Author's Note: Things are definitely picking up with our unsub! I was planning for a long time how I wanted this scene to play out, and, though I don't condone certain actions, I'm glad of a certain character's fate, since I didn't like them all that much. Anyways, still planning out the last few chapters and setting up the next segue way for my next Nancy Drew story following this one, so it might be a bit before my next update, though hopefully this time you all won't have to wait over a month for me to post an update! Minor Violence/mild suggestive themes ahead. You can skip if it bothers you, but figured I should post a warning up top because our unsub is one creepy fellow with an even creepier M.O.
For a moment, Helen wondered exactly what it was that she had gotten herself into when she agreed to go with Greg. "What a hovel." They'd not stopped arguing since they left the campgrounds, and it had to be at least bordering midnight, the fog making it hard to see. From the earth that bore no life, save for the short, scrubby grass, yellowing under the constant glare of the hazy moonlight, rose something of a ghost town that, to Helen's mind, had no imaginable right to exist. The three-story homes and derelict little shops were clustered close together, arranged down a single narrow street, though the reason for such proximity wasn't clear, given the thin soil stretches in every direction until the land rose to low hillocks.
Between the buildings that looked like they were decaying, and were a decent health inspector from the city here, the town probably would have been condemned, or should have been long ago, Helen thought, the buildings themselves lost more paint than they kept. The wind channeled to a low howl, and Helen shivered, wishing she'd thought to grab a jacket.
To distract herself from the cold, Helen opted to mull over their surroundings in silence, trying to take in the place where Greg had grown up. Everything was the same and different. The autumn trees stood naked as they had before, but their twigs curled in a distorted way, as if the tree itself screamed in pain. The sky was a mass of grey cloud, again so ordinary for September here in Maine, but instead of letting small shafts of light through they emitted an ethereal glow. The wind was just as bitter as the day before, coming straight from the north, but the scent was something else, metallic almost, with a tinge of acrid burning.
She'd opted ever since this morning to change into a black wrap dress with a bit of a mini skirt that showed off her long lean legs and brown and pink strappy wedge sandals in the hopes of enticing Greg on a date with her. Though now she was beginning to regret her choices, seeing for herself firsthand what kind of a man Greg really was at his core.
Helen furrowed her brow in thought. The wind rustled her brunette bob haircut, sending her bangs flying forward into her eyes, and she furrowed her brow into a frown, swooping them off the right out of her way and tucking back a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear, where it rightfully belonged and huffed in annoyance, shifting her light pink Angelkiss crossbody purse to her other shoulder.
"Remind me, Greg, why we couldn't take our car?" she called out as loud as she could without disturbing the neighbors. Helen decided she didn't like the looks of this town at nighttime. Not one bit. Everything was quiet...too quiet. It was the kind of silence that fell right before you get knifed in the back. It sent a shiver down Helen's spine and she felt her blood chill in her veins.
"I don't want to draw attention to ourselves, Helen," came Greg's retort. His voice sounded clipped and hard as he ran a hand through his brown hair.
"But my feet hurt, Greg!" she whined, sticking out her bottom lip and folding her arms across her chest. "How much further are we walking?" she called out and was surprised to see Greg turn sharply to the left and his facial expression had gone rigid and hard, cold, not like him at all.
"Just be quiet and stop complaining," he snapped irritability.
Helen frowned at his response. Greg didn't care about the well-being of her shoes, or the fact that she was freezing, and despite the fact that he had told her at least three times since they'd begun the walk from the campground to...wherever Greg was taking her, that she needed to bring a jacket or she'd get cold, she was not about to admit to her crush that he had been right, really. The young brunette drew in a sharp, cold breath that pained her lungs. She felt as if her lungs were slowly filling with water, as if there were just less space in them for the air. Inflating them felt like pushing up against a lead weight on her chest. She sucked in the air as if it were treacle, yet she was standing, or rather walking, with her crush on a deserted neighborhood street that for all intents and purposes looked normal. If the creatures, frogs mostly, could croak, and the bugs could fly around and make noises, then why the hell couldn't Helen manage to catch her breath? Why?
