Grayson

The scent of alcohol and cigarettes infuses the evening air. This part of town harbor reminds me of The Burrows. Dirty and dank and crawling with filth. Every beautiful town has an underbelly.

Snugly nestled in a pocket of Rush, the coastal hood where I grew up houses rows and rows of greenhouses. Not every evil happens in a basement. You can dig pretty far down before hitting water. Just the right depth to enclose a special room, where screams are muffled, and the sun of the massive greenhouse can’t reach you.

The smell of dirt and fertilizer always triggers fond memories of my second home. My wardens had a lot of children over the years. As many as five kids shared the dank, dark room at one time. Probably why I didn’t mind solitary confinement. I don’t like being in crowds; near people. We were the evil Brady Bunch. We had a mother and a father, and rules.

The rules were utmost important.

The rules were enforced by fear.

The rules were ingrained so deeply, chiseled into my marrow, that after the first year in captivity, my young mind believed they governed the world. It was how it worked; the reason why life existed in the first place. To serve these rules and my rulers.

Every child had a purpose. And no one broke the rules. My abductors weren’t unintelligent culchie—or rednecks, for a close American comparison. They were smart and cunning, and master manipulators.

I suppose that’s where I picked up my training.

Manipulation comes second nature to me. London figured this out easily enough. I remember that first glimpse of fear in her eyes—the moment she questioned who was in control.

She’s the one with the power, yet she still harbors fear of losing that control. Her fear of loss.

Fear. Fear. Fear. It makes the world go round.

As I head farther into downtown, where the reflective glare of the setting sun bounces off buildings and the noise shrouds my presence, I move along the shadowed city lines. Those dark pockets every city has. They keep me invisible. I’m just another man walking the streets.

I pull the hoodie of my jacket over my head. Look down at the sidewalk as I progress toward the entrance of the bar, my pulse careening chaotically against my veins. This feeling is more powerful than the lust for the hunt.

Every day I emerge, could be the day he finds me.

Special Agent Nelson has announced his presence, renewed in his faith to apprehend the Angel of Maine. Or so the brief news clip claims. After a leak in the local department revealed the DNA evidence, authorities had to make an official statement.

Detective Foster follows in Nelson’s footsteps, popping up like a whack-a-mole everywhere the agent appears. Foster’s a bit harder to track, as he doesn’t have a media presence like the FBI.

I push through the doors of the Refuge, the bar Lawson frequents. It’s hard not to feel invincible when every law official in the state of Maine is looking you. Here I am, boys. Come and get me.

Only there are no cops here. Only a group of rowdy college kids, two homely prostitutes, a few bikers in leather and beards, and one lonely bartender. A few other strays crowd the bar top, seeking release from their mundane lives, too.

An eclectic mix of the broken, downtrodden, and bored. An easy crowd to go unnoticed in. This is where our target losses himself nightly, sloughing off his tiring days like the dead skin he works around.

I find a seat in the far corner booth. From here, I can view the entrance, the bar, the crowd, and the bathrooms. I order a beer from the only waitress on duty.

“Sure thing, baby,” she says in hopes of scoring a decent tip before she saunters off. But her glazed-over, vacant eyes reveal she has no sexual interest in me.

The rowdy college boys aren’t as perceptive to her disinterest, though, and one slaps her ass as she passes their table, earning boisterous laughs from the rest of his friends.

She ignores them with the practiced apathy of a woman who’s lived too hard, too fast, for her years. I know the type. Her life coated in nicotine. Every accomplishment stained with the yellow tinge of disappointment.

The scene stirs a memory of my mother.

Her empty blue eyes, glassy and distant. My stepfather’s thick hand striking her pale cheek. It’s not a bad memory. Just a memory. Could be any memory from my childhood. They were all much the same.

I recall the moment with the same kind of practiced apathy as the waitress. Easily swatting the thought aside like an annoying gnat. Forgotten.

She returns with my drink, and this time, I give her a nod of commiseration. I’m sure we have a few things in common from our past. By the darkened skin beneath her eye that’s poorly concealed with caked makeup, I say she’s got more than a few things in common with my mother.

I sip the beer. I’m not much of a drinker—I don’t like the feeling of being out of control. But what kind of guise would this be if I didn’t have a drink in my hand?

Now my father, he was a drinker. My old man could put down two bottles of Paddy whiskey a night. It’s ultimately what sent him to his grave. Liver disease. The sour stench of whisky still turns my stomach. The only recollection of my childhood that had a direct and profound impact on me. Though I suspect London would strongly disagree.

A smile twists my lips as I glance at the door, expecting her to walk in. As if I can make her materialize with just a thought. I take another sip just to feel the burn. It matches the sting of disappointment.

