The Freak

A young woman jogging on a stretch of beach, a chance and brutal encounter with a gifted but evil stranger, and the plot begins, twisting and turning through strange realms of reality conjured by the tortured mind of a brilliant Machiavellian.

The story begins in a Texas town on a beautiful barrier island. An old woman with a metal detector finds a large pool of blood near the water’s edge, suggesting that a horrific murder took place. No body is found, and it appears as though the victim was exsanguinated before vanishing.

So begins a suspenseful mystery that unravels the deeds of a twisted mind, part evil, part genius, reveling in the torture and suffering of its victims. Not a story about good pitted against evil, The Freak exposes the transcendental notion that both forces exist concomitantly in every human mind.

Shakespeare wrote, All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts…

And thus, Nicki Anderson and Tom Dawson become victims of their roles as they attempt to pursue the truth through rational means, only to discover that some truths must exist in that realm beyond, the supernatural, the frenzied imagination and the complex darkness of the unknown and unknowable.

The novel’s plot leads the reader through a convoluted series of events, pitting the rational against the unreal, and ushering to a conclusion that is as much a mystery as the story itself.

Through it all, hope, love and the resilience of the human spirit become the guiding force to those who do not fight against what they cannot comprehend, even when pitted against the ravages of an unhinged mind and a darkened soul.

It is only experience that is real, whether it evolves from the logical mind or from the depths of emotional turmoil. Experience provides a voice to the inner self. Sometimes it is only a whisper.

Prologue

THE KID WAS in one of his many trancelike states, playing weird games with himself.

He was just seven and he'd just pushed fat Freda, the cook's wife, off of the large marble kitchen table.

She landed on her backside with a jolting groan and looked up at the boy with murder in her eyes.

He was sitting atop the table, arms drawn around his knees, laughing hysterically.

Tyrann! she blurted, struggling with her floral dress that had funneled its way halfway up to her thighs. She rolled onto her side and began screaming for her husband's help.

Adolf (well, maybe that wasn't his real name but one which the tyrant boy had given him) darted around the kitchen entrance and slammed his palms down on the counter.

The boy stuck out his tongue and continued laughing, and watched as the man went to assist his wife to her feet.

He then made a shrieking sound and spun off the table, heading for the servants' quarters, kicking in a few doors and finally emerging in one of the palatial sitting rooms of the chateau.

His mother and father were hosting an afternoon gathering in the large adjacent sitting room. The housemaid, a young strawberry-blonde woman named Anneli, was serving the tea and scones to the guests.

She turned and caught a glimpse of the boy peering his head around the corner of the open entryway.

He winked at her and pretended to fondle his breasts.

Anneli's face turned half the shade of her hair and she quickly averted her eyes.

My boy, the father said brightly when he saw his son in the doorway. Come in and meet our guests.

All heads turned in the direction of the small figure at the door.

He heard his mother laugh.

The boy made a hissing noise and then raised his arms and pretended to fly about the room. Guests chuckled, a few clapping their hands."

Bravo! the father said.

My talented little son, the mother followed.

He stopped by Anneli, the serving waitress who was standing dutifully behind the guests, her hands clasped in front of her. Pretending to be a honeybee, he began making a buzzing noise and then encircled the diffident waitress, occasionally bumping into her thighs.

He then lifted one of the teapots on the serving table and held it over one of the guest's head.

Son! Put that down, the father said.

The boy giggled and began to tip the pot.

Total control, he thought.

Mrs. Friddell, one of his mother's best acquaintances, stiffened as if hoist on a petard, her eyes upward turned.

He was going to let just a few drops of the tea dribble onto the woman's stiff coiffure just to demonstrate how hot liquid could melt even the strongest of hair sprays.

She probably had spiders and cockroaches and fleas trapped in there. She probably hadn't washed her hair in a year.

Helga the beast bolted through the entranceway.

She screamed and proceeded to entangle herself with the boy, wrenching the tea pot from his grip.

The beast was about two hundred pounds, her flaccid arms hiding kryptonite muscles and the energy of a hundred locomotives. She was the boy's au pair.

She held the back of the boy's collar, apologized to her employers and the guests, and proceeded to march him out the door. In the long hallway leading to the boy's quarters, she stopped and gave him a hard spanking

And then another.

The boy hardly squeaked. He wasn't going to give the beast the satisfaction of even thinking that her punishment was in any way effective or that it would be a deterrent to future demonstrations of power.

Locked in his cavernous room five minutes later, the boy went to the gabled window and squinted out at the lush meadows beyond the long terrace wall, past the huge trellis archway brimming with wild roses and star jasmine vine, past the hedges teeming with bougainvillea, well past the confines of the old chateau, and saw the abandoned stone turret house standing alone, four stories high overlooking the estate.

