The Doll Maker

In Finn Brooke the sky was always blue and the sun was always shining. A light breeze would blow through the town about midday, cooling the faces of the 325 people who lived there. The word ‘small’ didn’t even come close to describing this town or the people in it. In reality, everyone here was big, and if you tried hard enough you could even touch the sky.

The local bar and grill acted as a town hall whenever one was necessary, but there hadn’t been a meeting in nearly ten years. Now it was just the hot spot for the young and old, for the workers who got off at all times of day and night, and for those who just wanted to get out of the house. Right outside the bar was a statue of Marvin Finn, the founder, and he stood taller than most of the buildings. He was the example, the one who showed us how to reach for what we wanted. He was my grandfather.

I could touch the sky. All I had to do was reach up my hand and my petite fingers would graze along the various combinations of blue, green, orange, and pink, dragging stars behind me. That’s when I was younger at least. My grandfather had passed before I was born, before my father had even met my mother. I never knew him, but I would stare up at that statue of Marvin Finn gazing into the horizon and wonder what he had been like. What he dreamed about at night when he saw the millions of stars staring back down at him. My father would always tell me to come away, that if there were any dreams worth taking they weren’t in Marvin Finn’s eyes or up above in the sky. The only dreams worth having could be found right here in Finn Brooke. That’s how my father became head of the factory here, the town’s biggest source of revenue, an old shoe making company: Finn’s Shoes. Original.

When I was young, maybe nine or ten, my father would sit me on his knee and tell me stories of conquest or faith or determination. They were normally about him or grandfather and how great they made this place. Most often, my father told me about how he knew he was destined to run the shoe factory, the only one 'til Seattle. It was his “calling.” Each night he would tell me this and each night my mother would call out to us that dinner was ready, even when it wasn’t, just so he would quit rambling. I don’t think he ever got the message, not 'til I was older and found a conquest of my own. My grandfather made the town, my father began the factory, and so I had to leave a mark, didn’t I?

My father and I are very different people, always have been, always will be. He focused on what he had in front of him, what he could see and touch. I typically found more enjoyment in what life could give you in intellect, humor, feeling. This being only one of many reasons we barely speak now.

I was 18 when I left for college in Seattle, on my mother’s encouragement. My father was outraged; he didn’t think I could leave Finn Brooke and my future as his heir behind. “Finn’s created this town and there will always be a Finn here to protect it. “ He put emphasis on the “always” just to make sure I knew this town would be my past, present, and future. Unfortunately, fate took a mean turn and about three years into my Psychology degree my mom got sick, real sick. Of course my father blamed me for putting too much stress on her by leaving, but I don’t think anyone really knows how a woman of 40 who never smoked a day in her life develops lung cancer.

Seven years passed and I’m still stuck in Finn Brooke, just like my father always wanted. My mother has been bedridden for five years, and it’s taking its toll on her body and her mind. The doctor from Seattle, nearly three hours away, calls it delirium, but I knew better. She was on her way out.

My conquest was a library, and it was the town’s greatest accomplishment. It stood nearly as tall as Marvin Finn and held just as much square footage as the bar. Marble columns, arched ceilings, and a basement with several private study rooms. The library took me nearly five years to finish, as I needed to convince everyone, including my father, that it was necessary, find the funds to build it, and then find books to fill it. It was the only library for the three towns of Finn Brooke, Norton, and Hallsville. Most people had to drive into Seattle to find a book, that’s what ultimately convinced the towns to help fund my project. If I leave any sort of legacy in this town, it’s going to be that library. After all, 'Lilac Finn' was inscribed on the outside. However, I suppose it left me vulnerable, my love for the library, for reading in general. My own form of escapism, my mother used to say. I didn’t necessarily agree with that. I liked the characters I read about; Dark characters with even darker histories, even a bit of the morbid. That was all I could read about. Actions weren’t either good or bad, the world was full of gray, and in the end we would all find our destiny.

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I didn’t see him coming. That’s normally the first question people ask me once they hear my story. Did I want this? Did I want something more exciting than this life could offer me? I don’t honestly know. All I can really tell you is that when I saw the opportunity for something bigger than myself, how could I just ignore it?

