The Many (8 page)

Karl whirled around and charged towards the counter, throwing himself head first at the doctor. The bigger man tried to take evasive action but Karl was like a human torpedo, his shoulder slamming into the doctor’s midsection and knocking him to the ground. There were people yelling and screaming around him but they might as well have been cheering him on – Karl’s adrenaline was pumping and he wasn’t holding back.

He landed blow after blow on the doctor’s smiling face; opening up a cut on his cheek, splitting his lip and busting his nose apart. At one stage someone put a hand on his shoulder but Karl threw back an elbow, smacking the pest in the mouth. After a minute of pure mayhem, Karl’s knuckles were raw and dripping with blood, and his ears were ringing from the background screams.

Yet still Dr. Reynolds grinned. He hadn’t lifted a finger in self-defense, and from the thrilled look on his blood-sodden face, he was getting a kick out of watching Karl whip himself into a frenzy. The doctor was goading him with his eyes; inviting him to punch harder, to do his worst. The sick prick was relishing Karl’s fury.

Karl suddenly wished he’d brought the gun. He would’ve loved to ram the barrel down the doctor’s throat and make him beg for mercy. And if he’d continued to taunt him with a remorseless grin, Karl would’ve fucking ended him.

A stronger pair of hands finally pulled him off, skidding him across the vinyl floor. The crowd rushed to Dr. Reynolds side. Karl heard people shouting: “Give him some room…call an ambulance….don’t move him.” And the doctor was groaning heroically: “I’m okay…please, I’m okay.”

A heavy-set man in a painter’s overalls stood over Karl, keeping guard. “You stay there,” he warned.

Karl nodded obediently. He would wait until the police arrived, then tell his sister’s abduction story again. Urging them to search Dr. Reynolds’s basement. Insisting that they check into his background. Because any doubts over the reliability of Stacey’s terrifying account had been well and truly erased. Dr. Reynolds’s true nature had emerged when Karl was pounding his face like a filet steak. The shiny look in his dark eyes.

There was no other word for it.
Evil.

3

Dawn was woken by a knock at the door.

She gasped, straightening on the sofa. She’d been having an intense dream, and her mind was anxious and jittery. It took her a moment to piece things together.

The living room lights were on. A half-eaten bag of popcorn was beside her. On the TV,
Ghosts of Girlfriends Past
had returned to the title screen. She’d must’ve fallen asleep well before the end.

Dawn had gone ahead with trashy movie Saturday, complete with popcorn and ice cream, although it hadn’t felt right without Isobel. Alone, a trashy movie wasn’t nearly as much fun. She should’ve rented something better, like an indie movie or a foreign drama. Something with a plot.

She craned her neck to look at the front door, now silent. Had she dreamt the knock? Frowning, she reached for the remote and checked the time on screen.

5:28 a.m.

Jesus.
Had she been out that long? It wasn’t like her to fall asleep on the sofa. She felt kind of weird, like she’d woken up in a dream, and soon she’d wake up for real. But everything looked normal, as far as she could tell. She was in her normal house, dressed in her normal clothes.  

She blinked hard, resetting her thoughts. The last thing she remembered was Isobel phoning from the restaurant. Apparently the date with Maxine wasn’t going well, and she was coming home early. That had been around nine o’clock. 

Dawn guessed the evening had picked up. Her mother, the slut. She wanted to laugh, but she had a queasy feeling in her gut. And it wasn't just because of the junk food.

It was that woman, Maxine. Every time Dawn pictured her profile photo, she shuddered inside. There was no joy in her eyes, no warmth. She looked like a trophy wife, or an expensive call girl...

Dawn's heart skipped when the knocking sounded again. Three slow, heavy raps. She stared at the door, her mind racing. That didn’t sound like Isobel. She had a lively, upbeat knock – in keeping with her personality. But at 5:28 a.m., who else could it be?

She stood up and inched closer to the door. She couldn’t bring herself to peek behind the curtains; afraid she’d find a strange face glaring back at her. But she couldn’t just ignore the knocking, either. Maybe Isobel was drunk and had lost her keys. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d locked herself out. But why wouldn’t she call out to let Dawn know it was safe to answer the door?

