SESSION SEVENTEEN

Have you ever felt like you had it all in your hands, everything you ever wanted, but then you dropped it, or maybe you just squeezed too hard? The whole way here I was trying to come up with the perfect analogy for what’s been going on. And isn’t that just the story of my life? I’m always trying to make it perfect.

You know what my past relationships were like—epic dramas I discussed with anyone willing to listen. Either I was completely obsessed with my ex-boyfriends or they were completely obsessed with me. And as your thick file can attest, things didn’t end well.

God, when you used to say, “You’ll know when it’s the right person.…” I wanted to throw things at you. But you’d just give me that all-knowing smile of yours and say, “Trust me, Sara, real love doesn’t feel like that.” If I was currently entangled in a relationship that was heading straight for a cliff, even if deep down I knew it, I’d argue with you until I was blue in the face that he was The One!

I never understood just how wrong they all were and just how right you were until I met Evan. My past relationships were like a brutal hockey game—a brawl could break out at any minute, we were never on the same side, and no one ever won. Evan and I were always on the same team. I never had to look behind me or question where he was—I knew he was skating beside me, working in tandem with the same goal in sight. But it’s like all of a sudden I looked up and now he’s on the opposite side of the rink, we’re both playing defense, and someone’s going to get slammed into the wall.

What’s been happening between Evan and me lately, all this fighting, isn’t good. It scares me as much as John does. But it’s my own reactions that scare me the most. Because when someone pushes me, I push back harder.

*   *   *

John finally called the day after our last session.

“I missed talking to you.”

I didn’t answer right away, wasn’t sure I could without calling him every name in the book.

“I’m glad you e-mailed,” he said. “I was worried.”

He was worried? That was interesting. Billy and most of the books I’d read said serial killers don’t feel remorse but knew how to emulate it, so I figured they must understand the principle behind it. I decided to test my theory.

“What you did was horrible, John.”

“What I did?”

“Leaving the Barbie with its face burned off, then sending e-mails you know are going to upset me. You made me feel awful.”

“You lied to me.”

“You were asking unfair questions. You might be Ally’s biological grandfather, but I don’t know what you want from us—or from her. I’d have to be crazy to give you personal details about my child.”

“I just wanted to get to know you better.” He sounded unsure, like he was thrown off guard by my confident tone.

“But you’re not sure if you can trust me yet, right? It’s the same for me. If you genuinely want to get to know me, you can’t flip out like that. And if you get mad you can’t just threaten me. You have to tell me what’s bothering you and we’ll try to deal with it, okay?”

He was quiet for a bit, but I waited him out. Finally he said, “I can’t stop it.”

“Can’t stop what?”

“Losing my temper. It just happens.”

I tried to think of something to say, but how could I give advice on something I can’t control in myself? Then I wondered why I wanted to help him. Did I actually think there could be a man in the monster? And what would that prove? That I wasn’t a monster? I pushed the thought away.

“It’s the same for me, John, but I—”

“It’s not the same.”

“Because you kill people?” My pulse sped up at my daring, but he didn’t answer. I stepped farther out on the limb.

“Sometimes when I lose my temper I hurt people too. I’ve done some crazy things.”

“I’m not crazy.”

“I meant sometimes I can understand what you might feel like when you do it. How you just want to control them and how angry they must make you feel.” I thought back to that moment on the stairs with Derek, the smug look on his face. The thud when he hit the floor. I did understand, more than I wanted to.

John was silent again, but his breathing had sped up. Probably time to pull back, but something in me wanted to push harder, wanted to make him squirm.

“You said your dad was violent. Did he ever touch you sexually?”

“No.” His voice was disgusted, but I couldn’t stop the next words coming out of my mouth.

“What about your mother?”

His voice was loud in my ear. “Why are you doing this, Sara? Why are you saying these things?”

“This is how it felt when you asked questions about Ally.”

“Well, I don’t like it.” He sounded nervous, worried.

