At the time of my confession, we conveniently had a fire going in the fireplace. So my mom made me toss the magazine into the flames. I was a little heartbroken as I watched the pages, upon which I had gazed so very many times, curl up, blacken, and turn to ash, but there was also intense relief.
It was over.
I no longer had this hanging over my head. Markus’ power was gone.
I had my life back.
That experience had been absolutely miserable…and what had been at stake? Some embarrassment. Maybe a lecture about respecting women. Possibly a sooner-than-I-wanted discussion of the birds and the bees. (My father sat me down for The Talk two years later, which I now present in its entirety: “You know all that stuff, right?” “Yeah.” “Okay, good.”)
That secret was about a magazine. This was about a serial killer.
That little secret gnawed away at me for a few weeks. What would this one be like? Steel shark jaws? Would I ever be able to not think about it? How could I make it through any day without this consuming my every waking thought? Would I ever hit a point where it simply didn’t matter anymore, or was this my life now? Nothing but stomach-churning anxiety?
I could almost imagine Mr. Martin with a knife to my throat, while I thought, well, at least my suffering is over.
Mom hadn’t mentioned the psychiatrist to me again, but it definitely wasn’t forgotten. She’d just say “C’mon, let’s go,” when it was time for my appointment.
I fell asleep at some point, I suppose, because I opened my eyes when I heard my parents moving around, getting ready for work. I closed them again when I heard my doorknob turn, and I pretended to be asleep as somebody quietly opened my door, waited for a moment, then closed it again. They weren’t in the habit on peeking in on me before they left for the day, but obviously things had changed.
After they left, I got up. Considered brushing my teeth but decided there was no rush. Had a bowl of cereal with milk that tasted sour even though it was from a brand-new carton. Watched some television, by which I mean I sat in the living room looking vaguely in the direction of the television.
I glanced over at the clock. It was almost noon.
The phone rang.
Actually, the first ring is what caused me to glance at the clock, but I hadn’t immediately recognized the sound as having come from the telephone. I assumed it was Mom. Since this was the olden days before caller ID, I had to answer the call to find out who was on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Curtis?” It wasn’t Mom.
“Mr. Martin?”
“Check outside your front door,” he said. There was a rustling that sounded like wind blowing against the mouthpiece. He must’ve been calling from an outdoor pay phone.
He hung up.
I did not want to check outside my front door.
Okay, he couldn’t simultaneously call me and stand out there waiting to murder me. The idea that he might’ve booby trapped the door flashed through my mind, but I decided that was ridiculous. The door was not going to explode when I opened it.
I opened up the living room curtains and peeked through them. Nobody in our front yard. From this angle, I’d be able to see if somebody was standing there, but not if they’d set anything down in front of the door.
Despite having just decided that a booby-trapped door was ridiculous, I didn’t want to open it. I’d go out through the back door, circle the house, and see what Mr. Martin was talking about.
Unless that was his plan. Fool me into thinking that the front door was unsafe, when the real danger lurked out back.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I was getting paranoid. It was wise to be safe by going out the back door instead of the front, but I couldn’t let myself descend into paranoid madness. Maintaining my sanity was going to be difficult enough without making it worse for myself.
I went out the back door.
Stealthily walked around the side of the house.
Peeked around the corner.
My backpack rested in front of the door.
I hurried over to it. A note was attached to it with a safety pin. “Hi! Found this and wanted to return it! Good thing your address was on there! No reward necessary, just trying to be nice! Sincerely, a Good Samaritan!”
Smart. The note wouldn’t give anything away if somebody besides me had found the backpack first. I picked it up and went back inside through the non-booby-trapped front door.
I set my backpack on the coffee table. Had he tampered with it? Had he included any nasty surprises inside?
Mr. Martin could have easily said, “I left your backpack at your front door” instead of “Check outside your front door.” He wanted to create that moment of anxiety and uncertainty.
I stared at my backpack for a while. Longer than a sane person would stare at his backpack.
The backpack had to be fine. There wasn’t a venomous snake coiled inside. If I died under mysterious circumstances, like an exploding backpack, it might come right back to him. If he wanted to assassinate me, this isn’t the way he’d go about it.
Right?
That sounded right.
Not that I was in any way an expert on the inner workings of the mind of a serial killer. Maybe I was looking for logic where it didn’t exist.
He’d done me a favor. School was about to start soon, and now I didn’t have to explain to my parents why I needed a new backpack. He didn’t want me to
