The Collective, page 8
Step three involves buying some items at the Walmart at the Hudson Valley Mall, and so I’m in here now—this cavernous blue-tinged store I hardly ever go to since 1) I hate parking at the mall and 2) Walmart makes me nervous. As per the assignment, I’m supposed to use some of the cash I just got to buy a baseball cap (No team names. No bright colors. Nothing identifiable) and two sets of gloves (one wool, neutral color, no pattern; one latex), a pocket notebook, and a pen. I’ve found the cap already—a plain black one that matches my hair. I’ve also grabbed a pair of matching black gloves, a no-brainer, as are the notebook and pen. For the latex gloves, I’m supposed to go to the pharmacy (you’ll find them in First Aid; they come in packs of twenty, but you will take just two pair (one backup in case the first rips) and dispose of the rest of the pack in the garbage can outside the store). And sure enough, there they are, bottom shelf. Latex surgical gloves. Pack of twenty.
I’m heading for the checkout line when I catch sight of two laughing young women in the makeup department, their faces and voices achingly familiar. I duck into the next aisle before they spot me, and stand here amid the ladies’ razors, watching these lovely creatures. “He’ll love you in this color,” says the taller one, whose name, I remember now, is Gia. “Are you kidding me?” says the shorter one. “It makes me look like his mom!”
The shorter one is Fiona, the girl I caught Emily smoking weed with when they were fourteen. She goes to Brown now, a chemistry major. I learned that from the high school’s newsletter—the issue that came out on what would have been Emily’s graduation. Fiona wears a bright red puffy coat and Gia is in yellow—two joyful twenty-year-old women in primary colors—and watching them is to see what could have been, what should have been if there were no such thing as Harris Blanchard.
Gia must feel me watching her because she glances over in my direction, but I turn away in time and all she sees is some woman in baggy clothes, a head of hacked-off black hair. “What do you think of the pink?” Fiona says, her voice as high and plaintive as when she was fourteen. Don’t be mad at Emily, Ms. Gardener. It was my idea, I swear. My eyes fog up. I turn and walk the full length of the aisle and head for the checkout counter, the gloves and hat clasped in my hands, the flip phone straining against my back pocket.
Get out of here fast—that’s the goal. Those words run through my mind as I hand my cash to the bored-looking teenage clerk and collect my change, the laughter of Emily’s friends somewhere far behind me, a world away. Forget those girls, forget the past. Live in the assignment. Move on to the next step.
STEP FOUR IS to take Route 9 to Staples and use their computer equipment to print out a mail label. Drive .4 miles west, the assignment reads. You will see it on the right. Impressive how correct these instructions are. Staples is exactly that far from the Walmart, and I wonder if 0001 made them up, or if she has regional teams running through dress rehearsals to make sure the game’s instructions are as easy to follow as possible.
Once I’m inside, I make the mail label as specified, the address a PO box in Burlington, Vermont, and pay in cash for the use of the computer and printer.
So far, so good, I think, once I’m back in my car. And then I flip open the phone, return to the assignment text, and read step five. It’s the one with the script.
SCOTT BROS. HUNTING and Fishing is located fifty-two miles north of Staples, in a tiny strip mall on the outskirts of Albany. As with the rest of the assignment, the directions here are so perfect, I have no need to plug the address into my GPS.
Once I’m in the parking lot, I take a long look at Scott Bros., which is located between a nail salon and a check-cashing place and seems very out of place in a strip mall—all that camo and killing equipment in a brightly lit space that probably used to be a Dressbarn. In a few minutes, I’m going to walk into Scott Bros. and buy a certain brand of hunting knife. There is no mention in this assignment of how or when or on whom the knife will be used. But what I’m supposed to believe is that, at some point in the not-too-distant future, it will play a role in the murder of one of the guilty.
I know that’s what 0001 would like us to believe, that this collective is real, that it’s been effectively meting out justice for years, none of its members getting caught, all of them (all of us?) working together to form, as 4566 drunkenly put it, A DEATH MACHINE.