“Well, I don’t like it either.” When he didn’t respond, I opened my mouth to launch another verbal attack. Stop, think. What was I doing? My breath was coming fast, my face hot. I’d been so caught up in the moment, so alive with power, I forgot who I was talking to. I just wanted to hurt him.

Then it hit me: this was how John felt.

I was frozen for a moment, coming back into myself, wondering how much damage I’d done. I imagined Billy and Sandy freaking out in a room somewhere. I was supposed to be gathering information, not provoking him. John hadn’t hung up, though. There was still a chance to get things back on track.

I lowered my voice, struggling to sound calm. “Look, I don’t think this is easy for either of us. Maybe we could play a game?”

His voice was cautious. “What kind of game?”

“Kind of a truth-or-dare thing. I ask a question, you have to answer it honestly. Then you ask a question and I’ll answer it honestly. You can even ask about Ally.” I closed my eyes.

“You already proved you lie.”

“You lie too, John.”

“I’m always honest with you.”

“No, I don’t think you are. You want to know everything about me, but you have this whole other world you won’t talk about. Maybe I’m more like you than you think.”

“What do you mean?”

What did I mean? I thought back to a few minutes ago, how heady and exciting it felt walking that dangerous edge between reason and emotion. All my senses heightened, my body keyed up and ready to fight.

“I told you, I’ve hurt people when I’m mad. I even pushed someone down the stairs.” If I made it sound worse, would he open up more? “He broke his leg and there was blood everywhere. I don’t like feeling that out of control, and something tells me you really don’t either.”

He was silent.

I said, “I’m willing to go first.…”

After a moment he said, “We can try it.”

“Okay, ask me anything you want.”

There was a long pause. I held my breath.

Finally, he said, “Are you scared of me?”

“Yes.”

He sounded surprised. “Why? I’ve been nice.”

I didn’t even know how to begin to answer that.

“It’s my turn now. Why do you make dolls with the girls’ hair and clothes?”

“So they stay with me. Were you happy with your adopted family?”

His question caught me off guard. No one had ever asked before. And there had been moments of happiness, but always wrapped in worry of when it would be taken away. I flashed to a memory of baking a meat pie with Mom when I was thirteen. The kitchen was warm and fragrant with the scent of meat cooking, garlic, onion. Her hand soft on mine as we rolled out the crust, laughing at our mess. We had just popped the pie in the oven when she rushed to the bathroom. She emerged pale and weak, saying she needed to lie down and asking me to watch the pie. I carefully took it out when the top was golden brown, excited to show Dad.

When he came home an hour later he glanced at the stove, then slammed his hand down on my shoulders and spun me around. “How long has the stove been left on?” His face was red, his neck corded.

I was so scared I couldn’t answer. From the corner of my eye I saw Lauren take Melanie’s hand and leave the kitchen.

“Where’s your mother?”

When I still didn’t answer, he shook my shoulder.

“She’s … she’s sleeping. I forgot about the stove. But—”

“You could’ve burned the house down.”

He released my shoulder, but I could still feel where his hand had been. I rubbed at it. His voice was mean and hard as he pointed down the hall. “Go.”

But I didn’t tell John any of that now.

“I was happy sometimes. My turn. Why do you want the girls to stay with you?”

“Because I get lonely. Did you wonder about me when you were younger?” He started to say something else, then stopped and cleared his throat, like he was uncomfortable. “Am I what you wanted for a dad?”

He couldn’t be serious. But he was.

“I wanted to know who my real father was, what he was like, yeah.” How was I going to answer the second part? “You … you have a lot of the qualities I would’ve liked in a father.” As I said the words, I realized they were partly true—he had given me something I’d wanted from my dad most of my childhood, something I didn’t want to admit I still needed: attention. Change the subject, Sara. “Why do you always kill people in the summer?”

He was quiet for a little while. Then, his voice cautious, he said, “The first time it happened, I was hunting. I came across this couple in the woods and they were … you know. The man saw me.” His voice sped up. “And he comes at me, and he’s swinging. So I have to fight back, and we’re down on the ground and he’s hitting really hard with these sucker punches, and he got a couple of good ones in, but I had my knife and smack it goes in right up under his rib cage.”

