The Sacrificial Daughter (34 page)

H Brownly: "No! I can't think straight with you asking me all these questions."

Dr. Becker: "You say he is the key? Please settle down, Harold. We have to talk about this, so there's no use getting upset. Everyone thinks that Kyle is the key to these murders; you're not alone in thinking that. I just want to know why you think so." (Note: client shrugs.) "Why do his friends keep dying? (Note: client shrugs.) Harold please, I'm just trying to get your insight on the killer. The only thing we know about these murders is the sad fact that if anyone gets too friendly with Kyle Mendel they're going to end up dead." (Note: client shrugs.) 

Jesse read on to the end of the page, but it was mostly questions from the therapist and shrugs from the killer. There really wasn't anything more she needed to know either way. She had found the characteristic that she was looking for and on top of that the reason why everyone so ignored Ky.

"Oh my," Jesse said in tired voice.

After hiding the papers, she laid back on her bed and stared at her ceiling. Her thoughts strayed to Mary Castaneda. Why had they been together? Did she love him? Did she love him so much she was willing to die for him? His love was a death sentence.

"Oh my!" Jesse exclaimed as the words of Ky slipped into her mind: 'You're the last person that I'd want to be friends with.' What did that mean? At the time, she thought that it meant that he hated her, but now...

"No!" Jesse hopped up, barely feeling the sharp protest from her broken ribs.

Yes
.

She went to the window and stole a peek at Kyle's bedroom. It was dark and the blinds were drawn, but as she watched, one of them moved. He was there.

You weren't in school and he's been worried for you.

Really? Momentarily forgetting about Harold and the danger he posed, Jesse stared at Kyle's window trying to sort everything out. If she was the last person that Ky wanted to be close to, it really meant that he cared for her more than anyone else.

Ky loves you.

"Oh my," Jesse said, clutching the sill for support.

"Ky loves me."

Jesse sat on her bed and couldn't stop saying the words. They felt strange on her tongue. She'd never been loved before...not by a boy that is. It made her chest feel like exploding and her feet felt like they could just float away.

"Ky loves me," Jesse said for the tenth time, but then she grew angry. "Why couldn't he be normal! How did I get the one boy in town who
can't
love me to fall in love with me?"

Jesse went back to the transcript hidden in her drawer and re-read it top to bottom. The words hadn't changed and neither had the only possible interpretation of them. Ky loved her, it was simple as that. Yet she didn't know exactly what to do with the information.

Dwell on it until you can't sleep or eat.

Yes. What else could she do? Other than being a guarantee that she would have an early death, Ky would be the perfect boyfriend. He was handsome, strong, courageous, and willing to risk his life for her. Just thinking about him made her soul knot itself and she had to get up and pace.

A wonderful thought stopped her feet. Would he go to the ball? In disguise? There was a chance he would and if so, he would be easy to spot. Quiet and shy, he'd be lurking in the corners.

"Oh, man. I hope so," Jesse said to no one in particular. Just the mere possibility that he would show meant Jesse was definitely going, whether or not she was grounded. She set to scheming and when that was accomplished, she set to napping.

Her father, coming home from work at a little after ten, woke her up. Her body had gone stiff and it was with a groan that she rolled over, "Yes?"

"I just wanted to check to see if you were ok," he said. "Your eye looks much better. Dr Becker has a fine hand."

"Oh, yeah. That was good pain," she said with a smile. Her face hurt to smile so she cut it short. "Take me out to dinner tomorrow night? Please?"

The request caused his face to exhibit pain as well. "I'm sorry. I can't. The protest is scheduled for the next day and we have meetings till way late."

"That's ok, I understand." It was not only understood, but expected as well. But she had to ask just in case. Jesse was simply trying to cover all her bases and James Clarke was by far the biggest. With her father safely entombed in endless meetings, stealing his car would be a snap.

"Could I order a pizza then?" she asked, taking her plan one step at a time. Jesse held out a demure hand.

"Of course," he replied, digging into his wallet. "Mom isn't big on grocery shopping, is she? Here you go." He handed her a twenty-dollar bill. At her look of
more please
, he shrugged. "That's all I have."

