Lucky Number Thirteen

Ah-ha, she looks good, he thought. I can see it in her face.

Her avatar photo showed a pale, mousy face with a long, thin nose, weak chin, and enormous thick round glasses that made her eyes appear unnaturally small. He clicked the photo and arrived at her page, scanning her profile: “Poet, art lover, and old soul. … an introvert with a penchant for finding the beauty in quiet moments … looking for a kindred spirit who appreciates the power of language and the profundity of silence …  Ideal first date: A quiet afternoon in a bookstore cafe where we can share our favorite passages, followed by a walk in a park.”

“Oh, Emily,” he said aloud to no one, “you are too perfect!”

He was perusing HeartSync.com, where he was Roger, “a high school Social Studies teacher and amateur nature photographer. Ideal first date: Let’s take a walk through a botanical garden, followed by coffee or tea at a cozy cafe where we can share our thoughts on life, classic films, and favorite books.” Emily had ‘liked’ his profile. He smiled and clicked the ‘like’ icon on her profile in return.

Yes, he thought, I think she’ll do very nicely.

He hunted on four different dating websites using four separate, markedly different profiles, each wearing a different disguise and using a different pseudonym. He would kill his prey on the first or second date, before she could share too many details about him with friends or family. After dispatching one victim, he’d use the second website, then the third, the fourth, then start again with the first. He made sure none of his victims lived in Chicago, where he lived, but in far-flung suburbs or towns, including areas of southeast Wisconsin and northwest Indiana, and each lived at least twenty or thirty miles or more distant from the previous one. Nobody would ever discern a pattern.

It had been three months since he’d murdered the last one. That was his rule, to wait at least three months before hunting again, and then to be careful about it. Meticulous. Find the perfect prey, selecting the loneliest, neediest, most vulnerable soul, gain her total trust, and kill her at the right moment of vulnerability. Afterwards, he’d hang the corpse by the feet from a hook he’d installed in the ceiling over his bathtub, slice the neck from ear to ear to drain the blood, then cut it into manageable chunks—limbs, head, torso—wrapping each in plastic and storing them in his garage refrigerator. Over the course of three days, he got rid of the pieces, burning them in pits he dug in remote wooded areas—each disposal separated by miles from the others—dissolving the ashes with hydrochloric acid, filling the pits with dirt and covering them carefully with plant debris so the ground appeared undisturbed. Each one gone, as if she’d never existed. Not so much as a molecule of DNA could be retrieved. It was perfect.

Damn, I came up with such a fine plan, I’m proud of myself. It’s a shame I can’t share it with anybody.

But it didn’t start that way. His first murder was on an impulse. He picked her up in a bar near his home and killed her the same night. He strangled her in his car, with her own scarf, then dumped her body in a rural drainage ditch miles outside of the city. That was sloppy and out of character for him. He was nothing if not fastidious in everything he did.

He’d hardly slept for months afterward, waiting for the cops to come and ask him about the missing woman last seen with him in a bar, but that never happened. A year later, just as he began to feel safe, the TV news and the papers reported that her skeleton was found, and the sleepless nights started again. But the cops never identified the remains, and the case became just one more added to their countless cold files. After a few months, he felt safe again, and he slept like a baby. But he knew it was dumb luck he wasn’t caught, so he swore he’d never do it again, that he’d never gamble with his own life and liberty for that momentary thrill.

But he never stopped savoring the thrill, the power he felt as he looked into her desperate pleading eyes, how the power surged as, at his whim, the light in her eyes dimmed and flickered out. He re-lived the moment again and again in his daydreams and his nighttime masturbatory reveries. But over time, the memory became less thrilling, and after a year, it seemed nearly unreal, almost as if it were a fantasy rather than something that had actually happened. He yearned to experience the thrill again, not only dream about it. He decided he had to do it again. Surely there would be no shortage of suitable prey, women who would disrespect him, who would think he’s a creep and tell him so. They all did. Since he was a kid, the female of the species treated him like a pariah. Nobody ever liked him, ever wanted to keep his company, but girls were especially adamant, even cruel, in their rejection.

Of course, I can do it without the risk—it’s just a matter of planning. Yes, I can do this, safely, and on a regular basis if I’m careful, if I’m smart about it.

And he knew he was smart, but nobody ever gave him credit for it. No, they hated him for it, of course, because they were jealous. That’s why they bullied him through his entire childhood. They dismissed him as a weird geek, but he knew he was better than all of them, smarter than all of them, and that that was his strength—the fact that as a rule, people underestimated him. They couldn’t see his superiority. Of course not, how could they, they’re inferior, they’re bugs.

