The Final Victim

Tom Jurgen is on a desperate chase in a small town to stop a vicious serial killer who can change his appearance at will.

(Yes, I watched the 1978 “Halloween” while writing this.)

The Final Victim, Part One

Strode Prairie, Illinois. Population 12,000. A 142-mile drive from Chicago, it had a historical downtown section, a local university, and lots of big Victorian houses. I parked in front of one, checked the address my client had given me, and headed across the lawn up to the door.

Twilight, with a light rain falling. I pulled my hat down over my head, stepped up onto the porch, and rang a doorbell. Waited. Rang again.

            A young man opened the door, 20s, thin, with a beard, peered through the screen. “Yeah?”

            “Brett Martin? My name is Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective working for Charles Williams.” I showed him my card and a photocopy of my P.I. license. “He sent me here to ask if you’ve been in touch with his son, Meyer Williams.”

            Martin flinched. “Meyer? I haven’t seen him since . . .” He hesitated. “In years.”

            “His father believes he may be in the area. He gave me a list of names to check.”

            Charles Williams had called me this morning. “My son Meyer is—missing,” he said. “I’m very worried. He’s been—well, he’s been under treatment at a mental health facility for several years, and he’s apparently disappeared. I think he might try to contact a group of his college friends. I’m disabled, and I don’t live in Strode anymore. So I need someone to check in with these people as soon as possible. Could you do that?”

            I could. Even though I didn’t understand why Williams couldn’t just call the people himself. He said he didn’t think they’d talk to him, but why he thought they’d be more willing to answer questions from a complete stranger wasn’t something he could articulate. “I just think someone else would have better luck,” he insisted.

            Still, it was a job. Business had been steady lately, but Rachel was always worried about paying the cable bill so she wouldn’t miss the next episode of “Real Housewives,” wherever they were.

            Rachel’s my girlfriend. Red hair, hazelnut eyes, a graphic designer, she sometimes helps me with cases where her psychic powers add a little extra something. 

But she wasn’t wild about the idea of driving out to Strode Prairie on a gray, rainy day where she had multiple conference brochures to design for a big, well-paying client, and a dinner to plan for friends—a rare event for us. “You go. Have fun. Don’t forget to pick up groceries for tomorrow.” 

Brett pushed the screen door open, leaning forward to take a look outside. When I was in the house he pushed me aside to lock the screen door and the front door right away. He tested the knob to make sure the bolt was secure.

            Then he crossed his arms. “What about Meyer?”

            “He’s left the facility where he’s been living, and nobody knows where he is. For some reason his father thought he might come here.” The facility, Loomis Sanitarium, was 250 miles away. How Meyer would make it to Strode on foot was a question Williams couldn’t answer, but he was convinced his son would come here.

            “Oh my god.” Brett shook his head. “He escaped?”

            “He left. That’s what I was told.” I was puzzled. “Are you scared of him?”

            “You don’t know? Jesus Christ.” 

“Wait a minute.” Now I was getting scared. “What’s going on?”

“You don’t know? Oh, man, that’s crazy.” Brett stared into my face. “Meyer killed four people. That’s why he was in that place. He’s insane.”

Oh hell. “Who?”

“Juan. And a professor. And Alex and Megan. Jesus, didn’t his father tell you any of this? That figures. That guy is a rat bastard, from what Meyer always said.”

I swallowed. “Uh, no, he did not. So, you haven’t seen or heard from Meyer at all?”

“Not in four years. Look—” He shook his head. “You’d better get out. Out of town. You don’t want to run into Meyer. I mean, maybe he’s cured, maybe not, but—” He stared at the locked door. “I don’t want to see him. At all. Got it?”

I nodded. “Thanks.” 

I heard the locks click behind the door as I left.

 

In the car I called my client. He didn’t answer, so I left a detailed message without hiding my annoyance. Then I called Rachel. The sky was dark, and the rain streamed down my windshield.

            “Hey, jerk, what’s up? How’s the middle of Nowhere, Illinois?”

            Middle of nowhere—that felt right, especially now. “The client’s son killed four people.”

            “Holy shit.” Rachel sounded pissed. “Are you coming home?”

            I wanted to, but—“Not before I talk to him. The client, I mean. He’s not answering his phone.”

            “Screw him. Get out of there. We’re having company tomorrow, and you need to help set the table. And stuff.”

            “Yeah.” Georgeanne and her latest girlfriend were coming for dinner. I didn’t want to miss that by getting killed. “Let me try the client one more time. Then I’ll come home.”

            “You could come home and then call him. But whatever. I knew I should have come with you.” She hung up.

            I was glad Rachel was home. Safe. Dry. I called Williams again, got his voice mail again, and left a message again.

            Then I checked the list of people to contact. One was just across the street. Allison McCoy. 

            I’d told Rachel I’d leave right away. But this would only take a minute. And maybe I’d get more information. And I didn’t have to tell her. I mean, mass murderers are scary, but so is Rachel when she’s mad at me for doing something stupid. 

I took a long look up and down the street, then opened my door. 

This house was smaller than Brett Martin’s place, a one-story ranch house. I walked to the porch and pressed the doorbell. 

I didn’t have to ring twice. The door opened almost instantly. Allison McCoy was blond, in her 20s, wearing a long T-shirt, sandals on her feet. 

I introduced myself. “I won’t take much of your time. I’m only here to ask if you’ve seen or heard from Meyer Williams. His father—”

Her face went pale. “M-Meyer? Wait. Wait here. Don’t move.”

She ran down the hall. Through the screen I could see her fumbling at the drawers in her kitchen. I stayed on the porch.  