Part of me wants to believe it. A lot of me wants to believe that Gerard Krakowski’s accidental shooting death was not some dark coincidence but the work of the collective, and that these steps I’m taking today will result in tangible justice for someone else. But the more I think about it, the more certain I am that this is nothing more than an elaborate role-play exercise, a type of behavioral group therapy for the mortally wronged.
It just doesn’t make sense as a real thing. If we truly are contributing to the murders of unpunished child killers, and if this has been going on for more than three years, as 0001 says, wouldn’t someone have messed up by now and wrecked the whole operation? We’re grieving mothers, all of us. Wild cards. How could this “great machine” continue to run smoothly when all of its parts are faulty and damaged?
The fascinating thing, though, is that it doesn’t matter to me. I’m willing to commit to this role-play, to believe in it when I haven’t believed in anything at all for the past five years. I’m willing to work my hardest to get every one of these steps to-the-letter right because of the way this all makes me feel—as though my rage has a purpose. As though I have the power to kill, and I’m no longer alone.
And so I do what the assignment asks. I pull out the notebook and the pen and write Buck 119 on one of the pages, then I rip it out and shove it into my coat pocket and go over the script one more time.
I’m ready.
“SO, A KNIFE, huh?” says the man behind the counter—a fiftyish wannabe tough guy with a bushy salt-and-pepper beard, a tattoo of a fanged snake on his biceps, and a thick chain around his neck that reminds me of a choke collar for a rottweiler.
“Yep.”
“Mm-kay.” Outside of the accessories, he’s not terribly threatening-looking. His build is bulky but soft, his voice nasal and high-pitched, almost boyish. But clearly, he wants to look like he belongs in this place, with its sleek handguns and rifles, its ammo belts and pocketed vests and knives with gleaming blades, displayed under the glass counter like engagement rings. It’s freezing outside but sweltering in here, and I imagine it’s so this guy can comfortably wear the tight camouflage T-shirt he’s got on, along with the matching cargo pants—head-to-toe hunter drag, save for a somewhat incongruous nametag. “Your name is Ashley?” I ask him, going off script. I can’t help it.
His face reddens. “My mom was a Gone with the Wind fan.” He clears his throat, and his voice comes back, deeper. “What are you hunting?”
“Deer.” I’m back on script. “Actually, it’s for my brother. A birthday present.”
“Nice!”
I put on a practiced grin. “I’m a good sister.”
“Okay, if you’re talking deer, you’ll want a pretty big blade for gutting and skinning. Personally, I like the Silver Stag Cascade—”
“I’m looking for the Buck 119.”
Ashley’s eyebrows go up. “Lady knows her knives. We’ve sold four of those this week.” He beams at me, holding my gaze a lot longer than I’d like. I’ve dressed in neutral colors—a baggy beige sweater under my puffy coat. Faded jeans. I’ve combed my hair and put on just enough makeup to cover the dark circles under my eyes. In short, I’ve dressed like I always do—so as not to be remembered. But not being remembered is easier said than done when you’re probably the only female a man has spoken to in weeks, maybe months. “Not many women are into hunting.” He says it like he’s been reading my thoughts.
“I’m not.” I avert my gaze. “I don’t know anything about knives, actually. We were talking about my brother’s birthday, and he not so casually mentioned the name. See?” I pull the piece of notebook paper out of my coat pocket and show it to him, clueless as can be. “I even had to write it down, so . . .”
The smile dissolves. “Oh. Okay.”
He opens the glass cabinet. Removes a large knife with a black handle and a curved silver blade that makes my knees weaken. “This is the Buck 119,” he says. “Nothing fancy, but a good, solid, versatile knife. Your brother’s got impressive taste.”
“I’ll take it.”
“You want it gift wrapped?”
“What?”
“Kidding. We don’t do gift wrapping. I’ll need to see some ID, though.”
I look at him.
“Well . . . you gotta be eighteen to purchase a hunting knife, young lady.”
I force out a laugh. “Oh . . . Ashley.”
