Chapter 4 - Part I

Chapter 4

 

A jagged scream lodged deep in her throat, Kayleen surged straight up in bed, sweating and shaking, mere minutes before the digital alarm was set to blare out it’s warning into the pre-dawn morning.  It was 4:28 a.m.  It was pitch-black outside and Jody was still dead, but the feel of her own bed beneath her and the absolute silence within the dark corners of her room reassured Kayleen that, for the present moment at least; the monster was already gone.

Kayleen rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and then reached over and clicked the off-button on the top of her alarm.  The sun wouldn’t be up for another two hours.  Sometime in the middle of the night, Kayleen had woken up from her awkward position on the couch and fumbled her way upstairs.

Right now, her body was stiff and sore and her head was thick with the cottony-wool of a fiercely-ferocious hangover.  Her mouth was dry and sour and her stomach rumbled with the knowledge that it probably wouldn’t get fed today, either.  Her right eye felt like it had an ice pick gouged through it, and she was dizzy and nauseous as hell.  But none of that really mattered.

It was time to clear the cobwebs out of her mind, to feel the freedom of the wind on her face, and the early morning dew on her ankles.  It was time to take back the only part of the day that she still called her own.  The one time that she could push her body to the limit and push thoughts of him right out of her mind.

This was Kayleen’s favorite part of the day because now, it was time to run.

 

*

 

6:15 a.m. and she was finally back at home.  Today it was yet another breakfast of only vodka and juice.  She took her glass over to the kitchen table and sat down, wiping off her forehead with the inside of her elbow.  She wedged her small gun out of the waistband of her wet shorts and set it on the table.  She never left the house without some kind of firepower, but anything other than the .22 was too cumbersome to run with.

Salty moisture poured down Kayleen’s face and torso, saturating her white tank top and even her old, thin black Umbros, but at least this time it was from healthy exertion and not from bitter dread.  She looked down as she plucked the damp fabric away from her skin, but froze when her eyes landed on the puffy, raised welts along her chest and collarbone.  Even in this early, weak daylight, Kayleen’s scars were still hideously visible.

Kayleen had at one time inventoried them all.  That had been an egregious mistake.  The initial head-shrinker they’d assigned to her while she was still being held at the hospital had thought it would be a good idea.  He’d actually said it would be “therapeutic”.  Yeah, right.  A half-bald, twitchy son of a bitch, who had probably gotten his Doctorate degree out of a box of Cracker Jacks, had presumed to tell her what she needed to do to get over being assaulted by a sadistic serial killer.  It would have been laughable had it not just been so damned sad.

But, idiot that she was, she’d taken out her compact and then stood in front of the big mirror in the antiseptic hospital bathroom all alone; bright fluorescents blazing, door locked, completely naked.  She’d pulled down the bandages and studied herself from each and every torturous angle.  Then, she’d promptly smashed the compact, gotten on her knees in front of the toilet, and thrown up until she’d tasted blood.

Afterwards, when she was done crying, she’d picked up the phone and called her boss.  Then she’d asked the nurses to re-do her bandages and tape the bathroom mirror over from top to bottom.  The staff had been happy to oblige, and Dr. Severance, feeling that she’d been pushed too hard, too quickly after her attack, had made certain that idiot psychiatrist had never come back to see her again.  But none of it had mattered because the damage was already done.

It would’ve been much more tolerable, and much easier for her to handle, if she’d seen the horrific mutilation and destruction that had been ravaged into her skin, after it’d had more time to heal.  As it was, she’d still been freshly bruised, burned, sliced, and butchered.  The wounds had been raw and leaking.  Her chest had been a veritable roadmap of destruction.

Her body had looked to her just like those of Estes’ other victims; corpses she’d seen either in crime scene photos, or first-hand in the Refuge or at the morgue.  Her emotional state had been so fragile then, it had literally knocked her to her knees.  That day, that exact moment when she’d seen what had been done to her, had changed something deep inside of her.  And it was something that she could never undo.

In those moments she’d spent before the mirror, she’d catalogued each and every degrading horror for future ease of reference.  Even now, those memories remained within clear and unnerving reach.  Kayleen could close her eyes at will and see the serrated skin, the puffy, enflamed lines, the weeping marks, the sliced shapes; everything that Estes had incised so meticulously into her flesh.  He’d gotten her torso, her back, her shoulders, thighs, and calves.  Not one part of her body had gone unscathed.  He’d even decorated the backs of her knees.

In addition to all of that, there had also been the macerated puncture-gash in her shoulder where the bullet had gone in, and another larger one on her back where it had blown out.  His placement had been perfect - right where it had caused her debilitating pain, making her weak, vulnerable, and easily controlled.  But it had also been far enough away from any vital organs to keep her from bleeding to death or passing out before he’d decided that he was done with her.