“So you killed him?”

“One more thrust did it. But the girl, she’s screaming. Then she sees me looking at her and she starts to run—I only ran after her because she ran. So she’s running harder, but I just wanted to explain that it’s not my fault, it was self-defense. Then when I caught up to her…” A long pause, then he said, “Maybe a father shouldn’t talk to his daughter about this kind of stuff.”

I didn’t want to hear any of what he was telling me, but I said, “It’s okay, John. It’s good to talk about it.” I kept my voice casual. “What happened?”

“I didn’t want to do it. But I had her pinned down and she kept screaming. I wasn’t feeling well that day—it was really hot out. But after she was dead I felt better.”

He paused, waiting for me to say something. But I was mute.

“I stayed with her for a while. But when I left, the noise came back, so I visited her again and it went away. But then they found her.…”

I pictured a decomposing body in the woods, John staring down at her. I closed my eyes.

“So you started making the dolls?”

“Yeah.” He sounded relieved, like he was pleased that I understood. “With your mother I didn’t get to finish.” His voice turned angry. “I had to do it again with another woman, then the noise left. That’s when I knew for sure.” He was quiet for a few seconds. “But I’m glad I didn’t finish or I wouldn’t have you.”

This time I was the one who changed the subject. “This noise, John. Do you hear voices?”

“I told you, I’m not crazy.” He said it like I was the crazy one. “My head just hurts. And my ears won’t stop ringing.”

Then it clicked.

“Do you get migraines?”

“All the time.”

“They’re worse when it’s hot out, aren’t they?” Now I was the one who sounded excited.

“Yeah, that’s when they’re really bad.”

How did I miss this? All the signs were there. His groaning, the slurred voice, his irritation with noise. Heat-induced migraines.

“I get them too, John.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they’re awful. And they’re worse for me in the summer too.”

“Like father, like daughter, huh?”

His words snapped me back to reality. This wasn’t a bonding talk with a long-lost father.

“They started when I was a teenager,” I said. “When did they start for you?”

“When I was kid.”

“Do you take anything for them?” If he had a prescription the police might be able to track him down that way.

“No, my mother made me things for my headaches. She said the pain was spirits haunting me.”

“Do you think if you kill someone the spirits go away?”

“I know it. But I should go. I’ve got to watch my minutes. We’ll talk soon.”

He had to watch his minutes? Was that why he usually cut his calls short? I almost laughed.

“Okay, take care.”

After he hung up, I realized what I’d just said. Take care? It was just habit, something I often said to friends or family, but John was neither. Was I getting so used to talking to him that my subconscious no longer knew the difference?

*   *   *

When Billy phoned to tell me John had called from off the island, somewhere north of Prince George, before vanishing into the mountains, he sounded excited about how much I’d gotten him to reveal. I was excited too. So much makes sense now. All the literature says serial killers often feel euphoric after they’ve murdered someone, and for John that probably manifested into a belief that it made his headaches go away.

Billy also said that the first time John killed someone he was probably in his late teens. Since it was likely his first sexual experience too, it would’ve been even more intense. His mother, who abandoned him, probably spent his childhood filling his head with myths, which could easily explain why his kills are so ritualized. Serial killers tend to create elaborate fantasy worlds to protect themselves from isolation. I can only imagine what a young boy left up in the mountains who has to hunt to survive starts daydreaming about.

*   *   *

When Evan called that night I tried to share everything with him, but his answers were short and he asked me about other things, like work, or Ally, or whether I’d sent out the e-mail wedding invitation yet, which was odd because usually he’s the last to nag about stuff like that.

I said, “I haven’t had time to go through my e-mail addresses, but I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Haven’t had time or didn’t want to?”

“I ran out of time, Evan. I was kind of busy, remember?” Realizing how bitchy I sounded, I softened my voice. “I’ll do it tonight, okay?”

