Ionic Relapse Read online

  His aim was terrible.

  He had swung much too far to the left, lodging the hatchet into the thick pink muscle of Eric’s right thigh. Hand still on the handle, Nieko tried feverishly to free the bloody hatchet.

  The man responded with a single shot. The bullet clipped Nieko’s right shoulder, sending him sprawling back down to grovel in the dirt. He had enough energy left to roll onto his side and look up, straight into the barrel of the man’s gun.

  “Sorry, kid.”

  Those were the last words Nieko heard before the bullet punched through his skull. His temporal lob exploded, severing his brain stem. The impact of the bullet was so strong that it instantly scrambled Nieko’s brains. The air from the passing bullet created a vacuum that pulled his shattered face bones to the back of his skull. Both his eyes ruptured as his mouth hung open in a silent scream. His head violently imploded like a fermented jack-o-lantern you would smash on someone's porch three weeks after Halloween.

  Nieko’s last thoughts were not of his friends, family, Jesus, or even his plants, but of that pulpy cat skeleton sloshing around at the bottom of that Pandora's Box of organic death. He finally understood that the cat wasn’t murdered or tortured for fun. It was sacrificed.

  The only constant in life is death.

  “This will be my best piece yet,” Wayne King said to the eagerly swaying plants and trees. Their soft applause and distant cheering flattered Wayne; he did take very good care of Them. This would surely atone for many weeks to come.

  He picked up the hatchet that laid next to Nieko’s body and began to scream.

  Chapter 5

  April 3, 2006

  4:38 pm

  Hampden, Maine

  “So, this is my room,” Ashley said over her shoulder as they entered the last door at the end of the hall. Her room was on the second floor of their two-story house. “Feel free to punch whatever you like.” She gestured sarcastically to the various posters and quirky memorabilia that most teenagers kept on display in their microcosmic living cubes. Kieffer regarded the hundreds of posters of smug, make-up smeared faces with hidden contempt. All four walls were plastered from carpet to ceiling with skinny, tattooed “rock stars” pouting judgmentally down at him. He might have to take Ashley up on her offer.

  Apparently, the word musician had more than one meaning.

  A queen-sized bed lined with pillows of all shapes and colors sat prominently in the middle of the room. The Hello Kitty bedspread was neatly tucked into the stained wooden structure of the antique bed frame. Long pillars were decorated with most of the stickers and toys located at the front counter of your local Hot Topic store. Lavish black sheer drapes hung stylishly across each tall post.

  Looking at the lovingly hand-built piece of history covered in cheap Korean made gadgets and sassy stickers started a wheel of thought in Kieffer's head.

  Are old objects, made during a time of necessity, somehow more real?

  Does everything now only exist as a means of simulating the past; of simulating a time when people created things out of importance, not impatience?

  Or does everything we posses, old or new, only hold an importance to the possessor?

  Could a cheap, pointless toy like a fart machine or Chinese finger trap be the pivotal inspiration for the next great comedy legend or spiritual leader?

  Could an important piece of the past exist for years, becoming an unchanging part of the background in someone's mundane life, and do little more than hold a stack of unread magazines or a potted houseplant?

  Who, or what, determines the true value of an object beyond its cost of manufacturing? But, more so, who determines the common sense of value?

  This pointless philosophical dialogue of the teenaged mind spun and collected mass with no signs of stopping. One question led to an endless string of questions, each one putting more distance between him and the internal truths being scrutinized. His superior dialogue, the one that he controlled daily, willingly pushed itself out of the debate and back into Ashley’s perfume incensed room.

  Still feeling mildly distracted, Kieffer walked over towards the bed as the door slowly creaked on its rust-splotched hinges behind him. Its heavy brass knob loudly tumbled shut like a steel-plated prison door. He turned quickly at the sound in time to see Ashley’s hand leave the knob. She strolled to her desk in the back corner by the closed closet door. Ashley then fished a hot pink notebook out of the top drawer and proceeded to flip through the pages.

