The Collective(25)

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.