The Game of Deception

Chapter 5-2

“If I saw their faces, I might remember.” Tiffany is soft spoken and seems thoughtful. “Have you talked to any of them since you found the picture?” She asks with a genuine tone of concern.

Tiffany doesn"t seem at all like a gossip queen or a meddler. That may be why I like her so much. She has always come off as a real, down to earth kind of girl. She engages in conversations with real meaning. She cares more about life, and the world around her, than she does about her daily outfits or her hair. Not that it"s bad to care about one"s appearance, but she doesn"t.

“No, I don"t dare.” I take in a breath, looking her square in the eyes, “I"m afraid he"ll attack whoever I talk to or spend time with. I"m scared that he meant the question he wrote on the back literally. I know it sounds dumb, but I feel like he was actually asking me who he should go after. Like, he"s watching to see who I pick.”

I sigh, and look down at my oak finished desk, no longer cluttered with trash and food.

“Does that make sense?” I ask, wondering aloud if I"m coming off as crazy as I feel.

Before Tiffany has a chance to answer, possibly the deepest voice I have ever heard speaks in her stead. “Nope, not dumb at all.”

The source of the low voice steps out from behind the door, followed by Detective Sharpe. I hadn"t realized the door had been left ajar. They may have listened to our entire conversation. I swear, police are the biggest eavesdroppers. I wonder if they heard Tiffany"s rant as well as my own emotional outburst. Oh well, I"m going to have to tell them everything anyway.

This new man on the case is the tallest, darkest man I have ever seen. His skin tone is as deep as his voice. His eyes are big, and his teeth are perfect. Large, but perfect nonetheless. I can"t help but stare, open mouthed and everything. I am in awe of him. He continues to speak, unfazed by my childlike reaction to him.

“You must be Marketta.” He bellows.

“Yes.” I stand from my chair to greet this giant. “I go by Markie, though, please.”

Before I have a chance to say anything else, Tiffany excuses herself, practically running away from his gargantuan presence.

“I… I… had better get back to my rotation at the reels.” Her stutter is no louder than a whisper, “gentlemen.”

Her head nods kindly to Detective Sharpe and the new guy. Her hands scramble, pawing at the full bag of trash. She quickly ducks past them, and the lingering smell of my garbage follows behind her like a lost pet.

“Sorry to barge in, Markie.” Detective Sharpe says professionally, with a high head and straight shoulders. He maintains the same excited twinkle in his eye from the other morning. He is aglow.

“This is Agent Reese. He"s with the FBI and will be working alongside me.”

The agent reaches his ample arm toward me to shake my hand. Feeling like a child, I place my tiny hand into the center of his enormous palm. Fingers fold around the back side, engulfing it entirely, as well as half my wrist. It looks like my arm is being swallowed whole. After gulping down the lump in my throat, I offer him a seat. He thanks me politely and takes the only chair. Detective Sharpe is left to stand at his side. Even while sitting down, Agent Reese reaches the detective"s shoulder height. His awkward size makes my office feel like a can of sardines. I"m tempted to ask why he chose this career path, rather than playing a professional sport. I decide against the notion, it may be a tad inappropriate.

“You have a good point, and I hate to say it, but you may be right.”

His deep voice echoes against the walls. He continues with the conversation without missing a beat. He didn"t even seem to notice Tiffany"s exit or the disgusting bag she left with.

“Most stalkers tend to watch their victims for quite some time before they act out their fantasies.”

He expels thousands of rays of confidence with every word. Agent Reese speaks with serious authority. His facial expression is flat and unchanged.

“Once they do start acting rather than watching, they tend to build momentum based on their victim"s reactions.”

“Stalker?” I croak. My mouth feels dry, as if it"s full of dirt.

“Yes.”

His response is direct and precise. There is no question in Agent Reese"s mind of the situation at hand. He explains that everything I do, or don"t do, will determine the psycho"s next move from here on out. This guy is watching me closely. He"s feeding off my life and every action. He"s getting off on seeing me live with the pain he causes. These murders had nothing to do with the women he actually killed, and everything to do with me, according to the agent.

“How do you know this?” I inquire.

“It"s what I do.” He answers without hesitation. “And concerning the photograph, you have every reason to worry.”

“So, you"re saying he will go after who I choose?”

“Perhaps… Or it could be the exact opposite.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I"m trying to say is that at this point, he is in control. We don"t have much to play on. The question written on the back of his photograph–”

“Mine.” I interrupt to correct him. “My photograph.”

“Yes, ma"am, your photograph.” He adheres to my correction and continues. “The question may have been meant in a literal sense, as you fear, but it may also be a distraction. Our suspect is careful, and very intelligent. It wouldn"t surprise me if the entire gift was meant to throw us off his true intentions. Either scenario makes complete sense.”

Agent Reese goes on to explain the inner workings of twisted minds. He describes killers he has taken down in the past. I can feel what little bit of color I have in my face drain away. Tiny beads of sweat grow in my hairline and on the tip of my nose. The walls of my office creep in closer, leaving me suffocated, I"m drowning in my own imagination. He is painting a clear picture of the extreme measures" stalkers have taken to inflict pain and fear on their victims. Me… He is talking about me, I am the victim.

Me… He is talking about me, I am the victim.He explains that this psycho could watch me for weeks, months, or even years before striking again. Or, on the other hand, his last kill may have initiated some sort of torture spree. This would explain why he left the message on my car the morning after. This massive agent has seen each outcome. Because of the level of violence displayed in the murders, he is leaning toward the spree. Based on his experience and observation, the agent thinks that by communicating with me through the locket and the picture, he has graduated from an onlooker to a full-on serial killer.

He will now stop at nothing. According to Agent Reese, killers of this caliber see the world differently. I"ve heard of dangerous social disorders before, but only on television shows. This is real and I"m having a hard time wrapping my mind around it.

“We are in his world now, and will be playing his game.” Agent Reese says. “It"s like chess for the insane, and you have the next move. I"m here to help guide you on what piece to put where. We have to throw him off. You can"t play the part he"s expecting you to play. If your actions confuse him, then it might buy us time between murders.”

“Might?”

“Yes, ma"am. Might. As I said before, he hasn"t left enough evidence to point us in a clearer direction.”

My body heats. He just had to say the word, murders. Plural, as it will happen again… multiple times. The word leaves a restricting feel in the back of my throat. Air, I need air. Without another word, I rise from my chair and rush to the window. I shove it open and stick my head out. Deep breaths of fresh air fill my lungs and a fraction of life is returned to me. I savor the crisp night as I run the agent"s logic through my head. It takes me a few minutes to catch my breath. Detective Sharpe and Agent Reese must have seen the conflict inside me between vomit and losing consciousness. They give me the space I need, quietly waiting.

Air, I need air.I scan the large, overstuffed parking lot from my second story window and try to regain composure. There"s a small group of teenagers almost in hearing range. They snuck out of the theater to have an illegal smoke or drink, no doubt. Huddled together, they puff away and laugh at each other"s jokes. A ping of jealousy hits me, and a sudden yearning for Beth sinks in the pit of my belly. It just isn"t fair. These young fools are only yards away from me, yet we live in completely different worlds.

It just isn"t fair.My vision slowly clears, and my body rids itself of the prickly lightheaded feeling. I continue to look around the parking lot. In the furthest corner, I notice a lone male figure leaning against a sedan. I can"t quite make out the details of his face, but he seems to be looking in my direction. I squint tightly trying to get a closer look.

“Phil, someone is out there.” I announce. “I think he"s watching me in the window.”