Ben Ridley is a Killer
The following is an excerpt from the new novel The Lyrebird Threat by J.L. Thurston, now available.
AT LONG LAST, HE HEARD FAST-APPROACHING FOOTSTEPS IN THE HALLWAY, THEN THE DOOR BURST OPEN. Ben bounded in, glowing, eyes alight. He whistled a tune as he limped inside, moving swiftly though favoring his left leg. He went into the back hallway, pulling the photo of the old man from his pocket and disappearing into his room for fifteen minutes. Aaron fixed him a cup of coffee.
Ben returned and collapsed into his chair, setting a white box into his lap. Exhaustion was beginning to set in by the purple hue growing under his eyes.
He let out a long exhale. “That was invigorating.”
“You’re limping,” Aaron noted.
Ben indicated his thigh. His pants had been exchanged for black suit pants, which hid the wet blood quite well from immediate view. Aaron approached him, setting the mug of coffee into Ben’s grateful hands. When he stood close, he could smell the blood.
“How bad are you hurt?”
Ben stood and set his white box and coffee onto the end table. He unbuttoned his slacks and pulled them down. Aaron rolled his eyes at his roommate’s emoji underpants. In the center of his thigh was an angry red slash. It was a wide rip, oozing steadily. Ben slumped back into the chair. A torn-up tourniquet had been applied, but not quite tight enough.
Aaron stared, horrified at the mess.
“Good coffee,” Ben commented after a few sips.
“We need to get you to a hospital.”
His face paled slightly. “No.”
Aaron’s hand motioned to the deep cut. “Don’t be a child, you’re leg obviously needs stitches.”
Ben’s eyes slid off to the side, he sipped his coffee some more. “You’ve read a lot,” he finally commented, returning his gaze to Aaron, his eyes staring hard with purpose behind them. “I’m sure if you’ve read psychology books, you’ve delved into other disciplines.”
“You’re not serious? Are you asking me to stitch you up like some roadhouse-tough macho men?”
He was sucking on his bottom lip and giving Aaron his best puppy-eyes. Aaron wished he could say he saw right through it as a plea to avoid the unpleasantries of an ER, but he felt a heaviness behind the expression that was much more serious.
“Please,” Ben said softly. “I’ve had enough of doctors and their assessments of me to last a lifetime. Please, help me, Aaron. Don’t send me to a hospital.”
His comment struck him. He let out a sigh. “It just so happens, I know how to stitch that up with household items.”
Ben visibly relaxed.
“But it’s a mixture of Boy Scouts and something I’ve read, I’ve never actually done it before.”
Ben looked perfectly at peace in his chair. “I’m not one to criticize. Just don’t stitch your name into me.”
Aaron snorted, now tempted to do just that if he only knew how. “I’m not sure we have everything I’ll need, though.”
Ben’s hand reached out and his long fingers tapped the white box he had placed on the end table. “I always keep a medical kit around.”
Aaron went into the kitchen and took a clean towel out of a drawer. He had Ben lift the injured leg so he could attempt to protect the chair from blood stains with the towel. He returned to the kitchen to vigorously wash his hands with scalding water before putting on the gloves from the medical kit.
With butterflies disturbing his innards, he knelt down at Ben’s feet, taking more than one fortifying breath.
With a pleasant smile, Ben leaned back serenely like a man ready to nap in the sunshine. “I’m ready whenever.”
Aaron wondered if he was going to throw up as he held the needle aloft. “Have you ever gotten a tetanus shot?”
“Yes, of course. Pope keeps me up to date on those things.”
Aaron wished he knew how to postpone this, knowing what he was about to do was dangerous and insane. He wanted to begin an argument with Ben about the unfair way he had used his sad eyes and painful childhood to talk Aaron into it.
Instead, he focused his mind on what he knew about stitches. He remembered the diagrams, the documentaries, the countless facts on stitches his mind had been fed. As a boy in the Scouts he had practiced stitches a couple of times on a cut banana.