We lapsed into silence, then I said, “It totally makes sense why he doesn’t have any boundaries. He probably didn’t get much socialization. And I bet if I looked up the weather around each time John attacked someone, there was a heat wave that summer or barometric pressure change—that can really affect migraines. You know how hot it gets in the Interior.”

Evan sighed. “Sara, can we talk about something else for a change?”

“Don’t you think it’s interesting he gets headaches like me?”

“It doesn’t change his being a killer.”

“I know that, but it helps me to know why he kills.”

“Does it really matter why? He just does it because he likes it.”

“Of course it matters. If we know why, we have a better chance of—”

“We? You know you’re not a cop, right? Or did you join the force while I was gone?” He was making a joke, but I sensed an undercurrent of tension. Anger rushed through my system.

Stop. Think. Breathe. He was just taking shots because he was upset. Don’t react. Go to the root of the problem.

“Evan, I love you more than anything. I hope you know that. This John stuff just takes up a lot of time. But it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about you.”

“If it’s not this, it’s something else. There’s always a new obsession.”

“I’m obsessive—you know that!”

“I just miss the days when you used to obsess about me.” He laughed.

I laughed too, relieved the tension had passed.

“Well, the sooner we get this guy out of our lives, the sooner I can go back to obsessing about your life, okay?”

“Sounds like a plan. Has he mentioned meeting with you again?”

“Not yet, but he probably will. I think next time he’ll show up, though.”

“Next time? There’s not going to be a next time.” And the gloves were back off.

“Holy cow, Evan. Dominate much?”

“I’m almost your husband. I should be allowed to have a say in this.”

“But you’re wrong. I told you before, the only chance we have to get him out of our lives is if I set up a meeting and they arrest him.”

His voice rose. “And if they don’t? If something goes wrong again? Then what?”

“That’s not going to happen. He’s starting to trust me. I can feel it. He told me more in the last call then he ever has before, and I—”

“You think because he told you about his headaches that you’re safe? That you know everything he’s thinking? You’re not a cop and you’re not a shrink. Or is Nadine telling you to do this too?”

“She’s been helping me figure out what I want to do.”

“What about what I want you to do?”

“What are you saying, Evan?”

“I’m saying that if you meet with him, I’d have to really think about our relationship and how important it is to you.”

“You’re not serious?”

“You’re endangering your life, Sara.”

“You endanger your life every time you go out on the boat.”

“That’s not the same thing and you know it.”

“I can’t believe you just threatened me.”

“I didn’t threaten anything, it’s just how I feel—”

“Well, maybe I need to think about this relationship too.” And I hung up. I stared at the phone for a long time, waiting for Evan to call back.

But he didn’t. So I called Billy.

*   *   *

He came over right away, bearing coffees and donuts.

“Cops and donuts? Isn’t that some sort of cliché?”

He patted his trim waist. “And me watching my diet.”

I laughed, pulled the donut box close and looked in, didn’t take one.

He said, “You want to talk about it?”

“I just hate all of this. Feeling like I have to choose.”

“It’s a tough choice.”

“I know it’s selfish of me to want Evan to support everything I do, but he practically threatened to end our relationship.”

Billy’s eyebrows shot up. “Yikes.”

“I mean, am I wrong here?”

“You’re the only one who can answer that question, Sara. I think it comes down to what you can live with. Or whether you can live with yourself.”

“That’s the thing. I couldn’t stand it if John kills another person. So how do I live through the summer—or any summer? Every weekend I’m going to be a mess wondering if he’s done it again. And how am I supposed to have a wedding if I’m looking over my shoulder every ten seconds?”

He nodded. “I hear you. It was the same for me with my ex. She wanted an average guy, but I couldn’t just cuddle on the couch watching TV when there was a killer on the loose. I always had to see it to the end.”

“That’s totally how I feel. I started this, so it’s up to me to end it.” I felt another wave of anger at Evan. Why couldn’t he understand?

Billy said, “I brought a copy of The Art of War over for you—it’s in the truck. But maybe you just need to take a break from everything for a little while.”