  Uncertain of what to do, Kieffer plunked down on the edge of the bed and watched her, his nerves unbearably stiff. The feeling of her soft bed sheets against his wrists brought passing fantasies too sensitive to explore. His heart rate quickened as he pushed the thoughts away to a safe space for later.

  “I meant to ask you earlier,” she said as she ruffled through pages and pages of worn, ink-stained doodles of girly anarchy symbols and bleeding hearts, “do you really think The Doll Man still lives in Maine? Sounds pretty dumb to hide in the spot where everyone is looking for you.”

  From the bed, Kieffer paused to consider something he had thought countless times about. Thoughts of madmen breaking into his room at night still haunted his dreams. His deep-rooted fear of deranged killers soon became an everyday infatuation. One that only strengthened with the passing years. He didn’t want to nerd out on her, though. Better she didn’t know the full extent of his weird obsessions and peculiar interests.

  “I don’t know why, but I do. I just think that if he left the state there’d be similar murders somewhere else. I guess he could have found a way to stop killing, but…” Kieffer shrugged at the lack of proper evidence and left it at that.

  “That’s what I would do,” Ashley said as she folded open her notebook and joined Kieffer on the edge of the bed. Her added weight to the soft-springed mattress caused them to slide closer. Their arms briefly touched with a prickly electric contact that made Kieffer's imagination bubble up with possibilities. “I would stab people until I got bored with it,” she added once she adjusted to the softness of the bed. “Then I would move on to painting or gardening. No big deal.” She shrugged, accidentally bumping her right hand against his leg. It lingered there for a few moments before returning to her lap.

  Nerves quaking from his pounding heart, Kieffer forced his mouth to make words. “I don’t think a guy like that can stop, though,” he rebutted, completely missing the thick layer of sarcasm. The proximity to Ashley’s warm body was occupying too many of his thoughts. Every move she made pulled them closer together. He had to say something before the silence grew too thick. “He must have had something happen to him. How do you kill children for almost twenty years and then one day just decide to stop? It makes no sense.”

  Ashley seemed to ponder the thought for several seconds. With her button nose wrinkled and plucked eyebrows raised, she reconsidered her position. “Maybe he’s dead. He died and the murders stopped. If the guy died of natural causes and never told anyone about what he did, then no one would ever really know, right?”

  “Right,” Kieffer said, slightly impressed with Ashley’s argument, “but in most cases, the killer keeps a souvenir or keepsake from each murder. It’s actually one of the most common serial killer traits out there. They’ll take something from the victim and either use it as proof when bragging about the murder to the authorities, or they stay secretive and use it as a source of remembrance. Either way, they almost always take something. Plus, someone would’ve linked his death to the sudden stop in murders. Somebody would've had to notice. If The Doll Man died, all those little personal knickknacks would have been found and turned over to the police.” Satisfied with his response, Kieffer rubbed his sweaty palms on his pant legs and told himself not to get carried away. He was having a friendly conversation, not a debate.

  “Okay,” Ashley accepted with little argument; her posture remained calm and open. “But what if he didn’t take any knickknacks? What if The Doll Man just did all that crazy shit bec
ause, gee, I don’t know... HE’S A FUCKIN' MANIAC. No pun intended.” She paused for laughter. But, the overly stern look on Kieffer’s face was evidence that he was way too involved in the discussion to even notice the corny wordplay. Ashley studied the look of preoccupied worry written on Kieffer's face. Silence invaded the room as the two sat together, both unsure of how to move forward.

  “Maybe he didn’t even enjoy killing all those kids,” she went on. “So, why take something to remind himself of it? I know it’s not common or whatever, but judging by all the fucked-up things you've said about him, it sounds like this guy was trying to accomplish something. The weird arrangement of the bodies and the fucked up surgical shit he did. What kind of a person takes someone apart and builds a raw meat nativity scene out of their corpse? A fuckin’ nutcase, that’s who. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but most nutcases have some weird theory or force that makes them do things. Like Factor X for the BTK Strangler. It kinda looks like he killed those kids out of necessity, not personal enjoyment… to me, anyway. I'm sure it’s all bullshit, but what do I know? I’m just a girl.” She bounced on the edge of the bed, arms pumping and hair twirling in a fake cheerleader routine. All the jostling closed the gap between them. Thighs touching, Ashley stopped her dance and laid the notebook in her lap.

