He
waits.
His
car is parked a half a block away from the restaurant. The night
is warm, so there’s no need for him to have the heater running, so he
leaves the engine off. He doesn’t need the radio, either; the
thoughts running through his mind provide enough entertainment.
It’s
9:58 in the evening. About ten to fifteen more minutes.
It
had taken him forever to find her, and he couldn’t believe his luck
when he finally did. It was through no deliberate action of his
own, and in fact had been little more than an accident. He had
been grocery shopping for his wife, who is still practically insane from
grief, and was about to slip into his car when he saw her leave the
supermarket, pushing a cart of her own.
He
followed her home, and after that, trailed her every day for over three
weeks.
Now,
he is finally ready to make his move. Finally. His blood
pulses through his veins with frightening ferocity. His head
hasn’t stopped humming, and the adrenaline coursing through his system
sharpens his vision, his hearing, every possible sensation.
He
feels like a lion, lying in wait in the African wild, only his hunger is
one of justice, rather than one of survival and necessity. What he
is about to do is not natural, and in the end, far from right, but in
the end needs to be done.
10:03.
Any minute now.
His
knuckles are white they’re gripping the steering wheel so hard.
He finds himself gritting his teeth, and tries to stop, but can’t.
He begins breathing deeply, in and out, trying to find a rhythm in order
to calm his nerves. He can’t afford to foul this up, and in his
current state, he is far more capable of making a fatal mistake.
She
walks out of the restaurant, coat slung over her arm and purse in hand.
She is alone, as expected, and works her way to the back of the
building, where her car waits.
Moments
later her red Toyota pulls out from behind the restaurant and out into
traffic. He starts his car, and tails her all the way to her home,
nearly fifteen minutes away.
When
she pulls into the driveway of her apartment complex, he simply drives
past and turns onto the next street. He parks two blocks away,
behind a mini-mall that’s already closed for the evening, and does his
best to appear casual as he walks back to her building.
He
brings the bag with him.
10:24.
Thankfully,
her apartment is in a more secluded corner of the building, which is
designed more like a hotel than anything else. The apartments
themselves, rather than on the inside, are outside and face out into a
courtyard. Hers is on the second floor, on the easternmost side,
all the way in the back.
He
does everything quickly and as covertly as possible, trying desperately
not to look like he’s lurking, but at the same time not wanting anyone
to look out casually and spot him. He sticks to the shadows, which
is easy considering the courtyard and stairwell leading to the second
floor are nearly pitch black. The walkways around the apartments
themselves are lit slightly better, but if he keeps his head down, no
one should get a good look at his face.
Apartment
212. Hers.
10:30
on the dot.
He
knocks on the door. He sets the bag down beside him, and keeps his
hands in his pockets.
She
answers after a moment, wearing a terrycloth robe and little else. A
towel is slung over her shoulder, but her hair is dry. She was
obviously about to take a shower.
His
timing is perfect.
“Can
I help you?” she asks.
She
doesn’t recognize him. Surprising.
“Yes,”
he says.
He
springs forward, driving himself into her much as a linebacker would
plow into an advancing opponent on the football field. She flies
backwards, landing hard on her living room floor, the breath shooting
from her lungs in an audible oomph. He grabs his bag before
shutting the door, engaging all three locks as he turns back to face
her.
He
sets the bag back down, and he wrings his gloved hands together
in…what? Apprehension? Excitement?
The
adrenaline is charging too hard through his system for him to be able to
tell.
10:32.
The
woman on the floor has hoisted herself up into a sitting position, and
she wraps her arms around herself, rocking back and forth. Her
face is pale, her eyes wide, her lower lip quivering. She is
afraid.
But
not nearly enough.
He
stares down at her. “Do you remember me?”
No
answer. Just a choked sob as her eyes begin to water, tears
trickling down from the corner of her eyes.
He
wonders if his daughter had cried like that.
“I
said, ‘do you remember me?’”
She
almost imperceptibly bobs her head down, once, in a semblance of a nod.
“Good.
Then,” he says, reaching into his bag, “you’ll remember her.”
He
pulls out a series of photographs, photos he’s had cleaned up and
processed and enlarged, and tosses them at her. They flitter
through the air and land around her like fallen leaves, some facing up,
others down.
She
doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at them.
He
feels something inside him snap, and he darts forward, snarling as he
wraps his hand tight around her throat.
She
meeps, once, but his hand tightens and cuts off anything that might
escape.
He
keeps himself from screaming in rage, and instead presses his lips to
her ear. “Look at them. Look at the fucking
pictures, you bitch. Look at them and remember.”