Allison came running back. She held a knife almost as long as my arm with both hands. The knife shook as she pointed it at me from six feet away.

“Who did you say you were?”

“Tom Jurgen.” I held my hands up. “I’m harmless. I’ll leave—”

“Don’t move!” She backed up even further. “How can I be sure?”

Huh? “Sure about what?”

She peered into my eyes through the screen. “That you’re who say. How do I know you’re—not him?” 

“Meyer Williams?” I dropped my arms. “Do I even look like him?”

“He can look like anyone!” She clutched the knife in both hands. “He can change his face!”

I took a step back. “Okay. I didn’t know that.”

She let her knife drop a few inches. “You, uh, believe me?”

I’ve run into a lot of weird, scary things as a P.I.—and before that as a reporter. I don’t go looking, but they just seem to find me. Okay, maybe I do go looking, because I keep asking questions when other people want to stop. But on a scale of carnivorous plants to psychotic vampires, face-changing murderers was 9.9 or higher. 

 I tried to keep Allison’s knife iand her face in sight at the same time, my nerves tense. “Let’s just say I’ve been around. You haven’t seen him?”

“No.” She searched my face, looking for some clue I wasn’t who I said I was. “I don’t want to see him. Or talk to you. Go away.”

I nodded. “Fine by me. Let me just—” I reached into a pocket for a card.

“Don’t!” She shook the knife. “Just get out of here!”

I dropped a few cards on the porch. “In case you need to call me. Be careful.”

Her lips curled in a menacing grin. “Oh, I will.”

I turned and headed back to my car. The rain was getting harder.

 

Meyer Williams closed the door, walked back into the kitchen, and tossed the knife in the sink. 

Allison McCoy’s body lay on the floor, blood from her throat still spreading over the dirty gray tile. 

He gazed down at her for long minutes, breathing hard, until his own face returned. 

            He pulled off Allison’s T-shirt and kicked her sandals across the room, bending down for his own clothes. If only he could change those too, not just his face and his skinny, pale body. 

But this was good enough.

            Good enough for his revenge tonight.

            Next, across the street for Brett. 

Then . . . all the rest.

The Final Victim, Part Two

Back in my car I tried again to call Williams again. If he didn’t answer, I was definitely going home. On the fourth buzz I started a sigh of relief and turned on the motor. Then—

“Jurgen? What’s going on?”

Damn it. I turned the car off. “Mr. Williams? You, uih, left out some information. I’m not sure I can continue with this case.” I usually try to hide my annoyance when clients lie to me. I didn’t now.

He groaned. “Those friends of his are in danger—”

“So am I. You didn’t tell me about Meyer killing people. I had to find out from his friends. They’re terrified of him. And I’m pretty scared too.”

“I’m sorry.” He coughed. “It’s just that they need to be warned—”

“Why not a phone call? Text? Facebook message? I was okay with face to face because you’re paying for my time and mileage, but not when I might run into a killer. One who can change his face.” I paused. “Another thing you forgot to tell me.”

“I didn’t think you’d believe me.”

I sighed. “That doesn’t matter. You have to tell me everything, or I can’t do a good job.”

“Meyer—his father could do the same thing. He died 20 years ago, when Meyer was a kid.”

“Wait—his father?”

“Yeah. I’m—I’m actually his stepfather. Maybe that’s why Meyer was—troubled growing up. I thought he was doing okay, but sometimes when he got angry, he, uh, changed. Became someone else.”

“You don’t mean just his personality?”

“No. His—his face changed. His body. At first I thought it was just hormones, but then one day, he got suspended from school and he was furious, and I saw him turn into his high school principal. A woman. A lot taller, and, uh—a woman. He started trashing our living room until he calmed down and changed back again.” 

He coughed again. “I stopped—I guess I pulled away from him then. His mother, too. She died his first year of college, and I think Meyer somehow thought it was my fault, along with me marrying her after his father died, and everything else. I just thought it was typical acting out when he was growing up, you know? Until I saw him change.”

“So who did he kill?”

“He never hurt anyone. I watched him at home, but I couldn’t watch him there at Strode College. He killed, uh, a professor, and three other people in the house they were all living in. The police got him, but he was clearly insane, legally insane, so he went to Loomis. Just today I found out he’s escaped. And I think he may be going back for the rest of them.”

“Why? Why can’t you just call them?”

“They wouldn’t believe me! I tried to talk to them when—when it happened, but Meyer told them all kinds of lies about me. I don’t think they would listen. I thought if it was someone else—”

Even though I was telling them that Meyer’s father—stepfather—had hired me? Well, clients don’t always think straight. And this guy was obviously not on the right side of rational. “Why would he come after them?”

“They all know about Meyer’s—ability. One of them told me, but he never told anyone else. Not the police, not the doctors. He wanted to keep it secret, I think that’s why—he did what he did. How many people have you talked to?”

“Brett Martin and Allison McCoy. They’re across the street from each other.”

“There’s only three left then? Look—” he gulped for breath. “I’ll pay you double. Whatever you want. Just warn them. Then go home. Be safe.”

We could use the money. On the other hand, Rachel might kill me if Meyer didn’t. But I had pepper spray in the glove compartment, and I can run pretty fast when I’m scared. “All right. I’ll try, at least.”

“Thank you. Be careful.” He hung up.

“Careful is my middle name,” I said to the dead phone. Along with “tenacious,” “stubborn,” and “stupid”—Rachel’s favorite—and my real middle name, Hale. I opened the glove compartment for the spray, and then checked my phone for the next address. Just a few blocks away.

