He’d had a frightening experience the evening before. He had returned home, being careful no one saw him, and crept into the house through the basement window. There he’d raided the fridge, then grabbed a blanket and some clean clothes, leaving the ones he’d been wearing in the laundry basket. His mother would be sure to see them and realize he’d been there. Knowing he was alive would give her a small measure of peace.
On his way from the house, he had dug up one of his prize rosebushes to bring to his new home. He was careful to take enough soil to protect the roots, nestling it carefully in a plastic bag to protect it on the journey. He wanted to plant it near his hut, and even if the rest of them perished, he would faithfully nourish this one in the rich soil of the swamp.
Growing roses was perhaps the thing he enjoyed most in this world. They needed proper nutrition, and he nurtured them until they bloomed, careful to give them the perfect amount of water and nourishment. They responded to his painstaking attention by growing strong and healthy, and they never expected more from him than he was able to give. Those roses were what he missed most about home.
He remembered taking the rosebush back to the swamp and carefully planting it. He had taken his medication as usual, and then wandered out to explore the surrounding area.
Perhaps an hour or two later, he found himself outside the steel mill, away from his new home, with no idea how he’d gotten there. The last he knew, the sun had told him there were still a couple hours of daylight left, but suddenly it was dark.
He had blacked out and it frightened him. He could’ve been seen. Perhaps he was. There was no indication where he had been or what might’ve taken place during his lost period of time.
After that, he made his way carefully back to the swamp and huddled in the corner while a panic attack overtook his senses. When his anxiety subsided, he lay down for the night, waking often from horrifying nightmares with only the sounds of his beloved swamp to calm his tortured mind.
And now, as he huddled in the corner of his shack, he feared it could happen again, and this time he might get caught. Part of him wished to be finally found out and given the punishment he knew he truly deserved, but the fear of the further torment that would bring overcame his feeble desire to surrender.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled business card. The name on the card was Lincoln Investigations. He’d found it on the kitchen table and assumed they’d come to talk to his mother, looking for him. He knew the police were after him, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, now a private firm was on his trail as well.
He wondered who had hired them. Was it his mother, trying to help him in some way? That didn’t seem likely. She had barely enough money to pay for his medication and put food on the table, and anyway, there wasn’t much anyone could do for him now.
Perhaps they were working with the police. That was a frightening thought. Or maybe they’d been hired by the family of the woman he’d killed. In which case, they probably wouldn’t stop coming for him until they tracked him down. The private investigators he knew from movies and TV usually operated outside the law, doing whatever it took to find their prey.
The thought filled him with terror and he felt another panic attack overtaking him. He shook his head and went outside the hut. He stepped down the slope, halfway to the swampy waters, and crouched down beside the rosebush. He caressed the petals, careful not to injure them, and a peace came over him once again, soothing his soul and easing his mind.
He wondered what it was about the roses that calmed him. Perhaps because the perfect beauty of the red flowers were such a sharp contrast to the pathetic ugliness inside of him. They reminded him of how he longed to be—healthy and loved. They gave him a dream for a better day, even when he knew he was beyond all hope, beyond any chance of redemption.
Adam sat on the grass beside the bush and pulled up his knees. He gazed into the tepid waters of the swamp, wondering about the person he had killed. His mother had told him it was a woman and that’s all he knew. Even though he didn’t know her name or anything about her, he mourned for her.
Did she have family? She most probably did and they would he heartbroken. He mourned for them as well, wishing he could make it better, take back what he’d done and start fresh. But that was impossible.
The only thing he could do was make sure it never happened again. That meant he would either have to surrender, a dreadful thought, or end his own life. He wasn’t sure if he had the strength to do that, but it was the best solution. It wasn’t a way out for him; it was for the protection of others.
Whether he surrendered to the police, or gave his useless life to the swamp, his mother would be heartbroken. She’d told him to run for his own protection. He wondered if that was a selfish move on her part and if he was being selfish as well. Was it wrong for him to cling to his own worthless life when there was a better way?
He stood and looked toward the bright blue sky and howled in anguish. He clenched his fists, praying to a God he didn’t know. He’d made up his mind—this was for the best, and he was determined to go through with it no matter what. He only hoped God would understand and forgive him.
He summoned all his inner strength and continued down the slope, stepping into the regenerating water. His feet sank into the oozing mud and soaked his ankles. He gritted his teeth and took another step, the water now deeper. A few more steps and the warm water lapped at his chest. He lifted his head, howled with emotional pain, took a deep breath, and dove into the black water.
He sank to the muddy bottom, dying vegetation and slime caressing his body. Soon he would have to breathe and that’s when he would die. He thought of home, his mother, the bullies at school, and his father. He thought of the life he’d taken and he screamed inside. Finally, he took a breath, felt the warm water enter his lungs, and knew it would soon be over.
Then as if he were controlled by some outside force, his feet pushed at the muddy bottom, propelling him upwards into the warm air. He took a breath, choked, tried to breathe again, and coughed up swampy water. He struggled to reach the bank, gasping for air. Finally, he pulled himself up and lay panting on the dark green grass at the edge of the swamp.
He didn’t even have the strength or willpower to kill himself, and he cursed his own cowardliness as he huddled in a fetal position and cried.
Chapter 24
Wednesday, 12:54 p.m.
JAKE PULLED his Firebird into the Central Plaza parking lot and slipped into a slot near the door leading to offices on the second floor.
He swung from the vehicle and entered the small lobby, checking the directory. The office of Dr. Zalora was in Suite 201. He climbed the stairs two at a time, stopped in front of 201, and pushed the door open.
The receptionist looked up as he entered, a well-practiced smile on her otherwise plain face. “May I help you?”
Jake handed her his business card. “I have an appointment with Dr. Zalora.”
She consulted a pad on her desk, picked up the intercom, and spoke into the receiver. She hung up and motioned toward a row of comfortable chairs. “Have a seat. Dr. Zalora will be with you shortly.”
Jake sat and looked around the small waiting room. The usual supply of magazines was stacked on a coffee table, modern art prints on the white walls, cheap carpeting under his feet. He grabbed a magazine, flipped through it, and tossed it back down.
The receptionist tapped keys on a keyboard as classical music played in the background. Then a door behind her popped open and a man stood in the doorway, his eyes on Jake. “Mr. Lincoln?” the man asked.