The worst part, of course was his signature; the triangle around the crescent moon, directly over her heart, along with the flattened infinity sign right above it.  But with her, for the very first time, he’d added his entire set of initials:  R A E, for Richard Allan Estes.  Unfathomably, however, she was the only one he’d taken and marked who was actually still alive.  And no one knew the answer as to why, least of all, Kayleen herself.

With her, when he was done, instead of slitting her throat from ear to ear, he’d merely carved a deep cross right into the hollow of her neck there.  A constant reminder of what he could’ve done; had he only the simplest inclination.  Unable to hide that one disfigurement with most of her clothes, she typically chose to just wear a plain silver locket to cover it.  The kind you kept treasured photos in, except hers remained empty; devoid of memories, hope, or love.

Kayleen finished her drink and slammed the glass down almost hard enough to shatter it.  Then she rested her head in her hands for a long moment and sighed.  When would it get any easier, she wondered?  When would it go away?  Not the scars, necessarily - they wouldn’t ever fade.  But the way she felt about them.  It was as if each one was a physical reminder of how utterly she had eventually failed; as a person, a partner, an agent, a lover, a friend.  As long as they marred her body, their meaning would mar her soul.

She could, of course, have plastic surgery.  It would help to mitigate the butchery some.  Only she didn’t think she deserved any kind of reprieve.  Jody had lost his life that night.  She’d already gotten off too damned easy.  Angrily, she pushed her thoughts away and stood up so abruptly that the kitchen chair rocked back and forth behind her.  It was time to tend to her dog.

Harley was lying on the cool kitchen tiles, still panting like she would never stop.  The poor pooch hadn’t yet gotten used to their brutal, two and a half mile trek up the mountain and back down again.  She didn’t know if Harley ever would.

Back in the city, Kayleen was lucky if she was able to walk her more than ten or fifteen minutes a day.  Work just kept her so busy there that Harley had seemed constantly chafing at the bit for more exercise.  Now, most of the time it was she who dragged Harley along while the dog lagged behind, her long pink tongue lolling sideways out of her mouth as she struggled to keep up.

Back on the night when the Blackthorne Butcher had paid his special visit to Kayleen, Harley had still been at the vet’s office, recuperating from a recent surgery to correct a small tumor on her left paw.  Kayleen knew that if she’d been there that evening, at the very least, she’d have given an advance warning as they’d returned to the apartment after dinner.  If she hadn’t come running to the door to greet her, Kayleen would have known instantly that something was wrong.

Unfortunately, the apartment complex would not let her install any type of security system, forcing her to rely on the “intercom-buzzer” apparatus just beyond the outside door.  It had done little to save her or Jody the night that Estes had come for them; some helpful resident had buzzed him in without bothering to check who he was or what he wanted.

And here, in this old house, the electric system was so bad a security alarm wouldn’t even work.  She’d called, of course, had several technicians come out to take a look in the beginning.  But they’d all said the same thing; her wiring here was so old, so decrepit, that the sirens would go off each and every time the wind blew too hard.  Fixing it would cost at least ten thousand dollars, the payments on which, Kayleen could undoubtedly afford.  Yet that would mean having men – strange men – traipsing in and out of her house for weeks on end, ripping out plaster and stripping up floorboards.  Right now, she was not ready for that level of outsider intrusion.

So, in the meantime, Kayleen made damn certain that her dog was never too far from her side.  It was one of the few easy things she could do to protect herself.  Well, that and making sure that her gun was never too far away from her, either.  Precautions that cost her nothing, but that might one day save her life.  Of course they might not do too much to help her if Richard Estes showed back up on one of the nights when Kayleen had passed out from being blind-stinking drunk.

That realization alone ought to be enough to make her change her habits, but she already knew damn well that it would not.  Alcohol was the only thing that pushed Estes even a tiny bit away from her; the only thing that gave her a small measure of numbing distance from the confines of her own infected mind.  And regardless of the risks, she figured she’d keep right on using it as long as she needed to, perhaps even until it killed her – or until he came back to finish the job.

Kayleen walked into the kitchen now and grabbed a large can of meaty dog food from out of the cupboard and pressed it into the automatic opener.  When she hit the start button and Harley heard the grinding noise indicating that her meal was soon to come, the dog clambered heavily to her feet and then came padding over.

Kayleen snagged a big bowl out of the dishwasher and filled it with a scoop of dry chunks from a bag under the counter.  Then she spooned half the can of wet stuff on top, and jiggled the bowl to mix it in.  The rest of the can would go into the fridge for tomorrow’s breakfast.  Harley ate twice a day but her early meal was the only one where she got spoiled with canned food in addition to her regular stuff.  Otherwise, Kayleen knew from experience that with her already stocky physique, she would get rather obese in just a short amount of time.