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It was a Sunday like any other, the town was just beginning to cool off from the long summer months, and there was less traffic than usual in the library. Most of the townsfolk reserved Sundays for God, food, and relaxation. I preferred Sundays here, in my library, with a good book and no interruptions. As I had just turned a page entering the climax of American Psycho, a book I had been hooked on for a week, I heard the door to the library open and bang shut. A swoosh of air ran through the main floor and I would have lost my page had I not been nose deep in it.

“Ahem,” a man cleared his throat as he approached the circular desk where I sat. He must have been leaning in close because some of the hairs on my head quivered as he breathed. Slowly, I dog-eared the page I was on, closed the book and set it aside, and looked up at the lumberjack of a man who had just broken the peace of my sanctuary. He had to have been at least 6’5, shoulders as broad as a barge, with a beard that covered the lower half of his face. He was wearing a wide brimmed hat that shielded his eyes, a long black coat, and boots with soles of steel that clicked every time he took a step on the marble floors.

“Can I help you?” My brows furrowed as I tried to uncover the identity of this stranger. He cleared his throat again and removed his hat, revealing the most piercing blue eyes I had ever seen. How did I not know this man? 325 people in this godforsaken town and his was the only face I couldn’t place. As soon as our eyes met I felt something click, like he recognized something in me and I in him. I had known this man my whole life.

“Yes, ma’am. I’d like to know where I could find a forensics section.” His voice was gruff, but it almost felt soothing to hear. He had a slight drawl, elongating the vowels of his words.

“I can show you.” I stood up and left the confines of my desk, the only safe place I had. Every time I ventured out of my fortress I could feel the townspeople staring, trying to figure out what exactly went wrong with me. They knew I was different from them, but they looked at me like I was some side act in the circus, they didn’t understand my depth. “Forensics is a very peculiar area, what interests you in the field?” I had read every book in this place twice, if not more. The benefits of being the only librarian I suppose. I stopped as we approached the small section of forensics/criminal justice/psychology. The man took a step further than I expected and I could feel his hot breath on my neck as he softly rumbled the next words.

“I find it fascinating, serial killers I mean. The way their minds function, the way they perform their work, it’s art, wouldn’t you agree?”

All the breath left my body at once; I even thought I saw stars for a moment. I could feel it in every inch of my body; my life from here on out would never be the same. The air shifted behind me as the man moved to pick out a book entitled Forensics and Criminology; A detailed anthology of America’s mass serial killers.

“This should do.” He spoke again, now facing me. I saw his eyes staring at me out of my peripherals, and suddenly a light went on.

“You’re the blacksmith, John Harmon.” Armed with knowledge I turned to face him as well. “ You’ve only been here a couple months, right?” He nodded. “Where did you come from?”

“Fort Knox.”

“Wow, you’ve come a long way. Do you just like Washington or do you have family out here?”

“It was just my time to leave, the army doesn’t appreciate those who don’t take orders well.” The man cocked his head and his expression softened. “Why are you here?”

“My grandfather is Marvin Finn, he founded this place and I guess none of us Finn’s have left since.” I shrugged and took his book, about to head back to the counter so I could check it out on the computer system I had installed a few months ago.

“I was very glad to see a library when I got here, this one is nicer than most.” John Harmon stood his ground, not following me to the desk. I could feel my cheeks blushing and walked back over to him.

“Thanks, most people think it’s a nuisance.”

“Then I don’t think those people are worth your time.” John Harmon smiled and reached out for his book. I felt frozen, my eyes locked into his. His hand landed on mine, it felt rough and calloused. It was as if the air around me had suddenly burst into a storm of electric charges and time was standing still, in fact it no longer even existed. I can’t honestly say I wanted this man in my life, but I needed him to be there. I needed him.

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John Harmon stopped in every day that week in August. The week turned into a month, and soon there was snow on the ground and my day didn’t even begin until I saw him. Sometimes he would be picking up books, strange topics like crime files or household cleaning, but most of the time he would just stop in and sit with me and we would talk about almost everything. About where we thought we came from and where we wanted to go, goals, dreams, fears, what death would be like. We talked about subjects I didn’t even know I had an interest in until he brought them up. What was the worst pain you had ever felt? A car had once hit John as he was crossing a highway, which accounted for a long scar all up his right arm. It left his skin mangled and coarse, but the mystery and adventure surrounding him only drew me in further. Pretty soon the whole town was talking about us, as is the nature of towns like Finn Brooke.