He had murdered twelve women to date. It occurred to him that Emily would be number thirteen. Thirteen, the unlucky number. Stupid superstition. Who decided thirteen is unlucky? He shook his head and laughed. What if whoever started this got it wrong, and thirteen is actually lucky? God, people are so stupid.

He contacted Emily and after a few online exchanges, arranged a date for 2:00 pm on a Saturday. They were to meet at Steep & Read, a far north suburban teahouse and free used book exchange. It was her suggestion, but it suited him as well. He’d reconnoitered it for a few days. It was a tiny place, off any beaten path, with so few patrons he figured it operated more as some well-heeled bookworm’s hobby than a viable business. On the appointed day, he donned his Roger disguise: Black horn-rimmed glasses, a fake moustache, and a red wig. He arrived at 1:30 and parked down the street, watching the place. She entered at 1:45. He waited until 2:05 before he walked in. The place was empty, save for he and Emily, and the person behind the counter. Emily sat at a table in a corner. Small and skinny, she had sloping shoulders, a hunched posture, and an ashen complexion. Her eyes were riveted to a book, and she didn’t seem to notice him entering. He smiled and approached her table.

“Emily?”

She jerked her head up and stared at him wide-eyed, as if she wasn’t expecting to be disturbed.

She's a strange one. “I’m Roger.”

She extended a bony, limp hand, “Oh. Roger. Pleased to meet you,” she said blandly.

“And you.”

He pulled out a chair and sat opposite her. He looked at her and smiled, hoping she would begin a conversation. He sucked at small talk and depended on others to begin a conversation and keep it going. Unfortunately, she was likewise socially crippled and she continued to stare at him. He began to squirm. An awkward pause followed—it seemed unbearably long to him—as she continued to stare.

“So, you come here often?” He understood the onus had fallen on him to start, and that was the best he could come up with.

“Yes.”

Again, an awkward pause.

“Um… so, what are you reading there?”

She held up a dog-eared paperback, The Portable Emily Dickinson.

“Ah. Emily. What a coincidence.”

“What coincidence?”

“Well, your name is Emily.”

“I guess you could call it a coincidence. She’s my favorite poet.”

“Hm. Yes, she’s great.” Shit, ever since being forced to read poetry in high school, I thought it was a waste of time, and that opinion hasn’t changed. “I understand you’re a poet yourself. Is she, like, your inspiration?”

“Yes, I suppose so. We have a lot in common. I often prefer to keep my own company, being alone, like she did. And I explore the same themes she did—like nature, faith and death, and immortality.”

“Death?”

“Sure. You’re a teacher, you're well educated, you must know. For instance, probably her most famous poem on the subject, the one everyone knows, it goes,

Because I could not stop for Death—

He kindly stopped for me—

The Carriage held but just Ourselves—

And Immortality.

And so on.”

“Oh sure, we all know that one.” Yes, Emily, I’m death and I kindly stopped for you.

“So what do you like to read?”

“I like poetry too. I mean it’s not my primary interest, like it is for you, but I like it.”

“Who’s your favorite poet?”

“Robert Frost.” That being the only name that came to him at the moment.

“Frost. The two of them seem to go together—Dickinson and Frost. Both New Englanders. Both often wrote about nature while delving into deeper philosophical questions and exploring the nature of the human soul. They’re kind of like bookends, don’t you think?”

“Sure.” Dammit, I shouldn’t have said I like poetry when I don’t know anything about it. “But, like I said, it’s not my primary interest. I read a lot of non-fiction—politics and history. That’s related to my job, a social studies teacher, but it’s entertaining in its way. I think the real human drama can be as compelling as any fiction.”

“I suppose. I prefer poetry, though.”

A pair of customers entered. One of them smiled and nodded, and waved at Emily. Oh no, they’re regulars and at least one of them knows her. If they start socializing with us, that changes things—I’ll have to abandon her and find a new one.

“It occurs to me,” he said, “It’s such a nice afternoon, how about we get out of this stuffy place and go for a walk? Some fresh air and sunshine is good for the soul, I always say.”

She tucked her book into her purse and smiled. “It’s like you’ve read my mind, Roger. Yes, let’s take a walk.”

They left the cafe and walked down the street. She moved briskly, he followed.

“What do you do for a living, Emily? I assume poetry doesn’t pay the bills.”

“I’m a hospice nurse.”

“You help people die.”

“That’s a blunt way of putting it, but yes.”

“How would you put it?”

“I help them accept and welcome death. Death isn’t something to be feared, it’s a natural part of life, the final step of our trip to the next world, the end of sadness and pain. It's the great equalizer. It comes for us all. It makes every human being equal, no matter who they are in life. Death is kind and just.”