Why was it so hard for her? She was out of breath when she was walking, talking or even thinking of doing either. With every step forward she took there was a wheeze like air escaping from a deflated balloon. Every step to her felt like walking in quicksand, her feet as heavy as bags of potatoes. She was beginning to wish she'd swapped her dress for jeans and her wedge sandals for sneakers. Every night Helen couldn't breathe right, her breath is so short, like her muscles were ready to give up the fight. The darkness would close in and all the young woman could do was hang on until the dawn. Maybe it's the coldness, maybe she was just plain scared of the dark like a great big baby. Helen didn't know. All she knew is that night robbed her ability to breathe just like it robbed away the daylight.
Greg must have noticed her struggling, for his brow furrowed as he frowned as he turned, shifting his stance slightly to look at her. "Helen?"
At least there was some concern in his voice, so that was something.
"I'm good," she wheezed, doubling over and clutching her ribcage. "Just…gimme a minute, and I'll—I'll be fine," she managed to gasp out.
Greg looked doubtful, quirking a thick bushy brow her way. "You sure?"
"My—my feet are tired," she confessed, suddenly realizing she sounded like the spoiled brat she undoubtedly was, but she couldn't help it. "Will you carry me?" she questioned, biting her lip as the playful spark returned to her blue eyes, though there was no mistaking the note of hope in her voice.
To her request, Greg scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Just take your shoes off if your feet are bothering you. I think I was the one who told you to wear something appropriate for walking," he snorted, glancing at her outfit with equal parts admiration. He did appreciate how the dress hugged her petite form and emphasized her slender little legs and athletic legs. "But you didn't listen to me, Helen, so all of this is on you. You can walk on your own." The architect student chanced a glance down at her shoes. "Besides," he added, "you've worn those sandals before and walked and never complained, Helen."
"I always wear these in the warmer months because I don't ever walk this far," Helen whined, having regained her breath and stomped her foot, a release of frustration. And then she remembered Greg's suggestion.
The very fact—the audacity—that he would suggest she take her shoes off and get her bare feet dirty over this filthy sidewalk, where who knows what had crawled over it, was absolutely atrocious. "No way!" she squeaked, still keeping her arms folded tightly across her chest and vehemently shaking her head. "No way am I taking my shoes off and walking across that," she growled, gesturing towards the sidewalk with a jerk of her head. "What if I got athlete's foot or—or shin splints or posterior tibial tendonitis?"
At her comment, Greg erupted into laughter and Helen froze, wondering what exactly was so funny about her rant. "What? What's so funny, Greg?"
"I think it's cute when you go on a tirade, Helen."
Helen watched as his eyes became glassy with remembrance, almost hazy, as his memories were taking him to another time and place, maybe even a happier one. Before me, she thought, feeling all of a sudden dismayed.
Greg continued, sensing her discomfort. "You can talk for hours about all kinds of infectious diseases. It's why you're going to make such a good nurse when you finish school," Greg grinned, throwing that charming Greg grin her way that he knew she wouldn't be able to resist.
Fighting back her urge to return his smile, Helen let out a snort and turned away sharply so Greg wouldn't see the beginnings of a smile form on her face. "Just shut up and hold my hand, you fool," she teased, and had been about to open her mouth to lay into Greg even more, when she felt a strong hand, definitely a man's hand, grip onto her shoulder and pull at her, tugging her backwards from behind her spot on the sidewalk, which was uneven and cracked in parts, causing her to falter in her footing. "HEY!" she shouted, twisting slightly, and with a surprised and pained wince, turned to look her attacker in the eye, and tripped out of her pink wedge sandal. Helen probably would have fallen to the ground were it not for the man's strong gloved hand still gripping tightly onto her upper arms. "What do you think you're doing?" she shouted, pouting as she looked up at the man who had grabbed her. It was too dark to make out his features in this dark light, but as he moved underneath a streetlamp which flickered constantly, Helen felt a tremor of fear travel down her spine and a wash of cold come over her entire body, as though she'd been doused in ice water. "Oh." Her voice came out as a low breathy squeak. "Wh—what is this?"
