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  “Can I help you with something?”

  The chiseled, clean shaven face looked back at her, eyeing her like she was candy.

  “Maybe” he said softly.

  In an instant he pulled a hunting knife from the waistband of his shorts and dashed towards her. Martha frantically twisted the knob and opened the door, but her care not to open it too wide cost her valuable time. The man thrusted his arm through the gap and used the leverage to barge his way in. Backing up towards the staircase she wanted to dash for the phone but knew it wouldn’t do her any good.

  “Please” she said strongly “I have a family.”

  “Oh do you?” said the man softly. “Why don’t you lie down and tell me all about them.”

  The man lunged at Martha quickly. Grabbing her shoulders with his strong arms; he threw her hard to the floor.

  “Now don’t fight it, it will be worse for you if do!” he threatened as he knelt down over the top of her.

  Without trying to regain her balance the defiant Martha turned all her body weight into the man and landed a strong punch to his jaw, almost pushing him over. Taking advantage of the moment she tried to get to her feet but he was not as dazed as she thought he was. Athletically, he tackled her, pinning her face down to the ground. The large man grabbed her hair with his fist and lifted her head off the ground.

  “I told you it would be worse for you if you fought back” he said before smashing her face onto the hardwood floor.

  Laying there, blood spackled her face, the smell of mahogany in her nostrils, Martha was helpless. Barely able to keep her eyes open she surveyed the room. A serious concussion hindered her vision. Using what little energy she had left she lifted her head just slightly and focused what she could on a family picture hanging on the wall above the staircase. Andy, Connor, and herself from a year ago stared back at her. The picture gave her comfort while her mind slowed down. Her attacker violently pulled off her jeans and panties before pulling off his shorts and, as aggressive as he was she simply lay there in the beautiful hallway staring at that wonderful picture. Neutral walls and vivid black and white contrasting ornaments stood ornate on the tables in the entranceway. The cat clock shifted its eyes back and forward (a joke present from Andy when she mentioned the black and white contrast). The attacker continued his brutal assault on Martha’s body while her mind moved into that photograph. Beautiful memories with her son and her husband: The fishing trips, the amusement parks and the family vacations glided through her mind’s eye. She was there, not here. After what seemed like a lifetime the man was finished. Slowly, he stood up, pulling up his shorts. Martha, coming back into the present and struggling with her senses felt her defiance flow back into her.

  “Coward!”

  Martha’s shaky voice startled him. This was no amateur rapist. Martha was not his first victim, but he had never been spoken to like this after an attack. Martha started laughing, still lying face down she started laughing. She wanted him to know he had not broken her spirit, her pride would never allow him to think that. Still laughing she spoke out.

  “You’re not man! What kind of man would beat up and rape a woman? You’re pathetic!”

  “Lady, you better be quiet now!”

  “Or what? You’ll rape me again? Go ahead! Do it again you fucking coward!”

  The attacker was getting aggravated, he was not used to being spoken to like this by women he thought he just dominated.

  “Are you fucking nuts lady? It’s not smart to push me like this. I’m warning you”

  “You’re a fucking loser!”

  By now, Martha in full force, not giving a thought to her own safety.

  “Go back to the basement suite of your mother’s house you fucking cockroach!”

  A twitch of his right eye signaled a snap in the attacker’s head.

  “You stupid whore!”

  It was clear Martha struck a nerve as he lunged towards her with his knife, thrusting it down into her back. The knife easily penetrated Martha’s flesh, searing straight through her organs. Instant silence contrasted the rapists fear. He hadn’t planned to kill anyone. He liked the women he raped to see his face, it was part of his thrill. He was a traveler. Once he had found a victim in one town or city he would move on, staying in motels on his country wide spree. He had found throughout his illustrious career that police were not as eager to catch rapists as the public were led to believe. Especially if they thought it was an isolated incident. But now, he was a murderer, and the police seemed to care more about that. He got to his feet. Panic slowly settled in. He watched Martha’s eyes flicker a little before closing completely. Scuffing his feet over little traces of footprints he saw, he tried desperately to destroy any evidence of his presence there. When he was finished scuffing the footprints he ran into the kitchen. Stepping back over Martha’s body with a roll of kitchen towel he frantically wiped at the door knob and the door itself. He took more roll and tried to wipe down Martha’s body, especially her lower area. Martha could feel very little in the minutes she had left on the earth, her last thought was that she was that she got to see her only son go off on his first day of school, and that thought would be with her from every moment on.

  The attacker lifted his knife off the floor and clutched all his paper towels together. Using one to open the front door he gave one more fear induced look towards his victim before jogging off to his nearby car. Speeding off, the backwind from the vehicle blew leaves once more down the quiet street.