“Hm. I guess you’re right.”

She walked as if purposefully—as though, he thought, she had a destination in mind—turning at the first corner, then again at the next, as he followed.

“So are we just out for a stroll, or are you taking me somewhere?”

“There’s a lovely park a few blocks from here,” she said. “In the center is a wooded area. They keep it as untouched and natural as possible, with dirt paths and narrow trails. Like a piece of real wilderness in suburbia. In there, it’s as if you're hundreds of miles away. It’s my favorite place. I spend a lot of time there.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

Does she truly believe all of that bullshit she was spouting about welcoming death? That would defeat the purpose of killing her. No, she can’t possibly believe that. Nobody would. When the moment comes, she’ll be like all of the others—panicking, kicking, and clawing, and struggling to stay alive—I know it. The sooner that happens, the better. Seems to be going well enough today, I should be able to get a follow-up date, arrange to pick her up, and when I get her into the car—goodbye, Emily.

They turned a corner, and a massive expanse of green emerged into view. Gently curving asphalt paths snaked through prairie grasses, flowers, and brush surrounding a dense grove of oaks, maples, cottonwoods, and hickory. The Cook County Resource Management Department had created an idyllic model of Midwestern nature on reclaimed farmland, an ideal worthy of a Romantic landscape painting.

“There it is,” she said, “my refuge.”

“Wow. I can see why. I’d spend every free moment here if I lived nearby.”

“Yes, I thought you’d love it, with your interest in nature photography.”

 “What a shame I didn’t bring my camera.”

Strolling through the park, flies, beetles, grasshoppers, and crickets buzzed around them. Dragonflies hovered, darting suddenly forward and backward and zigzagging like tiny helicopters as they hunted gnats and mosquitoes.

“Look,” she said, pointing, “There’s a swallowtail butterfly. When’s the last time you saw a butterfly in the city?”

“Couldn’t say. Seems like the only insects we have are house flies and cockroaches.”

“All of these grasses and shrubs and flowers, they look like they occurred naturally, but this all has been thoughtfully planned and planted. They’ve selected native Illinois Prairie plants plus a few non-native species adapted to this ecosystem. The flowering plants were selected so some bloom in Spring and early Summer, when they finish, the mid Summer flowers bloom, and after them, the late Summer bloom happens. It’s a perfect haven for bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds.”

“Geez, this is impressive.”

“Yes, who would have thought a department of the Cook County government would actually do something right?”

“Right.”

Hm. She doesn't seem so bad, really. Not like the others—selfish, vacuous airheads—it’s almost a shame to kill her.

Oh, c’mon, man, don’t be naive. You know they’re all the same. She’d turn out to be like all the others over time.

Of course, what was I thinking? How could she be any different than the others? Yes, they’re all the same. I have to kill her.

“But it’s sad, isn’it,” she said, “that this little bit of reconstructed nature is something to celebrate. This small patch of green is just a band-aid on a cancer.”

“I never thought about it before, but yes, it is kind of sad.”

“Humanity never fails to disappoint me,” she said, “collectively, as a species, but as individuals as well. People don’t think about things that matter, about the consequences of their actions, about the lives going on around them. The individual attention span doesn’t range beyond that of the brief social media post, beyond gratifying the momentary impulse, or shopping for the latest trending plastic junk product they don’t really need.”

“Yes, yes. You’re right. That’s exactly how I feel!”

“That’s why I don’t fit in and never have,” she said. “I don’t think the way other people think, and that threatens them somehow. I’m shunned because of that. I’ve spent my life as a misfit.”

Maybe I was wrong, and she really isn’t like the others. She seems like …like me in a way. It’s like it would seem kind of wrong to kill her. Or not right somehow. Should I let her live? I don’t know. Maybe?

“So, I take refuge in my books, in my poetry,” she said, “They are my fortress. They keep me safe.”

“I know what you mean. I feel as if there’s nobody in the world that I can trust, nobody who I can talk to, who understands me and accepts me for who I am. So I shut people out, they don’t need me, and I don’t need them. But I feel differently about you, Emily. I don’t want to shut you out. Quite the opposite, I think we’re kindred spirits, I want to let you into my life.” Oh geez, laying it on a little thick there. Ease up! “Uh, I hope that doesn’t sound ridiculous—like I’m just saying something you want to hear—I mean, we just met and we don’t even know each other.”

She smiled slightly. “No, Roger, it doesn’t sound ridiculous at all. And I feel as though we actually do know each other in some way. We’re both old souls, we’ve both gone through many lives, we’ve seen it all, and now we are quiet spirits who’d rather not be caught up in society's turbulence. We understand each other.”