He wondered if they were doing alright.

He hadn't visited the turret or its captives for several days. They would need food and water. And companionship.

The boy would make his escape from the dungeon room and dash for the turret. He would do so soon.

The beast wouldn't dare to feed him in his room while his parents were here and not on one of their odd peregrinations that lasted for weeks and sometimes months.

He was safe when they were here. At least safe from the beast.

He never really knew where they went. Sometimes they sent postcards and little presents, a toy bull from Spain, Norwegian wood horses, miniature swords and daggers and the best gift of all, a working model of a guillotine, which was effectual with baby carrots, celery stalks and appendages of other sorts.

The boy had felt guilty the first time he sacrificed a small limb in the name of scientific observation.

At supper in the formal dining room, he sat alone with his mother and father. Anneli served roasted hen with almonds, foie gras, roasted asparagus with hollandaise sauce and truffle salad.

The boy's father poured him a splash of good wine, which the boy declined to drink but for which held great fascination as he turned the fine wineglass and watched the deep red liquid swirl and settle like a pool of spent blood.

After the bananas flambé dessert served by Adolf himself, scooping the flaming brandy in little waterfalls of fire, the mother and father clapped, saying, Bravo, bravo.

Then the bad news arrived. The boy's parents were leaving tomorrow for a month-long retreat in Tibet.

Now, you will be a good little boy for Helga who loves you as if you were her own child. You must promise us that, the mother said.

Helga the beast as his own mother.

The thought made him sick to his stomach. He panicked and was about to protest the planned sojourn, but then thought otherwise.

He had the power.

The tower awaited him, a safe place for which no one had the key but the boy. He would stay with his subjects for the whole month. There were experiments to be done, observations to be made.

He just had to outwit the beast. None of the other staff would present a problem.

But just in case, the boy decided he would need a hostage if matters worsened to warrant future negotiations.

He liked her, too. She was docile, sycophantic by the nature of her servant status, and she had a pretty smile.

He had all of this planned out well before bedtime. There were minor logistics to consider and, of course, timing was of the essence.

It would have to happen just as his parents were leaving, precisely as the Jaguar turned the first corner leading out of the crescent driveway. As was the custom, they would all be there outside, bidding adieu, waving them off and throwing confetti in the tradition of an old luxury steamship leaving home port.

He would have about sixty seconds to perform his magic. Plenty of time as long as the beast didn't fuck things up.

The thought of taking Anneli with him and then dashing for the old turret house, inserting the iron key, creaking open the door and climbing the rusted corkscrew staircase to the very top floor was scintillating, an escape of epic proportions.

The next day, foiled by the weather, the boy had to amend his plans.

He had awakened to the rumbling of thunder and the pelting of hard rain against his window. The lawn below looked like a million worms had evacuated their underground tunnels, only the round silky mouths of their escape visible in the grass.

The drilling rain intensified, pooling in miniature lakes in the lawn, gushing over downspouts and eaves, now slapping in waves against the windowpane.

In the pouring rain, there would be no adieus outside, no time to scramble back before the beast returned to the house, and certainly no time to grab his hostage.

Sometimes grand masters had to be flexible and certainly adaptable. Sometimes things just didn't go as planned.

The shortest distance between two points: porch to turret house, in between a stone fence and a wall of hedgerows, the latter thinned in two spots by a recent harsh frost.

He'd make it over, even if he had to fly to do so.

If he didn't and the beast caught up with him, he could look forward to four weeks locked in his dungeon room.

He realized that he couldn't expend the extra time it would take to seize the maiden, Anneli. In the rain the risk would be too great.

Downstairs the scene was hectic (and would have been even without the rain). A flotilla of suitcases lined the main foyer, raincoats draped over two. Chartreuse cosmetic cases matching four of the suitcases stood by the door.

His mother rushed through the foyer after checking the raincoats and announced in a panic that the passports were missing. His father yelled at his mother. Anneli rushed down the steps from the grand bedroom, announcing in an adrenalized voice that she had found the documents.

The beast was busy taking orders from the father, scribbling down last-minute instructions, addresses, emergency contact numbers and making sure the boy's teaching instructor would return following the holiday break. A dentist's visit was among the directives

He loathed dentists and doctors and had, in the case of dental checkups, successfully, though not without making a scene of epic proportions, managed to avoid the last two of his appointments. He didn't care if his teeth rotted and fell out; he wasn't about to experience the vulnerability of sitting in a dental chair with his mouth clamped open, prisoner to prodding instruments and distrustful fingers.

