Bleeding Smile

ELEVEN

HK
__________

What do you know about murder?

There's an independent journalist from Fort Collins; Mark Whitley is the name he's registered under at The Happy Inn — the more frequented of the guest accommodations in Elk Point with its remedial, checkered suites and charmingly personalized tours of the municipal, of the WestHill waterfall and historic landmarks and surrounding forest.

Mark conducted reconnaissance at all of the anticipated locations; the homes of the victims' families (they were unwilling to talk, none incentivized enough to revisit such a grim past), the police station (they were too busy, stubbornly distrusting, especially when it came to an outsider prodding for sensitive information, and for what, a True Crime column on an unsung gossip site?).

And then he moved on to the center of town; Karl Miller's diner to overhear drunken conversations, the Danvers Public Library and Fresh-Mart Supermarket to browse and linger down the isles, observing the more mundane day-to-day of Elk Point's residents before eventually visiting the Chapel; where he spoke briefly with Father O'Malley as the benign priest wiped the overlooked corners of the wooden pews with a blood-red dust towel, tactfully evading his abundance of questions, and his rapid-fire speculations disguised as even more questions, with apropos scriptures and metaphorical maxims and — his favorite — the occasional reverential silence.

That same evening, in true investigative fashion, Mark, with his blue ballpoint and flip notepad and full-frame digital camera, ended up back at WestHill, this time without a guide from The Happy Inn as he independently retraced where The Hatchet Killer had tied and slaughtered Andy and Marlene Doyle on what was nearing six years ago, snapping pictures of the massive trees and trodden dirt paths and the dated shrines with their semi-annual refresh of store-bought flowers, — both of which remained deliberately stationed rather than painstakingly scattered where the dismembered parts were originally found.

Unbeknownst to the eager but less-than stealthy journalist, the very killer he was in desperate hopes of documenting patiently followed and observed with the singular intention of slaughtering him next.

HK lingered nearby with his sharpened hatchet; a sturdy weapon with a minor, scythe-like curve in both the handle and blade, making for a secure grip and immensely satisfying strike, and then there was the weight, which was, in his expert opinion, perfectly distributed between the oak handle and steel head and matching knob that made rotating the hatchet to occasionally stun his victims just as delightfully severe as whacking off their heads and arms and legs and carving into their fresh, warm torsos.

Impassioned, it didn't take long for The Hatchet Killer to make his final approach, and it was nothing short of horrifying when he struck the side of Mark's exposed neck while the independent journalist was mid-click, mid-gasp with eyes that widened from a mix of recognition and the telltale shock that always preceded the debilitating fear. His mouth parted as most of his neck wedged from his head in a spray of blood, dousing the surrounding tree trunks and forest floor and turning it into a grisly and almost Rorschach-esque canvas of red.

In that precise moment, HK wondered once more; what do you know about murder?, and, as if in response, Mark's body momentarily lulled; a staggered, delayed fall to the ground that severed the remaining connective tissue at his neck, ensuring a bloody decapitation that readily confessed that he'd been in over his head, that — with everything the journalist from Fort Collins knew about murder — it still wasn't enough to evade being butchered himself.

The Hatchet Killer smiled cruelly, thoughtfully, and in the short distance, naturally hidden within the shadows of the woods and shrubbery; the same dark coat and golden-eyed elk that was the town's namesake huffed and dragged its front hooves, angling its head and watching on and on as he approached his latest victim and unleashed unrestrained blow after blow; possessing the dim, misty forest and crisp Colorado air with the fleshy, rhythmic thunks of his hatchet hitting meat and tissue and bones, gradually chopping away at what was no longer Mark Whitley but now a horridly desecrated corpse; just like the others, and afterwards, just like always, he'd slowly straighten himself, the hatchet he held at his side completely drenched, dripping with their blood as he'd breathe heavily, loudly; momentarily recompensed.

Just as he was now, just for a brief while.