I didn’t call Rachel. Maybe I would when I got to the house, or later. She knew where I was, and if anything happened to me she’d be furious—Meyer or Satan or whoever wouldn’t be able to protect themself from her wrath—but at least I wouldn’t have to listen to her yelling at me. Until later.

If there was a later. I shuddered and started the car.

 

The next house was a small bungalow. The rain had slacked off a bit, but I kept my hat tight on top of my hand as I came up the walk, one hand clutching the pepper spray in my jacket. I climbed onto the porch and rang the bell.

A man opened the door. “Yeah?”

“I’m looking for Katia Welles? My name is Tom Jurgen.” I showed my ID. “It’s about Meyer Williams.”

He took my card and closed the door. I waited, wondering if he wasn’t coming back, but a moment later the door opened again. A short young woman in jeans and a Strode College sweatshirt looked out, the man behind her. Husband? Boyfriend? “What is it?”

She had brown hair tied back in a ponytail, thin glasses, and a gold chain around her neck. I introduced myself again. “I’ve been hired by Charles Williams—Meyer’s father—to let you know that Meyer’s escaped. Charles thinks he might be here in Strode Prairie.”

Katia looked over her shoulder. “Brad? You hear anything about that?”

He shook his head. He was taller than Katia, with frizzy hair and a T-shirt for a band I’d never heard of. “No, but—who’s this Meyer guy?”

Katia looked past me to the street. Then she opened the door. “Come in.”

They led me to a small living room with thick shag capeting. A bong sat on a table, and I smelled pot in the air. A cat was curled up on a bean bag chair. Katia took a swig of wine from a glass, and Brad poured her more. He held out the bottle. “You?”

“I’m fine.” I wanted a drink, but I needed a clear mind more. 

They sat on a futon couch. I perched on the edge of a sofa with upholstery wearing thin. “What can you tell me about Meyer Williams?”

“Not too much.” Katia yawned. “We all lived together in off-campus housing, this apartment building on the edge of town. He was quiet, kept to himself.” She giggled. “:That’s just like what they say about every serial killer, right? ‘He was quiet.’” She yawned again. “He was okay. Kind of creepy, but not too weird. Just sneaking looks at the girls, trying to see us naked or in our underwear—we had to share bathrooms. Didn’t have a girlfriend of his own. He majored in, uh, math, I think. Or maybe physics. I don’t know.” 

Her eyes drifted to the bong on the table, as if she wanted a hit. I said, “What about the people he killed?”

Brad tensed up. Katia shivered and gulped some wine. “Juan was—he was having an affair with a prof at the college. Ms. Nevins. Valerie, I think, Val Nevins. Anyway, we all knew about it. He was pretty stupid about it, talking about it all the time, and I could see it bugged Meyer. He could never get a girl. You could tell it bugged him. And Juan didn’t care about Ms. Nevins getting in trouble or anything. Anyway . . .”

Katia sat back. “One night Juan brought her to the house. I thought it was crazy. She seemed nervous, but he kept telling her it was all right, she wouldn’t get in trouble, and she went upstairs with him.”

She hesitated. “Then, maybe a half hour later? Juan came in the house.”

Brad looked confused. “Wait, you said—”

“Right! He was already there!” Her eyes went wide. “And we were like—it was me and Mindy, we were just watching TV—we just looked at him, and he asked what was wrong, and we told him . . .”

She hugged her arms across herself. “He—he ran upstairs, and then we heard screams. I ran upstairs, and Juan came running out the room, holding this knife, this big knife, with blood all over it, and all over him. Megan came out of her room, and he—he—he stabbed her . . .” 

Now she was crying. “He just stabbed her, right in the throat. And then Alex came out of his room and yelled something, and Juan turned and stabbed him in the stomach, two or three times, until Alex fell over on the floor. And then he turned and looked at me—”

She grabbed for a tissue but kept talking. “And he wasn’t Juan. It was Meyer. Holding the knife, blood all over his shirt. He saw me, and I backed up and fell down the stairs. I could have broken my neck. He ran down the stairs and I was sure he was going to kill me and Mindy, but he just ran out the front door. And when we went up to the room, it was Ms. Nevins, and Juan, and she was on the bed, naked, and Juan was on the floor next to her.”

Katia had to stop. She blew her nose twice and then wiped her eyes. “It was—horrible.”

“I’m so sorry.” I said. To both of them.

“The thing is . . .” She hesitated. “Meyer told us he could change faces. We didn’t believe him, until one time he changed into, uh, William Shatner.” Despite her memories of murder, she giggled. “It was—too weird. We didn’t know what to think. So we forgot about it, I guess. That’s what I did. When I saw him there—when I figured out what happened . . .”

“Did you tell the police? That Meyer turned into Juan to bring Ms. Nevins home?”

She shook her head. “It was just too crazy. We just said we heard screaming, and Meyer came out with the knife. They caught him a few blocks away.” Her head drooped down, her shoulders shaking. 

Brad put an arm around her, glaring at me. “Are you done?”

I stood. “Thanks. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

The Final Victim, Part Three

Outside I sat in my car for 15 minutes, thinking over what I’d heard and trying to work up the nerve to go on to the next house. Or at least call Rachel.

Katia’s story was horrific—something out of a slasher movie. I’ve faced down vampires and murderous plants and even giant killer chickens, but there was something infinitely more terrifying about this. It was true, cold human evil, the kind politicians and pundits talk about all the time, but the form of evil that’s really very rare. 