  Awkward silence once again filled the room.

  The frenzied thoughts festering in Kieffer's mind had spread his social skills too thin. The solid touch of Ashley's warm thigh against his own made his head swim with unease. Kieffer was at a loss for words by this point. The idea that maybe The Doll Man didn’t follow the traditional serial killer lifestyle never crossed his mind. The image he projected was of a master killer who outsmarted authorities for over four decades with his cunning and wit. Kieffer painted this seductive image for himself to more comfortably idolize the man. He secretly saw The Doll Man’s killings as elaborate art displays and not the horrific atrocities that they were. He didn't see a depraved lunatic, but an angry, disconnected artist whose canvas was the supple flesh of unsuspecting children. His paint and brush substituted by bullets and blood.

  Over the years of his self-researching and probing into this specific case, he always told himself that he wouldn’t become obsessed. But, he did. So obsessed that he let his personal attachment overshadow the true image of the killer. Like everyone else, he had no idea what The Doll Man really looked like. Only one person escaped his grasp, a fifteen-year-old girl actually. Based on the police sketch, she was too terror-stricken to properly describe his face if she even saw it at all. Kieffer had supplied his own image of the killer, one that coincided with his admiration for the killer’s craft. He now felt stupid for assuming that The Doll Man was anything but a deeply disturbed loser.

  This revelation came and went with the urge to defend The Doll Man’s legacy. Being born years after the killings were still relevant kept him from ever really grasping the terror that had captured an entire state. Kieffer never had any sleepless nights wondering where his child was. He never had to identify a severed head or bury any tiny caskets with nobody inside. The emotional detachment was a means of dealing with all the horrific shit that fascinated him so much. He was so scared of these people that he felt compelled to study them. If he let the morbidity get to him, he would have to admit that The Doll Man wasn’t an artist.

  That he was just a psychologically stunted piece of human garbage with an intense demigod complex.

  Whether The Doll Man was a master artist or a basket case, it wasn’t impossible for a person to go to his grave never revealing the truth of his crimes. It was even possible to spend almost twenty years killing and then one day just stop. Like Ashley said, he died and the murders stopped. End of story. But then again, nearly everything from accidental time-travel to Bigfoot being an alien ambassador for Earth lie within the realm of slim possibility. Technically, the only real impossibility that exists is the notion that we as a species are vastly unique. Consciousness is prevalent throughout the cosmos. An unquantifiable force that winks and nudges us down a seemingly uncharted path. We might be made in God’s image, but we are fused together with the fibers of all that is and ever will be. Therefore, we are gods in our own right.

  The solid fact remained that if there were ever an extra joker in the deck, The Doll Man would be it. Jack the Ripper and The Zodiac killer also defied the profiled mold. Why not The Doll Man? The theory that he died alone never having told anyone about his double life seemed like the most plausible explanation now. It still ruined Kieffer’s sophisticated image of him, but didn’t completely destroy it. In only a few minutes of conversation, Ashley had managed to dismantle years of research and theorizing. But, this didn’t mean he wouldn’t pass up the chance to talk shop.

  Most times, Kieffer often learned, the truth is painfully obvious. Well, maybe not obvious, but definitely boring and predictable. The only constant in life besides death is disappointment.

