled. If not for London, I probably would’ve already killed Nelson. It seems the most logical solution.

But if he dies, the proof of his secret persona dies with him.

No one would believe there was a copycat killer. Especially if the finger points to a federal agent.

London’s right. We still need him. Patience.

I keep on the move, circling back to Rockland, sitting on the Refuge in preparation for Nelson. He’ll show up there eventually. But first, I just want a glimpse of London’s building. Just one peek—like a small hit for a junkie. Feeding the cravings. The buss passes her building, and I take in the scene.

A group of protestors circle before the steps. A smile twitches at my mouth when I realize they’re chanting about London.

The protesters are enraged, angered with the system that lets animals like the Angel of Maine free.

I suppose clueing them in to the fact that psychologists have very little to do with government probably wouldn’t help. These people can’t be swayed; they don’t want to be. They’re righteous in their beliefs—no matter how ridiculous. Demanding peace by enforcing the death penalty for convicted murderers.

How ironic.

Their singsong chant gets stuck in my head. I rather like it.

The truth is, we are a violent species. We will never be peaceful. Earth itself was conceived in a womb of violence. She didn’t sneak into the void of space with a whisper to be populated. She burst into existence with a bang—a violent explosion. We are predisposed to violence because it exists in the very atoms we’re made of.

Murder.

War.

Hitler. Genghis Khan. Alexander the Great. They killed in the thousands, millions. They killed for power. They wielded fear and mercy as a weapon. Evil in its purest form. Civilizations were built on the blood they shed.

I’ve heard scholars argue that these men were mad—but what is genius if not madness? Mental illness is a common euphemism for evil.

Very few sadistic killers are actually insane. Quite the opposite. They have to be in control of all their facilities to get away with murder. And to profit from it.

The cheering fanatics worship me and they worship London. Bowing at the foot of her office building, praising her as a goddess, while the protesters spit in their face.

We might as well be gods.

Through the ages, gods have been banished as much as worshiped. The masses loathing their failure, and yet they were always feared. Fear is more powerful than love. Gods have no compassion. That’s how they’re able to slaughter the multitudes.

Someone has to wield that fear, that power. And those who are too weak to stomach the natural order can only hide and judge from their safe corners. We are gods, and we must be feared.

I laugh to myself.

Or, I’m probably just insane.