Retrieving her cell from the sofa, she called Isobel’s number. She held her breath, keeping one eye on the door as she waiting for the call to connect. Eventually, the Dixie Chicks’
Long Time Gone
started playing from the front doorstep.

“God damn it, Isobel,” she said, exhaling with a hefty gust. She went up to open the door.

Isobel was standing on the porch, staring down at her singing phone. When the ring tone stopped, she looked up at Dawn with a weird smirk on her face. The smirk slowly got wider and more unnatural. Drunk as a skunk, Dawn presumed.

“Did you drive home?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

“But you’re drunk.”

“No. I had one glass of wine at dinner.”

Isobel’s words weren’t slurred, but she was speaking in a strange, faraway voice. And her pupils were huge, making her brown eyes appear black. “Have you been smoking pot?” Dawn asked. “Taking X?”

Isabella shook her head, still smiling unnervingly.

“And where are your keys?”

Isobel reached into her handbag, removing her house keys. “Ta-da,” she said, twirling the key ring on her finger.

“Oh, that’s hilarious” Dawn said, shuffling back into the living room as Isobel stepped inside.

She kept a safe distance from her mother, not wanting to touch her. “You scared me,” she said, eyeing Isobel nervously. “I mean, do you even know the time? What have you been doing?”

“I went out for a walk. I needed some fresh air.”

“Why? What happened on your date with Maxine?”

Isobel raised a knowing eyebrow. “You want the juicy details?”

“Ugh, forget it. You should’ve just stayed the night.”

“I needed to get
some
sleep.”

“What are you, twenty-one again? You’re being gross, Isobel. And your smile is freaking me out. Are you sure you haven’t taken something?”

“You mean besides a nice big cock in my cunt?”

Dawn was left speechless, horrified.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked, Dawn. Even lesbians enjoy penetration now and then.”

“You were fucking a guy?”

For a moment, Isobel looked confused. Then she gave a quick shake of her head. “Dildos, sweetie-pie. A dyke’s best friend. Now why don’t you give your mother a hug?”

“
No
,” Dawn said, edging towards the stairs. “You’re scaring me. And you still reek of sex.”

"But they gave us a shower....." Isobel stopped mid-sentence. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes filling with dread.

"What is it?" Dawn asked in a panic.

Isobel didn’t answer, her face contorted with fear. Her feet were rooted to the spot, but her limbs were trembling uncontrollably. Dawn moved towards her, trying to get in front of her bulging eyes. But Isobel couldn’t see her. She was reliving some paralyzing terror in her head.

When Dawn touched her arm, Isobel's body jerked violently. Dawn jumped back in fright as Isobel glanced around frantically, struggling to reconnect with the here and now.

Dawn watched her mother from the hallway, caught between trying to console her and keeping her distance. Slowly, Isobel’s breath returned to normal. When her gaze finally settled on Dawn, the manic expression had disappeared. Yet in its place was something equally disturbing.

Nothingness.
Her face had drained of color, and there was no emotion in her eyes. She looked like she’d aged ten years in a few seconds.

"I'm going to bed," Isobel eventually mumbled. Dawn moved aside as Isobel climbed the stairs, hitting each step with a heavy thump. She went directly to her bedroom and slammed the door shut, leaving the house in silence.

Dawn stared after her mother, unable to make sense of the last few minutes. Her mother’s behavior was alarming, to say the least. But there was something else troubling her – something her brain wasn’t quite grasping. She wound back her conversation with Isobel, to the point her heart trembled with anxiety. It was when Isobel mentioned taking a shower after sex.

Dawn could’ve sworn she’d dreamed the exact same scene.

4

Detective McElroy was a big, bearish man in his fifties with sweaty cheeks and thick black sideburns. Karl couldn't imagine McElroy as anything other than a cop – he looked just as stubborn and by-the-book as the idiot who’d handled his sister's suicide. That guy only wanted to tick a few boxes and move onto the next case.

“You should get those hands seen to,” McElroy said, nodding down at Karl's inflamed knuckles.

“Don't worry about me,” Karl said, flexing his fingers. “It's that scumbag’s next victim you should be worried about.”

“You're lucky Doctor Reynolds doesn't want to press charges.”

