Deanna Madden #1 The Girl in 6E (13 page)

He casts one final look at the closed door, then turns and walks to the elevator, pressing the down button with a heavy hand.

I DON’T THINK
my grandparents knew what to do with me. It had been twenty-five years since they had coexisted with anyone other than themselves, much less a teenage girl who had just lost her entire family. They were in mourning themselves, dealing with the loss of a daughter, a son-in-law, and two grandchildren. The fact that their flesh and blood was the one who brought the carnage was a weight too heavy for them to bear.

The large farmhouse, one that was packed with happy memories from my childhood: capturing fireflies in mason jars in the large backyard, Christmas Eves spent wrapped in afghans on the worn wood floor of their formal living room, a giant tree glittering from the corner, hot chocolate in cracked mugs, fried chicken on Sunday afternoons, and Easters spent hunting for eggs through the tall grasses in their backyard. That farmhouse died around us, a house of mourning and death, no one wanting to speak or move, worried that we might step on the crack that would cause us all to come crashing down.

They put me in the downstairs bedroom, the one right off the foyer. There were no rules, no curfews, no stern looks or discussion of my activities. They moved through the house, two silent ghosts, they in their world and I in mine. I could have thrown an orgy in my room, screaming and fucking the paint off the walls, and I don’t think they would have stirred, moved from their cemented resting spots. I almost wanted to kill them just to put them out of their misery.

But I wasn’t ready to kill then. I was scared to hell and back by my urges. They whispered to me in the night, catching me in unguarded moments, when I had exhausted myself with tears and loneliness and frustration. They struck me while driving, when my mind would wander from the road, taking its own direction until it ended in a bloody fantasy that had me gasping with fear and need. Fear of what I envisioned, need pulling at me to make it happen. I’m glad I didn’t kill them. Despite the black hole their life turned into—I don’t think I could have lived with myself if I had taken their lives. Contributed further to the tragedy that is our family.

I stumbled through the graduation ceremony, my eyes dead and cheeks wet. Everything I knew, everything I had, everything I was, had disappeared. The next week, the check from Dad’s insurance policy came. The first check I ever wrote was to the funeral home, my hand shaky, my signature unpracticed. That evening, I packed up my things.

An estate company auctioned off the house and all of the contents in it. I was told, by a perky redhead in a blue suit, that the home sold for less than market value, the new paint doing little to overcome the blood that was shed in our kitchen. She wanted to know when I would be by, to pack up my room and get my belongings and the personal items in the house. I told her my time frame in two simple words.
Fuck off.

I got an e-mail two weeks later, with the address of a storage facility, a unit number, and an invoice. I paid for six months, assuming that I would sort out my emotions by then, be able to hold an item of Summer’s, look into a picture frame, or smell the scent of my mother’s lilac perfume. Two months ago, after six or seven milestone checks, I sent them a rent prepayment for the next five years. The last four have done nothing to heal the pain.

“I MET SOMEONE
today.”

Dr. Vanderbilt—Derek—didn’t respond, obviously waiting for me to say something more. I don’t, and we sit there silently while I watch the digital display of my clock change, moving forward one minute, then two. Finally, he speaks.

“Was it the Chinese guy?”

I laugh despite myself, humor not a frequent part of our sessions.

“No. It wasn’t the Chinese guy. But you’ll be happy to know I ignored your advice, and ordered Chinese, and didn’t kill or stab or even threaten the man who delivered it.”

If I expect a pat on the back, I know better, and Derek sticks to his crusty ways. “Tell me about this meeting.”

“I knew him before—through the door, I mean. His name is Jeremy. He delivers my packages.”

“And you invited him in?” His voice is calm, soothing, irritatingly so.

“No. He came in, on his own.”

Movement caught my eye. Movement never occurs in my apartment. I sat up, confused, and saw him, or rather the back of him. Then he turned and our eyes met.

“Explain.” Derek’s voice is sharper, though you’d have to know his voice well to catch it.

“I was in bed. I guess I didn’t hear the knock. When I didn’t answer, he opened the door and came in.”

“Do you understand that he overstepped his boundaries by taking that course of action?” Derek’s voice is almost worked up, though he manages to keep its melodious tone.

“That’s a bullshit question you should know better than to ask. I’m not mental, for Christ’s sake. I know normal social protocols. Apparently he knocked a bunch of times, I didn’t answer, so he tried the door and came in.”