Kayleen plopped the bowl of food onto the floor and Harley immediately stuck her face inside and began wolfing it down.  As she ate, Kayleen refilled her other bowl with some fresh water, then she left the pure-bred bloodhound to enjoy her breakfast alone.

She had just headed upstairs to jump in the shower when she heard a knock at the front door.  She was expecting her Aunt Sue that morning, but looking at her watch, she realized that her aunt was more than half an hour early.  Sue knew quite a bit about the attack; more in fact, than Kayleen would have liked.

Back when she’d been in the hospital, Sue had come to visit her over the course of a few of those hazy days.  Although most of the time she’d been covered with a blanket, Sue did walk into the room once when Kayleen had been changing, and she’d gotten an eyeful then.  Also, an overzealous, loose-lipped doctor had taken it upon himself to fill Sue in on most of Kayleen’s injuries.  He’d thought it would be okay with her since they were family, although in truth, Kayleen had been mortified.

But some time had passed since then.  She still felt self-conscious as hell, but God knows, she was tired of always having to cover up like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  If there was ever going to be a chance that she’d one day be able to revert back to simply being herself, she’d have to somehow get comfortable in her own skin.  Practicing first on her sweet, meek Aunt Sue would be a good place to start.

Deciding on the spur of the moment to forgo throwing on a robe, Kayleen just clomped back down the stairs and reached for the door, swinging it open quickly, before she could change her mind.  She realized her mistake a half-second too late.  She heard his gasp, his sharp intake of breath, felt his eyes rove up and down the length of her.

“Jesus Kayleen, what in the hell happened to you?” Caleb asked, shocked.  His face instantly blanched, and he fell backwards a step, as if he couldn’t even stand to be close to her.  All the while, his eyes continued to make the rounds.

Everywhere they rested, Kayleen could feel his gaze like a searing-hot laser against her skin.  His eyes swept over her legs, her arms, her breastbone, her throat, and despite her light garments, she still felt as if she’d somehow been laid naked and bare before him.  His upper lip curled and he looked positively disgusted; just as she’d somehow already known he would be.

She reacted on impulse, slamming the door in his face and thumbing the bolt.  She grabbed the chain to lock that too, but her hand was shaking so violently she couldn’t get the rounded end into the hole.  As he started banging on the door, she took several dazed steps backwards, not even realizing that she was moving until the bottom step thumped into her calf and she stumbled against the riser and collapsed onto the stairs.

When her butt hit the wooden step below her, she grabbed the railing to steady herself.  She clenched the wooden rod in her bloodless fist, frozen in place while Caleb knocked and pounded and called her name.  At some point, he left off rapping on the front door and moved around to the rear.  Kayleen heard him rattling at the door handle there, and she was relieved beyond words that she always kept it locked now.  He wouldn’t be getting in.  Not today.  Not ever again.

He banged for at least fifteen minutes more but Kayleen didn’t wait him out.  As soon as her trembling legs could support her, she hauled herself up with the handrail and then ran all the way upstairs as fast as she could; his relentless pounding resounding hollowly beneath her as she fled.

 

*

 

Kayleen had been sitting on the floor of the bathroom for nearly an hour.  When she’d first run in there, the face that had greeted her in the mirror was one that she recognized immediately; deathly white, sharply drawn, stricken and sickly.  It was the same way she’d looked when she had still been in the hospital.

Frightened by the glaring similarity, she’d grabbed a towel and covered up as much of the silver surface as she could.  Then she’d knelt down and flung the cabinet under the sink wide open.  Pawing through row after row of soft, thick towels, she’d finally found what she had come looking for.  In the back, safe as always, was her reserve.

She had grabbed the bottle of vodka, thankful that it was still three-fourths of the way full, and then had snagged a stack of Dixie Cups that were stored in one of her drawers.  They were the kind that most people used for rinsing their mouths out after having brushed their teeth.  Hers stood in for improvised shot glasses, and she’d wasted no time in getting one wet.  After the third shot, her cup got soggy.  She crumpled it, threw it onto the bathroom floor, and immediately filled another.  It seemed like a long, long time before the faint knocking finally stopped.  The sound echoed in her head long after Caleb had gone.

When she figured she’d had enough alcohol that the blessed numbness would soon take hold, she set the bottle down, kicked off her shoes, and then climbed into the shower stall completely dressed.  She turned the water on, stripped out of her clothes under the frigid deluge, and then sank back down onto the cold, porcelain tiles, her body shuddering so hard it was like she was having some sort of seizure.

After several long minutes, the water finally kicked in hot.  But even sitting directly in the scalding, needling spray, she still was bone-deep cold.  She wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging herself as tightly as she could, her fingernails digging painfully into her chill, wet skin while she cried and cried and cried.