Ionic Relapse Read online

  If he didn’t hate you before, he does now. No one likes a ssstuttering bbb-baby.

  “So I’ve heard. You, of course, aren't old enough to remember any of those guys. I couldn’t say much about Ramirez or Rader, but then again the real show was The Doll Man, wasn’t it?” He eyed Kieffer intently before continuing, “Maine’s one and only real serial killer. Ain’t that somethin’? You’d think there would be more. But…” His flow of speech dwindled off into nothing until popping back up. “...being a local, I bet you've heard plenty of stories. How your best friend's older brother's girlfriend's cousin was ripped into pieces over summer vacation. I bet they still tell those stories today. All of them just tall tales born on the playground, I’m sure. But, still, it is… interesting. In a slightly morbid way, I guess.”

  Still at a loss for words, Kieffer sat and watched Wayne's face slowly melt into another form. A truer form. His cheeks started to drip down his chin like hairy curds. His nose curled back and peeled away like a wet candy wrapper. Layer upon layer of the carbon mask that he hid behind was flaking away to nothing. Only one part of his original face remained: a shining pink scar illuminated from his right temple, a moon-shaped afterglow that left tracers in Kieffer's eyes. Its pinkish hue intensified as the final layers of Wayne’s mask dripped to the floor.

  Kieffer pushed his eyes down to his glass of water. Narrowing his sight, he picked up the glass, tightly closed his eyes, and took a drink. When he reopened them, Wayne and his stubbornly ordinary face were back to normal. His expression was one of intense scrutiny.

  The only thing that remained from the fake overlap was the faded remnants of the ghostly scar at his temple.

  “I’m an old man, so I remember those days vividly. Maybe a little too vividly,” said Wayne, breaking into a grated chuckle that pushed hot needles into Kieffer's stomach. “Want to know what I think happened to ‘em?”

  Kieffer doesn’t respond. He only watches and waits.

  “I think, after all those years of running from the law, he crossed the Canadian border on foot and set up camp deep in the woods somewhere around Nova Scotia. Ever read Walden by Thoreau?”

  “Nnno,” Kieffer replied. He was completely transfixed. Wayne allowed the room to go silent again, the distant sounds of clinking dishes and running water provided a base tone of distracting noise. He sat looking down at his half-eaten stew before glaring back up at Kieffer and flashing his best car salesman smile.

  “Yeah, well, if I had to guess, that would be my first. The other would be that he’s still in Maine. Living right under everyone's nose. Wouldn’t that be somethin’? A retired serial killer as your neighbor. Hell, he could be your dad and you wouldn’t know it. No one would think anything of it if there was nothing to suspect. The Doll Man was very smart in that way. He knew if he stopped killing while his identity stayed hidden, no one would ever have a reason to suspect him. He knew that new crimes would happen, and the world would push on. The cases would go cold, and the cops would have to give up searching. No time for old news, am I right?”

  “How do you know he retired?” Kieffer's voice suddenly sprang out. “There have been a lot of murders and missing person cases around the state since he…” The realization that his internal scrutiny leaked out came far too late for Kieffer. He teetered out into silence.

  “No one does, kid. And no one ever will.” Wayne’s faint, knowing smile dramatically shifted back to its original cast of sagging stone.

  That’s when things really started to unravel.

  Kieffer felt the polar shift like an arctic blast of chilled air across his face. He had to get up and get to a private place before things started to go south.

  “May I use your bathroom?” he heard himself ask from miles away. He was freefalling into himself. Plummeting backwards into alternate states of falsely projected realities.

  Wayne ran a slender hand through his thinning hair, adjusted his frames, and said, “It’s the third door on the right as you go down the hall.” His stare hardened like Gorilla Glue against Kieffer's skin.

  Without saying another word, Kieffer pushed back his chair and glided across the room into the darkened hall. He wobbled his way to the third door and twisted the knob.

  Locked.

  A faint voice came from the other side. “Occupied!” the voice called through the thick door. It sounded like Ashley, but Kieffer couldn’t produce the proper amount of saliva to ask. “Might be a while! Use the upstairs!”

  In baffled silence, Kieffer hurried his way down the hall and up the staircase. He found himself once again in another darkened hallway full of closed doors and laminated eyes peering through time at him. He pushed back against them. Approaching the first closed door of many, he twisted the knob and pushed.

  Linen closet.

  He quickly shut the door, making sure not to slam it, and tried door number two.

  Another linen closet.

  How many goddamn sheets does a family of three really need? Is she running a fuckin' bed and breakfast out of this place? Jesus.

  Ignoring the thought, he went for door number three.

  He grabbed the knob and turned, but it was locked. Out of reflex, he jiggled it again. Putting a little weight into it this time, the door popped open in its frame. Knob still frozen, whoever locked the door had either forgotten to check if it was properly latched or maybe locked it by mistake. Maine winters tend to do a number on windows and doors. The fluctuating temperatures cause everything to swell with moisture and then to expand in the subzero weather overnight. Kieffer could remember one winter about six years ago that was so cold that the front door to the apartment wouldn’t latch shut. The frame of the building shifted in such a way that all the doorframes on the third floor were slanted. You could literally see the wood siding cracking clean in half overnight. So every morning for three months, Monday through Friday, Kieffer would have to see his mom out the door, bungee the knob to the leg of the couch, then use the fire escape to leave. Standing against the open door, he could smell the musty, acidic stench of whatever lay in the darkness beyond.