"It's Christmas, Daddy," she said, laying it on a bit too thick. "How am I supposed to leave a proper tip?"

"Don't go overboard," he said, handing over what she had been after all along. She pocketed the twenty along with the credit card. He tried to give her a hard look, but it cracked into a smile and he shook his head. "Good night. I love you."

"I was good today," she said suddenly. The words 'I love you' made her remember. "Well, mostly good, but something happened and I didn't react like I have been."

"And?"

"And it worked out pretty good. Thanks for the advice...I love you too." The last words came out of her mouth as if she was speaking them in German. They felt thick and awkward as though they were formed from the wooden letter blocks she had as a toddler. It made her wonder when the last time she had said them was.

Her father's look of happy surprise was enough to tell her it had been a very long time. The look jarred her. It had her questioning what kind of daughter she had been.

Not a good one if you can't remember the last time you told your father that you loved him.

Right. She couldn't remember. It seemed like years since she had said, 'I love you' to him, while he said it all the time. This made her feel small. He was himself, always, while she had let anger burn away the girl that she had once been. He loved her unconditionally, while she laid blame on him unconditionally. In fact it wouldn't be a stretch to say that she was abusive in the way she found fault in him.

James Clarke came to these towns to help people in need. He put himself out there when no one else would and performed miracles turning around towns that were on their way to destruction. This was something to be admired, yet how did she treat him? She made her problems, his problems. She heaped scorn on him at every turn and called him names under her breath.

All this hit her quite suddenly. She had been a bad daughter...and still was. Jesse had just used pretense to take her father's credit card. Against his wishes she was planning to go to the ball. It wasn't right and she knew it. She opened her mouth to confess, only at that very moment, he bent down and kissed her on the forehead.

"Good night," he murmured and left before Jesse could find the use of her tongue.

"Good night," she replied to the closed door. Right then she resolved to return the credit card in the morning and vowed to be a better daughter.

In the end her vow held, she was a better daughter...just not a perfect one. Her resolve concerning the card didn't make it through the night. Her dreams were filled with soft music and dancing—with beautiful gowns glimmering in the low light. But above all else her dreams were filled with Ky. In every one they were together, laughing and talking as if there was no Shadow-man and no death sentence upon her head.

The dreams were was too wonderful; they were a temptation she could not resist.

In the morning she slept in, knowing both her parents would be gone by the time she got up. She knew if she had seen her father that morning, either he would have discerned her subterfuge with his piercing glance, or she would've broken down and confessed. As it was she had the house to herself.

In keeping with her father's suggestion to open up, Jesse dressed that morning as a girl would. A normal girl, who wasn't trying to keep the world at bay with a hard exterior. She wore blue jeans, a pink top and because for a December day, it was only cool out rather than cold, she added a white down vest.

"Now for the hard part," she said as she slipped to the corner of her window and looked out at the killer's house. Her plan was simplicity itself. She would use the extra set of keys to steal her dad's car from the parking lot at the town hall, drive to Barton, pick up the white costume she had seen on the poster at school, go to the dance, have the time of her life and then throw herself at the mercy of her father. He would find out about the dress and the ball eventually, after all.

But first Jesse would have to brave the forest. The very idea had her hands shaking. From day one the trail had always led to trouble and she was loath to set one foot upon it. However, there was no other way.

With a deep calming breath that did little to calm her, Jesse slipped out of her house and jogged across the street. Once in the forest she slowed but still could see her breath puffing out of her in white plumes. Fear had her breathing hard. Yet the forest was serene.

That is until she reached the berm. She gave it a long look, and then stared up into the wooded hills on its other side. Nothing moved. However the moment she stepped onto the berm a thunking noise came from her left, echoing across the ice. She nearly screamed. Jumping back, she turned ready to bolt, but it was only an old man standing bent over on the frozen pond.

On his feet were snowshoes to spread out his weight and in one hand was an axe and in the other, a fishing pole. Next to him was a little blue milk crate; he was getting ready to ice-fish. Jesse gaped at the man. She was nervous for him; it was too early to be on the ice in her opinion.

It's always too early for you.