“How am I going to do that?”

“We could start by going for a drive? Get out and talk for a bit?”

“I don’t know, Ally’s at school and I have so much to do around here.…”

“Are you actually going to do any of it?”

“Probably not.” I sighed. “Sure, let’s go.”

*   *   *

We drove around for close to an hour, just drinking coffee and talking about nothing in particular. We didn’t discuss my fight with Evan. It’s got to be hard when they know he’s trying to stop me from helping them, but all Billy said was that he could understand why Evan was having such a hard time. On the way home, I flipped through The Art of War and noticed he’d highlighted some of the quotes—a few were even circled.

He glanced at me. “The strategies can be used for everything—politics, business, managing conflicts, you name it. And they can be applied to any investigation. John’s case is a perfect example. This book could be the key to finally stopping him.”

“It just looks like a lot of quotes.”

“But each one is brilliant. To give just one example, ‘It’s not about planning; it’s about quick and appropriate responses to changing conditions.’ That’s exactly how a cop needs to think.” His dark eyes glowed as they met mine. “If more members of the RCMP read this book we’d have a lot more convictions.”

“You should write your own book.”

“I’ve actually been working on something for a few years—how The Art of War can be used in police work. ‘Victory belongs to the man who can master the stratagem of the crooked and the straight.’”

“That’s so cool!”

He glanced at me. “Yeah?”

“Totally.” If he was going to use military strategies to get John out of my life, I was all for it. This case needed someone who was willing to go the extra mile. Then I thought about Sandy. How far would she go to catch John?

*   *   *

The rest of the way home Billy told me all about his book. By the time he dropped me off, my anger had cooled and I was feeling horrible about my reaction to Evan on the phone earlier. I was also feeling pretty bad about taking off with Billy. I knew it was nothing, but would Evan?

My mind filled with panicky images of Evan moving out, of having to sell the house, of canceling the wedding, of Ally sobbing and having weekend visits with Evan, of lonely nights filled with the knowledge that Evan was the best thing that ever happened to me and I lost him. As soon as I walked in the door I e-mailed all our wedding invitations. Then I tried to call Evan, but his cell was off. I didn’t leave a message—I didn’t know what to say.

*   *   *

When Evan called later that night I was working in the shop. My stomach lurched and I took a deep breath before answering. Here we go.

He said, “Hey, baby. I’m sorry about earlier, I was being a dick. It’s just that this guy is bad news and I don’t think you get how dangerous he is.”

I let out my breath. We were going to be okay.

“I do, Evan. Of course I do. And I really hope you didn’t mean what you said about our relationship, because I sent out our invitations.” I laughed.

Evan was quiet. My chest tightened.

I said, “Okay, now you’re scaring me.”

“You scare me, Sara. I want to marry you and make a life with you—I love you—but you’re putting yourself and Ally in danger. I want to protect you, but you don’t listen to me.”

“Since when do I have to obey everything you say? I’m not a dog.” I laughed, but he didn’t.

He said, “You know that’s not what I mean. I don’t want you to meet with him again. I don’t know how much clearer I can make it. I didn’t even want you to talk to him in the first place.”

“I know that, Evan. But I’m trying to tell you I can’t keep living my life in limbo. It’s killing me.”

“Sara. Just do it. Meet with John. I don’t care anymore. But I have to go to bed. I have a long day tomorrow.”

“Wait, Evan. I want to talk about this—”

“No, you don’t. Your mind is made up and you just want me to be okay with it. But it doesn’t matter how many different ways you say it, I’m not okay with it. Talking about it is a waste of energy.”

“I need to know we’re going to be okay, if I do this.”

“I don’t know, Sara.”

I was crying now. “You and Ally are the most important people in the world to me, Evan. I don’t want to lose you, but I’m losing myself. I can’t eat, sleep, anything. I’m a mess. Can’t you see that?”

“Just make a decision.” He sounded resigned.