“You don’t lock your door?”

I sigh exasperatedly. “No,
Daddy
, I don’t lock my door. Well, you know…except for at night.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t.”

“You just stated that you are, in fact, of normal intelligence and are aware of society’s expectations and safety limitations. You don’t not lock your door without a reason. What is the reason?”

“I guess I was hoping that someone might come in.” I stick my chin out defiantly, waiting for what I know is coming next.

“So you could have a friend?” There is a bit of hope in the sentence. Which is ridiculous, since he doesn’t even trust me to have food delivered.

“No, Derek. So I could
kill
them. If someone comes into my house, I am allowed to protect myself.”

He makes this weird noise that sounds like a cross between a groan and a sigh. “Do you think that this guy—Jeremy—came in to hurt you?”

He stood in a fighter’s stance, his legs slightly spread and hands clenched at his sides, his face flushed and panicked, eyes flitting everywhere, then locking on me.

“No. I think he was worried when I didn’t answer. I’ve always answered. I think he opened the door, and maybe heard me moan. Thought I was hurt. He rushed in like something was wrong.”

“And what did you do?”

I grimace into the phone, my hand coming up to cover my face. “I tried to attack him, to get his box cutters.”

“Have you fantasized about killing him before?”

“Oh yeah. Plenty of times.”

“What happened when you attacked him?”

Ugh. The embarrassing moment had come.
“It sucked. It was nothing like my fantasy. My attack was bad, uncoordinated.” I blush, rubbing my forehead. “Let’s just leave it at the fact that it didn’t work. He took the cutters from me.”

“Was he upset?”

“I think he was confused.”

Derek chuckles. “I’m sure he was confused.”

“And aroused.” The words slip out before I can grab them, and they hang in the air between us. Derek waits, and I wait back—
our familiar game
.

“Why would he be aroused?”

“I don’t know. I was naked. Maybe it was the whole us rolling around thing.”

“Were
you
aroused?”

I close my eyes and remember the moment, the feel of his tongue against mine, of his firm but gentle hands on my skin. “Yeah. It was…different, you know? Being with a guy. It’s been a long time since I was touched.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Deanna. You don’t have to tell me what happened.” As if speaking about arousal could make me uncomfortable. I passed that point a million chats ago.

“Nothing really happened. We kissed. And he was hard. I haven’t…you know…it’s just been a long time. That’s all. It was nice.”

“Are you attracted to him?”

“Yes. He’s hot. And there was this brief moment—like when we first made eye contact—it was like a spark.”

“A spark?”

“Yeah. But I don’t know. That part is kind of fuzzy, because then I went all Xena Warrior Princess on his ass.” I grin, forgetting for a moment that he can’t see me.

“So what ended up happening?”

“We were kissing, on the floor, and I was doing good—not thinking about murder or death or anything. But then he touched me on my breast, and it was such a shock—so strange for me, just because no one has ever touched me there before. It broke the moment, and I could feel myself changing, could feel it coming…”

“What did you do, Deanna?”

“I told him to leave. Pushed him.”

“And he did?”

“Yeah. I think he was a little confused.”

“Why did you want him to leave?”

“Because I didn’t want to hurt him. Not that I could have. Since I’m so weak and pathetic.”

“This is a good step, Deanna. You had the chance to keep him there, to wait until your urges got the best of you, but you didn’t. You told him to leave.”

“That’s stupid. I always try to
not
hurt people. That’s why I’m locked away in this shithole to begin with!”

“But Deanna, you lock yourself up because you don’t trust yourself to control your urges. Today, in a sense, you did control your urges. When you told him to leave.”

I don’t say anything in response. I don’t tell him that I lay in bed for an hour after Jeremy left, systematically planning a way to lure him back inside and do a proper job of extinguishing his life.
Derek is proud of me.
It’s a rare moment, and I don’t want to spoil it.

MY FINGER MOVES
on the mouse pad, hovering above the “block” button that all our chat rooms feature. I’m torn. I have blocked clients before—sometimes you’ll get an asshole, sometimes you’ll get a stalker, and once someone recognized me from high school. But this block is one I am having trouble with. During the time of my indecision, the button disappears, and my software loads the new screen. I am now in a private chat, and the object of my indecision sits in front of me.
Damn.

I smile brightly. “Hey, Ralph.”