Right. Jesse feared the ice, yet the old man didn't seem to. He probably had little to worry about, as small and shriveled as he was.

A few minutes later, she was in the town itself, leaning against an abandoned flower shop, feeling weak as if the short walk had been more of an ordeal than it was. "At last," she said, breathing a sigh of relief. Down her back she felt sweat cooling, while her heart started to regain its normal rhythm. This was another reason she planned on turning herself over to her father after the ball. She would avoid a second trip through the woods. As anxious as she was walking in broad daylight, Jesse didn't think she could handle another harrowing adventure in the night.

Her father's car, a white Ford Mustang, sat in the lot behind the town hall. As if she had every right to, Jesse went to it, climbed in, and drove away. She didn't look back.

Jesse had been to Barton before, many times, yet never in a stolen car.

"Borrowed car," she reminded herself, checking the rearview mirror for the hundredth time. Borrowed or not, she still felt like a criminal, which made the hour long drive a nerve-wracking one.

Every car coming up behind her became a police cruiser in her mind, so that her hands began to sweat at the sight of a roof rack. She was so nervous that she defied her very nature and forced herself to keep the mustang in check. Despite the near over-whelming temptation to let the car go at a pace it was designed for, Jesse held the needle at fifty-five.

This wasn't easy—the Mustang considered eighty-five a more appropriate cruising speed and when her mind wandered the car's velocity picked up. And her mind wandered a lot. Because of her guilt, her dad's face kept coming to her, and because of her fear—a deep river that constantly ran through her bones—the Shadow-man came as well.

The two men, so large in her life these last few days, were the extremes on the moral spectrum. Her father was good, but in an unbending black and white fashion, while the killer was a pure sadistic evil, untempered by any morality. Together they transfixed Jesse and her world lay balanced between them. It seemed not only right, but smart to keep herself as far from the killer as possible, but she couldn't help thinking that by stealing the car and going to the dance she was edging closer to him.

Then don't go. Turn the car around.

"I don't think I can." It was Ky that kept her on her path. Where did he fit in? He was the forbidden fruit. To taste of it meant death.

Yet, he is also love.
Her voice of reason was suddenly, and uncharacteristically, the voice of romance.

"Right," Jesse said, still balanced, but unhappily so. Ky was everything she wanted and everything she feared. The thoughts of him and her father, and the Shadow-man made her mind swirl, until she didn't know what was best.

With one eye on the road and one hand on the wheel, Jesse took from her pocket the flier of the school dance and stared at the glossy picture of the girl in the white dress. She was beautiful—thin in the waist and torso, full in the bosom and just the right amount of flair in the hips. The dress flowed down her body gracefully in a series of over-woven silken feathers. It accented the girl perfectly. Jesse wanted to be her. For just one night she wanted to be beautiful. When she sighed it marked the end of any argument within her of what she would do.

You're doing eighty
.

Right. Jesse relaxed her foot off the gas.

Barton wasn't a city exactly; it was nowhere big enough. It was more of a merchandise hub for all the outlying towns in that part of northern Michigan. It was where you went for big-ticket items: a washing machine or a new car. It was also where you went for unique items such as a gown for a masquerade ball.

There was one place in Barton where you went for costumes:
Cassie's Halloween and More!
With her love of Halloween and costumes in general, Jesse was a frequent visitor to Cassie's. As always when she walked in, Jesse's eyes were assaulted by a thousand colors and as always she had to pause in the doorway and take it all in. That day however, she was on a mission and the pause was briefer than most.

"Hi there," Jesse said to a girl behind the counter. It seemed always a different girl. This one was an inch or two taller than Jesse, had big, almost huge, moist brown eyes, and wore a long pink and white scarf. It looped around her neck and the two ends dangled down to her calves. Jesse asked, "Please, tell me that you have this dress?"

The shop-girl took her eyes off Jesse's beaten face long enough to take in the creased poster. "Oh, yes. Everyone wants that dress, but I have to warn you, very few girls actually look good in it. If you're too tall you look like an Albino ostrich and if you're too short you look like a stumpy yeti with wings. You can't be too skinny either, or you get lost in it."

