The man was a crass bastard. If he wasn't molesting her, smacking her ass as she went by or discussing her attributes with the other randy barflies, he was yelling at her, calling her names and claiming she could do nothing right.
Walter would wince when he saw these things, close his eyes, as if the mere sight was too much for him. He already knew, it was one more to go but he had to bide his time. For one thing, even he knew he'd made the news; oh boy had he ever. Those kids. If only he had seen, had known, had never taken those kids. Up to that point the murders had gone more or less unnoticed; documented, but not commented upon. That their deaths were weird, sure, and there were cops out there discussing his modus operandi, but this he was blissfully unaware of. Until the death of the two little children the cities of Ashfield and Silent Hill were willing to ignore the fact they had a serial killer somewhere between them; his earlier victims had been no one of importance.
All that had changed now.
and Walter knew it... he watched his watch from time to time as he sat in the bar drinking away the last of the monies he'd earned from working the sports shop.Someone was going to figure out how he had known some of the victims prior to their becoming victims. Someone was going to figure out that the way the killer seemed to vanish in midair was that he was someone already more or less invisible to the normal world.
Someone was in the bar now.
Douglas Cartland had begun to watch the tall homeless kid a few days back when he had chanced to notice something Walter had been saying to Valtiel... normally the ranting of bums was amusing enough, but not worth much to him. Still, Douglas was not as blind to them as a lot of people were; he had been homeless himself. In the time after his wife had left him he had sunk to his lowest low and let himself go. Douglas knew some of the homeless of Ashfield and even had their shaky respect; at times it had been the bums who had been key witnesses in crimes that might otherwise have gone unsolved.
A lot of people said there was something creepy about that kid... he wasn't exactly forthcoming to talk to anyone but that imaginary friend of his, and even the stuff he said to that didn't invite any reason to look closer.
Slowly, as Douglas had begun to question his more reliable sources a picture began to build that this Sullivan character might just be the perp he was looking for.
But without any real proof there wasn't much Douglas could do, except to make the already paranoid man a little more uncomfortable.
This was risky business and Douglas knew it- he wasn't exactly being paid for these little stakeouts, and there was a good chance if this WAS the perp and he was tailing him alone he might wind up as mr.10121, whatever the numbers meant! if he didn't handle the situation with caution...
Walter was sort of muttering to himself, gomming himself with the complimentary peanuts until the bar owner; an ill tempered guy by the name of Eric Walsh, gave Cynthia a none-too-gentle nudge and pointed, expecting her to take the bowl away. If the ratio to snack eating was not directly proportionate to beer buying, Walsh considered that person not worth having as a customer...
Cynthia started at the nudge and then, sort of rolling her eyes and sighing at the hassle of doing this assignment, went to relieve the shabby blond kid of his peanut bowl.
She softened the blow as she grabbed it by giving him a quirky little smile. "You better load up on beer to wash those down, sweetie," she told him, all that salt's no good for ya."
Walter startled up out of his thoughts at her sudden appearance, and blushed at the attention. He held up a little fold of bills and quietly muttered that a nother beer would be fine, thanks, as he lowered his head, refusing to look at her face lest her bright beauty burn him.
a few of the regs snickered at Walter's discomfort.
"stop teasin' the kid, Cyn," they jeered as she passed, "you might kill him with kindness."
Stop teasing the kid indeed, Douglas Cartland thought to himself, or he might just kill YOU. The more Cartland watched Sullivan the more he felt his hunch was leading to payoff, that this was his killer.
Time to turn up the heat.
"Hey Walshie," Douglas spoke quietly, but firmly, "may want to lock your doors double tonight after last call- or hadn't you heard about the sports shop owner? That's only a few blocks from here."
That Walter stiffened and looked wide eyed at these words was gratifying to Douglas.
But Walsh was unimpressed. "aaw, no one's gonna kill me tonight, detective," he said, "it's my birthday." About then Cynthia, who often wore high heels at her boss's request, tripped and dropped a tray of glasses. Walsh didn't even think, he just reacted, slapping Cynthia hard. "YOu clumsy bitch! That comes right out of your paycheck!"
If looks could have killed, Walter would have bore a hole thru Eric Walsh on the spot regardless of the detective and other customers nearby him.