Most people have at least a shard of humanity inside them—pity, empathy, compassion, even if it’s been shoved down deep inside them by a lifetime of pain and fear. Actual evil, not the demonic kind, is hard to find. But also harder to destroy.

I took a sip of water from the bottle next to me and forced my trembling fingers to pick up my phone. But before I could start tapping, I saw movement in the mirror—someone walking down the sidewalk behind me. I froze.

He wore jeans and sneakers and a gray hoodie. I didn’t get a look at his face as he passed the car. I started to tap my phone again when I saw him turn and head up the sidewalk to Katia and Brad’s bungalow.

I ducked down, my eyes just above the dashboard, and watched as the man pressed the bell. The door opened, and Brad immediately let him inside. So, a friend? Probably nothing to worry about. 

I sat for a few minutes. I should call Rachel. Or my client. Or just leave. Go on to the next house, or go home. Get away from Strode Prairie. Go back to Rachel and watch whatever Real Housewives she was into right now—

The door flew open. The man in the gray hoodie ran out without closing it. It hung wide to the street as the guy jumped from the porch and dashed down the walk.

His hood dropped back, and I could see his face. 

It seemed familiar. Funny-looking. Short salt-and-pepper hair, a nose too long, big ears—

It was my face.

Oh hell. Oh hell . . .

He didn’t see me. He turned and ran through the rain, long loping strides on the wet pavement. I stayed in the car until he disappeared in the darkness, and then forced myself to open the door.

I made my way up the walk, onto the porch, and up to the open door, my heart pounding, my lungs fighting for air. I peered through the doorway.

Katia and Brad lay on the floor covered in blood.

Katia was curled in a fetal position, her lifeless head drooping over her knees. Brad lay on his side, his head tilted at an unnatural angle, as if the killer had tried hacking it clear off. 

Dark blood covered Katia’s Strode College sweatshirt. She’d bitten through her lip, dripping blood down her chin, and her eyes were pressed shut like a child trying to wish away a nightmare.

The cat was prodding Katia’s foot, oblivious to the blood, meowing as it tried to wake her up.

I didn’t go in. It was a crime scene. And they didn’t look like they were breathing. Even if they were, there wasn’t much I could do for them, their slashed bodies leaking blood in an ever-widening pool on the shag carpet.

The only thing I could do was the last thing I wanted to do. But I couldn’t just go home now. Not with Meyer on the loose. With two more people to kill.

I ran for the car.

 

I called the police to report the murder. I told them everything I knew, including the names of the next two people on the list Williams had given me. They seemed confused. It was a small town, and they probably didn’t have a big department—or get serial killers on a rampage very often. The dispatcher told me they’d send a car and to stay put. But I was already driving.

            Two names left. I figured Meyer would go for the closest house, three blocks away. He was on foot, but he probably knew shortcuts I couldn’t use in my car. I ignored speed limits and stop signs, my eyes aching from trying to look everywhere at once.

            I called Rachel as I made a right turn down the street. “They’re dead,” I told her, my voice shaking. “Two people. Maybe more. He used my face to get inside—”

“Tom!” Rachel’s voice rattled my eardrums. “What are you—I mean, I know you, you have to do something, but for Christ’s sake, don’t get yourself killed! Please!”

“I’m trying not to get anyone else killed.” I knew I sounded crazy. 

“You idiot. I love you. Just remember that. I need you here or I don’t know what I’ll do.” Rachel was crying. Rachel never cries. “Just don’t get killed. Okay? Promise?”

“I promise.” I hoped I could keep it. “I love you too.”

“Okay. Call me. Jerk.” She hung up. 

I stopped the car. 

I was in front of Mindy’s house. Mindy Jara. It was a duplex. She lived in the apartment on the east side of the building. I took a deep breath, checked to make sure I had the pepper spray in my jacket, questioned my career choices again, and climbed out of the car.

            The rain fell harder now. I made my way to the door, tense, hoping I’d be able to react quickly if Meyer came through the door. I pressed the buzzer.

            No screen door, just a heavy wooden door with a peephole in the center. After a moment it opened as far as a security chain inside would allow, and a sharp voice called, “Hello?”

            “Mindy Jara?”

            “Yeah. Who are you?”

            “My name’s Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective hired by Meyer Williams’ father. I think he’s coming here—Meyer Williams. He’s already killed Katia Welles and her boyfriend.” Maybe more. Had he gotten Breet Martin and Allison McCoy too? “He might be coming for you.”

            I knew how it sounded. But if I scared her enough to protect herself, that was fine with me.

            The door closed. I turned to go back, and then it opened again. “What are you talking about?”

            Mindy Jara was Asian, with short black hair. She was wearing a thick cotton bathrobe, blue, and her feet were bare. I stepped back, arms wide. 

“You shouldn’t open the door to anyone,” I told her. “Call the police. Tell them—” I reached for a business card. “I already called them about Katia Welles. Don’t let anyone in, not even me if I come back here again. I know I sound crazy, but—”

            “Yeah, you do sound crazy.” She kept her hand on the doorknob. “I think I am going to call the police.” 

            “Good.” I got a glimpse of her hallway, with a lightbulb dangling from the ceiling and coats hanging on hooks. “Is anyone else here? Has anyone been here lately?”

            She shook her head. Annoyed. “No. I mean, just Josh, but he’s—”

            “Josh? Who’s that?”

            “He’s my boyfriend. He just came over, but—”

“No.” I shook my head. “It’s Meyer. He can change faces. Remember? You’ve got to—”   

A shadow rose behind her. 

A face I didn’t recognize, long and stubbled, grinned at me, and a long, jagged knife rose up like a snake poised to bite.

