The Deer

      Content Warning: This story contains physical violence and briefly alludes to mental health problems.

Renee Waverly was born to the Creek City Reaper on a rainy May afternoon in 1968. While her mother, June, lay unconscious in her bed, which was now stained at least five different shades of red, he stood just outside the nursery, staring in at his newborn daughter without a sound. His face was utterly flat, and he stood so still that he was less a man and more a fixture among the many others which lined the halls of the hospital. His hands rested stiffly in the pockets of his black coat.

           As I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pack of Luckies, I figured I’d offer him one; I was dying to hear what his voice sounded like. There wasn’t much about him that was remarkable—aside from his dark glasses, which he’d had on the whole time, he looked and dressed just like any other guy you’d see on the street—but there was just something in his demeanor which made me want to know more.

I had assisted in the delivery, and he had been a little late because he’d been at work, and traffic had been bad on the way to Creek City General, but he’d managed to be in the room for most of it. And in all the time he was in there, he just stood five or six feet away from June’s bed with that same blank look on his face. Didn’t say a single word. I never even caught his first name. The most I saw in the way of emotion was a little whisper of a grin when he held little Renee for the first time.

           I wonder if, three years later, he wore that same grin as he yanked Helen Ortega from the trunk of his car, dragged her by the ankles into the center of a wheat field outside of town, and strangled her with a length of rope.

           I opened my smokes, took one out, and turned the box toward Mr. Waverly. “Cigarette?” I asked. He looked at me, and again, that same ghost of a smile stretched over his lips. He gave a single nod and pulled a cigarette from the pack. His fingers were almost skeletal. I lit us both up, and he turned back toward the window.

           I got my wish after a few more minutes. Still looking in at Renee, he said: “Shouldn’t you be tending to my wife?” His voice was deep and had all the emotion of a radio broadcaster who had spent too many years reading the same news story.

           “Oh, uh, no,” I replied. “I tried to, but Dr. Ipswich and the others told me to leave.”

           “There wasn’t anything for you to do in there?”

           “I suppose not. I asked what I could do, and he just said to make sure you were alright.”

           “Hm. I see. Well, if it is of any real interest to you, I’m fine.” Another minute or two passed. “I don’t suppose you can tell me anything about June’s condition?”

           “Gee, I really don’t know, sir.”

           At that, he looked at me. I couldn’t see through the glasses, but he seemed to be looking at what I was wearing. His brow furrowed a little. “Are you a doctor?”

           “Oh, no, I’m just an intern. But if all goes according to plan, I will be one someday.”

           “Hm. An intern with nowhere to be in the entire hospital. Not something you see every day.”

           Only now did it occur to me that my presence may have been intrusive to this man whose wife lay dying a few halls away. “If you’d like me to leave, I can.”

           “No, no, it’s alright. Only making an observation. Besides, you never told me your name.”

           “Ken.” I reached out, and he shook my hand. His bony fingers were firmer than I’d expected. Six years later, they probably felt like steel wrenches as they wrapped around Alice Conway’s throat and squeezed until all of her memories were forgotten.

           “Ken what?” he asked.

           “Ken Morrison.”

           At this, his mouth curled into an actual smile. “Good to meet you, Ken.”

           I smiled back. “It’s good to meet you, as well, Mr. Waverly.” I waited for him to introduce himself properly, but he never did.

            “So, Ken—or do you prefer Mr. Morrison?”

           “Just Ken’s fine.”

           “Just Ken it is. What do you say we head to the lounge and see if we can’t unwind some?”

           “Are you sure, Mr. Waverly? I figured you’d want to see your daughter.”

           “Oh, she’s had a big day. She could use the rest.”

           “Yes, I suppose she has.”

           A few rooms down, we had a small lounge where the families of mothers in labor could wait for updates. Presently, it was empty, which was just fine by us. I took a seat, and Mr. Waverly walked over to the small radio we kept on the counter. Turning it on, he ran up the dial through various iterations of static until he reached a station I could tell he’d listened too many times. Something downbeat and jazzy softly mingled with the rain, which pounded against the window.

           Walking over to where I was, he asked: “You ever heard this tune before?”

           I listened for a second. “It does sound a little familiar, but I couldn’t tell you what it’s called.”

           He sat on a sofa across from me, his coat flowing with his body. “So Danco Samba. Been a favorite of mine a few years now.”

           “Is that right?”

           “Yeah. See, I own a little car dealership on the other side of town. It started really making money a few years ago, and I seem to remember hearing this song a lot that year.”

           “Hm. I’ll be damned.”

           “Yeah. Only trouble with a favorite song is that one day, you go to listen to it, and you realize that that’s one too many times.”

           “That is unfortunate, isn’t it?”

           “Have you got a favorite song, Ken?”

           I thought about it for a second. “I can’t say that I do. Never had much of an ear for music.”

           “That right?”

           “Yeah. I just listen to whatever’s there.”

           “Interesting. Well, you ought to try and have more of an ear for it. Makes life more colorful, you know?”

