Page 34 of Haven't Killed in Years
Jake considered it. “Even if he is communicating with Abel Haggerty, the guy’s in prison. It’s not like Porter could be staying with him. I think he’s probably crashing with someone, maybe one of the guys.” He turned to the others in the room. “Has anyone seen Porter in the last couple days?”
The guys shook their heads and Jake shrugged at me.
“Will you ask around?” I said. “Call me if you hear anything?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you,” I said. We exchanged numbers and I stood to leave.
“And hey…” he said, stopping me. “Seriously, come by anytime. Elyse really likes you. You’re good for her.”
Elyse really likes me. If Elyse was the one doing this, would he know? Would he be helping her? Did he meanlikes melike a cat whobrings their beloved owner dead rats? What was transpiring was not what I would have picked as the ideal display of affection. But what did I know about affection? Nothing about the kind that made a person feel warm and fuzzy. My father killed people and my mother didn’t like hugs or quality time or me.
I walked out of the building, but that was as far as I got before I didn’t know where to go next, unsure of even stepping to the right or the left. I was no closer to finding Porter. I had no idea who was doing this and no idea what else they had in store for me.
That was the message though. A succinctWHO’S NEXT?scribbled on my front door from whoever was out there killing the people I knew and throwing them in my face.
From the day I saw my name written on that note card, my real name, a change had begun. It was as if I’d started going backward, slowly at first, tiptoeing out of the safety and shelter of Gwen Tanner. Revisiting that school had taken it to another level, like a hand on my back, grabbing my shirt and pulling me. And now I was in it. I was that child again, standing on the street and wondering if every person who passed would be the next one to die.
It was not my father’s actions but the anticipation that discolored my understanding of human life. I would detach, float through it, wait for him to whisper, “That one,” which would ground me for a time, enough time for it to be done. Then I would float away again.
It was as if I were nine years old again, sitting on the basement floor, back vibrating against the washing machine as my father’s bloody clothes went in circles. I would sit there, arms around my knees, staring forward, until the job was done. Then I would wait for who was next. It could be anyone, and there was nothing I could do about it.
There was no room for imagination in that life. No thought of what the future would be or even what I wanted for Christmas. Itwasn’t something that presented itself on the outside; I could play on the playground at recess, get a Happy Meal at McDonald’s. It was instead something wrapped around my brain like an invasive plant, with moss clogging every synapse, vines restricting every thought pattern.
It had been a long time since I’d felt so out of control, but the feeling wasn’t foreign. I was the institutionalized child of Abel Haggerty. Not every trigger is subtle; not every correlation is buried deep.
All I could think now, standing with my feet cemented to the sidewalk, fighting the urge to float away, wasAnyone but Porter. I couldn’t wait for who was next—not if it was him.
Porter had told Jake that he’dmetsomeone. The implication was a face-to-face—maybe a phone call under Porter’s patented exaggeration, but definitely more than an unrequited letter. Porter was serving himself up on a platter, and if it were me, that’s how I would escalate things—take away someone who truly meant something to me.
I never gave much thought to how important Porter was to me until I was presented with the idea of him being taken away. I always thought it was my guarded isolation that was keeping me in control, but maybe it was the opposite. Having him—someone to talk to almost every day, someone who noticed me, someone whose dumb jokes let me exist in those moments—it was necessary.
If I wanted a say in the outcome, I had to be smarter, more like my father and less like his daughter.
I looked up and down the street. This person had to be following me, watching me. All I saw were cars. Lots of cars. It was a city. Unless my stalker drove the Batmobile, I wasn’t going to notice. If it was someone I’d recognize, they wouldn’t sit at a bus stop, peeking over a newspaper. The idea of a masked stranger crouching in the bushes was almost comforting. I’d happily choose that over the more likelyoption that it was someone I knew stalking me by talking right to my face.
That was it though. By targeting me, getting so into my business, they had actually given me the reins. This person was studying me, looking for a way to upset me. It was an opportunity.
I went back to work the next day and made a big deal about my weekend plans—something I’d never done before—and I definitely got some weird looks. “I can’t wait for the weekend. I’m catching up with a close friend. I’m so excited. It’s been way too long,” I told everyone and anyone I interacted with; I needed my stalker to know. I texted Elyse. I texted Dominic. I texted Porter. One of them would say something to explain my absence to Jake and his friends. I texted Brian, who didn’t respond. I even opened my old Facebook page and posted that I wasfeeling excited about my weekend.
I wanted to be in control; it was all that mattered. Childhood memories were something I lived with every day, but remembering what my childhood felt like, that headspace, that had to stop. If I wanted Porter to stay safe, I needed to suggest another target. I would decide who was next.
Nineteen
I crossed the driveway withmy small duffel bag and knocked on the splintered door. A chair inside creaked, then I heard the clunk of a recliner folding shut. The door opened and Gustus stood before me. He had the type of body that could block out the sun. He didn’t strike me as someone who had done the appropriate stretches in his youth to combat the inevitable breakdown of his super-long bones.
“Can I help you?” he asked, and I was relieved he didn’t recognize me. He could have been acting, lying, covering up his mastermind psychotic murder plot against my loved ones, but the waistband of his Fruit of the Looms was sticking out from his jean shorts and I really had to let this suspect go.
“Is Reanne home?” I asked.
“And who are you?” He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe.
“A friend. Carol Griffin.” Carol was a lady who’d worked with my mom at Kmart a million years ago. She’d had a bunch of kids tofeed and was always eager to take shifts from Reanne when my mother was sick or destroying evidence or being cleansed by my father. When Abel was in one of his moods he would calmly tell my mother, “Better call Carol.” Reanne would understand the reference.
“Hold on,” Gustus said, and disappeared into the house.
I turned back toward the street. A neighbor was installing an air-conditioning unit in a downstairs window. Farther down I could hear a ball bouncing against the pavement. A car full of teenagers passed by. I didn’t see any stalkers.