“Look out!” I pushed her and yanked the pepper spray from my pocket. Mindy stumbled against the door.

The knife plunged into her shoulder.

She screamed. The knife jerked back, dripping blood, but before it slammed down again I blasted my pepper spray over Mindy’s shoulder, into that blank face. Some of it caught her eyes, and she screamed some more, falling in the doorway.

All I could see was a shadowy figure and that big, bloody knife. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to step over Mindy for another blast. Would the spray be enough to stop a maniac? He was strong, ruthless—and if he could change his face, what else could he do?

I sprayed again, hoping it would at least slow him down long enough for us to run away. 

Meyer shrieked in fury. 

But instead of charging at me with his knife he turned and ran. I saw him dart past a sofa and through a doorway beyond it, and then a window crashed in the back of the house. 

I leaned down, trying not to breathe too hard and inhale the spray. “Are you okay?”

“He stabbed me, you son of a bitch!” Mindy kicked at my ankle. “Get the hell out of here!” She had her phone in her hand. “Get away from me!”

I couldn’t blame her.

Outside I looked in every direction—back and forth, up, down—as I ran through the rain for my car, but didn’t see any sign of Meyer. 

At least I’d stopped him from killing Mindy. That had to count for something. Maybe he’d give up, hide somewhere, go back to the sanitarium. 

I reached for the door handle. Maybe I could go home to Rachel, have a beer, watch some TV—

He jumped up from behind the trunk, his knife high in the air. 

In the rain he looked like a ghost, half invisible. The face of Mnidy’s boyfriend Josh was gone. The eyes were bright, but the rest of his face was white, like a lump of pale clay, flat and expressionless. Dead, except for the gleaming eyes.

Meyer lunged at me.

I staggered back and tripped, tumbling to the wet grass. A Meyer loomed above me  I kicked at his knee as hard as I could. 

Meyer threw himself down at me. 

I twisted my body. The knife sliced through my jacket at the shoulder. I clenched my fist and hurled it up at his face, pounding on his chin and nose. The skin felt like wet paste, soft and squishy as I hit him over and over again, kicking at his legs desperately.

Meyer rolled off my body. The knife was embedded in the ground next to me. I pulled it out and clambered away, my hands slipping on the damp grass. 

He gazed down at me, his eyes dark.

“Who—are you?”

“Your father sent me.” My voice was a hoarse croak from a dry throat. “Charles. Stop this, Meyer. Go back. You don’t have to do this.”

Meyer blinked. I tensed for another attack—one that would probably end with me bleeding and dead. I’m not much of a fighter even when ‘m desperate and terrified.

“No.” Meyer’s voice was a harsh whisper. “I’m not going back to him.”

“Then just stop! You don’t have to kill more people. You’ll get locked up again. Worse.” I was saying whatever popped into my head, more to distract him than any hoper I could cure him of his murderous rage. “They’ll kill you. The cops—”

Meyer kicked my ribs. For a moment I was sure he was going to stomp my face in, crush my skull under his heel, or yank the knife up from the dirt and slice my heart out. 

I bit my lip, still squirming on the ground. “Meyer, whatever happened, you don’t have to let it—”

“Shut up!” He kicked me again. “I’m never going back! I’ll never—” 

He took a deep, hoarse breath, gazing down at me. I braced myself to fight. Any way I could.

But then he turned and ran.

Damn it. I stood up, my legs weak, gasping for breath. I checked my shoulder. A trickle of blood under the jacket, nothing deadly. I almost wished it was worse. Bad enough to give me an excuse to stay here.

Would the police believe me if I stayed here and told them what I knew? They were on their way from Mindy Jara’s call. Maybe they were already tracking Meyer’s attacks around town.

But it was a small town. A small force. And if they wasted time with too many questions—

Damn it. I shook my head, trying to clear the fears racing through my brain, and made my way to the car. Maybe I wouldn’t be too late this time.

The Final Victim, Part Four

Stacy Durbin scowled. “Bentley! Off the table!” 

            The brown and orange cat purred softly, ignoring her until Stacy scooped him up and dropped him on the floor. ”Stay down! Stay down!” 

Bentley lifted his face with a look of betrayal in his eyes and gave one plaintive meow. Stacy laughed.

            Then she sighed and went back to drying the dishes. Mom and dad would be back tomorrow. It was just an overnight trip to visit Aunt Helga in the hospital in Springfield, but she wanted the place to be clean when they returned, and she hadn’t washed the dishes since yesterday. And the stupid dishwasher was broken.

            Too bad Anyssa couldn’t come over for the night. She was working late at the store. They’d been dating for two months, but even though her parents claimed to be fine with the relationship, they still seemed uncomfortable when any of her girlfriends spent the night. To be fair, they hadn’t been wild about her sister Diane having boyfriends over either when she lived here before. 

            Stacy stacked the dishes on the table and wiped off the last of the knives, setting them with the rest of the silverware on a towel to dry next to the plates. Bentley was looking up at her, as if trying to decide whether to risk jumping up on the table again. She laughed and picked him up, heading for the living room.

Bentley jumped from her lap as she plopped down on the sofa, ducking under the coffee table to lick his paws. Stacy picked up the remote and started scanning Netflix, looking for a movie to watch. Schitt’s Creek? No, not in the mood to binge a sitcom. Titanic? Too depressing. Twilight? Silver Linings Playbook? Letters to Juliet? The Conjuring? No, no horror movies—

Stacy looked up. Sirens were blaring down the street. She tossed the remote on the sofa, went to the door, and flipped the lock. Bentley followed her.

