The Puppeteer

By:

Sierra 

                                                                           
               If you stood before God and Lucifer, would you know which is which?
That question  forever haunted him on many sleepless nights. This particularly humid night in August has proven no different. As he lay there wide awake contemplating the appearance of good and evil he suddenly realized that his sheets have taken on the familiar feel of cold dampness. Lifting the covers, he confirmed his suspicion. Danny had wet the bed, again. The groggy man turned his head to look at the culprit, who was lying on his stomach beside him. Sun-kissed hair in a jumbled mess, one arm twisted behind him in what would seem to be a painful position. After concluding that Maddie was still asleep on her side, Vance carefully picked up their son (who had an unbreakable habit of climbing into their bed late at night) and carried him to his room down the hall. Removing his wet pajamas, Vance couldn’t help but wonder if there was a cure for bed-wetting that no one knows of. Our Danny has set the record for bed-wetting among four-year olds in this city. We've tried everything, from diapers to rubber pants to rubber sheets. That kid can piss through anything, he thought as he pulled the covers over his sleeping son. He let out a sigh that could wake the dead and the boy stirred. "Daddy?" he asked, still half asleep.
"Shhh, yeah, go back to sleep bumpkin," Vance whispered as he patted him on the back. Danny rolled over silently and resumed his sleep position.
After tucking him in, Vance walked into the bathroom. Grabbing a large towel from the rack he turned towards the door but not before catching a glimpse of his reflection in the medicine cabinet. The insomnia had taken its toll not only on his psyche but his physical self as well. His once handsome, tan complexion had now taken on a rather sallow appearance with dark moons under his eyes. Eyes that were a radiant blue no more than a week ago, now masked with the bloodshot appearance of one's owned by the town drunk. Little spiders spinning red webs in my eyes. Thinking that some water might magically make it disappear he splashed his face in the sink. In this 90 degree weather, the cold water almost felt lukewarm. With little hope, he looked up into the mirror once again. The water did little to diminish the bloodshot eyes and unbalanced skin tone. Maybe tomorrow things will get better, he thought as he staggered back into the bedroom. But he knew better than that. He had a feeling that things were not going to improve that quickly. Especially not with the new case. No, he thought as he crawled back into my bed next to his sleeping wife, this one is going to be a real bitch.

                Various noises cast their tones on the welcoming night. A cat whines somewhere in the distance, crickets’ legs work steadily in producing their familiar mating call, leaves rustle softly in the almost non-existant breeze. The sounds float to the top of the sky until forming a chorus of chirps and whistles. The streets, deserted save for the expensive machines parked at their curbs, hold residence to some of the city’s finest. The mayor’s house stands triumphantly at the far west end of the block, flanked on each side by a six-foot hedge and wrought-iron gate. Across the street is where the sheriff resides. One story white house with pale blue trim. “Beware of Dog” sign nailed to the side gate. The figure surveying this quaint little home notices that the lawn needs some work, unlike the mayor’s house across the street which looks to be tended every day by a skilled gardener. Haven’t found time to mow the lawn, eh Chief? Not with all the chaos goin’ on in your neck of the woods. Well, it’s only gonna get harder, especially for an old-timer like you Chief. Sitting behind a desk, barking orders and waiting for the day when the whole damn thing comes crashing down onto your bald little head, and right before they pull the sheet over your bloodied sin-soaked face, you can release your hideous secret upon the unsuspecting cockroaches that marvel at your feigned innocence. The figure turned his gaze to the house next to the sheriff’s. Ah, Miss Jane Michael’s house. What a splendid vision it is, matched only by its owner’s beauty. Miss Michael’s was a vision in itself. With a face to compare to one of God’s angels and a body made for sin, it was no wonder that she was the city’s most eligible bachelorette. However, no man ever seemed to get passed first base. This added fuel to a few rumors around these parts about Jane Michaels, and it didn’t help that the few visitors that were seen paying visit to her were women of a promiscuous nature. Rarely seen in the company of men, Jane was mostly a recluse, leaving her house only long enough to run important errands and tend to local business. Her beauty was paired with a brain for business and she was a shrewd businesswoman, not to mention the entrepreneur of a highly successful restaurant chain. Down the block from her was the head of the Brea City Council, then we have the elementary school principal and his family, the Leland’s, and that brings us to the house directly in front of the shadowy figure. Staring up at the left window on the top floor, he sees a light blink on. The windows are open so he can hear the faint sound of a water spout being turned on. After a minute or two the light blinks off and the street becomes motionless and dark once again. The figure glances at his watch, 2 a.m. He notices a pattern in this particular household. Someone there must suffer from a mild case of insomnia, he guesses as to who that someone is. Most every night for the past week one of the resident’s ailment has shown, lights go on at all hours of the night, toilets are flushed, and the light sound of creaking floorboards echo off the thin walls. He pulls out a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lights it as he intensely watches the windows for any sign of life. The orange flame of his lighter reflects off his eyes, giving them a rather strange hue. Fire dances in pools of darkness. Extinguishing the flame and replacing his lighter back in its spot with a gloved hand, he blows the smoke to the right and nods slightly. As he turns and walks away from the Vance house, he mutters, “I’ll see you soon,” and walks back into darkness.