He winks. “Got ya again.” He leans so far over the counter that I have to take a few steps back. “You . . . uh . . . live in this area?”
“Nope.”
“You here for a little while? I get off soon and I could show you around—”
“My husband was born here. So I’m familiar with it.”
“Ah.” He sighs. Back to business. “Okeydoke. Tax included, the knife costs $96.32.”
I give Ashley cash, as instructed by 0001. “Here you go.” I smile politely.
Ashley doesn’t. He opens the cash register, counts out my change on the counter, and slides it to me. “Not for nothing, but you should wear a wedding ring.” He says it in a huffy tone, as though I deliberately misled him.
“Tomorrow’s another day, Ashley.”
He glares at me, and I wince. I shouldn’t have said that—it wasn’t in the script. But come on. Who does this guy think he is, scolding me over jewelry choices? Or assuming that buying a murder weapon is the same thing as swiping right on a dating app?
Ashley starts to pack the knife into its box. I want to tell him that frankly I don’t give a damn about his stupidly hurt feelings, but instead I hold back. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
He doesn’t look up at me, but his expression softens. “My pleasure, ma’am,” he says. Then: “I really do need to see your driver’s license.”
I swallow hard. The instructions said this would happen. The instructions said not to worry.
He gives me a sleazy smile. “Protocol.”
I pull my wallet out of my pocket and hand Ashley my license.
The picture’s an old one, taken when Emily was still alive and I was healthy and busty and freshly highlighted. He takes a longer look at it than I’d like. “Camille,” he says. “That’s a pretty name.”
“Thank you.”
His gaze shifts from the license to my gaunt face, the amateur dye job, and I can sense him taking it all in, the before-and-after shots. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—understanding? Pity? Recognition? Please don’t let it be recognition. Whatever it is, Ashley doesn’t verbalize it.
He goes back to packing the knife, and when he’s done, he presents me with the slim box, pressing it into my waiting hands like a gift-wrapped bauble. “Hope your brother bags himself a big juicy buck,” he says.
I’VE DRIVEN EIGHTY-ONE miles to get to step six, which is to be completed at the post office in Ellenville. There’s no script for this step, but there is a costume—the black baseball cap, black wool gloves with the latex ones underneath. Like the rest of this town, the post office is small and unassuming—a one-story building made of stone, with blue painted shutters—and I feel strange and out-of-place here, in my serial killer’s costume, carrying a boxed hunting knife along with the mailing label I made at Staples.
As I approach the entrance, I spot two surveillance cameras glaring down at me. I reach for the door. It flies open and I jump back, gasping, the box gripped to my chest—an overreaction if there ever was one.
“Whoa, sorry!” says a voice. A man’s voice. I don’t know what he looks like because my head is down, my gaze glued to the sidewalk. I don’t want him to see my face.
“No worries.”
I can feel him gaping at me, and my skin prickles.
Believe. Commit. Question nothing.
The post office is small inside, with dark wood paneling and a huge mural on one wall. With the last of my cash, I purchase a padded envelope and, as specified in step six, $14.90 in postage from the sweet-faced elderly woman at the counter. I manage a smile at her as I check the room. It’s too warm and library-quiet, but empty, which is the important thing. I hope it stays that way.
I make for a far corner, where I remove my wool gloves, slip the box into the padded envelope and seal it, affixing the label I made at Staples: that PO box in Burlington, Vermont.
As I complete this step, I peer at the mural above me—a group of Founding Father types standing outside an old-fashioned wooden building, some holding muskets, others raising their arms triumphantly. One of them plays with his dog. All of them seem to be watching me with X-ray eyes, the nuclear heat of them boring into the contents of the package and my latex-gloved hands as I smooth the label. The door opens behind me, a whoosh of cold air rushing in. I grab the wool gloves and put them on before turning around. A young woman approaches the window, a stack of packages in her arms. There’s no telling whether she noticed me in my latex gloves. But I suppose, it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s just a game, after all.
Isn’t it?