I nod, moving to the side of the bed, out of the camera’s view, and change into the outfit he has requested the last three times: a pink boa, cheap plastic crown, and pink silk gloves.
Freak-a-zoid.

Later, I take another long, depressed shower, in which I try to figure out what to do about Ralph. The man is disturbed; his requests and role-plays are of the violent rape variety and all fixated on one individual, Annie. The worst is when he gets on his cam, when the typing stops and the speaking begins. His tone is guttural, excited.
Evil.
Every time he says her name, I cringe inside. He is definitely blocking material—the worst type of client, one that throws me into a sea of depression after every session. I have no doubt that Annie is real. That somewhere, she is a sitting duck for this sick fuck. What I can’t figure out is if I am feeding his sickness or satisfying it. If I am protecting her or endangering her further.

I come to a decision and turn off the water, stopping the pathetic, tepid flow. I dry off, dress in my pajamas, and log back online, looking for HackOffMyBigCock. I log into Skype and IM him, and his response pops up before a full minute passes.

I need to talk to you. You free?

Great. Thx

One ridiculous invasion of privacy that Cams.com affords us models is the IP address of any client who enters our private or free chats. I didn’t write down Ralph’s IP address, but I do have a key logger program installed on my computer that takes a screenshot of my screen every thirty seconds. I log into the software and find the screenshots from earlier, and RalphMA35’s IP address is displayed clearly in the lower left section of the screen. I jot it on a sticky note and log back into Skype. Mike is already there, waiting for me.

“Whatcha got for me?” His voice comes through clearly, though he had turned off the camera.

“I need you to trace an IP address.”

“You want just a location—address?”

“I want everything you can get me.”

“Everything is a lot. You sure you want—”

“Everything. I’ll have more questions for you once I get that info.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?”

“Two hundred bucks. And an anal show—twenty minutes.”

“How about three hundred and no anal? You know I hate that shit.”

He laughs, the mike distorting the sound. “That’s why I’m asking for it. Come on. You can choose the toy. Twenty minutes and two hundred bucks.”

“Ten minutes. You know I can get you off in that time period.”

“Ouch. But you have a point.” He pauses, and I wait, fighting the urge to bite my nails. “Okay. E-mail me the IP, and I’ll send you the info later tonight.”

I smile. “You’re the best.”

“I try. Night, baby.”

“Night, Mike.”

Mike is as good as promised. Within two hours I have Ralph’s name, address, Social Security number, and last two tax returns. I also have a complete dossier on the man, including employment records, medical reports, and a background check. I grab a Jenny Craig apple strudel from the kitchen and settle in to read the information.

Ralph Atkins, age forty-one, is a plumber. He was born in Statesboro, Georgia, and has two siblings. No dependents listed on his tax returns. Income last year was $54,029. Criminal background check is clean. Medical stats show him to be five feet nine inches tall, 190 pounds, with 30 percent body fat. He had an appendectomy six years ago and is currently prescribed 10 milligrams a day of Crestor for high cholesterol. He drives a year-old navy blue Ford Explorer with a tag number of X42FF.

He lives not in Massachusetts, as I expected from his MA monger, but in Brooklet, Georgia—a small farming town with a population of 1,250, a tiny police force, and one local doctor. Google Maps shows Brooklet to be a thirteen-hour drive from my apartment.

What is missing from the information is if he knows a young girl named Annie. The possibilities seem endless. A small town full of neighborhood kids and a job that takes him in and out of homes in all the surrounding towns. Couple that with two siblings, unknown cousins, and unknown nieces. How could I ever find her? What if her name isn’t Annie? What if she doesn’t even exist?

I IM Mike back, asking for all known relatives of Ralph’s siblings, as well as all neighbor kids within a five-mile radius. I also ask for the last six months of plumbing jobs that Ralph had had and any hobbies or extracurricular activities of his.

Mike’s response comes too soon to be productive.

How much?

Okay. I also need to know everything he is doing online—computer history, that kind of stuff. Can you get all that from his computer?

Can you get it? I’ll go to someone else if not.

Yes. If you can hide it in an image or video file.

For both?

$3K is pricey. Services exchange?

Okay. $3500 if I can get it in the next 48 hours.

u2. get to work. :)

I ended up wasting that initial thousand dollars. I didn’t have to do any searching for her at all. Three days later, everyone in Georgia knew who Annie was. And everyone was hoping she was still alive.