Looking out, she saw flashing blue lights turn on the next street over. The sirens faded. Bentley meowed, then turned and ran up the stairs behind her to the second floor. 

The air was cool on her face. Stacy liked long rains. Walking on the grass barefoot, letting the drops stream down her face, her arms, her shoulders, leaning back to taste the rain as it fell from the sky—

Something crunched in the yard, like a twig snapping. Someone there? She stepped back, one foot inside the house, bumping the coat rack next to the door, and peered through the darkness. 

No. Nothing. No one. The street was empty.

Bentley wandered back downstairs as Stacy locked the door again. He followed her back to the sofa and jumped into her lap as she picked up the remote again, then bounced up and scampered toward the kitchen as Stacy went back to scrolling through movies.

Okay, Schitt’s Creek it was. Just a few episodes. She sat back as the show started. Then she felt hungry. Popcorn. And a Coke or something.

In the kitchen she found Bentley on the table again. This time she dropped him roughly on the floor. “Off. The. Table!” 

Bentley glared at her and meowed, offended, then walked haughtily away.

She closed the microwave door, but stopped before pressing the popcorn button. Something flickered in the window over the sink. The garage door?

Stacy leaned forward. All she saw was shadows. She could go to the side door to turn on the lights, check the garage—

The doorbell rang.

Stacy jumped. Bentley darted through the kitchen, meowing, then huddled next to her feet, nudging her ankle with his head.

“Who the hell?” Stacy pushed Bentley away and went to the front door. Looked through the peephole. “Brett?”

Brett Martin smiled and waved. “Hi, Stacy. Long time no see.”

She unlocked the door and stepped back. “W-what are you doing here?”

One foot inside the door, Brett leaned forward, his voice low. “Didn’t you hear? Meyer’s back. Meyer Williams.”

“Who?” She blinked. “Oh, you mean—but he’s locked up, isn’t he?”

Brett shook his head.

Stacy felt nervous. What was he doing? They’d never been close friends, just roommates a long time ago. Up until the night—that night—when Meyer went crazy.

“W-what are you doing here?” she asked.

“Just wanted to warn you. You know?” He smiled.

“Okay. Thanks.” She pushed on the door.

He lifted one hand, pressed it against the door to keep it open. His other hand was behind his back.

“You know,” he said, “I always liked you.”

What the hell? “Well, that was a long time ago, Brett. I’ve got—it’s none of your business. Good night.” She pushed again, harder.

Brett shook his head. “There’s no time like right now, is there? Come on, Staey—”

“Go away, Brett.” She heard Bentley meowing behind her.

Brett sighed. “It’s too late, Stacy. It’s over. You’re the last one.”

“W-what?” She kept her hand on the door. “What are you talking—”

His other hand dangled next to his leg for a moment.

Brett  was carrying a hatchet.

“It’s over, bitch,” he said as he swung at Stacy’s head.

 

The house was only a few blocks from Mindy Jara. A police car roared past me in the opposite direction, blue lights flashing, as I turned a corner. Down there. I parked and threw my door open.

            I ran across the lawn under the cold pouring rain, my arm still stinging from the gash from Meyer’s knife. The front door of the house was wide open.

Oh hell. I forced my legs to move faster. My lungs ached as I tried not to slip and fall on my face in the wet grass.

            Screams. One short, then a long one that chilled my skin more than the rain. I forgot about my shoulder and raced up to the porch to the open door.

            A coat rack lay across the floor in the entryway, jackets and hats scattered wildly. A staircase faced the door, living room to the left. 

            I paused, listening. Just my own fevered breathing.

            I took a cautious step forward, the pepper spray in my hand. 

The question jumped into my mind again—would it stop him? But it was all I had.

I looked up the staircase. Blood stained one step, and the one above in. Still wet. Fresh. 

            Before I could force myself to take another step a cat came bounding down the stairs, yowling angrily. It leaped  at me as if I was the enemy, and I batted it away. With a loud meow it fled, leaving me alone in the entryway, trying to work up my courage to go upstairs. 

            Still no sound. Just my ragged breathing. Then something crashed in another room. I followed the sound into the kitchen. The cat stood on the table, looking down at the shards of a broken plate scattered across the floor. He saw me, jumped down, and ran through my legs, disappearing behind me.

            On a towel next to the drying rack, mixed in with the forks and spoons, I found a knife. Long and sharp. Steak knife? Whatever. I grabbed it and turned to find the stairs again.

            The silence filling the house felt more menacing than screams. I took each step as quietly as I could. Near the top I peeked over the final step, holding my breath.  

            Nothing moved. The only light came from below me, downstairs—all I could see up here were darkness and shadows, motionless and looming over the hardwood floor.

Feet scuffled nearby. I held my breath and edged upward. 

Towels and sheets were strewn over the floor from a linen closet at the top of the stairs. I bit my lip, telling myself I was crazy to be here, and crept to the top of the stairs.

            The door on my left opened. 

            I jumped back, almost toppling back down the stairs, but it was the cat again. He’d gotten past me somehow, into a bedroom, and now he was prowling the second floor, his paws silent on the hardwood as he made his way across the hall.

            He walked to a door, two inches ajar. He sniffed, then bounded back, dodging around my legs and hurtling down the stairs. What the hell—

            A woman screamed. “No! No!”

            Oh hell. 

            I took a deep breath and forced myself toward the door. Another scream. No time for nerves. My heart pounding, I shoved the door open. “Meyer!”

            Inside the dark bedroom a young woman lay sprawled on the floor, kicking her feet against a tall figure with a hatchet in his hand, raised high. I could see blood on her face and a deep gash in her arm. 