Instead he got up to go. "The officer is right," he said quietly, They say Mr.Albert was a real jerk too, and he got what was coming to him." Walter slammed down the rest of his money on the table."buy yourself some new glasses, 'Walshie'," he muttered, "and lock your doors double."
The bar regs laughed after Walter had gone. That kid had some chutzpah, talking trash like that. Only Cartland figured there was something to the words and he too left shortly after. But he could find no sign of where Walter had got to.
For the moment, anyway, Valtiel was playing his side again. He'd found the man's address on a little rolodex card Cyn had dropped from her purse. It was only a matter of going there, then waiting... the anger in his blood would do the rest.
He had no weapon but he felt confident one would somehow come to hand when the moment was right.
and so right...a sign, on Eric Walsh's door announced someone- a nephew, perhaps? had gone out for the day but that 'the key is down the hall in that place, you know? in the laundry room'. Walter felt his whole body aquiver, as tho he had become a sort of psychic compass, as if he was a holy metal detector. That key was available because he had need of it. Found it... took it back to the lock, slipped it home. Pocketed the note and went inside. He dared not turn on the lights but it felt as tho he didn't need them, and almost as tho he could see in the dark, was swimming in it.
Feeling his way to a closet... he found a gun by that same weird instinct. Faintly in the light reflected from outisde via a window he saw a picture of the bartender with this same gun; he was at some anonymous hunt camp someplace, and as a joke for the shot was aiming at the camera... some men, Walter reflected, looked so weak with a gun in their hands, as if fool enough to rely on a lump of metal as their only power....
Walter hunkered, claiming a corner facing the door. There was a cake on the table with candles set, unlit. The bartender HAD said it was his birthday, hadn't he... Walter had such a present to reveal to him. He would unwrap it slowly, he decided. Let the man marvel at the gradations of the death he would be presented...
There was nothing for it now but to wait...to think of sweet Cynthia...after a seeming eternity Eric Walsh came home. Lights on. Muttering to himself. Didn't even lock the front door. Didn't even see the cake. He plopped himself down in a worn chair and turned on the TV, hoping to catch the highlights of the ballgames on the late news.
He didn't see Walter until it was far too late. "Happy birthday, Mr.Walsh."
and just why the hell do you expect anyone to save you? what are you to anyone but me? besides...you're already dead. already MINE. you're the stupid bastard who put an end to yourself in the first place. Valtiel's voice chewed thru him far worse than it ever had before; and he knew the words were truth.that, of course, was the worst part. there was no chance at any sort of redemption now. the only future that lay before him was more killing. finishing the ritual.
even as he knew it would never work as he had hoped.
he hadn't lasted long on the street after Eric Walsh's death; fact of the matter was he was getting sloppy at this. he already knew that copper was tracking him, and he already knew how much weaker his own body was. he had never fully recovered from the attack by George Rosten; it occured to him finally he was never supposed to have.
unless you were using the ritual to raise another, there was only one thing left to do at this point, and he was being driven now, intentionally, into a corner, so that his life might become so unbearable it would seem the only option.
that was the only way, after all, wasn't it? since even tho he'd been driven and tricked into committing all those other murders he clearly hadn't the balls to do himself?
oh, he'd tried running, sure. there'd even been that moment, on the train tracks... he could have gotten out of this. he could hear the train approaching, heard the voice in his head tempting him; just one more step and you won't need to suffer this. aren't you scared enough already? one more step and some rather interesting and, yes, let's face it, searing pain, and you need never worry about such suffering again...
but he hadn't, and they'd grabbed him, and there were handcuffs, and roughhousing, and words spoken to him. his 'rights' apparently, but now that he was trapped what rights did he have at all?
his confessions at first were tear-ridden and apologetic- as if these cold, indifferent people were going to believe him, or let him go if he swore to never ever do it again? what he'd done was far too terrible for that type of reprieve! he told the truth. he was honest.
this maybe, was his wisest move. it was clear now he wasn't just dangerous, he was completely insane. a 'devil' made him do this? what kind of a lame excuse was that?
as the trial progressed he quickly realized this was no more fair than the beatings and imprisonments he'd suffered at the orphanage. no one cared to hear his testimony. this wasn't even lip serice being paid to the idea of law, this was just a joke. they had decided well in advance that he was guilty. now it was just a matter of giving the papers their scoop on it.