  Phew! Sure smells like a bathroom. You better hurry and get back down there. Ashley’s gonna' think you turned tail and ran away like a lil' bitch again.

  This was true. He had to hurry.

  Pushing slowly, he leaned into the blackened room and felt along the wall for a light switch. Finding the familiar shape, he flicked it on. His eyes gradually adjusted to the light.

  The light exposed a room full of corpses.

  Taxidermed squirrels, chipmunks, and other small animals lined several shelves along the four walls of the room. Their overstuffed bodies nailed to planks of wood, sometimes three to a single piece. Most of them appeared to be poised in odd positions, some with miniature props. Completely dumbfounded, Kieffer was pulled deeper into the room to the first shelf on the right wall.

  He observed several planked scenes that looked oddly familiar to him. One was of a squirrel watering a patch of tall plants while another lay on its back, apparently gazing up at the stars with its black, pool ball eyes. Cheesy taxidermy displays weren't unusual in themselves. The East Coast was packed with it, but Kieffer felt something eerie about the many pygmy platforms of randomness crowded around him.

  Then it hit him.

  All the animals were dressed as children.

  Every scene and creature dawned tiny replicas of clothing in various styles and fashions. None of the animals wore the same thing, meaning that the threads must have been handmade. Whoever stitched these clothes must have done it with a distinct pattern in mind for each scene. From where he stood by the door, he could see a sewing machine and boxes of threading and fabrics stacked up at a tiny foldout table in the far corner of the room. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the fashions among the stages aged chronologically. If he had to guess, he would say that the artist was trying to recapture a sequence of scenes from the not so distant past. Starting in maybe the late seventies to the early eighties,
judging by the tiny bell-bottoms, sweat bands and meticulously stitched zipper jackets.

  Kieffer circled around in awe at the various moments caught in time. A chubby chipmunk and his black pipe cleaner dog praying in front of a tiny wooden cross. The cross looked like it had been fashioned out of the broken handle of an old knife. Kieffer could make out some specks of rust imbedded in the worn grain. Another was of a solitary squirrel with a blue backpack blowing a pink bubble of gum out in front of him as he moved stones. He appeared to be making some kind of loose semi-circle. Kieffer was close enough to see the tiny cushions of hardened glue under each pebble.

  Then suddenly, he knew.

  He had seen this somewhere before. The urge to run became a ball of fire inside of him and all at once he was out the door and down the stairs. Throwing his soggy shoes onto his feet, he grabbed his jacket off the side hook by the door and made to leave.

  “Where are you going??”

  Kieffer stopped, his hand still on the knob, and faced the familiar voice. There, at the birth of the long hallway, stood Ashley with her hands clasped together against her chest. The springy smile she had just minutes earlier was replaced with a saddened expression of confusion.

  “I have to go,” Kieffer said, his eyes darting over her shoulder every few seconds for any signs of Wayne. “I’m really sorry. I promise to tell you about it later. Tell your mom that I said thank you for dinner.”

  Ashley’s puppy dog frown deepened as she started to ask, “Wait, I—”

  But it was too late. Kieffer was already out into the cold of night walking towards town.

  ***

  It was only 7:16 when Kieffer got to the bus stop. The two-mile walk through slush and sand had given him time to think. Had he really seen what he thought he saw? Or was his mind playing tricks on him again? Creating grandiose delusions out of virtually nothing like a demented God who questions his own existence.

  Kieffer would have to wait for over an hour in the sharp winds that lashed out at his already burning red cheeks. None of that mattered, though; he didn’t feel a thing. His thoughts were completely dominated by the realization of what all those planks of starched epochs were. They were memories. Memories of specific events and people in the artist's life. Why he chose to represent them with tiny woodland creatures was beyond him. Maybe using actual dolls was too on the nose. Either way, Kieffer was only interested in the why, not the how. Those fuzzy rodent faces stuck in their tribute to the suffering of unsuspecting children had haunted him as he walked against the onslaught of blinding headlights from passing cars.

  Now that he was out and far away from that room, he could remember where he had seen those symbols. They were scattered throughout online photos taken by state forensics teams over twenty years ago. The mangled bodies of innocent children were replaced with cute little chipmunks, but it was still too coincidental to be nothing.

  So the guy is a nerd for serial killers… hmm… that doesn’t sound like anyone I might know…

  This was different. This person wasn’t interested or fascinated by The Doll Man. He was possessed. Those snapshots in time were remade out of fear, not curiosity. The artist was purging himself of what demons lay dormant inside him. Who knows for how long. He was right in his assumption that the artist in question was recreating, not interpreting. In fact, they had been doing much more than that. The detail and precision of each scene was too specific to be anything but memory.

  He probably looked up the photos like you did. They weren't exactly hard to find.

