He furtively made his way to the hall with gun in hand. His biggest fear had been that they’d be in different rooms. God forbid one was in the backyard; a scream would trigger his alternate plan, which was messy and dangerous, but still doable.
The stars were aligned that tax day. The Gods must have wanted the Clark’s dead too, because what he heard from the other side of the bedroom door—the same door that he’d heard snoring behind—now had an entirely different sound that was as recognizable as fuck. They’d be naked and totally caught off guard. God bless horny old people. They probably had sex a lot between one and three, being the only time their precious little daughter wasn’t home with the two of them.
Show time.
He opened the door and aimed his gun at the tangle of naked flesh on the bed.
* * *
They had no idea who he was, which didn’t matter. What did matter was that they cooperated and did as commanded. He was tired of seeing the guy’s package so he made him put underwear on. The bitch wife wasn’t too bad looking for an old hag, but her naked body was a distraction so he had her put on a bra and panties. In his hoodie pocket was a small roll of duct tape—he made them tape their mouths shut. He led them to the dining room and had them sit side by side in sturdy wooden chairs. He wondered which of the chairs Mae sat in every morning eating her oatmeal before being force-fed crazy pills. He taped their hands together behind the chairs, ankles to the chair. That was what some news anchor had said about the SacTown Slayer’s methodology; Trent hoped it was similar enough a job.
Trent needed to know something before he killed them. He warned the mother that he’d kill her if she screamed for help, then peeled the tape from her mouth.
“You’re not the serial killer,” she began with.
“How’d you guess?”
“He kills at night.”
“You don’t think a serial killer would change things up? Routine is the quickest way to get caught.”
“You must be Trent.”
“Does it matter?” She was way too smart for her own good.
“You’re doing this because we won’t let you see our daughter. Aren’t you?”
“What the fuck do you think? Don’t—”
“If you’re planning on killing us, do you really think Mae will continue to be your girlfriend? Think about it.” The woman exuded confidence. The husband seemed to take refuge in it, though it was hard to say with his mouth being taped shut.
“Already have. I’m not too concerned about it.”
He supposed they read between the lines of what he just said because their demeanor changed suddenly and drastically. Confidence was uprooted, their panic was palpable. What were they expecting, a couple punches and a few idle threats?
“What I need to know is—” He was going to ask about the medicine, if she’d have serious problems coming off of it cold turkey, and what exactly was she taking anyway and why did they think she needed it. The woman interrupted him and veered the conversation in that direction without knowing it.
“Trent, please, you don’t want to be with Mae. I know you think you do, she’s a beautiful girl, but she’s also a sick girl. Do you understand that?—she’s sick. Don’t kill us for a girlfriend whom you will leave once you see how insane she is.”
“She told me that you think she’s nuts. Crazy-pills. She’s not crazy.”
“Not when she’s on the pills, she’s not. She talks to people who aren’t there. You’re going to commit murder to be with someone who talks to people who aren’t there? Sentenced to life in jail or worse? You’re a good looking boy, Trent, you can find a healthy girl whom you won’t have to kill to be with. Please think this through carefully before you live a life full of regret. Please, Trent.”
“Does she really talk to people who aren’t there? Because I can’t imagine that.”
“She hasn’t since she began taking lithium. But if you go through with this, she won’t be on the medicine that she needs and you’ll have a delusional girlfriend. Is that what you want? A crazy girlfriend?”
“Fuck no. Where is her medicine? I want to see the bottle, make sure you aren’t lying.” He wanted the bottle so he could keep her sane after he killed her parents—if she truly was mentally ill—but there was no reason for truths. The grim reaper was the only other in the room and he could keep a secret.