           Maybe he had listened to So Danco Samba the previous year, when he had trailed Brenda Bower to her home, waited until night, and smothered her.

           “So tell me about this car lot of yours,” I said.

           He smiled. “It’s just called Waverly Automotive. I’ve had the place about six years, and it’s raked in more than I ever hoped it would.”

           “Really?”

           “Oh, yeah. At this rate, I’ll be able to retire by the time I’m fifty.”

           “Very nice!”

           He nodded. “Yeah. I’ve owned a couple businesses, but none of them have done as well as this.”

           “You’ve owned businesses before?”

           “Yeah. After I got back from Korea, I worked on Wall Street for a while, and as well as that went, New York was just too cramped for me. I came here, and a buddy of mine helped me invest in a restaurant. Well, that went tits up once we realized it was on the side of town where rats liked to congregate.”

           “Jesus.”

           “Tell me about it. But even after that, I had a decent chunk of cash left over, and I bought a little bookstore on the less busy side of town. I don’t know if our selection wasn’t good or if the whole damn country’s just becoming illiterate, but I don’t think I ever saw more than two people in there at once.” We both lit another cigarette. “So for a few years, I just did odd jobs. And just as I scraped together enough, my friend Reggie said that he was looking to get rid of this little car yard, and I figured, ‘hey, third time’s the charm, and none of this short-term crap is going anywhere.’”

           “And it worked out, didn’t it?”

           “I’d say so; I’m making good money. I made the place look just above board enough for people to suspect that maybe they’re paying a fair price.” At this, we both laughed. “Not long after cars started really rolling off the lot, I met June, and the rest is history.” He sighed. “Now it looks like she’ll be history pretty soon.”

           I had briefly forgotten about the situation in the delivery room. “Hey, don’t worry. She’ll be just fine. Dr. Ipswich is the best.”

           “You really think so?” For the first time, he sounded genuinely uncertain.

           “I’m positive.”

           After a few more silent minutes, he said: “So how long have you been an intern?”

           “Four months. I’ve still got a long way to go, but who knows? Maybe I’ll get there.”

           He chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure you will. If nothing else, I think you’ve got the bedside manner for it.”

           I smiled. “Well, thank you. I appreciate that.”

           “Don’t mention it.”

I wonder how much bedside manner he showed Stephen Dunn as he tied him to a table in an abandoned house and left him there with a damp rag tied over his face.

He thought for a second. “Why do you want to be a doctor?”

           “Same reason most want to be doctors, I guess. I wanted to do something that would help people, and this seemed like the best choice.”

           “Helping people, huh? That is admirable.” His voice was growing flat again, but then he grinned. “Hey, but if you ever have a change of heart, I’ve always got room for someone who can charm people into buying Buicks.”

           I chuckled. We sat and smoked for a while, and then I asked: “Hey, by the way, why the sunglasses?”

           “Oh, these?” he laughed and took them off. “I guess I forgot to take them off when I came in.” Mr. Waverly couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, but without his sunglasses, he looked almost ten years older. He had small eyes that were almost as pale as the walls, and set just below them were several deep raven’s claws. I became aware now of just how thin his hairline was in the very front. 

           “You had your sunglasses on in the rain?” I asked.

           “It didn’t start raining until I was on the way.”

           “Ah, I see.” I thought for a second and said: “If you don’t mind me asking, were you alright in the delivery room?”

           “How do you mean?”

           “It’s just that I’ve never seen anything like that. I’ve seen fathers cry, I’ve seen one man vomit, I’ve seen them try to help, but I’ve never seen anyone just stand there. I don’t mean to judge, I’m just curious.”

           Mr. Waverly shrugged. “I didn’t think you were being judgmental. I was fine; I just don’t do so well with blood.”

           “Really?”

           “Yeah. Ever since Korea, when I see blood, I’m like a deer in headlights.”

           “Oh. I’m very sorry.”

           He shrugged again. “Nothing you can do about it.”

           “Mr. Waverly,” said Dr. Ipswich, who had appeared in the doorway. “I need to speak to you.” He looked at me and frowned. “Morrison, what do you think you’re doing? Go make yourself useful.”

           “Y-yessir,” I stammered, getting out of the chair.

           Mr. Waverly got up, and before either of us left, he shook my hand, which was now clammy from embarrassment. “It was very nice meeting you, Ken,” he said warmly. “Drop me a line sometime if you need a new car or if you want to let me know how the life-saving business is going.” He headed toward the door, but before he left, he turned to face me one last time. “And by the way, you can call me Rick.”

           I smiled. “Very nice to meet you, Rick.” He was already out of the lounge.

           June spent her final moments on a soiled bed in Creek City General, and Rick remarried a few years later. The only vaguely good thing to come out of the ghastly ordeal was that she never had to learn what her husband did, never had to see the cops put together the pattern of his crimes, and never had to see his mugshot in the papers, which had long since named him the Creek City Reaper. She didn’t have to see the look in Renee’s eyes as she realized that the man who slew fifteen people had stared in at her the day she was born.