She’s
shaking even harder now, but when he backs up, she scrambles to her feet
and makes a break for the hallway behind her. She’s quick, but
he’s faster. He slams his fist into the back of her skull, and
watches as she flies forward and collides with a closed door. She
collapses onto her back, eyes rolling into the back of her head,
moaning.
He
grabs her by her hair and drags her through the one door that is open.
Into the bathroom.
10:38.
He
rips the robe off of the woman, but she’s too dazed to respond, still
recovering from the blow to her head. She squirms in what might be
protest, and continues to moan quietly in pain, but she has yet to
recover. He tosses the robe into a corner of the bathroom, near
the toilet, and roughly dumps her into the bathtub, naked.
He
walks out to get his bag, and the pictures, and shuts the bathroom door
behind him when he returns.
He
seats himself on the toilet, and he stares at her for a few moments.
She’s starting to recover, her eyes fluttering with awareness, the
haze that had been there moments before receding.
He
opens the black duffel bag and pulls out two pairs of white plastic zip
cuffs. He binds her wrists, then her ankles, pulling the plastic
so tight that she cries out, the skin around the cuffs turning a vivid
pink. He then produces a roll of duct tape, which he sets by his
feet.
“For
later,” he says, not even looking at her. “You still have to
answer my question.”
He
picks up one of the pictures and lays it flat on her chest, in between
her exposed cleavage. The picture is of a thirteen year old girl,
pretty but yet to become beautiful, with flowing blonde hair and
crystalline blue eyes that made her father weep every time he looked at
them. It’s a school portrait, taken before she graduated from
the eighth grade.
“Do
you remember her?”
The
woman looks down at the picture, and he can’t help but smile when her
face abruptly cracks, the tears flowing freely as she sobs, her whole
body shaking. The recognition had been instantaneous.
“Good,”
he says. “Then you know why I’m here.”
She
turns her head to look at him, eyes red and cheeks wet, reaching out to
him pleadingly. “Please,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
He
comes off the toilet and slaps her hard, once. Her head snaps back
and she cowers down into the bathtub, hands coming up to protect her
from further blows, but he sits back down, managing to keep himself from
beating her to death.
“Tell
her you’re sorry, you bitch,” he tells her.
She
stares at the picture, and begins to cry even harder.
“Tell
her!” he screams, standing to loom over her with clenched fists,
face red and neck taught with rage.
She
shuts her eyes, bringing her hands up to cover them, as she curls into a
ball and begins rocking back and forth.
He
picks up the other pictures, of other men’s daughters, and tosses them
at her. “Tell them you’re sorry. All of them.
Look at each and every one of their faces and apologize. Because
I’m not here just for my daughter. Oh, no. I’m here for all
of them.”
She
cries out in anguish, knowing full well why he’s here, understanding
what’s to happen to her.
“I’m
sorry,” she chokes out, opening her eyes to look at the pictures
scattered over her. “I’m sorry. Please…don’t kill
me….please….”
He
shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I was her
father. I failed her, as a father. I should have been there
to take care of her, to protect her, but I wasn’t. I have to
make up for that.” He gestures to the pictures of the other
little girls. “And I have to help the others as well. The
other fathers who couldn’t do what I’m about to.”
He
crouches down next to the tub, and dumps out the contents of the bag.
He organizes them on the white tile of the bathroom floor, and watches
with pleasure as her eyes widen in absolute terror.
“You
raped them,” he says. “You murdered them. And you raped
the system for everything it was worth. You cheated justice.”
He
picks up the roll of duct tape, rips off a strip, and seals her mouth
shut. He grips her roughly by the chin, pulls her head so close
that the tips of their noses are touching, and stares into her eyes as
he says, “But you couldn’t cheat me.”
He
lets her go, and picks up one of his first items. A hammer.
“This is for my daughter.”
He
raises the hammer, and brings it down.
He
dreams about that night for months after.
He
dreams of hammers, knives, saws, blow torches. He can smell
burning flesh, hear muffled screams, feel life draining away.
He
sees white tile, made red by a crimson rain, and he smiles.
For
his daughter.
Copyright 2007 by
Rob Kramer
Rob
Kramer is 21 years old and currently serving in the United States Air
Force as a Security Forces airman. Stationed in the United
Kingdom, he has deployed to Saudi Arabia as part of Operations Iraqi and
Enduring Freedom. He has been writing on and off since the age of
ten, this being his first of what will hopefully be many published works.