Dante Vance awoke to an irritating buzzing noise in between his ears. His hand found the relief button and turned off the alarm. Puffy eyes looked at the clock, "Six o'clock already?" he asked the inanimate timekeeper on his nightstand. He rubbed his eyes and sleepily sat up, seeing through the darkness that he was alone. He knew Maddie would already be up and making her way downstairs to cook breakfast for herself, knowing that her husband was not fond of eating before noon. Danny wouldn't be up for another hour or two. He sat there, not wanting to turn on the light, not wanting to stand up, but just trying to work the air in and out of his overworked lungs. He had the incredible urge to call in sick today, but he knew he couldn't. You just don't call in sick when there is a raging maniac lose on the streets, he thought to himself. With that, he dragged himself out of bed and went to refresh himself in the shower.

Madison set her plate of steaming scrambled eggs and honey ham on the table and poured a cup of freshly brewed Kahlua coffee for her husband and a cup of chamomile tea laced with low fat milk for herself. She wondered if Dante had pulled himself together yet, the sound of his heavy footsteps on the stairs reassured her that her husband had not completely abandoned his daily duties. Down the last steps he came in a rush, whizzing past her in a hurried attempt to simultaneously put on his sport coat and drink his coffee, which he found impossible to do. "Slow down, you have fifteen minutes before you have to leave," Madison said not so much as glancing up from her breakfast.
"I know, but if I don't rush around like a headless chicken all day I would just fall on my face in a heap," he answered briskly. "You know Danny wet the bed again?" he questioned, something in his voice made her think he already knew the answer to that old question.
"Yeah, thanks for taking care of it last night, the doctor said we need to let him outgrow it and give him time to adjust himself."
"Hmm, sometimes I think all those doctors are quacks. Nowadays, you have to practically diagnose everything yourself. They just stand there and nod their head and fill out their little forms and prescriptions. Then they stuff you with pills that make it either impossible to hold down a meal or make you shit bricks, and then when you complain about that, they prescribe something else with even more side effects. They go to school for what? Six, eight years?"
"Usually, yeah," Madison replied before Dante interrupted.
"Yeah, for what? They wouldn't know a bee sting from a smallpox outbreak!" He rubbed his forehead severely after this.
"Didn't sleep last night again, did you?" Madison asked with some accusation.
"A little, three hours at the most." She couldn't see his eyes yet, but she knew they were bloodshot.
"Hon, this is gonna kill you. You have to do something before it completely destroys you. Take a valium or something, I'll give you one of mine-"
"No, you know I don't believe in taking that stuff," he reminded.
"Fine. Spend the rest of your life looking and acting like a zombie, pay no attention to what it does to the people around you," her voice was tired as she picked up her fork and took two more bites of the eggs. She could feel his gaze but did not want to meet it. Not this time, she was just too tired to argue first thing in the morning. This conversation was occurring far too often these days and she could see it was gonna turn ugly. She could also see her husband finish the coffee and put the cup in the sink before turning to go.
His hand touched her briefly on the shoulder as he passed, "Gotta go," he said. She said nothing for a fleeting moment, but then muttered a strained, "Bye", before hearing the door close behind her. There was nothing more she wanted to do at the moment than to hold her face in her hands and cry. Not from sadness or regret, but sheer frustration.

            After he had closed the door he paused for a moment debating whether or not to go back in and apologize for being a stubborn prick. He didn't mean to be so introverted, but he was a wreck and wasn't sure how to handle it. He knew Maddie meant well and wanted to know what's going on, but certain circumstances did not allow him to discuss all the aspects of his recent unease. Early on in his career he found that it was not a good idea to let your loved ones in on your work, it made things more difficult than they already were, usually. That couldn't be more true now. He couldn't tell Maddie why he had been unable to sleep, unable to spend time with her and Danny. He couldn't say 'Maddie, I'm sorry but until we catch this guy I will have no rest. There's a morbid madman running around who likes to create human marionettes and stage his own little perverse puppet show. He carves them up, cuts out their eyes, strings them up and makes them dance with the devil.'