  CHAPTER 2

  The school bus closed in on Connors house, slowing to a stop in front of a policeman who waved them past. The kids on the bus flocked to the right hand side to try and get a glimpse of what was going on. Yellow tape stretched between two trees on either side of the garden blocked off the scene to pedestrians, while police cars blocked the road to all but single lane traffic. The bus driver drove past the house, looking for somewhere to stop safely. Connor didn’t know what to think. He just stared at the police officer waving him through, hoping his facial expression would offer a clue to what was happening in his house. The buildup of neighborhood traffic forced the driver to stop a full block away from Connor’s house. The boy got up and walked briskly to the door but the driver stopped him before he could leave.

  “Hey son?”

  Connor turned around.

  “I’m sorry!”

  He knew what the yellow tape almost always meant, even if Connor didn’t. The boy looked at him for a second, reading the man’s sympathetic expression and then turned and ran back to his house.

  A common theory was that those who were gifted with brains were usually not gifted with athletic ability. Well today, nobody expressed this theory to Connor. He ran as fast as he could towards his house, not slowing even to turn corners. He ran so hard he felt sick but he didn’t stop. Even at a young age he knew something was wrong. Approaching the yellow tape guarded by a policeman he still did not slow down. His backpack, arched above him as he sprinted, did not affect his speed as he went to duck under the tape and across the garden. As he flew under the “Do Not Cross” warning he misjudged the height of his backpack and it tore straight through the police line. A young cop smoking on the lawn spotted Connor as he ran through the line. Grabbing the boy by the backpack caused him to come to a shuddering halt.

  “Hold on son! Don’t go in there!”

  Connor wriggled the backpack off his shoulders, narrowly avoiding the cop’s grab at him as he ran into his house. Although there was little noise outside it felt extremely chaotic. Between the flashing lights, localized gridlock and a tense police presence, the neighborhood transformed itself from a quiet place to grow up into something which more resembled a prison. Just as he entered his house he locked the door behind him. Facing the white wooden door he tried hard to settle his breathing. Something in the air had changed, there was something so different in the mood of the house and he felt it straight away. He turned around to face the hallway, but something stopped him co
ld. What he saw that day would change his life forever.

  A bright flash of light dazzled Connor, much the same as it did earlier this morning. But this time, instead of seeing his mom smiling at him when his sight returned, he was met with a much more horrifying sight. Martha Williams lay on the ground, covered from the neck down by a white sheet. Face down she lay; her body twisted so her dead eyes pierced Connors. Frozen in place Connor stared at his mother, only a few hours dead, her skin still retained its color, but her eyes had lost all life. Unable to look away, Connor’s brain tried to make sense of this dreadful thing. This was not his mother; not anymore. Instead, this shell watched him through big glassy windows, burning itself into his consciousness forever. Emotions bubbled up inside the boy. A perfect broth of anger, confusion and sadness spewed out all at once, melting into an earth stopping cry. Up until this point no-one had seen Connor enter the house except the policeman who was now banging on the door trying to get in. Not even the crime scene photographer who was snapping mug shots of Martha noticed him standing only a few feet away. The shrill, piercing cry of a distraught boy announced his presence to everyone. Connor’s father was sitting with a policeman when he heard the sound and ran to his son’s aide. Hastily the photographer covered up the body, but it was way too late for Connor. With his eyes closed tight the boy wailed until his lungs were out of air, he then reloaded and wailed again. Throwing his arms around his son, Andy Williams tried his hardest to calm him down. Burying Connor’s head in his chest he embraced him closely and together they wept. Andy already knew what Connor yet didn’t, that this day marked the end of Connor’s childhood.

  CHAPTER 3

  Poor grades came as standard with Connor now, as did a lack of enthusiasm and general unresponsiveness towards his schoolwork. The real shame in Connor’s poor performance was that there was nothing to compare it to. Since he just started grade 1 when his mother was killed he never had a chance to excel. If it had happened a couple of years later, there may have been an obvious change from A’s to D’s. But it never happened that way. In fact, all his teachers knew about him was that he always got bad grades. He never tried; was never willing to apply any effort and was not interested in socializing with other children. A tragic case; every teacher knew about his past; they knew what he and his father had been through so they tried to give him a little extra help wherever they could. The problem was always that Connor wasn’t stupid; he just didn’t see the point in trying. He wasn’t angry or rude to his teachers so really there was very little action to be taken against him. He simply responded to questions with his patented “I don’t know Miss” or “Sir” depending on what grade he was in. Usually after the first couple of verbal battles with a teacher (with Connor’s answer always unflinching) they would give up and ask someone else. All Connor really wanted to do was go fishing with his father. Today was Friday, and that meant Saturday was only one more day away and the two of them were going fishing.

  It had been over three years since the death of his mother but Connor had not forgotten her face staring right through him.

  “There was an accident” he remembered his father telling him.

  “Your mother tripped and fell down the stairs, she was already gone when I found her. She’s in heaven now.”