I could almost feel the excitement in the air. Finally I was doing something that no one agreed with and yet no one could stop. It was going to be my mark. John was an artist, he understood my need to be relevant, to be remembered. My family was a legacy, each one greater than the last, and now it was my turn. The library had been a good start, but I needed to do something bigger, something that would make my name live forever. John knew. He would live forever in his art, and now I could live there with him.

“Lilac, where are you?” John gently shook my arm, bringing me back to reality. A task he had grown accustomed to, as I was often off in my daydreams. Right now, reality was a small restaurant on the outskirts of Finn Brooke, comfort foods and a homey atmosphere. John enjoyed it in contrast to the austere décor of his home, and I enjoyed it because it reminded me of him.

“Sorry,” I smiled softly, taking his hand as it slid down my arm. “I was just thinking about everything that’s happened since I met you. I feel so,” I paused, taking a breath, “so electrified. You thrill me, John Harmon.” He grinned and took my cheek in his free hand and kissed me with all the passion this world could offer.

“Ehem.” A loud scoff broke us out of our private reverie. I shifted my gaze to see our waitress, a petite brunette woman with a permanent look of disdain upon her features. Of course both the waitress and I had grown up in Finn Brooke and went through our schooling together, but her name escaped me, many once familiar things did. It seemed that the more I realized what was really important, the more the irrelevant aspects of my life disappeared.

“Yes?” Johns voice rang out in a chilling, lulled tone as he slowly turned to face our intruder, producing the desired effect in the waitress: uncertainty, with a twinge of fear. Her jaw dropped a bit as she uncomfortably shifted her gaze between John and I. She took a slight step back and her skin began to perspire. The corner of my mouth twitch up in a small chuckle, John had taught me so much about human nature, and the manipulation of it became an addiction.

“Your, uh, bill,” She stumbled out and placed the receipt on the edge of our table, “Sir.” She turned away quickly and didn’t return. I smiled and squeezed John’s hands in mine. He was lost in a different world, in the potential for his art. The woman would have been a good model for him, but he didn’t do so much living art anymore. We had both outgrown it.

“Now you’re the one who’s gone,” I looked down at our hands, molded together as if they could never be apart. “You are leaving soon, aren’t you?” John often had business in other parts of the state, but he never left for as long as he would be this time.

“Tomorrow,” He sighed. “I’ll be back in a week though, I know you can find something to occupy your time.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to be nothing when you're gone.” I had neglected my own work for so long, after becoming immersed in Johns. What if I really would be nothing without him?

*************************************************************

'MURDER IN FINN BROOKE' was the front-page headline. The whole world seemed to stop as the people of Finn Brooke read the article that would change our little town forever. The small world of my living room bled away the more I read and reread. Three women had gone missing a few weeks ago from neighboring towns, most of their bodies turning up several days later, each missing parts. Now we were on that list. Two bodies were found last night, one without a right leg and the other missing the left, in the creek that ran along the relatively unknown route 75 from here to Seattle. They were faces I knew, girls I had had conversations with. One of the girls was our waitress from the small diner, she had disappeared the day after John left.

The phone rang, making me jump and break with my thoughts. I clutched the paper tightly, crumpling the corners, as I walked to the landline perched on the wall of my kitchen.

“Hello?” I answered tentatively.

“Lilac, you saw the paper?” My fathers voice was hard and stressed, each word blurred with the next as he spoke. I managed to mumble out a yes.

“Did you see the description on the second page? Someone saw those girls near the creek at 3:00am two nights ago, and they saw a man too.” My heart felt like it stopped in my chest as my father spoke. I had to call John. “Lilac, the police are looking for a white male at least six feet tall. Sound familiar to you? The police are interrogating everyone in town, you have to tell them—.”

“I have to go.” I hung up the phone and clumsily slid down the wall until I was lying in the fetal position on the cold tile floor. Were the police looking for John? Did he do those things? Could he murder five women? What would I say to him when he got back? I didn’t know if I could turn him in or not, I didn’t know if I even wanted to. My mind was blank and my body numb.

A knock at the door pulled me out of my thoughts. I had no idea how much time had passed. Taking a deep breath, I tried to gather myself. I stood, rather shakily, and made my way over to the door. Another knock. I attempted to speak, to ask who was on the other side of that bleach white door, but my throat was dry and my mouth couldn’t seem to form the correct words. I reached for the handle, painfully aware of each second as it ticked by, and slowly, I twisted the door open.