He tried to imagine Ben’s leg as the banana. It helped tremendously.
The first stick with the needle was the most difficult for Aaron, but Ben did not wince or make a sound. He held perfectly still, fingers wrapped around his coffee cup, eyes staring onto the television screen with an uncanny interest. There was more than one terrifying moment where Aaron nearly bolted into the bathroom to vomit, but he maintained his composure with shaking hands.
When it was done, he fell back and took the gloves off so he could rub his aching head. The pounding behind his eyes was an all-too familiar feeling when he was over-stressed. Ben set down his empty coffee cup and gave a twitching smile. “That was not the most painful stitches I’ve ever received.”
Aaron found himself grinning as he threw himself into his chair. He grabbed his coffee from the end table and took a swig. Ben removed an ice pack from the kit, activated it by squeezing it until he heard a popping sound, and set it gingerly on his thigh.
“How many times have you had to stitch yourself up?”
He shook his head. “Oh, no, I’ve never stitched myself up. I usually go to Pope for help. He was a Marine medic. But having your brain around is very good for saving me time or having to wake Pope up in the middle of the night.”
Aaron stared at him with a gaping mouth. “You… You mean you could have had Pope do that?”
Ben just gave him a little smile. “I didn’t know you were a Boy Scout.”
Aaron took a wad of gauze from the medical kit and threw it at Ben’s head.
“I’m sorry we fought earlier,” Ben said suddenly, in a voice low and soft. There was something like shame on his face. “There are issues I’m… sensitive about.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
Aaron waited, rubbing his eyebrow. He read once that silence can cause a person to begin elaborating in a conversation, but it was not terribly surprising that the trick wasn’t working on Ben.
“Loughty said you needed a roommate because of something traumatic that happened.”
Ben’s eyes slid to Aaron, purple with exhaustion, heavy with emotion. He swallowed, cocking his head as though to appear less effected. “Aaron, I’m not sane.”
Aaron kept his face soft, open to listen, nearly desperate for Ben to share some of his past.
Ben rubbed his face. “I’m so tired. Right to my bones.”
“Ben, is there something you need to talk about?” Aaron gently prodded.
Ben’s eyes darkened. “You sound like a psychiatrist, Aaron. That’s enough of that. I’ve spent far too much time being assessed that way. You can’t help me if actual, college-honed doctors couldn’t. I’ve had all the diagnosis you can think of. Autism, schizophrenia, dissociative personality disorder, and on, and on. I’ve been medicated for it all. Do you know there was a point in my life that I begged Loughty to give me a lobotomy and she seriously considered it?”
“A lobotomy? Dear God,” Aaron breathed.
Ben’s face began to hollow from the memory. “I was thirteen. But don’t be so surprised. I have seen the inside of places they don’t make films about, they are so unpleasant. I was treated, failingly, throughout all of my childhood.”
“What were they treating? What was the problem, Ben?”
Ben’s lips curled bitterly. “They weren’t comfortable with how much I wanted to kill people.”
A chill ran down Aaron’s spine, and Ben continued to talk, his voice like a ghost’s.
“Even at such a young age, I had the inclination to kill. Before I was old enough to understand ethics and empathy. I spoke so freely of it, because to me it was the most natural urge in the world. It was Loughty who found the answer. Make me an operative of Eagle. I could get my fill of killing without hurting the innocent. That is the importance, Aaron, that I carry with me. I vowed to never kill an innocent person. If I break that vow, then whatever it is that separates me from a common serial killer is gone. I deserve to be locked away. I deserve the death penalty.”
Ben closed his eyes and was very still. Aaron had no words. He stared, his mind whirling. He was surprised that, despite the words Ben had spoken, he felt overwhelming pity for him. His compulsion to kill was a mental illness he had been born with, and it tormented him. And there was no comfort that could be given.
Note from the Author
If you enjoyed this excerpt (I certainly hope you have, since I have found you here at the end of it) please locate the novel in its entirety here on Amazon.com, and do be so kind as to leave a review and share your thoughts with fellow readers.