In front of Helen was a deranged looking man with two-day stubble gracing his jawline and chin, though thanks to the dim lighting and there were hardly any streetlights of any kind, it made it difficult for the young woman to make out any details of the man's face, but she could tell by the hulking build of the man's football player size, he could be only one man.
"You," she breathed, her voice coming out as a low breathy squeak, his cheekbones sunken in and hollow, giving him an emaciated look. His tuft of light brown hair, like Greg's, was wild, and seemed to have a mind of its own, though his bangs hung limp and straight in his eyes. Whoever the stranger was, he was young, seemingly in his late thirties, early forties.
But it was his eyes that scared Helen the most.
Helen looked into his eyes, but it was like nothing was there to behold. An endless depth of ink, sorrow, and pain. She could not see whites of his eyes nor the vessels that flowed through them. They were depths of Tartarus holding a thousand souls yet there were none to be seen. She gulped and swallowed past the lump forming in her throat that threatened to close off her passageways. She knew she shouldn't be staring at him like this, but she felt safe to look when he half-turned away, seemingly fixated on Greg now. The lumberjack shirt he wore was loose and seemed to cling to his frame in parts and absolutely hang off him in others, which she found odd. Her eyes popped as he glanced back to Helen, and she shivered as an unnaturally wide grin began to form, curling the edges of his lips upwards.
White knuckles from clenching her fist too hard, and gritted teeth from effort to remain silent, her rigid posture and form exuded an animosity that was like acid - burning, slicing, potent. Her face was blanched white with suppressed rage, and when this man who had so rudely snatched her even set a finger on her shoulder, she swung around and mentally snapped, screaming at the man. "Who the hell do you think you are, Frankenstein?" bellowed Helen, balling her hands, which hung loosely at her sides and were shaking badly, into fists. "Keep your grubby hands to yourself, creep!" she hollered. "God! I'm calling the police!" she shouted, dipping with her free hand into her purse, rummaging for her cell phone, feeling her jaw go rooted. If ever there was a time when she wished she kept her phone out more often, this was one of those times. They needed help…
"Helen…" called out Greg, though it came out as more of a warning shout.
The towering man in the plaid shirt continued that creepy grin of his, seeming unfazed by the young brunette woman's little outburst. As if what he was doing were the most natural thing in the word, he swatted her arm away from her bag hard enough to bruise, and his hand came up to grip her delicate birdlike wrist in his grasp and squeezed. She let out a tiny cry of pain that was almost inaudible but fell silent. Maybe staying silent would be her best chance for walking away from this alive. If she didn't make any noise, then they both might live. IF she stayed quiet and just didn't cause a scene, did whatever the hell he wanted.
"What's a pretty little slip of a thing like you doing out in the cold dark night, huh?" he crooned throatily, reaching up a strong, hairy hand to allow his hand to drift over the column of her throat. "Mustn't wander too far…"
Helen decided right then and there that whoever this man was, she didn't like the way he talked. He was clearly mocking her, but the intonations of his voice suggested almost a childlike curiosity, the way he genuflected and seemed to talk animatedly with his hands, every once in a while, the young woman would notice the stranger shoot Greg an utter look of hate. Greg, meanwhile, had seemingly frozen in fear, his face ashen and beads of sweat forming on his brow, as his dark eyes darted nervously from the attacker towards Helen's.
"Just—don't hurt her, man," he pleaded, desperate.