“That's only because he wants to avoid attention. I'll happily have my day in court.”

“Keep up the attitude and you just might get it. We can still charge you, kid. Even without Doctor Reynolds.”

“Good. Does that mean I get a public defender? I'd love someone to go through Doctor Reynolds’ background, or shake up that Love Letters site. Christ knows you guys aren't checking under any rocks.”

McElroy sighed and half-rolled his eyes, flipping open a folder on the interview room desk. “Says here a background check was performed on the doctor. He's squeaky clean. No priors and no history of antisocial behavior.”

“You need to dig deeper than that. He’s smart…”

“–Christ, kid, you need to give it up. Even if the doctor was a giant asshole to your sister, he hasn't done anything illegal.”

“How do you know? You haven't even investigated.”

“We have,” McElroy said, slapping his hand down on the file. “Hell, we even did a full autopsy, which is almost unheard of in suicide cases. But there's no evidence to suggest any criminal activity. Your sister was a very sick, very disturbed girl. Even the psychologist who was there agrees – these problems were bubbling under the surface for years.”

“Dr. Ramirez is in denial. I saw the look on her face when Stacey was under – she was scared shitless. Now she’s hiding behind a safe explanation because she doesn’t want to face reality.”

Detective McElroy glared at Karl, his heavy breath whistling through his nose. “Okay, put yourself in my shoes for a minute. On one hand, I've got a respected eye doctor, a psychologist, and a pathologist telling me your sister's death wasn't suspicious. On the other, I’ve got the victim’s brother talking about a mysterious sex crime that drove his sister into a psychotic rage. Now ask yourself – which theory seems more plausible.”

Karl shrugged. "The second one?"

"Don't get smart with me, kid."

"Why? Do you only speak stupid?"

McElroy suddenly boomed with laughter, his shaking body creaking the legs of his chair. Karl was surprised by the detective’s good-natured reaction. Maybe he wasn't as pig-headed as he’d thought.

"Listen, I admire your loyalty to your sister," McElroy said. "You’re a courageous kid. But I can't say it any plainer – this case is closed. There's nothing more we can do.”

"You could put a tail on him. Follow him in the evenings.”

“Are you kidding? Jesus – now you're really testing my patience. We can't tail people we're not investigating.”

“Fine, then I'll follow him,” Karl said, getting to his feet.

“Sit down,” McElroy barked, his gruff voice filling the room.

Karl tensed, startled by McElroy's abrupt burst of anger.
The detective obviously had a tipping point.
"I’m not under arrest,” he said, still standing.

McElroy glared at him, the blood rising in his cheeks. "Not yet, but you soon will be if you continue to stalk that doctor. Next time you fuck up, you'll be charged, which means you'll have a permanent record. Having a record means you'll have zero chance of getting a decent job. Stacking shelves will be as good as it gets. You think your sister would want that?"

Karl turned his head, not wanting McElroy to see his expression. The detective had obviously read up about his shitty employment history. And he was right – Stacey would probably prefer him to walk away rather than jeopardize his future.

But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t let it go.

He turned back to Detective McElroy and offered a peace-making smile. "I know you're trying to help and I appreciate it, really I do. So I promise to be careful."

“Oh sure,” McElroy said, rolling his eyes. He wasn’t buying Karl’s conciliatory act. "But hey, I’ve said my peace. In the end, it’s your life. You can fuck it up however you want."

The detective stood up and led Karl to the door, pausing just before he exited. He muttered to himself as he reached into his jacket pocket, fumbling inside an over-stuffed wallet.

"Here," he said, holding out a creased business card. "If you really have to go after this doctor guy, you should hire a specialist. That way you won’t get into trouble.”

Luke peered at the name on the card.
Virgil Grant.
"The defensive end for Oregon?”

McElroy nodded, impressed. “That’s right. But he's a private dick now. And a good man – a real pro.”

“But I don't have any money for a detective.”

“Hey, it's just an idea.”

Karl studied the card again.
Central Investigations.
The address was on SW Morrison, in the heart of the business district. It couldn’t hurt, even if he had to ask for credit or plead for good will. “Okay, thanks,” he said, shoving the card into his back pocket.

"Yeah," McElroy grunted. “Just remember, you didn't get that from me.”