  He wanted so badly to believe that The Doll Man was out there somewhere, planning a comeback for when the moon was at its brightest. The psychopathic prince with his self-made shrines built of bloodstained pine. Brazenly living right under the noses of those who actively sought his capture. The idea was oddly romantic to Kieffer. His veneration for the man or woman who successfully broke from the single car track of societal influence came from a personal place for him. He had longing admiration for the brave few who burned their own paths. Kieffer knew well the lonely road that he made for himself. It gave him a mild sense of security knowing that someone was walking not far ahead, treading the flatlands of independence long before he would reach them. The violent actions of the killer didn’t excite him at all beyond what the scenes stood for. It was the mind behind those improvised movie sets that carried out these actions that drew so much curiosity. A mind rewired to irregular outputs by unknown alien forces.

  Someone truly special.

  Mixed feelings of admiration for the forced reworking of his own beliefs and mild embarrassment tried to show on Kieffer’s face. He is quick, though, to throw up the emotional gates. His expression remained lax as he thought challengingly for a proper, but fair, response. Ashley sat, her wide eyes reflecting his pale skin back to him, and waited. Her upper body was facing him, leaning slightly forward.

  “You make a great point. I suppose anything is possible if you consider... the ah—”

  Kieffer stammered into silence as Ashley silently bent over the blank notebook lying open between them and kissed him gently on the mouth. Their numb lips soon parted to allow their wandering tongues to meet. They were gradually learning the soft current and gentle waves of hormonal energy emanating from their young, springing bodies. Suddenly, a soft thudding from downstairs shattered the connection.

  “Did you hear that?” Kieffer asked as he broke the kiss and made to stand up. The soft cushioning of the mattress made it difficult for him to get leverage. As he roughly slid to his feet, Ashley grabbed him by the shirt and playfully tossed him back onto the bed. Her face flushed with the rosy hue of the heated kiss. She eyed Kieffer with sexual intensity.

  “It was probably just the water heater downstairs. It’s been acting up lately.” She leaned back over to kiss again, but Kieffer quickly edged his way off the bed. Still sitting, face stern with worry, Ashley slid over and watched Kieffer with silent curiosity. He tried hard to stay calm on the outside, but the sudden feeling of extreme unease about being in the house was taking over.

  This was the launching point for many alternate scenarios. All of them bad.

  What if that sound was one of her parents getting off work early?

  He decided then and there that he had to get out.

  “Can I use your bathroom?” he asked, the desperation almost impossible to erase from his thinning voice. He had the burning urge to get out of the shrinking room and outside into the open air. The lines and cracks between the corners of the walls slid closer with each nagging second. He didn’t know why, but he felt as if he
might be in imminent danger. The polar shift in mood clouded the room and was at risk of suffocating him. He didn’t want his gnawing paranoia to ruin what had just happened, but he had to leave. If he told her he had to go so suddenly, she would assume it was because they kissed. Kieffer didn't want to send the wrong message, but when things got this way, it was better for him to be alone. He couldn't tell her why he desperately needed to get out of the house, because he didn’t know why. It was probably best not to say anything at all.

  Just get out and find your head again. Worry about salvaging your love life later.

  His bones ached with throbbing unease at his lack of movement. She might not be happy that he decided to sneak out, but if he stayed, things would be much worse. Being caught completely off-guard made him feel vulnerable to what might unfold if he didn’t leave. He could remember similar situations where his psychological procrastinating led to disaster. The time he attended the sixth-grade dance was still fresh in his mind. He stood alone watching everyone else dance to “Cotton Eye Joe” when out of nowhere the alien voices took over his thoughts. Feeling like he was collapsing into himself, Kieffer hid away in the gym's equipment room. The music and the voices pumped away at the walls around him. Time ceased to pass.

  He was discovered by the night custodian an hour after the dance had ended. When the custodian had asked whether Kieffer was okay, the boy only stared back at him in wide terror. Thinking the kid might be hurt, the janitor walked over to where Kieffer sat in the dusty corner and placed one calloused hand on the boy's shoulder. Kieffer jumped to life, his once blank eyes filled with rage, and bit down on the helping hand at his shoulder. The janitor screamed, pulling his bloody hand out of Kieffer's mouth, and watched as the boy scurried out of the room. Kieffer had run blindly through the night and, against all odds, made his way home safely.