Chasing the Monsters: 42

"Come on, Molly, give me a break, here," Jack Ribsky said, leaning on the door frame.

"First of all, you know I can't talk about this with you here," she said, whispering.

"All right.  What about something else?  Have any idea how I can contact any of these guys that were around here back then?"  

"The same way you would contact any cop?"

"You're getting smart allecky.  So, what about some coffee, then?"

"I'd love a cup.  Catch us up on old times.  You know I never got over you, Jack."

"Well, Pamela won't mind as long as it's coffee and in a public place," he smiled.

She laughed.  "All right, let me get my stuff."

He waited for her in the hallway, and then, they walked out together.  Once outside, she said, "I . . . I've waited a long time to tell someone this.  Sometimes, I thought for sure I'd go crazy, Jack."

"Everyone gets that feeling sometimes."

"I know.  But it's always been there, nagging me.  I heard that little boy's voice.  No one else did."

He swallowed.  "Well, you're talking about it now, right?  That's what matters."

They climbed into Ribsky's 1975 Mustang.

***

Using a taxi cab as his mode of transportation, Timothy made his way through the suburbs of Chicago toward the Ribsky home.  As the car leisurely passed through the town's tree-lined roads, he thought of two things:  his son, and Dorian.

His hopes were that Todd's past would be clear at last; the things the Ribsky dug up would somehow lead to answers, and the answers lead to endings.  He had seen what a foggy past had done to Eric, and didn't want the same for Todd.

For a moment, he pondered the idea of Todd as his son, and how strange it had been, the journey from hearing about him from his dear sister, to meeting him, to the younger man saving his life, to their undying father-son bond.  Somehow, through fate, both he and Todd had lost their son and father, respectively, within the same few months.  He knew had been correct in suggesting adoption; no one needed a father more than Todd Manning.  And, he knew he needed a son, as well.  But though they shared deep affection and respect for each other, he hadn't been able to curtail the chase that Todd had been on, since he'd known him: the chase to find and destroy the demon that plagued his life since he was born.

This, he hoped, was the last lap of the quest.

And, he hoped his recent time with Dorian would prove to be the first of many.  She was a spitfire, and though they often disagreed on one topic (Todd), he loved her.  He knew he did and that she loved him.  He impatiently waited for the car to come to a stop. 

"Driver, please stop at the third house up ahead," he said, and reached into his pocket, searching for money for the cab.  Pulling out a wad of bills, he sorted through them, getting ready to disembark.

At the sidewalk, he looked up and realized it was a beautiful day for waiting outside.  He stepped toward the home, and planned to sit on the stairs and wait for Jack Ribsky, but as he did, he could see the front door was slightly ajar.  Since Ribsky had asked him to meet him there, he assumed he had left the door open, so he decided to wait inside.

He called out to Pamela, "Hello, Pamela?  I'm here to see Jack.  He asked me to wait."

She didn't respond.  He sat on the sofa, at first, to rest and wait quietly, when he began to feel awkward about being in the house.  He picked up his cell phone, and checked it.  No missed calls, but a text from Ribsky, stating, "I'll be there soon.  Go in and make yourself at home.  Pam makes great coffee."

"Ah, well, then I'll use the commode," he said, standing, and stretching slightly.  "Mrs. Ribsky?  I'd like to use the bathroom, please?" he called out, as he headed in the direction that he predicted, from the structure of the house, would lead to the lavatory.  The house was set up as any other small cape, and he found the bathroom door easily, ajar.  Pushing it open, he was stunned at the sight before him.  His hands shaking, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed emergency, before going to Pamela Ribsky's side and kneeling, in her blood, to try and revive her.

***

"Thanks, Mabel," Jack said, twirling his spoon in his coffee cup.

Molly smiled.  Then, she looked to her cup, and took a sip.  "I don't know where to start."

"The beginning.  Always a good place." 

"He . . . was so afraid.  The little boy,"  she cleared her throat.  "This is hard for me."

"I understand.  Almost forty years ago."

"Not just that.  He was a child.  I . . . couldn't ever get over it.  It's been in my mind every night, one way or another."

"You want to tell me about it?"  He sipped his coffee.

"I guess I would, I've held onto it for so long.  He was . . . frantic.  He didn't say his name, at first.  He just said he needed help.  For him and his momma.  He said . . . 'he's hurting her, please save us.'  He said other things, I just . . ."

"And then?" he asked, compassionately.

"Then, I had run the partial address already, and knew where he was located.  My director told me to put it through to a specific line.  I did.  But as a dispatcher, I knew a car was ever sent out.  At first, I assumed that it was dealt with on the phone.  That worked until the next time he called."

"He called again."  A statement, not a question.  Todd had told him that.

"Yes.  It was well after that.  Maybe a year or so later.  This time . . . he was crying.  Begging, I think.  I've tried to forget that.  It hasn't worked."

"And you ran the address again and the same thing?"

"Yes.  Years later, it still bugged me, I had put the tapes into the locked third drawer and was told to dispose of them."

"Locked in a cabinet, not too disposed of.  Do you know who was on the other end of the special line?"

"No. . . but, my director . . . he's dead, Jack.  Died of a heart attack, 17 years ago."

"And the tapes, are they still there?"

"No," she said, reaching into her purse, "they're right here."

***

Timothy leaned on the door frame coming back out of the bathroom, and fought with himself not to lose control and spew the contents of his stomach onto the floor.  He went slowly to the sofa and then within moments, the door flew open, and in came the EMT team, with a gurney, and one was detailing their every move into a headset.  Timothy sat, numb.  He could hear the noises and voices from the small, white marble bathroom, now covered liberally in crimson.  "I can't get a pulse," one voice said.

The female: "Caucasian female, approximately 55 to 60 years old, no evident pulse, apparent suicide, CPR and revival attempts ineffective.  She's bled out already.  Police likely on their way.  Yeah.  Out."

She came into the main room, and stood before Timothy and said, "I'm sorry but, she's gone."

"Gone?" Timothy repeated.

"Yes.  I know it's difficult, but the police will need to talk to you, you understand.  We can't do anything for her, I'm sorry."

Timothy couldn't hear well, because his ears were literally ringing, and his own pulse was pounding in them.  He hunched over, tie loosened, and said, "Gone," again, and leaned back against the sofa, defeated.

***

Ribsky took the tapes and held them.  "The calls are here?"

"Yes."

"You've done good.  Whatever comes of this, you're working your way to getting past it.  I can tell you I won't name you unless I have to.  People can just think I private investigated my way into the files."

"I suppose.  But I'm ready if it comes to my punishment.  I've thought long and hard about it.  I was wrong for this."  Her eyes filled with tears.  "I don't think I'll ever be forgiven.  I've thought about it, over and over.  I've asked God for forgiveness.  You know me, Catholic girl, and all.  We practically grew up in church."  She paused.  "I guess I've done all I can."

"You've been helpful.  I won't forget it.  I have to go, soon, you know that.  Pam's expecting me home, and I'm meeting a friend as well."

She lightly grabbed his arm.  "Jack, can you tell me, what happened to this little boy?  Is he . . . alive?"

"He is.  He's alive."

She sighed.  "He wasn't killed then," she said, half to herself.

"No, he wasn't killed."

She looked up, this time, not caring that the tears were streaming.  "Was he hurt?"

Jack Ribsky finished off the last mouthful of his coffee, and said, "Maybe we should save all this for another day.  Whaddya think, Mol?"

She lowered her head and cried.

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