They were in her purse on the counter. Trent pulled out a little orange bottle with pink pills inside. It didn’t say lithium, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t. Perhaps generic or a compound with lithium in it. He only needed the pills until he could get a supply rolling in by other means—if she was truly mentally ill; still a big if. He’d have to take Mae to a professional to be sure. Having a mentally ill girlfriend wouldn’t be the end of the world, as long as there was medicine to keep the craziness at bay. He couldn’t fathom her talking to herself. It was Mae, for fuck sake, his perfect angelic being. “Is this all you have? Do you keep a stash somewhere?”
“I keep more in our room. Why?” She surmised the answer before he could reply. That’s when the tears began.
Trent wished the woman had continued to bad-mouth Mae, calling her crazy and unworthy to be his girlfriend. It would have made what he had to do more enjoyable. Turns out that they did love Mae. At least the woman did. Her last words, delivered with tears and the calmness of voice that comes with accepting one’s fate, were, “Don’t hurt her. Don’t ever hurt my sweet Mae.” Of course he’d never hurt her. As long as she minded him and behaved as he knew she would.
Chapter 32
After dropping Molly off from the movie, none of which he had paid attention to—it may have had aliens in it—Tag went straight to his computer. He didn’t know if he wanted another message or not. He wanted resolution, that much he did know. And there was a chance that the psycho would issue an apologetic email, having somehow learned that it was all a misunderstanding. Surely he must have considered there is more than one Mae Clark in the world.
His stomach was in a knot as he logged on to his aspiringwriter-dot-com account and it writhed when his inbox showed that he had one unread message. Anonymous Guest wrote:
Why are you doing this to me? Who are you and what did I ever do to you? Please don’t post anything ever again. Signed, Mae Clark.
Tag felt like he was still at the movies, only this time he was paying attention. Close attention. “Impossible.” No it isn’t, she’s just unfortunate enough to have the same name. That’s all. He decided to email her and tell her just that. Tag wrote:
Mae, I am so very sorry about this horrific coincidence. Mae Clark is a fictitious character whom I created, and therefore I had no intention of causing you grief. I’m curious, how did your husband stumble upon my story? I won’t post again.
Sincerely, Tag
P.S. Your relationship must be a nightmare. Why don’t you leave him?
The thought of Anonymous Guest beating Mae pained him. Was he beating her? When the psycho had said she was popping pain pills and wondering how she’d hide the bruises this time, Tag didn’t put much stock in it. But that was before Mae sent him a message. This hapless Mae Clark was being beaten by this clown, he was sure of it. That she was being terrorized and beaten because of what Tag had written inflamed his despair. He ignored the eerie similarities between her situation and his imaginary Mae Clark’s. It questioned his sanity to do anything but ignore it in full.
Even though he didn’t know a thing about this real-life Mae Clark, it was hard not to think of her as more than a stranger. After all, she possessed the heavenly name. It shouldn’t matter, but it did. The same way that meeting a stranger claiming to be from your same small hometown is closer to your heart.
Chapter 33
Monday morning Tag checked his account. There were two new messages, both from Anonymous Guest. The first read:
Tag (if that’s your real name), I appreciate your promise to quit posting. I suspect he found the story by Googling my name. He do
es shit like that. He is fanatically involved in my state of affairs, to say the least.
Please don’t insult my intelligence by insisting that your Mae Clark character is fictitious. You know full well that you were writing about me. Couldn’t you have at least used a fake name for me? Even May Clark would’ve been fine! I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, that you didn’t know what was in store for me when you posted your stupid little story. Maybe I could have played it off to my boyfriend as a coincidence if you hadn’t mentioned my tattoo. As much as I’d like to know how you know me and why you felt it important to write what you did, I prefer to end correspondence with you at once. Deleting my outgoing and incoming messages may be good enough, but if it isn’t and he finds a way to retrieve them (or God forbid he gets to them before I do), I don’t want to fathom the consequences. For the sake of my well-being, please stop. Signed, Mae Clark.