In part two of this step, I will dispose of the baseball cap and both sets of gloves at a rest stop twenty miles south of here. And then, at last, it will be time for step seven. I want it all to be over, but also I don’t. There’s a rush in this off-kilter feeling, the thrill of secrecy and potential danger blended with something I haven’t felt in years—a sense of purpose, I think.
As I drop my package in the appropriate slot and head for the door, I could swear that sweet-faced elderly woman is watching me, too, and smiling. Do you know? I want to ask her. Do you understand? Are you one of us?
Eight
AĞLAYAN KAYA
PRIVATE MESSAGES
January 16, 10:00 p.m.
Participants: 0001, 0417
* * *
0001: The package has been received. You have officially completed your first assignment. Welcome to the collective. Your loyalty has been proven. But not permanently. It will be expected of you, always.
0417: Thank you. I appreciate the opportunity.
0001: You will be receiving another assignment within the next twelve hours. It may or may not involve interacting in person with another member. If so, are you willing?
0417: Yes.
0001: This is the next level of your involvement. I caution you not to exchange too much personal information. Speak to each other only enough to effectively complete the given assignment. This is necessary, for both your safety and the safety of the collective. Do you understand?
0417: Yes.
0001: It is in motion, then.
0417: Can I ask one question?
0001: Yes.
0417: What is going to happen with the knife I sent to Vermont?
0001 has left the private chat.
IT’S BEEN SIX days since I sent the package to Vermont, and four days since 0001 messaged me, making my membership in the collective official. I still don’t know what happened with the knife—probably nothing. But I don’t care. Ever since I completed that first assignment, I’ve been sleeping better than I have in years. My appetite has improved. I’m able to drive long distances without my mind going to dark places, and I worry less in general.
I’ve been enjoying my design work, too. In just a few hours, I finished all of Glynne’s suggested tweaks to her site, and she loved the results so much that she insisted on paying me generously. I even managed a lunch with Denise, who mentioned the glow in my cheeks and asked if maybe I’m dating again. Quite a transformation in such a short time, and I know the reason: I no longer feel powerless. As 0001 said during my most recent conversation with her, There’s a reason why the poor and disenfranchised find direction in the military. There’s safety in numbers, yes. But more important, there is power.
So even though I may not be contributing to the real-life murders of the unjustly unpunished, these strange assignments make me feel as though I am. And that, I now understand, is what gives them meaning.
Three days ago I bought two old-fashioned Lux kitchen timers, one white, one pale blue, at a busy indoor flea market in Tannersville and placed them in the mailbox of an abandoned pre-kindergarten in Lenox, Massachusetts. Two days ago I purchased a flip phone from a convenience store in Nyack, called a Florida phone number with it, read a series of letters, numbers, and symbols into the voicemail, then disposed of the phone at a public dump in Ramapo.
And then, last night, I finally came in contact with another member of the collective. She was a pale young woman with damp hair and big, frightened eyes, and I met her at two in the morning in the parking lot of a dilapidated mall in Bridgeport, Connecticut. My task was to drive her, in my own car, to the New Birmingham rest stop on the New York Thruway—a drive that took close to two hours. But I was too worried about following 0001’s rules to ask for the woman’s name or even her Kaya screen name, and so we spent most of the ride without speaking, the only sounds in my car the rasp of her breathing, her chattering teeth. I wanted to ask what she was doing with wet hair on such a bitter cold night, but she seemed so fragile to me, the way her small hands gripped the seat, her left knee bouncing furiously. Rules aside, asking her anything felt invasive and wrong.
Just before she got out of my car, she placed a hand on my shoulder. “Sister,” she said. She left before I could respond, hurrying through the rest stop’s nearly empty parking lot to another waiting car, its headlights blinding me before it disappeared into the night.
I’m thinking about her face now, the terror in it, and then her voice, the steely resolve in that final moment when she called me sister. Her wet hair, the smell of her sweat. How real it all seemed—as though she wasn’t just pretending, as though she’d evened a score by committing some awful act she’d never thought herself capable of and, having crossed that line, was now stronger than she’d ever imagined possible.