Rupert, the driver, had been forced to pull under the shallow portico which, at least on the passenger side of the Jaguar, provided some shelter from the weather.

The boy felt his mother's ribs pressed into his when she kissed him and squeezed him and told him she loved him. His father's goodbye was in the custom style of an abrazo, a brief, stiff comrade embrace with a slap on the back.

Rupert had finished packing the bags in the trunk of the vehicle and in the rear driver's side seat, leaving the mother just enough room to rest her head on the satin traveling pillow.

The father was the last to board after shaking the hands of all the house staff, including Anneli, who curtsied politely.

The boy saw his mother waving through the rear window of the vehicle as they drove off.

Zero time.

He had thirty seconds to make it to the turret.

He felt for the large iron key in his pocket and the plastic bag filled with chocolate bars and an assortment of marzipan figures underneath his sweater.

He counted to three and made a dash for the hedges.

Tragedy occurred in the first ten seconds. The boy slipped on the wet grass on the other side of the portico, went down, rolled and managed to get to his feet as the beast began her rowdy advance.

Oh but for the parity of tragic events. The beast skidded sideways, grasping at the air for support, and then fell hard to her knees in the muddy grass.

She screamed at the boy, a sustained bellow in which were encoded all of the savage inclinations of an imprisoned gorilla.

Over the hedge in one daring bound, the recently-clipped branches scraping his upper thighs, the boy made it to within one hundred yards of the turret house.

From his left Adolf the cook was advancing down the hedgerow, older than the beast but more in shape, with a mission in his scowl undoubtedly approved by the head butler as well as the beast.

Five seconds to insert the key in the lock, shove his shoulder into the large door, round it, force it shut behind him and then lock it with the key.

He had practiced it before. But never under duress. Never with two beasts at his heels.

It rose like the turret of a castle before him, cemented Devonian stone, a narrow window at each landing except for the first, the topmost like a castle window with fortified bars.

The key went in. He torqued it to the left, felt it catch, put his shoulder into it and finally felt the tumbler move.

With gallant speed the beast was over the hedge and charging full speed toward the door.

But she wasn't as fast as Adolf, whose advancing breath the boy could almost feel as he successfully opened the door and slipped inside.

He ran back against the creaking door, full weight, his shoulder to the wood, the key already in place.

It slammed shut but with abbreviated resistance, soft but firm, an obstacle not impervious to the weighty force of the door.

He turned the lock.

The ghoulish scream on the other side rose to a feverish pitch. The door was pounded upon with murderous urgency.

A second force slammed against the door, the beast screaming his name, giving him stupid orders to desist and open the door immediately.

The topmost end of the finger seemed to be twitching on the floor in front of the boy. But, of course, it wasn't. A red trail ran down the lip of the doorframe, ending in a rivulet of blood in which the stilled finger-top lay.

Victory! the boy exclaimed and began running up the rusted metal steps of the narrow spiral staircase.

When he finally reached the topmost floor, he paused to catch his breath and then went straight for the latched door to his right.

It opened almost effortlessly.

There was no light inside.

Nevertheless, the boy could feel his excited audience. They lay before him in varying states of decomposition, their presence underscored by putrefying odors, some sharp enough to give the boy pause.

In blackness they appeared to glisten in the shaft of parsimonious gray light from the window.

The boy stepped forward.

A hand as forceful as the beast's reached up and caught him by the ankle. The voice behind it hissed and groaned.

He felt the strings of his shoes being loosened. Fingernails dug into his ankles, raking toward his shins. He felt the blood ooze onto his socks, mushy and loose and lacerated as if by sharp talons.

He wrenched away from the ghoulish grip, feeling flesh tear from his ankles, tendons pop from his bones, snapping like stretched gum bands.

His right foot and shoe, sans attachment, thumped against the wall, thrown by the real ghoulish beast.

He fell, the side of his face plastered against a cold puddle of rotting carrion. Cockroaches scattered and slithered into impossible crevices along the base of the walls.

The other foot was being wrenched from his leg, warm blood against gelid claws. He dug his fingers into the floor, hoping at least to crawl back through the entryway.

But his fingernails shattered as he was being pulled inch by inch toward the center of the room, where the ghouls awaited, now gnashing and grunting and hissing with pleasure.

Backward, slowly he moved, torn fingernails and flesh raking the splintery floor.

He closed his eyes, he thought for the last time.

But it wasn't really happening.

Except for the noxious odor of decomposing flesh, the room was silent and hardly threatening. He was standing alone, except for the cold souls of the slaughtered little creatures.

Having enjoyed the ghoulish fantasy, the boy went to the window and looked down through the bars.

The gathering deluge made for a large silvery moat around the turret fortress, glassy strands of rain pulverizing upon impact and fueling the rising torrent.