he didn't have to be in the outside world to feel its hatred of him. everytime he was escorted in or out a lynch mob waited. the police were as much there to keep him safe from them as the other way around; had he dared try to break free they'd have dealt his death sentence to him personally.
one lie too many said about him as tho he wasn't even there and he finally just snapped.
he'd almost made it all the way to the judge's desk, too. a pencil snatched from some journalist's hand. the man's eye his clear target... of course tho he was grabbed, stricken, led away. classic case of criminal insanity, this. case closed.
everything became just a terrible daze after. drugged to the gills on something more horrible even than the white had ever done him. and yet he was not allowed to sleep on this drug; everytime he tried someone would hit him until he sat up again.
sitting and waiting. for what? wasn't this over yet?
at times the constant unfair treatment would piss him off and he'd try to react; punishment for this 'crime' of course came swiftly. one of the favorite tortures they subjected him to was to straitjacket him-he was often straitjacketed at this time- and to hang him to the wall by the back of the jacket's collar. it was a strangulation, but a slow one; he'd dangle there gagging and gasping for hours, barely able to breathe but not so badly suffocated as to pass out... the hallucinations were the worst tho. endless replays of the things he'd done; his victims returned to him now as ghosts and monsters.
as before, in the orphanage, he figured out the game. behave. obey. pretend to want the rehabilitation you were offered.
it didn't take too long for him to get a few privileges returned to him. no more having to piss himself because no one cared he was in restraints. no more having to be fed by others.
they wouldn't give him forks or knives, but he managed one day to palm a spoon.
he hid it quickly, of course. only place he could. it was by no means comfortable, but at least he had something. and he had always been a man who made do with whatever he had.
could do plenty of damage, he figured. all the element of surprise. by the time they were halfway thru laughing at you threatening them with such a ludicrous weapon, you'd be most of the way to them and take out their damned eye.
it's not FOR your enemies, Walter, the voice told him, and he began to wonder if this was Valtiel returned, or just some sad and dawning voice that was his own, it's for you.
you've pulled off some amazing things with very little to work with, but now it's all over.
they only checked up on him, he knew with certainty, every twenty minutes.
he only had nineteen minutes to pull this off.
breathe. don't think too hard about it. it's too blunt to do much real damage at first, but you WILL perservere.
now's the moment. don't pull your strength. make the first try worth something.
it hurt like hell, but he managed to stab the blunt object in relatively deep. had he been able to really watch out of more than the corner of his tear blurred eyes he might have noted he'd managed about a quarter inch deep gash already.
slowly, meticulously he worked the thing into himself, digging for arteries and veins he knew with certainty were there. they weren't TOO deep in, he'd already noticed on others.
he couldn't help but grunt with the effort, cried out once without meaning to when he really struck a nerve. blood was gushing out over his hands now, making them sticky, making his grip falter. but he kept going.
when the guards returned to check on him he had worked the spoon a good two or three inches into the meat of his neck. he'd severed his cartoid, breached his jugular, caved his own windpipe in on one side. just let it be too late for me, he thought as they started to grab him roughly again, cos i can't do this twice. luck, if you could call it that, was on his side. one of the orderlies, knowing nothing about how to deal with stab wounds, pulled the spoon out.
the last thing he remembered for a time was choking on the coppery taste of his own blood.
he didn't remember how he returned, or as what. had he been some sort of a ghost? had he somehow channelled himself into someone else, as Valtiel had done to him? he remembered observing, but not how he had done these things. it was in his memory now like some kind of strange dream. hands, digging the coffin out of the ground. carrying the stiff corpse, laying it out. something of the artist in him had wanted something more; and so there were feathers, bedraggled crow feathers tied to this frame; like a pair of horrid wings that would never, could never hold up a damned angel of the sort this thing was a shrine to.
unflinchingly carving into the flesh of what technically were his own feet, once removed. the numbers were, after all, all important. this then, was to be 11/21.
finally, the ritual. the ten hearts laid out like so. the chrism poured into the goblet. the words spoken.
and so it came to pass that he had returned; changed, certainly, and still broken in more ways than one, but power? yes, there was certainly that.
not his tho, was it? this was power purely on loan. what strong limbs you have now, Walter. all the better to kill again.
his mortal life had technically ended, but this was far from over.