The groomer, p.13
The Groomer, page 13
Diego stuttered, “He–He–Heter…”
“Two different eye colors. Did you take her? Did you take her?!”
Diego squirmed on the sofa and sobbed. His face contorted, twisted with guilt and shame and pain. Andrew felt a combination of fear and hope. He feared Diego took Grace from her school to molest her. He hoped Grace was alive and healthy. There was a childish eagerness in his eyes—tell me what I want to hear.
“Help!” Diego shouted. “Ple–”
Andrew slapped the wrinkled, bloody tape over Diego’s mouth. He hit Diego’s stomach with his knee. Diego struggled to draw a satisfying breath. Andrew opened the shears over Diego’s right ear. He hesitated for a second, then he squeezed the handles. The blades cut through his ear with ease. The severed ear rolled over Diego’s face and landed on the cushion in front of him.
Diego clenched his eyes shut and whimpered. His face turned red, just a shade lighter than the blood cascading over his skin. Blood flooded his ear canal, too, deafening him from one side.
“Why won’t you talk?!” Andrew barked.
He grabbed the slotted screwdriver from his bag. He thrust it at Diego’s right eye. It sliced his eye horizontally, then it slid into his eye socket, wedged between his eyeball and his nose. He wiggled it inside his eye socket, as if he were beating some eggs with a fork. Diego’s eyelids snapped shut over the screwdriver’s shank. Tears, blood, and a clear slime oozed out. His eyelids turned dark red, dyed by the blood. The tape wrinkled and fluttered as he tried to open his mouth.
The muscles attached to his eye tore with a shredding sound. A piece of his severed eye slid out from between his eyelids. It looked like hard-boiled egg whites covered in hot sauce. Jolts of pain surged through Diego’s skull. He felt like his brain was about to explode. He was deaf and blind on one side. He couldn’t see anyway because he couldn’t open his eyes. His survival instincts told him to keep his eyes shut.
‘If you can’t see it, it’s not really happening.’
Andrew staggered back until the back of his legs touched the coffee table. He felt like his intestines were twisting and turning over each other. He covered his mouth with his forearm and breathed deeply through his nose. He looked away and dry-heaved, but it wasn’t enough. Diego’s cries of agony made him sick. He couldn’t hold it. He puked in his mouth, but he swallowed it before it could burst out.
“God, what am I doing?” he whispered.
He was desperate, he would do anything to rescue his daughter, but he wasn’t a sadist. It was impossible to ease into something like that. He examined his victim’s injuries, disgusted by the gore—and himself. From his severed ear to his mutilated eye, from his broken cheekbone to his shattered nose, Diego’s entire face was covered in blood. He was unrecognizable. His hands were broken and swollen, red and blue.
I did that, I’m the monster, Andrew thought. He imagined Grace in the same position, bloody and beaten. He was running out of time. He inched forward and leaned over the sofa. He grabbed Diego’s chin and moved his head, forcing the sex offender to face him. The screwdriver still stuck out of Diego’s eye socket.
Andrew said, “We can end this. I don’t have to… I don’t have to hurt you anymore. Tell me about the underwear. Tell me about Grace. Then I’ll let you go. I’ll call an ambulance and I’ll walk out of here. Okay? Can you please—please—do that for me, Diego? I–I’m… I’m begging you here, man.”
Diego didn’t respond. He shivered, overwhelmed by the pain. Andrew removed the tape from his mouth. He didn’t take his fingers off it, though. He expected Diego to scream. Only the voices on the TV continued to play through the apartment.
Diego stuttered, “A–A guy… A guy sold ‘em to me on the… the internet. They came from a… a girl. I didn’t do it. I didn’t take nothing… from no one. Not me… I didn’t take no one…”
“Which girl? Which girl did this ‘guy’ get that clothing from? Answer me.”
“I–I don’t know.”
“You do know. Which girl, Diego? Was it the girl from the news? Was it Grace McCarthy?”
“I–I don’t… know,” Diego said with a weak voice.
Andrew shook him and said, “Hey, don’t sleep. Don’t sleep, you bastard.” Diego fell unconscious. Andrew slapped him and yelled, “Don’t sleep! Was it my girl? Was it my girl?! Answer me!”