“Help me!” she screamed, and kicked again at Meyer’s shin.

            Meyer swung the hatchet, but she rolled over with a shriek and it slammed into the floor, splintering the wood. He yanked it up, raising it for another strike at the girl, but then he paused and turned to me.

            Brett Martin. Damn it. He’d killed him, after I left. Or maybe before. Did I even talk to the real Brett? It didn’t matter now. I fumbled with my left hand for the pepper spray in my pocket, clutching the steak knife with my right.

            “Meyer, you don’t have to do this!” I stepped forward, my legs shaking. “Your father is worried about you! You need help! You can stop hurting people! You don’t have to—”

            He lunged at me, swinging his hatchet hard and fast at my chest. I managed to blast his eyes with the pepper spray, hoping it would work better than it did at Mindy’s place. 

            The hatchet blade hit my wrist, slashing through the skin and digging into bone. I howled in pain and dropped the pepper spray, jumping backward.

I tripped and hit the floor hard, gasping and dazed. Get out get out get out, I told myself, but my hands and feet refused to move. I looked up at Meyer.

Brett’s face was gone. Replaced—not with a human face, but a pale, featureless mask with no lips, a flat nose, and gleaming eyes deep in his skull. Red eyes, burning with inhuman fury. 

            Meyer swung the hatchet at me.

            I stabbed the steak knife into his leg. 

Meyer roared. The hatchet missed my skull by half an inch. Maybe less. I stabbed him again, driving the knife into his hip and twisting it as blood spurted through his jeans. 

He slammed the flat end of the hatchet at my head, knocking me against the wall, but I managed to keep my fingers curled around the handle of my knife as he kicked me in the crotch. Pain surged up through my body like an electric shock, but I managed to stab him again, this time in his foot, pushing the sharp point of the knife as deep as I could through his sneakers. Maybe I could pin him to the floor.

Meyer lifted the hatchet again.

Then the woman—Stacy, that was her name, Stacy Durbin—hit him with something. A heavy flashlight, big and black, holding it in both hands like a baseball bat.

It bounced off the back of his head and she dropped it, but it made him whirl around, furious, and he lashed out with his weapon wildly. 

Stacy tried to get past him to the door, but he managed to hit the back of her head with the flat side of the hatchet in his uncontrolled rage. She dropped to the floor, holding her head, shrieking in pain and terror. “No! No! Help!” 

I yanked the knife from his foot and jabbed it at his leg again. He kicked back at my face, but I stabbed it at his ankle. I missed, but he was off balance, staggering between Stacy and me. 

Then the cat, from the top of the door, leaped down at him, clawing his face. 

With another roar Meyer dropped the hatchet and grabbed at him, using both hands to pull him away and hurl him out into the hall. 

I struggled forward, grabbing at his ankles, trying to pull him down. I stabbed the knife into his calf as blood dripped down his legs. He lurched to one side, wobbling, and bent down to grab my neck.

His fingers dug into my throat. I jabbed the knife at his chest, but in his rage he didn’t even feel it. His pale face grew darker, gray and stony, and his eyes blazed like fire.

His eyes were all I could see. Everything else was a blur. I heard my heart thudding in my head, a dull roar pounding against my ears as I struggled for breath. I kept stabbing at him but my hands were shaking as I tried to hang onto the knife. I couldn’t go deep enough. I focused all my strength on aiming at his chest, his heart, if he even had a heart to stab. 

I’d never be able to thrust it hard enough and deep enough to kill him. I couldn’t even see him anymore. Darkness clouded my eyes until I couldn’t see anything but his lipless mouth curled in a jagged, evil smile as my lungs struggled for air.  

I clenched my teeth, my heart pounding in a deafening, desperate demand for air. Come on, come on. My eyes fading and my body failing, I tried for one final furious thrust—

Then Meyer’s hands dropped. I could breathe. I could see. I backed away on the floor, clutching the knife, my fingers numb but ready to strike again if I got the chance. If he gave me a chance.

I saw Meyer straighten up with a lurch. His jaw drooped, and black bile dribbled down his chin. He shuddered and dropped to his knees.

Behind him Stacy Durbin raised the hatchet again and drove it into his spine.

My hand scrambled for the knife. Meyer reared back, his white face twisted with pain and fury, as Stacy pulled the hatchet and and slammed it down again.

It didn’t stop him.

Meyer turned around, grabbing Stacy’s arm. She stumbled backward, fighting to hang onto the hatchet as he pulled at it. Then she dropped the hatchet and leaned forward, her hand lashing out.

She stabbed a finger into his eye. 

More howls erupted from Meyer’s twisted mouth. He wrapped a hand around Stacy’s throat, keeping his grip on her arm, and shoved her down to the floor.

Climbing on top of her, he started slamming her head savagely against the hard floor, his knee in her chest flattening her lungs. Stacy gasped for breath. She didn’t have enough air to scream as her skull pounded the floor over and over again.

Then I found the knife. 

My legs shook as I pushed myself to my feet. I took a stumbling step forward. Stacy’s face was deep red, her tongue hanging from her mouth. Her eyes rolled back in her head—

I stabbed Meyer in the back as hard as I could. 

He jerked, twisting his neck to look at me. More black bile dripped from his lipless mouth.

I stabbed him again. And again. 

I lost control. All I could do was keep stabbing him, anything to stop him from killing me. Or Stacy. Or anyone else. But in that blind moment of pure terror, mostly me.