The dress was losing its magic with every word the girl in the pink and white scarf uttered. "Can I at least try it on?" Jesse asked.

"Sure." The half-hearted reply came with a half-hearted shrug.

In the dressing room Jesse slid out of her clothes and then struggled into the costume all the while trying not to grunt with the pain of her broken ribs. The dress was so detailed and inter-woven that she didn't know if she was putting it on upside down or backwards. Even with the help of the sales girl, it took two tries to get it on correctly. When she did the shop-girl grew unexpectedly excited.

"The wings!" she said in rush and dug through the box before attaching two delicate wings to Jesse's back. Only then did Jesse turn around and look at herself.

"Whoa," she whispered.

"I know," said the girl. "Look at you"

Jesse stared and stared. And then started blinking rapidly. When she wasn't bruised and when her hair wasn't shorn and colored, Jesse Clarke was beautiful, a fact that she denied. It was easy for her to do so. The hate that surrounded her colored her vision and skewed her judgment. Yes, she thought she was pretty, but beauty was deeper than that and the hate made her believe that there was something not right about her. Something vile. In her mind, true beauty couldn't mix with something so loathsome as herself.

Yet the girl in the mirror, even with her bruises, was very beautiful; there could be no denying it. "What is the costume exactly...a swan princess or an angel?" she asked.

"It's whatever you want it to be," the girl replied.

The dress had such purity to it that Jesse saw herself as an angel. It was perfect...except for her face. As Jesse stared, all her imperfections grew in her mind; they stood out, becoming more and more repulsive. She put her hand across her eyes to block the view of the mirror. "I-I need a mask. Please, can you get me one? I can't look like this anymore."

The girl saw Jesse's sudden pain. "Honey, don't be like that. You're beautiful. Don't be ashamed of a few scratches."

"But that isn't me!" Jesse cried, pointing at herself. Just then she hated the girl in the mirror as much as everyone else did. That girl wasn't real. That face she wore was an illusion, a mask like any other in the costume shop. Tears were coming now and no amount of blinking would hold them back. "I'm not a monster...I don't deserve to be hated..."

"I'll be right back." Distressed, the shop-girl ran from the dressing room quicker than a fireman to a fire. There was an urgency to her that Jesse felt as well. She had been covering up her true self for so long and now she was desperate to be rid of the mask that she had built for herself.

You are only trading one mask for another.

Yes, but one mask was so much closer to her true self, while the other was a mask of shame, of fear, and of hate. Ashamed she had turned from her natural beauty, thinking there had to be something wrong with her. In fear she hid behind her hard exterior, pretending she was tougher because of it. And the hate that darkened her soul burned out from her eyes and dripped acid from her venomous tongue.

How could anyone like that girl? How could she?

The shop-girl dashed back into the changing room and without asking permission proceeded to slip a mask over Jesse's face. That the mask and the gown had been made for each other was without question. It was white, with small wings coming off the sides. These weren't arched like the ones on her gown, but swept up and back.

The shop-girl made a little noise like a tiny laugh of joy. "You were beautiful before, but now..."

Jesse was perfect. The girl in the picture on the school flier couldn't compare. To see herself from all angles, Jesse turned first left, and then right. Beneath the gown, she felt a wave of goose bumps rush along her skin. The moment, feeling as though she had never been that beautiful in her life and probably wouldn't again, stretched out until the shop-girl spoke again.

"That gown is just fantastic on you," she said not taking her eyes from the mirror. "It's $179 for the dress and..." The girl paused as Jesse snapped her head around.

"One-seventy-nine...is that with the mask?"

The shop-girl looked to be in pain when she answered, "No. The mask is ninety-nine dollars. How much were you looking to spend?"

Jesse's father was going to have a conniption fit already. "A hundred. Sorry for wasting your time." Jesse slipped off the mask, keeping her head down, not wanting to see the mirror now that it was off.

"It's ok, you didn't," the girl replied. "I finally found the girl this dress was made for. That's not a waste of time, not to me. Tell me...?"

"My name's Jesse."

"Tell me, Jesse, can you go any higher? I would love to see you in this dress."