Diego didn’t awaken. Andrew slapped him again. The whack was so loud that it could be heard in the neighboring apartments. The blood on his face splattered on Andrew’s shirt and jeans. He slapped him a third time. He hit him with so much force that he feared he broke his palm. Blood foamed out of Diego’s mouth. He remained unconscious.
“Goddammit!” Andrew yelled.
He looked at the door, then at the floor. It was only a matter of time before a nosy neighbor or a cop showed up. He glanced back at the television. In the scene, Gus Fring, a ruthless drug kingpin, slit a man’s throat to set an example. It was a bloody, grotesque scene. Andrew looked back at Diego. He stared at his bloody face first, then his eyes wandered down to his neck.
Teary-eyed, Andrew whispered, “He’s a pedophile. He’s a rapist. He has a girl’s clothes in his closet. His friend could have touched Grace. He could have her locked up in a basement or an attic or a closet. They’re still hurting kids. They deserve to die. No witnesses… No witnesses until I find Grace…”
He took the box cutter out of his bag. The blade shot out with five clicks. He knelt on the couch beside Diego’s body. He watched him snore for a few seconds. He held the blade up to Diego’s neck. His hand trembled, so the blade nicked his neck. His tears plopped on the cushion. He doubted himself, then he thought about his daughter and all of Diego’s victims.
He repeated, “They deserve to die.”
Andrew pushed the blade into the side of Diego’s neck. Diego grinded his teeth under the tape, his face twisting in pain. Andrew’s teeth chattered as he slowly dragged the blade towards the center of Diego’s neck—millimeter-by-millimeter. He was shocked by his own actions. Like an out-of-body experience, he felt like he was standing in the corner of the room watching someone else slit Diego’s throat.
Unable to control his trembling hand, Andrew inadvertently widened the cut. Deep in the wound, the blood looked black.
Andrew pulled the blade out as a column of blood sprayed out of Diego’s neck. Then the blood shot out in spurts, slower but plentiful. It was more blood than he had ever seen in his life. He had nicked Diego’s external jugular. Death was certain without proper medical attention. Andrew thought about using his tie as a tourniquet, but he couldn’t leave any evidence behind. He ran into the kitchen. He yanked a small towel out from under a stack of plates, then he ran out.
The plates shattered on the floor, but the explosive noise didn’t bother him. He wanted the neighbors to hear it. He didn’t want Diego to die anymore.
He slid to a stop in front of the sofa. He wrapped the towel around Diego’s neck with enough pressure to slow the bleeding but not enough to suffocate him. He grabbed the handle of the screwdriver, but he hesitated. He feared Diego would go into shock if he endured anymore pain. But he couldn’t leave any evidence behind. That was out of the question.
He said, “I’m sorry. I should have never come here. I’m so sorry.”
Andrew pulled the screwdriver out with one tug. Bloody slime dripped from the blade. He threw it into his bag with his other blood-soaked tools. Laying on his side, Diego rocked back and forth, moaning and snorting. Andrew gathered his supplies. He scanned the floor once, twice, and then a third time. He didn’t see any of his belongings. He could see the bill of his cap, but he still touched it to make sure it was on his head. He was ready to go.
He pulled the TV off the entertainment center. The living room floor—from wall-to-wall—rumbled as the TV crashed into it. That’s enough noise, he thought, but I have to be sure. He yanked the tape off Diego’s mouth, tearing some of his facial hair off in the process. He hoped he would regain consciousness and scream at some point.
Andrew exited the apartment without closing the door. He slipped and slid in the exterior hallway due to the blood on his soles, unwittingly leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him. He stumbled down the stairs, then he sprinted through a patch of grass. The moist lawn and mud wiped the blood off his shoes. He took off his gloves before getting into the van, then he sped away before anyone could see him.
Chapter Fifteen
The Aftermath
At half-past eleven, Andrew arrived home. He sighed in relief. He didn’t see any cars parked in the driveway or in front of his house. The in-laws are gone, he thought. He parked in the garage. He opened the driver’s door, then he stopped. The dome light in the van illuminated the blood on his shirt. There were crusty, crimson specks on his slacks, too.
