Authors: Dan Wells

I Don't Want To Kill You (16 page)

BOOK: I Don't Want To Kill You

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I laughed drily, remembering Forman melt away into ash. ‘You’ve got to trust me on this one.’

‘But I can’t trust you,’ he said. ‘I’ve known you for maybe half an hour total. You haven’t given me a last name, and for all I know, the first name you gave me is a fake. You come in here, you talk about hunting demons, and I have no way of knowing if you’re serious or joking or completely deranged.’

‘I need your help.’

‘I agree,’ he said, ‘but I’m pretty sure we’re talking about different kinds of help.’

We stared at each other, silent and intent, my mind seething with rage.
Why wouldn’t he just answer my questions?
His hands were pressed tightly around the armrests of his chair; his knuckles were white and his arms were trembling - just barely – and I knew that he was scared. He really thought I was dangerous. But he’d confronted me anyway, alone in his home, with no way of defending himself. If I were really as dangerous as he thought I was, I could kill him right here.

Maybe I should. Maybe he’s the demon.

Even as I thought it, I knew it was stupid. There was no way he was the demon, just like there was no way Marci was the demon. I was desperate for anything, desperate to stop hunting and just kill something, and I was seeing demons in every shadow, behind every face, looking out from every pair of eyes.

Eyes.
The eyes had to mean something. When a killer changed her methods, it always meant something. But Father Erikson wasn’t going to help me figure it out. No one wanted to help me stop the demons, they just wanted to save me from myself.
I am not the biggest threat here!

But the priest thought I was. And he didn’t know my name.

I could use that.

The same thing had happened with my old therapist, Dr Neblin. We had started talking about the bad guy, and we just ended up talking about me. People like Max and Marci were legitimately interested in this kind of stuff, but adults always assumed I was talking about myself- that the scenarios I posed were some kind of convoluted metaphors about my inner feelings. Neblin, the priest, my mom . . . it was the only kind of help they ever wanted to give. So why not let him help me?

‘Let’s say I’m as dangerous as you think I am,’ I said.
Stay imposing – even if he’s only talking to stall, at least he’s talking.
‘Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I am the Handyman.’

‘I don’t think you’re the Handyman.’

‘Pretend,’ I said. ‘Now: what do you want to say to me?’

His eyes widened. ‘What?’

‘I’ve just killed three people. Why?’

‘I . . . don’t know why.’

‘I just cut out a man’s eyes, which I have never done before. Why did I do it?’

‘Why are you asking me these questions?’

‘You said you wanted to help me, so help me. Psycho-analyse me. Offer me sage counsel from the Bible.’ I clenched my fists, trying to stay calm. ‘A serial killer is asking you for help, dammit, so help him!’

‘I . . .’ He paused. ‘You’ll have to tell me more.’

‘About what?’

‘If you’re a killer, why are you here?’

‘In your house?’

‘In Clayton.’

I nodded.
That’s a good question; this might actually work.
‘I’m looking for someone.’

He swallowed. ‘Someone specific?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know who it is. Someone in this town has done something to make me very angry, and I’m here to find him.’

‘What did this . . . mystery person do to make you angry?’

Who does he think I’m talking about?
‘That doesn’t concern you,’ I said carefully. ‘I know he exists, but nothing else.’

‘So why are you killing?’ he asked.

‘You tell me.’

‘You’re . . .’ He paused. ‘You’re sending a message. The people you kill, and the way you kill them, are messages to the man you’re looking for, somehow representative of whatever made you mad enough to come and look for him in the first place.’

‘That’s good,’ I said, ‘but remember that I killed eight people in Georgia before coming here, and all by the same method.’

‘So if the deaths are messages,’ said the priest, ‘then the killer – you – is sending the same message here that you sent before.’

Interesting,
I thought.
And if the current messages are directed to a demon hunter – me – does that mean the older messages were directed at another demon hunter in Georgia? The demons have been around for ages – I can’t possibly be the first human to learn about them.

‘Are you saying the missing hands and tongues are threats?’ I asked, continuing my line of thought.

‘Are they?’

‘It makes sense,’ I said. ‘Kind of a “This is what I’ll do to you when I find you”, sort of thing.’

‘Are we still talking about you?’

‘Are you more comfortable that way?’

‘I’m not really comfortable either way.’

‘Then it doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘Just keep talking. If the mutilated bodies are threats, why change a pattern ten bodies long and start mutilating eyes?’

‘What exactly happened to his eyes?’ the pastor asked. ‘That wasn’t on the news.’ He stopped suddenly, his voice quiet. ‘How do you know about the eyes?’

‘I’m the Handyman.’

‘You’re not the Handyman, but you’re . . . something. What are you not telling me?’

‘Do you think I’m dangerous?’

‘You’re definitely dangerous.’

‘To you?’