London has been whisked back to her hometown, where she fights the state to release her sister’s remains. I’ve followed the story closely as she and my former lawyer appeared on TV; interviews exposing the dark secrets of her life. Spinoff clips of psychologists attempting to explain the conundrum of her circumstance. Even a few disbelievers shouting doubts and trying to defame her.

There’s also been an investigation opened into the whereabouts of her parents’ estranged family. Like one big fucking soap opera. It makes for good daytime television.

Who is Dr. London Noble really? one reporter asked the nation during a breaking news broadcast.

Apparently, she’s come to be known as Lydia Prescott.

I scrub a hand over my head and push back the hood. Doubt is a festering sore. It starts out small, barely noticeable, but you know it’s there. The more you touch it, probe it, worry it, the bigger it gets, until it’s a black, gaping wound.

London plays her part well in front of an audience. Maybe too well. She’s actively seeking information about her former life, and helping officials comb the state for the madman who abducted and tortured her.

All she has to do is drive an hour toward the coast.

Here I am, baby.

The front door swings open, and in walks our crime-scene tech. Lawson is running late today, a weary expression on his face as he heads directly to the bar to order his beer. He’s had a hectic day.

Two grisly murders within a week and the pressure is on.

I drop my head and stare into my tumbler. The locals in this bar could give two shits about who I am, but Lawson works within the system. He’s been made aware of my description. He’s working the crime scenes that the FBI know are linked to me.

So we wait. And watch.

With every gulp of his beer, Lawson eases into his comfort zone. He’s already on his third drink—one more than he usually downs before he goes home.

Every once in a while, he glances over to the two women working the back of the room. He comes in here often enough to know what they do for a living. With his fear of rejection, soliciting a prostitute is a natural step for him. But his fear is too great—even by the time he’s on his fourth beer, he can’t drum up the courage to approach them.

I wonder how he met his wife?

He signals the bartender to cash out.

I drain the glass and toss a healthy tip on the table. Not too healthy—I don’t want the waitress to observe me any closer than she needs to. Her disinterest keeps this bar a safe haven for us. Lawson and me.

With that thought comes a fresh lance to the wound. London is my haven. Like cancer, that festering doubt spreads wider.

If I want to speed this up, I need answers. Now.

The drunken college boys get into an altercation with the bikers, and I use the ruckus to sidle up next to one of the working girls. She’s claimed her john for the night, getting ready to meet him at the entrance so they can covertly leave together.

“You gotta offer more than three-hundred, sugar,” she says to me as she drapes her jacket on. “Otherwise, I’ve got my date for the night.”

I slip a wad of cash into her pocket. “Five-hundred. Count it if you want.”

She finally turns toward me, giving me a perusing once over. “You don’t look like you’re desperate for a date.”

“It’s for my friend.” I nod toward the bar top where Lawson is closing out his tab. “He’s shy.”

She nods slowly. “Ah. That guy.” She looks me over again curiously. She works this bar. She’s never seen me before. I’m not Lawson’s friend.

I slip another roll of cash into her pocket. “Two-hundred more not to mention me. He’s really shy. Tell him it’s a freebie.” I glance around the bar. “Make sure he has a beer first.” I give her a bottle. “Will help loosen him up.”

She’s a perceptive girl. She has to be in her line of work. She takes the bottle, pocketing it beneath her jacket quickly. “Will it kill him?” She holds up a hand. “You know what, baby. I don’t want to know. Just don’t show yourself around here again.”

“Done.” I give her a nod of gratitude, then head toward the exit.

As I linger in the alley outside the bar, waiting to follow Lawson, I find I’m buzzing. Wishing London was here for this next part. No one can break a mind the way she can. I know, because I’ve seen her process. Studied her technique on the tapes. Looking for ways to combine our methods.

Larry was just a small taste of what we’re capable of together.

I spot Lawson and the prostitute leaving the bar, and I wait a few beats before picking up my stashed duffle bag and falling into step behind them. They’re walking arm-in-arm, laughing. Lawson’s inebriated state mollifies his fears.

I know how to bring them roaring back.

Unlike London, I was able to release my former life with the ease of letting go of a helium balloon. It floated up, up, gone. Blotted out by the sun. I severed all connections to the boy born in Hells Kells.

Maybe London has found a thread in the life that was stolen from her—some string to tether her. She loves her string. Her dead sister, perhaps. Or wealthy, respectable parents she can now be proud of, unlike the man she murdered to escape his deviant legacy.

Well, if my lovely lilac is falling victim to her poisonous delusions again, there’s really only one answer: pluck off the offending petals.

Time to remind Dr. London Noble of who she is.