The tattoo that he had endowed his fictitious Mae Clark with was described in full detail in his second novel, and passively mentioned in Mae The Day Away. It was of a Brown Recluse spider—commonly known as the Fiddleback spider—on the back of her hand, above and between her thumb and index finger. He made that up, just like the rest of her. It was like being stuck in an episode of the Twilight Zone. A coincidence can only go so far. He flirted with the idea that he was a victim of a practical joke. His intuition said that wasn’t the case. There was no humor in threatening to lop off body parts and beat a girl to the point that she couldn’t walk.
Had he met her long ago and simply forgot the encounter? It was possible. Highly unlikely, but possible. Tag broke his promise by messaging her:
Mae, I’m sorry to write you again but my sanity lies in your response to this letter. Is the tattoo on your left hand and of a Fiddleback spider, roughly the size of a dime? If so, I believe you are right and my creating your character is more than just a coincidence. It could only mean that we met before and I have no recollection of it. Meeting you obviously had a huge impact on me, that’s why it is so utterly confounding that I don’t remember it. I’ve written two novels, both of which you are the heroine. Don’t worry, nobody has read them and there is no prospect of them ever becoming published books. Mae, I’m dying to know where we met. I must know! Could it have been high school? I graduated in 2006, at Pleasant Valley High in Chico. Did you go there? My name is Tag; I better not mention my last name because I’m more than intimidated by your boyfriend/husband. You referred to him as your boyfriend, but he recalled your marriage. I think I know why, too. Help me satisfy my curiosity and you will never hear from me again. I promise. Sincerely, Tag.
P.S. Would your boyfriend’s reading of this really be so bad? He’d learn from its context that we are unfamiliar with each other and draw the same conclusion we have. Okay, maybe we haven’t drawn any conclusions, but it’s obvious my sexcapade story with you never happened!
Tag sent the message and sat in front of his computer, hoping that she’d respond quickly. Mae had mentioned that she was fearful of her psychopath opening the message before her, so that implied that she would check frequently to avoid that from happening. An hour later he had to abandon his wait to get ready for another long night at the Saucy Minx.
After doing a load of laundry he fixed a sandwich to eat while checking his account. And there it was. A new message, and this time it wasn’t from Anonymous Guest. Tag was pleased to see his message was from MaeClarkisme. It read:
I created an account on my work computer so my boyfriend can’t read our emails. I feel like a school girl again, parents forbidding me to see a troublesome boy. This is ridiculous, having to sneak around like I’m having an affair.
He is my boyfriend, not husband. He refers to me as his wife but has no intention of ever being married. And as to why I don’t leave him, I’ve been-there-done-that. Big mistake. Leaving him is not an option, but that’s none of your concern now, is it. He’s not always so bad, anyway. And if it seems to you that I’ve been avoiding mentioning his name, it’s because I have. It’s probably just paranoia on my part, but over the years I’ve learned to trust and act on my paranoia and with good reason. If you ever did something like stalk him or call the police because of the fights or whatever, he’d kill me. I know that’s a term often used and rarely interpreted in its literal sense, but sometimes it’s meant exactly how it’s said.
I went to Piedmont High, Sacramento, and graduated in 2008. I live not far from Chico, in Oroville. This must be how you know me. You must have seen me in Oroville because I haven’t been to Chico since getting my tattoo (a tattoo that’s a couple months old) and were close enough to me that you could decipher the type of spider. And from what you’ve written about me, specifically you and me (cough, cough), I can see that I’ve left quite an impression on you.
Whatever you do, don’t post anything on your portfolio because it will be read by him. We shouldn’t even be messaging each other. So now that you know we’ve bumped into each other somewhere in Oroville, could you please stop messaging me? No need to respond to this letter. Signed, Mae Clark.
Tag replied anyway:
I can’t not respond! Please believe me when I say that the thought of additional harm finding you because of my words is a constant worry afflicting me. I don’t think that I could live with myself knowing that what you wrote earlier, about him killing you, if that came to be. This is all my fault.