 Meyer snarled, starting to turn. I drove the knife into him one more time. Wouldn’t anything stop him? How many times was I going to have to—

Then the hatched slammed down on his neck.

Stacy held it with both hands, on her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks. She hit Meyer again, and again, just like me, desperate to stop him.

The knife slipped from my hand.

Meyer slumped to the floor.

Stacy brought the hammer down on his skull. I looked away, my stomach churning, and heard her curse as she kept chopping at him, over and over. “Die, you bastard! Die, die, die . . . “

            When I looked again, she’d dropped the hatchet onto what was left of Meyer’s head. She turned away, her body heaving, and threw up on the floor. 

            I made my way around Meyer’s body cautiously. I’d seen too many horror movies to trust that the monster was really dead, even with his brains splattered across the floor. 

            But he didn’t move. No breath in his body.

            I crouched next to Stacy. She flinched as I put a hand on her shoulder. 

            The cat padded across the floor, meowing softly. He walked around Stacy once, then sat down next to her knees, licking himself and purring gently.

            Stacy looked up at me, wiping an arm across her mouth. “Who—who are you?”

            “Toim Jurgen. His father—” I glanced over at Meyer’s body. “Hired me. To find him. He didn’t tell me about—about . . .”

            “Meyer?” She looked at the body, then turned  away, gagging again. “Meyer Williams? Is that—really him? I thought—oh god.” 

            She sank to the floor, sobbing. “Oh god, oh god, oh god . . .”

 

The cops took us to the local hospital. More of a clinic, really. I don’t know where they took Meyer’s body. I didn’t care, as long as it wasn’t in the same room with me.

            I answered all their questions while doctors checked me over, cleaned me up as best as they could, and treated my wounds. Stacy was in another room, so I didn’t hear what she said. 

I told the cops everything. The doctors too. And the one nurse who took my temperature and blood pressure. I don’t know if any of them believed me, but my policy is always to tell cops and lawyers and everyone else the truth about what I see, and let them decide if I’m crazy or not. So far it’s worked.

            Finally I called Rachel. “Hey. I’m alive.”

            “What the hell, Tom Jurgen!” She sounded like a tornado wreaking havoc on a trailer park. “I’m sitting here and I can’t even watch Real Housewives wondering what the hell you’re doing! Where the hell are you?”

            “Strode Prairie Clinic. Coming home soon. I’m fine. I’ll tell you then.”

“What the hell happened? Are you hurt? Do I need to drive out and get you? Did you eat dinner? What am I going to—”

 I hung up mid-rant, too tired to listen and answer coherently. But I knew I’d pay for it when I got home.

            Against the medics’ advice to stay overnight, I drove back to Chicago. I stopped for coffee and played the radio louds to keep me awake, but I drove in a cloudy daze. My eyes kept jumping from the road ahead to the rearview mirror, expecting Meyer to rise up from the back seat with a meat cleaver. Or a chainsaw.

            At home, finally, I unlocked the door, bracing myself for Rachel’s anger. She turned from the couch as I locked up again, then tested the locks to make sure they were secure. I was going to be double-checking locks for a long time. 

Rachel turned the TV off and stood up. She was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. “Hi.”

She could see something had happened. Something serious. I don’t think she had to use her psychic powers for that. “Tom?”

“I killed someone.” I tossed my jacket at the hanger on the wall. Missed. I left it on the floor. The hell with picking up. “I need a drink. Lots of them.”

We had a bottle of whiskey I hadn’t touched in months. Rachel sat next to me on the sofa as I told her everything. For once she didn’t call me a jerk, or punch me, or tell me I was an idiot, or kick me. She just listened, holding my hand. She might have cried a little. I know I did.

“Oh my god,” she whispered when I was finished. “You’re—I’m not going to ask if you’re okay.”

“Yeah. I’m not okay.” I sipped some whiskey and poured some more. 

She rubbed my arm, fingering the bandage, and reached up to pat my shoulder, where I had more bandages. The medics had given me a T-shirt to wear home, one that wasn’t covered in blood. “Can you take a shower with these?”

“Not for a few days. I still need to clean up.” The doctors had done their best, but I could still feel the blood on my skin. Out, out, damned spot!

I stood up on unsteady legs, with the whiskey in my hand. Rachel held my arm as he started walking to the bedroom.

My phone buzzed. Charles Williams.

Crap. 

I fished it from my pocket. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

“Jurgen.” His voice was quiet. Controlled. “I just got a call from Strode Prairie—my son is dead.”

“Yeah.” I swigged some liquor. I hadn’t called him from the clinic. I wasn’t sure what to say or how to say it in my state of shock. Let someone else deliver the bad news.

“They said you—it was you? You killed him?”

I nodded. “Me and a woman he was trying to kill. After he killed—tried to kill—everyone on your list. Almost everyone.” At least Mindy Jara was still alive.

He sighed. Or maybe it was a sob. After a moment I forced myself to say,  “I’m . . . sorry.”

He hung up.

I didn’t really mean it. I wasn’t sorry Meyter was dead. Right now, at least. Maybe tomorrow I’d feel regret. Or a week from now, or maybe a year. 

Maybe never.

But I had to say something to him, didn’t I?

Rachel wrapped her arms around me, careful not to squeeze my wounds or spill any whiskey. “I love you.”

“I love you.” Another sip, and I kissed her. “Aren’t you going to be mad at me?”

“Later.” She patted my shoulder. The one I hadn’t been stabbed in. “Right now, shower. Then sleep.”

I nodded. But I knew I wouldn’t sleep.

I’d be seeing Meyer’s blank face when I closed my eyes. For a long time.

# # #