  The vast landscape of Millbrook Valley was a favorite of his to come and fish with his father. The air was warm; the valley was alive with life. Birds, insects, rabbits, squirrels and deer all inhabited this territory. Standing knee deep in the shallow, slow moving part of the river Connor enjoyed the feeling of the cold water surrounding his waders. All around him the spring grass blew softly in the wind. Connor used this land to project his thoughts out in front of him, like an artist used a pallet for his creations. He tried to understand why his mother had to die. He missed her so much. His father unscrewed the lid from a hip flask and took a big swig of Kentucky’s then called to his son.

  “Any bites yet buddy?”

  “Not yet dad.”

  If truth be told, Connor didn’t care about the actual act of fishing. He enjoyed the time he and his father had together and the peace of the valley. Catching a fish was just a bonus.

  Another swig of the bourbon:

  “Keep at it son. Remember, we eat what we catch.”

  “I know dad.”

  Connor returned to his thoughts, the quiet helping him to come to terms with his loss.

  The light from the refrigerator illuminated Andy’s soft yet ageing features.

  “You want a cola?”

  “Yes please,” answered Connor while taking off his waders by the front door.

  Andy, on the other hand didn’t stop to take anything off he just went straight for the beer in the fridge. While Connor had his peaceful fishing to take his mind off his mother’s passing, Andy found solace in alcohol. Although he was careful never to let Connor see him too drunk or too out of hand, when he was not at work you would seldom see him without a drink in his hand. Connor never thought much of it. He was eight now and his dad was his hero. Andy remained strong for his son through the tragedy; if drinking helped him remain strong then Connor saw no problem in it. He had heard the warnings in school and on the television that alcohol was bad for your health but he took no notice, instead choosing to believe his father knew best.

  Connor stripped down to his underpants and carried his fishing gear to the laundry basket in the kitchen. He threw his waders out the back door onto the concrete beside the grass. Andy watched the boy, so careful not to dirty the house. With his beer in hand he looked down at himself, still dressed as if he was leaving to go fishing again. His eyes drifted back to his son. The judging look from the youngster was enough to evoke a response.

  “Ok, ok I’ll get changed; I wasn’t going to sit on the couch like this anyways. God, you’re worse than your mother!”

  Andy chuckled and playfully punched Connor in the stomach.

  “Ok, go shower and come watch the game with me.”

  “I don’t want to watch the game dad.” Connor said smiling.

  His father wanted him to be a sports fan so bad.

  “Still not a football fan eh, now I know you’re your mother.”

  Connor looked at the floor. After fishing was when he thought about his mother the most. Had she still been alive she would have been waiting for them with dinner at the ready. Whenever he entered the house now there were no aromas, no scents for him to get excited over.

  “I miss her, dad.”

  Andy put down his beer and looked at his son thoughtfully.

  “I know Connor, I know. I do too.”

  After a moment Andy spoke again

  “Well go on up to your room then, I’ll call you down for dinner in a bit.”

  Andy picked up his beer and took a big drink.

  “Well dummy, who gave you tickets to the circus?”

  “Well dummy, I believe I was invited here! Who gave you tickets to the circus?”

  “Who are you calling dummy? Dummy!”

  “There’s only one dummy here. And it ain’t me!”

  A fight broke out. Two small ventriloquist dummies attacked each other, butting heads and flailing arms, clicking as their wooden limbs collided.

  “Myaaa break it up you dummies!”

  The two small dummies fell to the floor and a larger one stepped in beside them.

  “I invited you both remember? We have to take down that clown! He’s getting too big for his boots around here. Come on. He’s about to start”

  In the middle of the big top, thousands of spectators cheered for the bear announcer. The surly brown bear held the microphone well.

  “Ladies and Gentleman, thank you all for coming to the Williams family circus!”

  The crowd cheered emphatically.

  “Now, the act you’ve been dying to see; please put your hands together for Basket the Clown!”

  The crowd went wild, cheering as the clown entered the arena, back flipping and somersaulting his way t
o the podium. He held his chin up high as he looked at the audience who waited for his performance with baited breath.

  “And now…” Announced Bear…

  “…Basket will attempt his greatest feat ever for your own personal pleasure. He will be raised high into the air on this swing; he will then jump off, flipping five times in midair and land safely… All without a harness!”

  The crowd hushed in unison, awestruck at the thought of this incredible feat. A swing was lowered into the middle of the big top and Basket gave a bow. He hoisted himself on as it raised into the air. The crowd held their breath as they stared at the clown swinging from side to side, higher and higher on the swing.

  “Oh my god he’s going to die!” yelled a crowd member as she swooned on top of the man sitting in front of her.

  Basket continued swinging until he was almost at the peak of the big top itself and then let go... Cries rang out all over the arena as Bear counted the summersaults.