For a moment he considered the water would rise to the top floor and that he would be stranded, gulping for air at the top of the turret.

He corrected the rogue thought.

This morning of triumph had left him overly susceptible to strange and stupid musings. He was being tested.

But he was the victor, the conqueror of fear and doubt, the mastermind of superlative plans and successes.

He had achieved control, the grand puppeteer, the director.

And he was safe from the beast.

PART ONE

No second chances in the land of a thousand dances, the valley of ten million insanities. 

― Ry Cooder

Chapter One

NICKI ANDERSON HAD an attractive face that glowed with charm. She had been born that way. She was the proverbial one who could light up a room, be the center of the party, attracting equally men and women.

Blonde, blue-eyed, lithe at five foot six-and-a-half, a 23 year-old graduate of Texas A&M in Corpus Christi, though ravishing she was, possessed equal traits of honesty and modesty. She was never into herself like many young women her age. She was who she was, from the inside out.

Nicki was an artist. She sculptured and painted portraits with watercolor paints. The sculpture part involved sand. She had won second place in last year's SandFest competition in Port Aransas. She had sold many portraits, several of them first appearing in small galleries in Corpus Christi and in nearby Rockport.

When she wasn't being an artist, Nicki worked in the jewelry department at Macy's. It had been said by one of the department managers that men flocked to the jewelry counter whenever Nicki was working, this supported by the noticeable increase in sales, especially diamond necklaces.

There was another, even more private face to Nicki. Its demeanor bore that of an older, more mature person. She called it her old soul face. It was necessary for creative expression.

Nicki jogged. Like many artists, she created while she jogged, a sculpture in the sand or a watercolor of a friend or a person she had noticed at the mall. One of her friends who was a writer did the same thing, a chapter a mile.

That Wednesday afternoon in January she had changed her usual jogging venue along the shallow beach flanking North Shoreline Boulevard in the city and instead had chosen to drive out to the more remote Mustang Island, which would avail her of an uninterrupted 18-mile stretch of beach. The extra drive was worth it.

Although she had less than two hours of daylight for the jog, a predicted gibbous moon would afford her a few extra hours of running light. Even if it was pitch black you really couldn't go wrong: northbound, the water was on your right, southbound, on your left.

The temperature was in the low fifties, perfect jogging weather. The wind was light and southerly, meaning she would have just a light headwind on the way back to the car.

Dressed in light gray sweats and her favorite Nike running shoes, Nicki wore a pink headband and a jogging bottle at her waist. In her ears was a pair of buds connecting to her iPhone and her favorite KLUX Internet radio station. Easy beat, Christian-based pop and country. Good jogging music.

Blessed by a clean, naturally-sculptured beach, with little seaweed and the flotsam of plastic bottles and Styrofoam containers more commonly seen in unkempt areas during summer months, Nicki worked the edge of the waning tide, footsteps avoiding the water but occasionally slapping into the escaping tongues of foam.

Except for an old woman seated in a low beach chair watching her dogs scamper along he water's edge, the beach was deserted at this hour.

Two miles into her run, her phone beeped, indicating an incoming call. She stopped and answered the call. It was her mom.

Yes, Mom. Can it wait? I'm jogging and running out of light.

Had she said she was on the verge of jumping out of a plane on a free-fall, her mother would have continued in the same manner. It's not that she was being disrespectful. It's just what she had to say about the Bogie flick being shown this weekend at the Alamo Drafthouse Cinema was of paramount importance.

Saturday. Oh Mom, I won't be able to make it... She was about to qualify that statement by adding that she had a date that night, but thankfully didn't.

She told her mother that she would call her back after ten.

She put the iPhone in airplane mode and resumed her jog.

A fellow jogger appeared out of nowhere, not exactly frightening her but giving her enough of a startle to interfere with her pace.

As a veteran evening jogger, Nicki had developed a field of awareness that included her back view. This was the first time it had failed her. Ordinarily, she would feel someone's presence if they were coming up behind her or closing in from the flanks. It was purely honed instinct.

Essential for living in a relatively large city like Corpus Christi.

Had she not been plugged in to her music, she probably would have sensed his approach.

The jogger passed her on her left, tipping his head as he ran by. He was an older man, maybe thirty-five, tall, with a broad chest, wearing a bright orange jogging suit. Nicki noticed that for every one of his strides, she took almost two. The benefits of long legs.

Expecting a more humid evening, Nicki had prepped her run by drinking three bottles of water. She figured she would sweat out the extra fluid. She usually calculated it right. But now, into her fourth mile, she had to pee.

Ten minutes later she really had to pee.

There were green porta potty huts positioned along