She stopped and pointed at one of the unpaved trails that branched off the asphalt path and through the bramble into the woods. “Let’s do like Robert Frost and take one of the roads less travelled,” she said.

“Yes, let’s do that. I’m up for a woodland adventure.”

She stood aside and gestured for him to proceed. He forged ahead through the brush. A narrow slice through the foliage, the trail had seen scarcely enough human foot traffic to be worn to a path. Burs and sticker seeds clung to his clothes. He pulled them off as best he could, but the effort seemed futile. His ankles itched as they were ravaged by tics. As they approached the scrub growth that fronted the woods, he pushed branches away and felt sharp stings on his forearms and cheeks. Round droplets of blood formed along thin red stripes, like rosary beads on strings. He stopped and wiped them, the smeared blood staining his skin pink.

“Jesus!”

“Careful,” she said, “some of these bushes have thorns.”

“So I noticed.”

“Once we’re into the woods, it won’t be this rough. These bushes and shrubs don’t live in the shade of the tree canopy.”

“Yeah. This place is a little more natural than I expected a suburban park to be.”

They breached the wall of scrub growth and entered the woods. Laced with exposed tree roots and interrupted by fallen deadwood, the trail was no less challenging. He paused, brushing burrs and stickers from his clothes as he surveyed the scene. Looking deep into the forest, where direct sunlight never fell, everything was in dark shades of brown and gray with splashes of vibrant green where moss clung to rotting fallen timber.

“This is like something from another world,” he said, “like out of some old German folk tale.”

“Yes,” she said, “that’s why I love coming here. I can escape to another world within walking distance of my home. I come here to practice shinrin-yoku—it means forest bathing in Japanese—mindful breathing and immersing myself in the sights, sounds, and smells of the forest. It reduces stress and depression, and improves concentration.”

“I can see how it would be effective.”

They continued their trek, deeper into the forest. The air was cool and suffused with the musky fragrance of the forest floor, the sounds of twittering birds and rustling. He felt serene, and walked carelessly, casually, tilting his head back and staring up at the canopy.

There was a sudden sharp sting on his neck, and a rush of warmth. The trees began to whirl around him in a blur. He no longer sensed his legs. It was as if he were floating now. His world went black—he couldn’t tell for how long—then the blackness faded to green, then the mottled green formed trees as his vision focused somewhat, but not completely. It was as though he were looking through frosted glass. He heard a sound repeating. It was a voice. Emily. She was calling him.

“Roger? Roger? Can you hear me?”

Her face came into view, then out, then in again as his swaying head searched for the source of the voice.

“Em-il-y?”

“Yes, Roger. I’m here. I’m surprised you’re still conscious.”

“Wha’ hap-pen’d?” The words oozed out of his mouth like porridge dribbled by an infant.

“Morphine. I shot it into your carotid artery, and it rushed immediately to your brain.”

She was wearing vinyl gloves and held a hypodermic syringe inches from his face.

“Unh. Morph-ine?”

“Yes, Roger, morphine.”

She placed the empty syringe in her purse and pulled out another one and uncapped it.

“Wha’? I don’ unnerstand. Morph-ine?” He shook his head. “N-no …no.”

He was sitting with his back against a tree. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but slid down again with a thump. He moved again, but she placed a hand against his chest, and he stopped.

“Let me help you. Don’t worry, I’m a nurse, remember? I can take care of you.”

“Uh-right.”

She wiped the syringe with a tissue, picked up his limp right hand, placed the syringe in it, then closed his hand around it. She released his right hand and took the left, turning the palm upward. He looked at his left arm as if it didn’t belong to him. He saw his belt wrapped around it and cinched tightly above the elbow.

“Make a fist.”

His fingers curled loosely. She held his hand closed and said, “Squeeze. Tighter.” Tapping the crook of his elbow, she said, “Good, there’s a nice fat vein,” and inserted the needle. “This will take care of you,” she said as she pulled the plunger back, drawing some of his blood into the syringe.

“Unh. …Thanks-s-s.”

“You’re not meant for this world, Roger. I can see it. You’re a soul out of place, so I’m helping you leave. When they find your body, the police will assume you died from an accidental overdose or possibly suicide. If they bother to check the syringe in your arm for fingerprints, they’ll only find yours. They won’t notice the injection wound on your neck with all of the scratches and insect bites.”

“Wh-at? I don’ unnerstan’.”

“I’m helping you die, Roger, it’s what I do.” She pushed the plunger.

“Huh? No, no!”

She loosened the tourniquet. “Goodbye, Roger. Perhaps we’ll meet in another world.”