As she slowly and reluctantly began to struggled out of the dress, Jesse said, "I'm using my dad's card...I can spend, maybe as high as one-fifty. After that I'll be outside the bounds of a daughter's prerogative of abusing her dad's credit card."

The shop-girl blinked as if remembering something. "Wow. I just had a moment of déjà vu. What you said sounded so familiar."

Wincing, Jesse pulled the dress over her head. Her shirt came up, exposing the purple/green bruising on her back. Jesse was quick to yank it down. "I'm sure I'm not the first girl to 'borrow' her dad's credit..." The shop-girl had seen the bruising and now her eyes were wide. Jesse felt her cheeks go pink. "It's not what you think, really."

"I know you," the girl said, with wide shocked eyes.

"Oh yeah?" Jesse slid into her jeans with a hard look on her battered features.

"You're Jesse Clarke."

The tension in the little room mounted in a flash. Under her skin Jesse felt her muscles go taut, while her eyes narrowed at the girl with the pink and white scarf.

The girl started nodding. "We went to Denton middle school together. You were in the seventh grade and I was in eighth. We shared a music class."

"Tricia?"

"Yeah."

It was the girl's large brown eyes that Jesse recalled. Just then she also recalled how one time Tricia Freeman had smeared Bengay on the mouthpiece of Jesse's clarinet. Her tongue had blistered and she had cried all the way to the nurse's office.

The memory piled on another: Tricia dumping a glass of milk over Jesse's lunch tray, ruining her meal...and that, piled on another: Tricia stealing her clothes in gym, so that Jesse had to walk home in a January snowstorm wearing only shorts and a t-shirt.

All of this brought out the hate in Jesse. She stepped away from the dress and set herself in her fighting stance, wishing that she had full use of her body. The shop-girl would still lose the fight, that was certain in Jesse's mind, but with her broken ribs, Jesse would feel almost as much pain as she would dish out. That was ok with her.

"I'm sorry," Tricia said, lowering her eyes.

"What?" Jesse asked, completely flummoxed by the words.

"I'm sorry for the way I treated you back then. I-I was really stupid and mean," Tricia said and now her moist eyes were brimming with tears. Jesse stared in growing confusion. Wasn't Tricia going to say something nasty? Was this a trick? Weren't they going to fight?

"You were mean," Jesse said, not knowing where Tricia was going with this.

"I had never been so mean to anyone in my life. I'm sorry. I really am."

"Is this for real?" Jesse asked. It couldn't be. "Do you think that just saying sorry is going to fix anything? Do you remember all the crap you put me through?" Tricia had been a head taller than Jesse back then and fighting her wouldn't have been suicide. There had been no choice for Jesse but to take the abuse that was heaped on her. But not now.

"I remember. I was a real bitch and I understand if you won't accept my apology...I don't think I would either." Tricia walked out of the room with her head bowed.

Accept her apology? "Is that really an option?" Jesse whispered. Tricia had been so vicious and cruel.

Love your enemies
.

No! That's impossible. "I hated you, Tricia!" Jesse slammed her fist into the wall, sending a shriek of pain through her ribs. In her seething rage, she didn't care. "I didn't do anything to you!"

"I know...you sh-sh-should have hated m-me." Tricia was crying.

"I still hate you," Jesse screamed. "I do!" Now Jesse came out of the changing room. Her rage was too strong to be denied and in her mind she knew that she was going to hurt Tricia. The girl deserved what was coming to her.

Tricia stood behind the counter, crying. At the sight of Jesse's wrath, she seemed to melt, going down on her knees.

"Get up!" Jesse ordered. "Unlike you, I won't hurt a defenseless person."

"I don't want to fight."

Jesse grabbed Tricia's scarf and hauled the girl to her feet with it. "When did you ever give me that choice?" Jesse yelled. "All I wanted was to be left alone. I didn't want to be hated!"

"I-I didn't hate you."

"Liar!" With a berserker's lust for blood Jesse threw down the skinny girl and knelt atop of her breast. "You hated me...everyone hated me. If you didn't hate me, why did you do those things to me?"

The girl didn't answer at first and so Jesse grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until she did.