He said good night and I whispered it back through my tears, then pulled on one of his T-shirts and climbed into bed. I couldn’t imagine a life without Evan—didn’t want a life without him. But if I didn’t end this thing with John soon my relationship was going to die regardless because I was spiraling out of control. Either way I was ruined.

Evan was right, I had to make a decision and I knew what it was going to be. There was only one way out. Then my life could return to normal. I just prayed Evan was still going to be a part of that life.

*   *   *

The next morning John called my cell when I was taking Ally to school. This time I tried something different.

“Hi, John, I’m just driving Ally, but I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

“But I want to talk.” He sounded startled.

“Great, because I really want to discuss some of the stuff we talked about the other day.”

“I can’t leave the cell on. But I need—”

“Okay, just give me a call back in a half hour on my home line.” I hung up.

I held my breath, expecting him to call right back, but he didn’t. Billy called to tell me John was near Williams Lake again and they had every available officer out on the roads. Exactly a half hour later John called my landline. While he bragged about tracking a black bear through a marsh that morning, I debated whether I should wait for him to mention another meeting or bring it up myself. As he started describing how he gutted the bear, then dragged the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound carcass out of the bushes without breaking a sweat, I interrupted.

“It’s got to be hard to shoot a bear. I’d be scared I’d miss and he’d come after me.”

“I never miss.” His voice turned angry. “Every year I come across injured bears out in the woods because of some amateur. If I can’t get a solid shot right behind the ear and straight into the brain, I don’t pull the trigger. Most hunters, they get excited, then they jerk up at the last minute and—”

“Wow, that’s really interesting. It’s too bad we didn’t get to meet. I would sure like to hear some of these stories in person.”

“Great minds think alike! I was just going to suggest another meeting—you can bring Ally.”

“I don’t know.… Maybe it should just be me the first time. She might say something to Evan. But I can bring pictures of her?”

“Yeah, yeah, bring pictures. That would be great.” I shuddered at the idea of him touching a photo of Ally.

He said, “So when do you want to meet?”

“When were you thinking?” My mouth went dry.

“I need to get away. It’s getting warm out.” His voice was angry again. “People are starting to camp and they throw their trash into the woods and turn their radios up so loud you can’t hear yourself think.”

“Soon, we can meet soon.”

“Okay. Tomorrow.”

*   *   *

That’s why I called for an emergency session. I know you don’t normally do evening appointments, so I really appreciate this. Trust me, I wanted to come earlier, but I’ve been at the station all afternoon. Billy said he’d watch Ally—can you believe he’s taking Ally to Boston Pizza and he wouldn’t accept any money? Evan’s supposed to call later tonight and I don’t know how I’m going to tell him or if I even should. I’m just sick about it. But I’m sure after we catch John, Evan will forgive me. Who was it that said it’s better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission?

You’re the only person I can tell this, but when I was at the station listening to Billy and Sandy—I’m meeting John at Bowen Park this time, so they wanted to go over a new plan—I had a really weird moment. I think what triggered it was something Billy said about John’s headaches, about John using them as an excuse. I caught myself for a second wanting to defend him—to defend myself. My entire life people have looked at me like I was faking it when I had a migraine. But I know how much they hurt, how the pain almost makes you insane.

When I was in school one of my friends fought with her mom constantly and when her mom would say, “You’re just like me when I was your age,” my friend would go on and on about how she was nothing like her mom. I didn’t understand it. For one, they were a lot alike, and two, I thought it was a lot worse not being able to see yourself at all in your parents—like me. Definitely not in Mom, who is the sweetest, most patient woman on the planet, and Dad, well, we’d need another hour to cover all the ways we differ.

That’s one of the reasons I was so disappointed when I met Julia. I still didn’t see myself. It scares me how much I’m like John—his impulsiveness, his short attention span, his temper. Now even with the migraines. But I’m terrified I’m becoming more like him. Every time he says something that reminds me of myself I fantasize about killing him, taking a knife to the meeting and stabbing him over and over again. But the best part is when he’s lying there, bleeding—when I can see he’s finally dead. It feels good.