AS FROM A TALENTED ANIMAL
Carley Eason Evans
2014 Copyright, All Rights Reserved
18 – The Killer Heart
When David Stone spoke to me of Jesus in such a sacrilegious manner, I put my hand in the pocket of my jacket and began to fondle — that’s not the right word — the crucifix I keep there. I wear it sometimes, but more often I keep it in my pocket where I can touch it without disturbing those who do not believe. The horror I felt at what David said is hard to describe. I felt like vomiting but I’m a professional journalist and tend to keep my feelings under control. I’m not sure if David saw me crying. I couldn’t look at him after Felix hand-cuffed him. I used to wonder why Felix had to be in the room with us, but twice now, I’ve been grateful to have a guard there at the door.
I sat at the table with the crucifix in my hands, fiddling with it I suppose. I didn’t move for a long time. I asked God to forgive me — for at that moment I felt nothing but hatred for David Stone. I whispered, “What a sick bastard.”
“You get no argument on that,” said a voice from the door.
“Sorry,” said Felix, “I didn’t mean to spook you, sir.”
I chuckled and wiped my face, embarrassed. I looked at the guard who’d known David Stone for so many years. I asked, “How can anyone like that be allowed to live?”
“You mean, sir, why didn’t he get the death penalty?”
“No,” I said, “why was he allowed to be born?”
Felix shook his head, said, “I’ve never thought about it frankly. He’s an odd person —.”
Felix nodded, continued, “I mean, he didn’t kill any of those people, you know.”
“He didn’t?” I asked, incredulous.
“No,” said Felix, “at least I don’t think he did. I mean, there’s no evidence, only his confessions. He changes his stories all the time. I’ve heard so many versions of the little girl, for example. I don’t think he remembers which one actually matches the facts. He doesn’t have the best memory now — not like he used to.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.
“Talk to Mr. Mock again,” suggested the guard.
“Yes, the twin.”
When we met at my urging, Michael Mock was surprised at my recounting of David’s tale about the knives. He said, “Well of course I knew he collected them, but no — he never told me about wanting to be like Jesus. God, that’s creepy, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I think it is.” Then, I asked David’s twin, “Why didn’t you tell your parents about the knife collection?”
Michael sipped the drink I’d purchased for him, leaned his elbows against the wooden bar rail and looked at me. He said, “Because Richard threatened me; that’s why.”
“He threatened you?”
“Yes, he showed me his one knife — a particularly frightening weapon — and told me he’d slit my throat in my sleep if I so much as hinted he’d bought a knife.” Here, Michael paused, then added, “I believed him, Mr. Peterson.”
“Max,” I said.
“Okay Max, I believed my brother. He looked perfectly capable of handling that knife, even at twelve and his threat was not idle either. If I’d spoken to our parents about his plans, he’d have killed me, Max. Of that I have no doubt.”
“But, do you think he killed that little girl — Alison Lister? Or that teenager, Steven Miles? Or that other girl, Sandra Lord? Or Stevie Jones, the little three year old? Did he kill those children?”
“I’ve already told you what I think, Max.”
“You think he lied?”
“Yet, you think he would have killed you if you betrayed him?”
Michael nodded again.
“Then he must have the heart of a killer,” I said.
Michael nodded, said, “Yes, that he does.”
“So much for being like Jesus,” I whispered.
“My brother, Max, is not anything like the Jesus described in the bible,” said Michael.
“David said that, too. That he wasn’t interested in being like the Christ except that he wanted the power to leave his parents — escape them — and to show up authority, I suppose.”
“My brother,” said Michael, “wants power over our emotions. He wants to pull a string and make us afraid of him.”
I nodded as I’d seen David do just that to Sandy and to me. He didn’t seem capable of making Felix afraid. I wondered at that. I turned toward Michael on my bar stool and asked, “Are you afraid of David now?”
“No,” said Michael.
“Without his weapons, my brother is harmless,” said Michael. Then he smiled and added, “And besides, his knives are at my house.”
“That’s right,” said Michael.
“How?” I asked. “Wouldn’t the police have kept them as evidence?”
“Up to a point, yes — they did. But after seven years, they released the collection back to the family — which is me, essentially. Our mother certainly didn’t want them, and our father — well, by then he was dribbling on his shirt, so to speak.” And Michael smiled again.
The second time Michael Mock smiled, I cringed. There was something in his smile that was disconcerting — not exactly like that something in his brother’s eyes, but similar.
“Don’t worry,” he continued, “the collection is perfectly safe.” Then he leaned in, raised his glass toward mine on the bar, and asked, “Would you like to see it?”
I looked at Michael, said, “Yes, I suppose so.”
“Good,” he said simply. “I’ll show you.”