“Oh shit, oh no,” he muttered. He looked at the garage door through the windshield. He whispered, “Don’t come out. Please don’t come out.”
He undressed himself in the driver’s seat, his knees hitting the steering wheel and his elbow hitting the door. He took off his shoes after spotting some drops of blood on them. He wrapped his shirt and pants around the shoes. He sat there in a tank top, boxer briefs, and socks, trying to think of an excuse for his missing clothes if someone saw him.
‘I spilled some coffee, so I went to the dry cleaners. I was robbed. I’m too hot for clothes because I’m on drugs. I’m having an affair and my mistress took my clothes.’
He climbed out of the van with his clothes and his bag of tools. He hid the bag in a storage container next to the washing machine in the corner of the room. He considered washing his clothes, but he didn’t want to make any noise and he was afraid it didn’t matter. Technology is getting better, he thought, even if I get the stains out, they’ll still find his DNA.
He stuffed the clothes in a plastic bag. He entered the house through the garage door. He stood in the hallway, waiting for Holly to march towards him and berate him for his absence. But he didn’t hear anyone in the house. All of the lights were off, too. He crept down the hall and made his way into the living room. There was no one there.
He looked up at the ceiling and listened for any creaks or howls from the floorboards. Silence—dead silence smothered the home.
He tiptoed up the stairs, the bag rustling in his arms. He peeked into each room until he reached the end of the hall. The bathroom, Grace’s bedroom, Max’s bedroom, and his home office were empty. He went into the master bedroom. He approached the closet. No, too obvious, she always goes in there, he thought. He opened a drawer on the dresser. No, no, what if she opens one of mine and finds it?—he thought.
He glanced around the room and searched for the perfect hiding place. His eyes stopped on the bed. Since Grace’s disappearance, Holly slept for about four hours a night—six with medication. She spent most of her days searching for Grace, calling investigators, and contacting the media about her reward. Andrew couldn’t remember the last time Holly checked under the bed for anything. It was the perfect hiding place.
He hid the bag of clothes under his side of the bed. He planned on moving it as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
Andrew went to the bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, awed. Blood was smeared on his cheeks and neck, pinkish-red against his pale skin. Some blood crusted over on his beard, too. He smiled, amused by the thought. He took off his clothes in hopes of hiding his actions from his family if they were home, but the blood on his face told tales of violence.
He climbed into a hot shower. He used a shower scrub to wash the blood away. He scrubbed himself until his neck and cheeks turned red. He shampooed his beard once, twice, thrice. It wasn’t good enough. He increased the heat. The scalding water burned his skin, leading to rosy, painful patches across his body, but he didn’t feel it.
Instead, his palms turned numb while his knuckles ached. In his right ear, his hearing faded in-and-out. His right eye stung and his eyelids twitched. He felt his brain thumping against his skull. Projectile vomit, orange and chunky, burst out of his mouth and splattered on the wall in front of him. It cascaded slowly to the bathtub faucet.
Andrew fell to his ass and stared vacantly ahead. He held his hands over his face and sobbed as the scalding water rained down on him.
“What did I do? What did I do?!” he yelled with his hands over his face. He dug his fingers into his thick hair, then he started tugging on it. He cried, “I killed him! I killed him and I didn’t find her! Oh God, I couldn’t… I couldn’t find my baby… I’m useless… I’m a fuck-up… I fucked up! I killed him for no reason! God, why did I go there? Why?! Why?!”
He spent ten minutes screaming and weeping in the shower. Then he sprayed the vomit off the wall with the showerhead. A thick clump of vomit blocked the drain. He picked it up with a piece of toilet paper and flushed it down the toilet. He put his clothes in the laundry hamper next to the shower. He covered his body in a bathrobe.
He looked at himself in the mirror again. He was red from head-to-toe, like a newborn baby. His eyes were bloodshot, shining with tears. And his nose was as red as a cherry, like Rudolph’s. He saw a fragile, submissive, cowardly man in the mirror. He saw a violent, psychopathic killer, too. He saw a man standing at the crossroads.