I’m embarrassed to admit that I’m quite fond of you (you, whom I’ve long referred to as my protagonist Mae Clark). To say that I’ve been infatuated with my creation of Mae Clark would be understated. I have genuine feelings for her and I know that makes me insane or pathetic or both. But then this most extraordinary thing occurred, and I learn that the feelings I’ve fostered for Mae aren’t a result from an unnatural attraction to a figment of my imagination. They can’t be, if my Mae Clark is a real person. My attraction must have been like a seed that was planted when I encountered you, and has since blossomed. I hope this isn’t scaring you, but I have the feeling that your boyfriend is monopolizing all of your avenues of fear. And for what it’s worth, I really am a harmless bugger.
I don’t know how to respond to your claim that your Fiddleback tattoo is two months old. In my second novel, written over a year ago, I describe Mae as having that same tattoo. How can this be?
I really need to see what you look like. Could you send me a picture of yourself? If you don’t look as I imagine, I’ll dismiss this as either the world’s most uncanny coincidence or an elaborate joke at my expense. But you and only you know if that’s the case. If your photo matches the Mae that I’ve come to know and love, I’ll accept that our paths have crossed. Please respond soon! Sincerely, Tag Baylor.
After he sent the message he realized that he used his real last name. It shouldn’t matter, seeing how she was using her work computer and has a password.
He remained logged on to aspiringwriter-dot-com and surfed the web to kill time, thinking of nothing else but Mae and praying that she’d respond before he left for work.
Mae must have been expecting that he’d message her because it wasn’t long after that when he received another message. It read:
If you wrote a story about a Mae Clark with a Fiddleback tattoo a year ago, than I am relieved to know this is nothing more than just that: the world’s most uncanny coincidence. Borderline supernatural, mega lottery odds. To me it makes more sense that you’re psychic. However, you were wrong about which hand it is on (it’s on my right). I’ll take a picture of myself right now with my camera phone and send it to you to satisfy your curiosity, and only because I’d want to see me too if I was in your peculiar situation. Now that we’ve sorted this out, I trust that you’ll stop with the emails? (I’ve only asked a few times now) Take care. Love, Mae Clark.
P.S. Picture is uploaded as an attachment.
Tag opened the attachment and consequently forgot to breathe. It was as if the Mae Clark of his imagination had been a crude painting of her—not quite
life-like, but close enough that her beauty was appreciable—and in the picture she was brought to life while maintaining the features he had bestowed upon her with the stroke of a pen (or keyboard). The truth was in the photo: he’d met her before in the past. He couldn’t have remembered her appearance to a tee if it were many years ago, that’s why it gave him the sensation of a rough sketch being brought to life. It made more sense than being psychic. He never believed in psychic powers.
Yeah, there was that trifle little problem with the spider tattoo. Two months versus a year. He didn’t dare ask Mae if her boyfriend’s name was Trent. He was trying to build a case for his sanity, after all. But what if he had encountered her many years ago and they chatted for a while. She might have said how much she’d like a fiddleback spider tattoo some day. Hell, maybe she was already dating Trent at the time (let’s face it, the guy’s name is Trent) and told Tag about her abusive relationship. And life story. It made sense in the most unlikely way, but it was the only theory that made sense. And it would help him sleep at night. It would spare him a trip to the head-doctor. It was a dry grassy meadow he had build his tinder-house of sanity upon, but as long as he kept it away from fire he was in the clear. Less questions, more assumptions.
He scrutinized the picture and noticed her left eye had more makeup than the right, and wondered if she was concealing an injury. A black eye. The idea angered him. She was more beautiful than he could have (and did) imagine, and there wasn’t a chance in hell that he was going to let her slip out of his life. Especially with some dirt-bag abusing her.
“Shit.” Chewing a fingernail he wondered if this meant Trent had killed her parents. Tag took a deep breath and rubbed his scruffy face. “Nah, I fabricated the vast majority of it.” She only had to mention her abusive relationship and desire for a fiddleback tattoo. That’s all. Simple, really.
Then why did it feel like so much more?