But the attacker's gaze had wandered back towards Helen, who had fallen silent and was regarding the stranger in the blue and red plaid shirt with something akin to fear and trepidation in her blue eyes. "It's not safe for you to be out alone," he continued, continuing his infuriating behavior of caressing her cheek, and Helen trembled, hating to admit that, unwanted though it was, it strangely felt nice. The skin of his palm was smooth. The man glanced down at her purse slung over her shoulder. "Whatcha got in your bag, sweetheart?" he growled, and his hand drifted downward from the caressing of the column of her pale throat and towards her purse.
"No way, you asshole!" cried Helen, instinctively curling her fingers into a fist over the straps of her purse, her favorite out of the two that she did own. A light coral pink in color, with several zippered compartments and pockets for all her things, it was easily her favorite bag among the others she kept in her closet at home. She was reluctant to part with it, or even let this man get his grubby hands all over it. It had been a gift from her mother for her birthday this year, shortly before her mom had passed away from cancer, and she was going to be damned if she was going to let this—this asshole—get his grubby sticky sausage fingers all over it. "Get the hell away from me!"
"Helen!" shouted Greg, though he sounded more fearful than angry. "Don't do this, just—just give him the purse. I'll buy you another one, Helen. Swear!"
Burning rage hissed through Helen's body like deathly poison, screeching a demanded release in the form of unwanted violence. It was like a volcano erupting; fury sweeping off her like ferocious waves. The wrath consumed like, engulfing her moralities and destroying the boundaries of loyalty. "No way, Greg!" she shouted, turning her wrath onto Greg, completely ignoring the stranger, whose face had flushed and was looking annoyed at the interruption. If possible, her fingers turned white with the effort to hang onto her purse for that millisecond longer as she felt the man begin to tug on the straps. "You know what this bag means to me, Greg, my mom gave it to me! No way in Hell am I ever giving it up, and not to him!"
"Helen!" cried Greg, sounding thoroughly fed up and exasperated, not to mention panicked at their situation. "Just give him the damn bag! Your wallet, money, whatever he asks for! Your purse isn't worth your life, Helen."
But it was. Though Greg could never understand it. Helen opened her mouth to retort hotly and could only manage a breathy little squeak as the man's grip tightened on her left wrist and she was violently dragged into an alleyway and shoved up against a cold red brick wall. She let out a pained gasp of surprise and whimpered, clenching her eyes shut, not wanting to see whatever came next.
"You're going to let go of the bag now," the man's voice growled, whispering it into the shell of her ear. The light in this place was entirely too dim, and she could barely see the attacker, though his black eyes almost seemed to glow yellow now, which frightened her. "Do I need to say it again? Don't make me say it a second time, Helen. I hate saying it a second time."
His request came again this time, urgent, harder. "Let go of the bag."
Helen violently shook her head, and he let out a low warning growl, shoving her up against the wall even harder. The young woman winced as he did so, definitely feeling a muscle pull in her back as the man continued. The ache was dull, as if some lazy torturer was standing right behind her, only applying enough pressure to be an annoyance, though in Helen's case, her assailant was in front of her, not behind. The pain just sat there, just to the side of the right shoulder blade toward the spine. Helen could imagine it would be like this lying on a large glass marble; perhaps at first it would be pleasant yet soon it would be just like this pain of hers.
"Go to hell!" She didn't know where that had come from, but the words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself. If this man wanted a fight, then she sure as hell would give him one. She didn't intend to go quietly.
"Feisty little thing, aren't you?" he complimented, reaching up a hand to absentmindedly tuck a wisp of her brunette bob haircut back into place. Helen flinched at the intimacy and surprising gentleness of the gesture. She would have almost preferred it if the man would just hit her, do whatever it was that he seemed to want to do to her, and let them go.
"Helen!" came Greg's voice from behind, though he sounded distant, muffled, like he was almost a football field away. Helen could hear his footfalls approaching from behind, though she wasn't sure what Greg could do in order to help her out of the situation. All he had on him was a pocketknife. Helen was shoved up against a wall, and panic was threatening to consume her. She strained her vocals, but nothing came out, still she screamed, hoping someone—anyone—would hear her and come to help.