Andrew walked out of the bathroom. He took two steps to his left, then he stopped. Holly came out of Max’s bedroom. She closed the door behind her. Their eyes met, then they looked away. Andrew thought: did she hear me screaming? Does she know what I did? Holly crossed her arms and looked at the floor.
Andrew asked, “When did you get in?”
“Just a minute ago.”
“A minute ago? Like… Like an actual minute ago?”
Holly furrowed her brow and said, “Yeah, like an actual minute ago. I just tucked Max into bed and kissed him goodnight.” She stepped aside and beckoned to him. She asked, “You want to see him?”
“No. I mean, yes, but… no, he should sleep. He’s been through a lot. He needs his rest, you know? We all need some rest.”
There was a long silence.
Holly said, “I’m going to be on TV again. Radio, too.”
“Yeah? How’s that going?”
“Well, we don’t have to pay anyone yet, but Detective Booth tells me they’ve been getting more tips since we started talking about the reward. I’m trying to be… optimistic.”
Andrew held his tongue. Tips were great—when they led to results. Otherwise, an inaccurate tip was nothing more than a distraction. He saw his wife as an interference to the official investigation, but he appreciated her effort. He didn’t want to extinguish her optimism. He forced a smile and nodded—good for you. He tried to move past her, but Holly stood her ground.
She asked, “So, where were you?”
“Wha–What?” Andrew stuttered.
“Earlier today, I asked Max to find you. He said you went out to look for Grace. He looked like he was–”
“So, Max already told you what I was doing. Why do you have to ask?”
Holly could see he was feeling defensive. She said, “I didn’t ask what, I asked where. Where were you, Andrew?”
“I was just… I went out there and I searched for Grace. I went downtown, I visited the parks, I searched the woods. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay for your video. I think it’s a great idea, I’m glad you’re optimistic, but I feel like I need to be out there, Holly. I don’t want to talk to reporters. I’m tired of talking to washed-up detectives. I just want to find Grace.”
Holly sniffled and swiped at her nose. A tear tickled her cheek, but it couldn’t put a smile on her face.
She said, “The woods… She’s not out there.”
“I don’t know where she is, but–”
“She’s not out there,” Holly interrupted with a stern but pained voice. “If you found anything out there, you’d find… you’d find a body. I don’t want you to look for a dead body. She’s alive, Andrew. I feel it. Right here, in my heart. As long as her heart’s still beating, my heart will, too.”
Andrew gritted his teeth, held his breath, and nodded. He wanted to fall into Holly’s arms and cry in her bosom.
Holly sniffled again, then she said, “Grace needs us. And we need each other. I know things haven’t…” She closed her eyes and put her hand over her mouth. She took a moment to compose herself. She said, “I know things haven’t been the best between us. I know you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
As if she didn’t hear him, Holly continued, “And maybe I hate you, too. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be there for each other. I can’t force you to be in our videos or do interviews with reporters, but… please don’t block me out. Don’t let it end like this. Please.”
Andrew couldn’t find the words to express himself. He kept thinking about Grace and Diego. He saw a small, cold, pale dead body and a slender, bloody, mutilated body.
He said, “I’m going to find her. And everything’s going to be okay. I promise.” As he walked past her, he said, “I’m going to bed. I love you, Holly.”
Holly didn’t say another word or spare another glance. She listened to his footsteps. As soon as the bedroom door closed behind her, she leaned against the wall and sobbed into her hand. Depression poisoned her mind and crippled her resolve. She didn’t realize Andrew was fighting his own inner demons as well. He cried himself to sleep without making a sound.
***
Five days had passed since Andrew attacked Diego. The home invasion was reported on the news. The downstairs neighbor, Lupita Espinoza, had called the police shortly after Andrew departed from the apartment. Diego was found unresponsive. Thanks to the officers’ first aid, he survived the drive to the hospital. He was placed in a medically-induced coma after multiple surgeries. The doctors were expected to awaken him in two weeks.
Andrew marked his calendar and counted each second. He expected Booth to question him about the home invasion sooner or later. The day after the attack, while Holly and Max were at a news station, he buried his bag of bloodstained clothing in the backyard. But he didn’t touch the bag of tools in the storage container. He hated himself for attacking Diego, but he wasn’t ready to end his investigation.