He paused, watching me through narrowed eyes. After a moment he replied, ‘Only if you think I’m the person you’re looking for.’

‘It’s the demon who’s looking for someone, not me.’

‘And you’re looking for the demon, or whatever it is, and when you find the person you think it’s in, heaven help them. You’re focused, I’ll give you that. You’re like a loaded gun, cocked and aimed, and as soon as your target walks into your sights, you’ll destroy it.’ He sighed. ‘I beg you: be careful of your aim. If you choose the wrong target, you’ll destroy yourself as well.’

I thought of Marci lying defenceless on her bed, of Brooke chained to Forman’s table. I thought of my own mother, cowering under the tip of my knife, of a hundred mothers throwing their phones at the wall, screaming for me to stop calling, huddling terrified with their children in the dark.

‘Then help me,’ I whispered. ‘I can’t do this alone.’

‘Then stop.’

‘I can’t stop.’ I closed my eyes, growling through clenched teeth, ‘If I stop, she keeps going. She dies or we all die. Why won’t anyone see that?’

‘If thy eye offend thee . . .’ he murmured.

Thy eye.
I looked up quickly. ‘What?’

‘It’s a scripture,’ he said. ‘ “And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee”. Matthew, chapter five, verse twenty-nine.’

I felt a tingle of anticipation.
This is important.
‘Keep going.’

‘It’s a metaphor,’ he said. ‘ “For it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell”.’

I paused to deconstruct it. ‘It’s saying that one part can spoil the whole, so it’s better to get rid of that part than to let the whole thing get corrupted.’

‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Taken out of context, that scripture could be seen as a justification for murder.’

‘Is there any more?’ I asked. ‘To the scripture, I mean. Does it say anything else?’

‘It does,’ said the priest, looking startled. ‘It does. The very next verse says the same thing about hands.’

‘Hot damn.’

He stood up, eyes wide and unfocused. ‘It’s real.’

‘So we were right about the message,’ I said, ‘but we got the nature of the message all wrong. We thought it was an announcement, “Here I am, I’m coming for you”, but it was a lesson. Coleman died because Coleman was a sinner; he looked at something he shouldn’t have looked at, so he lost his eyes. He was destroyed for the greater good.’

‘But the others weren’t sinners at all,’ said the pastor. ‘Why would anyone kill them?’

‘You said it yourself: no one’s all or nothing. They were killed because of things they said, I guess, because their tongues were cut out. And the hands were cut off because of things they’d touched, or things they’d done.’

Pastor Erikson stared at me, his eyes wary. ‘You really believe this, don’t you? That these people need to die so the rest of us can be saved.’

I shook my head. ‘No, not me, it’s the Handyman.’

‘But you said the same thing.’

‘That was an exercise to get you thinking,’ I said. ‘Of course I’m not saying we should kill people.’

‘But you said we should kill the Handyman,’ he said, stepping slowly towards me. ‘And you said the same thing before that, when you first got here: that we shouldn’t feel bad about David Coleman’s death. You said we were better off without him, and we should be glad he was killed.’

I stopped, bewildered. ‘Look – I’m the good guy here,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to stop a killer.’

‘By killing,’ he said. ‘Whether you succeed or fail, our community will still have a killer.’

No!
‘I am not a killer!’ I shouted. ‘I am not a threat to anyone in this community. I am trying to help people!’

‘You think the Handyman doesn’t tell himself the same thing?’

I lunged toward him with a roar. ‘Stop saying that!’

He held his ground, and I stopped just inches from his face. I forced myself to breathe evenly; I fought back the feral growl I could feel growing in my throat. I held his stare a moment longer, then turned and stalked to the door.

He called out grimly: ‘What are you going to do?’

I stopped, my hand on the doorknob. ‘What are
you
going to do?’

‘We made a promise,’ he said. ‘You keep your end and I’ll keep mine.’

I turned round, trying to read his face.
He can’t possibly be ready to let me go.
I watched his eyes.
He knows I’m a danger to everyone around me. Is he really going to just let me go?

He didn’t move. Neither did I.

‘You said your name was John?’

I nodded.

‘I want to help you, John. I want you to talk to my friend.’

‘The therapist.’

‘Yes.’

I glanced at the door, then back at him. ‘If I walk out right now, all you have is my word.’

‘Is your word good?’

I paused. ‘No.’

‘Then tell me your name.’

‘So you can turn me in?’

‘So I can contact you and introduce you.’

The thought of it made me nervous.
I have to stay anonymous.
My stomach soured, and I balanced lightly on the balls of my feet, ready to run. The pastor didn’t move.

Can I trust him?

I stared into his eyes. ‘What if I threaten you?’

‘I’m not the demon,’ he said, ‘and you know it. You won’t hurt me.’

‘And if I run?’

BOOK: I Don't Want To Kill You

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