Suddenly, her body wracked with raw sobs and she shook like a leaf. Fright consumed every cell in her body, swelling them with terror. With every second she practically felt the rise of her blood pressure, but she knew that this was the least of her worries. "Please," she whimpered, lifting her gaze slightly to meet his eyes, what little of the man's expression she could see there. "I'll—I'll give you whatever you want. Money? You want my money? I—it's in my wallet, just take it and leave us alone," Helen sobbed.
She felt her ironclad grip on the strap of her purse slacken, and the man noticed it with some amusement in his cold, black, lifeless eyes and laughed. "Oh, sweetheart," he throatily crooned. "It never was about the money. I don't want your money," he laughed, as if she had just told him a joke. "It's you," he breathed, and then Helen knew she was in serious trouble.
Though her brows furrowed in a slight frown as she realized his gaze was not looking at her, but directly at Greg. Still, she swallowed back the worst of her fear, her mouth no longer taking directions from her brain. "If you think I'm going to—" she started to retort violently but was cut off. A flash of silver danced across the front of her vision as the knife sat precariously on her skin, soft enough to not pierce her skin, but hard enough to enforce the stranger's intended message. The harsh metal should have been cold and raw against the exposed skin of the column of her throat, but Helen's numb body could not feel anything at all right now. Her throat held in a silver grasp, and all she could do was stare lifelessly at the dark black eyes held the blade and a terrifying coldness she'd never seen before.
Trembling, ignoring Greg's shouts and screams behind her, she tipped her chin up into the sharpened edge, tempting this creep to end her anguish, almost half hoping that he would just do it, and end all this. A small stream of blood trickled from the feeble cut Helen could not feel, he did not flinch or remove his eyes from hers, a cruel smile stretched out across gaunt features. Her frozen heart shifted at the sight of his merciless gaze, her legs almost failing beneath her. His steadfast grip on the polished weapon shifted, causing more crimson liquid to flow from the raw wound he had inflicted. "You're going to do what I say, and stay quiet," he hissed. Helen nodded mutely, biting her bottom lip so hard she tasted blood. Strong hands pushed her into the wall in front of her. It stung and sent swells of pain throughout her body.
"HELEN!" screamed Greg, and the sound of shuffling reached her eardrums, and the sound of a pained yelp told her everything she needed to know: that the man had sent him sprawling back. A chin rested on Helen's shoulder, and the man was breathing heavily into her ear. She opened her mouth to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, and if he didn't want charges pressed against him when she called the cops, then he'd get the hell out of here right now, and that was when the stranger's lips clamped down on her ear, piercing right through her industrial piercing in her right ear, which she had gotten done only a month ago, and the holes were still tender, and what he was doing really hurt.
She let out a heart-wrenching scream and felt tears gather in the corner of her eyes. His lips were light at first, and then they bit down harder. Helen squirmed against the wall, but that only made the man's grip tighten. The teeth turned into a tongue, which felt way too much like a slimy eel trying to worm its way places where it did not belong, and Helen shivered. It slid over the rim of Helen's now-bleeding ear and caused her to cry out a bit. Two hands slid down her sides on landed on her waist, just above the knot of her skirt. She didn't know what to do. She hoped this was a cruel joke, a horrible nightmare. The lips moved down to her neck and nipped at the tender skin there.
Helen knew that this would be bad. Her skin bruised so easily; she knew it would leave a mark. It seemed like her captor did too and let out a growl. Helen opened her mouth to scream, but the noise was rendered to a breathless squeak as she felt something hard strike the back of her head, and a wetness gathered at the back of her skull, hot, wet, and sticky. She knew she would faint when her legs beneath her would give out. It felt like her innards were being replaced by some kind of black hole. Then nausea crept from her abdomen to her head and the world went black and she knew no more. She was still alive, as the stranger surmised, and felt for a pulse.