  True, but Kieffer had been limited in his search. He found four different sets of good photos from The Doll Man case and nothing else. It’s possible that Wayne had special access to the case files, but that wasn’t likely. He was just a regular guy. A boring salesman with a very strange hobby. Plus, that room contained almost a hundred separate stages. There was no accounting for that.

  So, what are you saying? Ashley’s stepdad is The Doll Man?? You're outta' your fuckin' gourd if you actually think that. You can’t just assume someone is involved in murder just because of one weird happenstance. Circumstantial evidence doesn’t mean shit in the courts, so why you poppin'?

  It all was pretty circumstantial when he was really forced to think about it. The likelihood that Wayne was The Doll Man was about as likely as him also turning out to be Jimmy Hoffa. The chances were so slim that for a second Kieffer almost believed he imagined the whole thing.

  But, that reliable twinge of self-doubt turned him back around.

  It didn’t matter whether he was wrong or right. He just had to know the truth.

  Either way, he needed proof.

  Chapter 12

  April 8, 2006

  9:16 pm

  Hampden, Maine

  “Are you sure nothing happened? Be honest,” Sharon said as she slid into bed next to Wayne. She fluffed her pillow idly before leaning back against the headboard. “He seemed fine before I left. What did you two talk about?”

  Not bothering to glance up from his book, Wayne adjusted his glasses. His bedside lamp cast deep shadows across his sullen, lined face. “I asked him about school. He barely said anything, honestly Sharon. I tried to make conversation with the kid, but he just stared at me like a dime store mannequin.” With a slight touch of bitterness in his voice, he added, “I think he might’ve been on drugs.”

  “Nonsense. He’s a good kid. I can tell. My daughter wouldn’t be interested otherwise.” Sharon leaned across the bed and gently took the floppy paperback book out of Wayne’s hands. Like a painted statue, he continued to stare down at his upturned palms. Sharon placed the paperback off to the side and slid her hand into his. “Are you sure nothing happened? You weren't rude to him again, were you? I promise I won’t tell Ashley.”

  “Jesus Christ, for the last time, no. I tried to talk to him about the class he takes with Ashley, but the kid just sat there. After a couple of minutes, he asked to use the bathroom and never came back. I don’t know what else you want me to say.” His cheeks started to flare, deepening the backdrop of the protruding scar.

  Sharon sensed Wayne’s rising temper and peddled back. “Alright alright, calm down. I just can’t figure out what made him leave like that. He seemed fine at dinner. Maybe you make him nervous.” Almost at a whisper, she quietly added, “Just doesn’t make sense.”

  Wayne looked up from his crooked hands and into Sharon’s worried face. A smile slowly appeared across his lips. “Maybe he didn’t make it to the bathroom in time and shit his pants. Happens to the best of us.”

  “Oh, stop,” Sharon said, slapping at his arm. “I’m sure it wasn’t that. Maybe something was wrong with my cooking.”

  “No way. If he doesn’t like your cooking, then there really is something wrong with him.”

  Sharon laughed at his obvious attempt at flattery. Rolling her eyes at him, she said, “Get off it, brown-noser. Oh, don’t forget to mail the phone bill tomorrow on your way to work.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek before turning over to lay down. “Goodnight, hun. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  Motionless, Wayne sat up in bed listening to Sharon’s soft breathing turn to deep snores of submerged sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about his verbal slipup at dinner. The worst part was, Wayne didn’t know what had compelled him to talk to Ashley’s friend like that. It went against everything he had trained himself to be. Maybe an act of suppressed hubris on his part, he later thought to himself. What started as an attempt at casual conversation came out sounding sinister, almost a veiled threat. Trying to show a similar interest to that little shit only made things worse. So, once again, Wayne was the bad guy. There would be more bullshit with Ashley to deal with on top of everything else going on inside of his head.

  Lately, suspicion and paranoia ran rampant through his every thought and feeling. Wayne had no idea why. He knew there was no real danger in talking to some random kid about state history. That’s all it was. But if that wer
e true, then why did Kieffer react the way he had? There was no way that kid could really know the truth. Still, this didn’t excuse Wayne from almost bragging outright to a complete stranger. Maybe the years of keeping all those secrets inside were finally starting to sprout from the dark earthy soil of his mind. As far as anyone was concerned, Wayne was normal, and normal people don’t obsess over serial killers. It was a mistake he would not repeat.

  He also noticed later that evening that someone had been in his hobby room. He found the door cracked open and the lights on. Knob still locked. It wasn’t the first time he found it open after locking it; these old houses tend to move on their own. But, hadn’t he turned the light off? He thought so, but couldn’t be completely sure. He had been distracted by his little notebook when he left to go downstairs. Nothing had been disturbed; all his works were exactly where they should have been. There was a good chance that the kid had walked into the room by accident, turned on the light, saw nothing, and left.

  Or, he could have seen what was really behind those displays.

  Had Kieffer inadvertently walked into Wayne's Room of Death and saw what no one else did? Not likely, but it was something to keep in mind. Wayne hadn’t come this far to get taken down by some skinny twerp with a morbid curiosity for things shadowed by time. He knew better than to assume; he would have to keep his guard up around that snot-nosed pussy. He would have to pay closer attention to himself and the people around him.