"YOU BASTARD! I'LL—I'LL KILL YOU! LET HER GO, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!" screamed Greg, who had been rendered immobile, and lay sprawled near a pair of scattered garbage cans like the trash he was.
The stranger felt his lips curl into a sneer and as he turned to regard Greg in the fading light of the flickering streetlight, which gave the younger man a haunted look, his pale skin seeming amber under the yellow light. "Remember me, Greg?" the man asked, his voice rising an octave. "Surely you must…" the stranger throatily crooned, and Greg froze.
He watched, horrified, as the mugger in the red and blue plaid shirt's form flickered and waved, like a distortion, a horrible tick of the light, and the Black Lake Killer's features briefly came into his line of sight and Greg felt his stomach lurch and drop to his stomach.
"You," Greg breathed, hardly daring to believe his eyes. "No way…"
Todd Baines grinned. "Hello again, old friend. It's me," he answered simply, almost giddy. "Glad you remembered who I am. That little detective you hired thinking she could get rid of me, well…she's just dying to see you, Greg. Aren't we all?" he grinned coldly. Then, just as quickly as his playful grin had come, it faltered and vanished, and his lips pursed into a thin, pencil-straight line as he gathered the unconscious form of Helen into his arms and glanced down at her.
It was a moment before the killer spoke again, and Greg was startled.
His sharp profile had turned to the side, still carrying Helen in his arms, and for a moment, Greg thought he almost looked…dare he even think this next thought? Normal.
"If only this one knew your dirty little secret," Todd Baines breathed, reaching up a hand to absentmindedly tuck a wisp of brunette hair back behind Helen's ear. "You don't really love this one, do you? I've been watching you; you know. I know every move. " he said.
Greg felt his temper swell and was about to retort when something in the creature's voice gave him pause. He did not sound malicious, but rather…. almost curious, wanting to know why he was. Greg hesitated, biting his bottom lip, having eyes only for Helen.
The creep was right. That it should have been simple to just cut his losses and let her down gently, to just stay single for the rest of his life if he couldn't have Jessica, but…he had often told himself this was going to be as good as it got for him. Helen, aside from her hair color, was like Jessica Baines had been, back from his days in high school and community college in so many ways, it was most assuredly not healthy, what Greg was doing to himself. But she was there. When the pressure of his day was inside him, not like a tangled knot but more like a ticking bomb, he needed to let it explode somewhere safe.
He needed to go somewhere where it couldn't do lasting damage, and that was why he had Helen. That's why she had him. Whenever he needed to vent, she called him, and she knew what was coming. It wasn't an exchange, not in the same session. He got to yell his lungs out as much as he wanted and be a vengeful, crass, asshole of fury and she would sip her glass of wine and nod in all the right places, content to listen until Greg said his piece.
It would only be whenever he would pick up his own bottle of Corona that Helen would ask him if he was ready for her perspective, and if he was, he would keep drinking, otherwise the shouting would start all over again. Her job was to tell Greg how she thought the other side likely felt in the stories he relayed to her, what fears and insecurities may have motivated them, tone Greg's temper down rather than egg him on to the point of no return.
Then he could go back to his apartment and talk things through.
Sometimes, Helen was right, sometimes she would be way off, but he couldn't very well talk to anyone else whenever he needed to vent like that. No one deserved that. And Helen was just the same. She would call Greg up, he went, she vented, and he listened.
Maybe that's why he liked her.
Greg didn't know, but it worked for the two of them. He didn't gossip. No one knew his secrets or Helen's but for the two of them. He didn't know, sometimes he just felt like getting that rage was the best thing he could do.
Todd Baines snorted, repressing the urge to roll his eyes at the man's expression. One glance over at Greg and then back down at the unconscious tiny brunette girl in his arms was more than enough for Todd Baines. "I thought not," he added meanly, feeling his lips curl into a twisted sneer, which, in the fading moonlight as the fog rolled in, only made his appearance that much more monstrous. "You only keep her around because she reminds you of Jessica, minus this hair color of hers, though I bet if you ask nicely," he added, sounding almost friendly, which immediately put Greg on his guard, "I can fix it." He shifted the unconscious woman in his arms, so that her head rested against his chest. "I can make all the hurt…disappear. Like you did," he growled, and when he took a barreling step forward towards Greg, who instinctively backed away, Greg recoiled as features of the man's face came into view. "Remember this?" growled the Black Lake Killer angrily, pointing to his left eye.
Or rather…what should have been his left eye. There was nothing there but an empty socket, and a horrible pink, jagged looking scar that began at the tip of his right eyebrow, snaked its way diagonally across the man's cheekbones, and ended at the tip of his lip, curling it into a twisted, permanent grimace. Greg had made Todd Baines ugly. Forever. No amount of surgery could fix it. "How could you not? I know I do. You shot me with an arrow." He snarled and leaned in close, so the tip of Greg nose was practically touching his.
"I—I swear to God, I—I didn't mean to!" cried Greg, feeling the onset of a panic attack.
"No?" he growled darkly. "Do I look stupid to you, boy? I don't, do I? You meant to. You shot me in the eye, gouged out the whole damn thing and took me out to the lake and tried to drown me when I kept you from seeing Jessica. I knew I was right about you, but she didn't listen. She—she was wrong about you! There's nothing left of you to save!" he bellowed, his face turning beet red. Todd leaned in close and sniffed the man's hair. "You smell of death, boy. It's your time, Greg. No point in trying to fight me, so don't. You'll lose."
"Please…" panted Greg, only to be met with the man's fist in his face as Baines delivered a blow that sent the head camp counselor sprawling, coughing and gasping for breath. "D—don't do this. T—take me instead. I—I'm sorry. I—it wasn't supposed to happen."
Todd Baines threw back his head and laughed in glee at seeing the stupefied look on Greg's face as he shifted the girl in his arms, her head lolling backwards, supported by the crook of his elbow as he held her gently. "God," he sighed, his usual tone beginning to creep back into his voice, losing all traces of seriousness that had been there before. He's beginning to sound like himself again, Greg thought bitterly. Todd Baines let out an understated little sigh, his gaze flickering from Greg to Helen often. "Whatever are we going to do with you, Greg? Or with her…That detective and her little special friend, and then there's the blonde girl too. Or Jessica…You all are presenting quite the…problem for me."
"Just…just let her go," pleaded Greg, raising both his hands above his head, showing the man that he meant Todd no harm. "Let her go."
"And?" he drawled lazily, swiveling his head to the left to look at Greg. "What, then? If I let both go, I get what, exactly? Hmm? Nothing."
"Take me," he offered suddenly, as the wild, bold idea struck him. Greg said this, but his voice lacked the conviction he really needed to sell the argument he wanted to make. "If I go with you, you need to let Jessica and Nancy and all the others go. That's…my deal."
The Black Lake Killer's responding smirk made Greg sick with dread, and he clucked his tongue in mock disappointment and shook his head, as if he were disappointed in Greg's answer. "And what about this one?" he jeered, jerking his head towards the unconscious woman in his arms. "You would just let her die, leave her to me? I don't think so, boy…"
"What do you want?" Greg cringed as he heard the crack in his voice but fought it back down and swallowed the lump forming in his throat. "Please." Let her go, is what he wanted to say, but couldn't will his mouth to form the words he so desperately wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. He was not surprised when the man turned his wrathful gaze on him.
"No."
"SCREW YOU!" Greg bellowed, with as much strength as his lungs could muster, in the hopes that someone would hear his shouts of distress. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?"
But this was Casston, the town that turned a blind eye to suffering. No one was coming.
"I want you to suffer, to feel what I feel. I hope you're proud of yourself, Greg. It's too late for your 'sorry,'" he mocked. "You should have told me all that back when it could have made a difference. But it's too late. Todd Baines growled, and before Greg could so much as scream, the man lunged forward, the vengeful snarl on his face appearing yet again and warping into something monstrous, still keeping Helen's unconscious figure clutched tightly in his arms, though as he made a grab for Greg, he slung the young woman over his shoulder as though she weighed little more than a sack of potatoes, which, to Todd Baines, she probably did, Greg wondered briefly.
A string of curses unraveled from Greg's tongue, like yarn unfurling, as Baines advanced. He could hear nothing all was silenced, the hisses of Todd Baines, the light moan that escaped from Helen's lips, unconscious though she was, that tiny groan she gave off let Greg know she was still alive, which gave him a great sense of relief, all inaudible. All he could do was feel. Feel the cold ground pressed against his form, the heat from the pain, and the rhythm of his pounding heartbeat that would signify his end. He looked upward into the stars. His last thought was of Jessica, and he would be forgiven for using Helen so horribly, and for now being able to save Jessica from whatever he was doing to her… Greg wished he had been strong enough to save her. Jessica. And now Helen, and even Nancy and the others.
"My fault," he croaked hoarsely. "All my fault. I deserve to die. You got what you wanted, Baines. Me. Isn't that enough for you? It's justice, right? What you want."
"No," Todd snarled through clenched teeth. "It isn't enough. Justice…I can't think of another word more loved by the people. It does have a nice ring to it. However, without ever exercising your own strength, you seek the death of someone at the hands of someone else," the Black Lake Killer growled lowly. "The justice you refer to smells pretty rotten to me. The stench of a bloodbath. Wouldn't you agree? Don't give me that look, Greg, old friend. Of all the people I know, I just thought I'd never hear those words coming from you. I'm…amused. That's all this is. In the grand scheme of things, our lives are insignificant. Light as air. Like a candy wrapper."
Greg let out a little whimper as he closed his eyes as he felt a searing pain, and his world faded to black.
Satisfied at Greg's grisly demise, Baines removed his blade from the counselor's stomach in one swift movement. Todd spat at the man's feet, before turning back to the young woman in his arms. Still knocked out, but she really was quite pretty. It was almost over, but first…
He had a few more loose ends to tie up. "Starting with that annoying little detective," he growled to himself as he walked back towards the woods, Helen still in his arms. As he walked, Todd reflected back on the events in his life that had led him down this path, whether he wanted it or not.
Todd committed his first murder when he was eighteen, a few years after his accident. He'd been hiding out in the woods, waiting, hoping that his sister would somehow find him.
It just happened and at the time he didn't think much about it. The man he killed was a junky who was traveling from places to places trying to overcome his heroin addiction. He observed that guy for a few days, walking around the lake shoreline, sitting on the pier looking at the landscape for hours at length. Todd decided that it was time to get a closer look at this man. From what he could see he was in his early twenties, he couldn't be older than twenty-five, he was sure of that.
The murder happened in the morning, but when thinking back about it, it would be more accurately described as manslaughter. Todd did not have any deliberate purpose to kill this man, his mind was rather blank, and it was a slaughter all right. He went to the barn where the man was staying, it was early morning. He saw the man lying on a blanket laid on the ground near a bale of hay, already awakened. He greeted Todd and told him he didn't think he would have such a visit in the morning. While Todd was coming closer to what would soon to be his first victim, he noticed a spade lying against the barn wall no more than two yards from where the man had set his makeshift bedding.
It what seemed a carefully choreographed but was a completely improvised move, Todd reached out for the spade, grasped it and with a perfect circular motion hurled it towards the head of the unsuspecting man. The blade of the spade hit the man's face with such violence that the impact produced a dull snapping noise. Todd was feeling elated as he looked at the face of the man, blood streaming out his poor victim's crushed nose.
Driven by a newly found instinct, Todd completed his deed and crushed the man's skull with his makeshift and deadly weapon. That was the first victim he had killed.
And he was only eighteen years old.