“Hello, ma’am. Are you Lilac Finn?” Two men in police uniforms stood before me, and I let out a gasp of air that I didn’t know I had been holding. “May we come in for a moment?” I nodded and shut the door once they crossed the threshold into my home. Their uniforms weren’t typical of the fived-manned office of the Finn Brooke Police Department.

“I’m Dave and that’s Barry, we’re from Norton PD. We’d like to ask you some questions about John Harmon.” Norton, that’s where two other girls had gone missing. I nodded again.

“Okay, we know the two of you are close and that he’s not in town currently. When did he leave Finn Brooke?”

“A week ago,” nearly a whisper.

“And when will he be back?”

“Tomorrow, I think.”

“Okay, Ms. Finn, have you noticed anything off about him lately? Strange interests? Maybe he’s been secretive or gone a lot lately? Word around town is that he's a fairly solitary fellow, but we'd like your input.” My breath caught in my throat and I took a few steps back, desperate to exhale.

“What are you saying,” my voice shook, “I just...I can’t help you.” I turned from them, frantically searching for the right thing to say. “Would you like some tea?” I sped into the kitchen, occupying myself so I had more time to think. I looked at the officers in my living room, they were whispering, one would glance up at me every few seconds.

“Barry, she knows something, I can feel it.” The one called Dave looked at me again. He thought he was whispering quietly enough, that I couldn't hear their accusations.

“Listen, if she is involved then she’ll slip up and we can take her in. Just be patient, the whole state is working on this,” Barry resolved, standing up straighter. I walked back over after putting on the tea.

“Ma’am, I don’t mean to be rude, but if you are involved or know something and you don’t tell us, you will be charged as an accomplice.” Dave’s eyes narrowed, he was determined. He knew, and so did I.

“I’m sorry, none of this sounds like John. Maybe you all should try talking to my father, he’s head of the factory. I’m sure someone there knows more than I could tell you.” I smiled politely at the officers; they gave each other an uncomfortable glance.

“Ms. Finn, you’re about 5’5 right? Brunette, blue eyes, small build? We’re only asking because you bear an uncanny resemblance to some of these women who’ve been killed.” The officer, Dave, spoke.

“Actually, Ms. Finn, your father was the one who told us to come talk to you about John…” Barry quietly let his voice trail off.

“Hmm, that’s interesting.” I cocked my head to the side; “I hadn’t noticed that about the women before. Very interesting." I stopped, allowing the uncomfortable pause that followed extend for just a moment too long. "Well its about time for me to head to work, are we done here?” I stood up and walked to the door, not giving them enough time to answer. The two men awkwardly stood and walked past me, thanking me for my time. They paused past the threshold of my door, sharing a look. Dave attempted to turn back towards me but I flung the door shut too quickly. After locking the bolt, I jumped into action. Suitcases packed, a hurried message on John’s voicemail, and I even wrote a note to my mother, trying to explain. The phone rang again, and I let it go five times before answering.

“Hello?”

“Lilac, I’m so glad you called. Are you okay? Are the police there? What’s going on?” John’s hectic voice sounded on the other end of the line and excitement tinged with fear flooded through me. A high-pitched screaming made me gasp; I braced myself against the wall and remembered the tea. “Lilac! What’s happening?” I took a couple deep breathes before answering him.

“I’m fine, John, but the police are looking for you. They’re saying you killed those women.” I let the line go silent for a bit, I had to know that John was all in.

“Pack your things and head to the barn on the edge of my property, the one where I keep my art. I’ll meet you there.”

“Already done.”

It took about twenty minutes to evade the police car that was following me, and another twenty to drive out of town near the edge of John’s land. He had bought quite a few acres, most of it covered in thick forestry. John had taken me hiking many times on that land; even on the brightest day the entwined branches made it dark.

The barn was in poor shape; it had been a discovery the two of us had made months ago. Once inside I glanced around for the last time. There was an old sofa, ripped in multiple places, and the space looked like a tornado had ripped through it. Newspapers and magazines were everywhere, a cup of coffee had tipped over and never been cleaned, and the air smelled vaguely of ammonia. Something flashed light into my eye and I turned to shuffle around some papers on the floor. I picked up a wooden picture frame, the edges cracked and most of the glass covered in dust. I gently blew and the dust exploded off the glass like shrapnel. I stared curiously at the picture of me looking down at a few papers, and the university I had attended made up the background. Strange, I didn’t know John then, though it felt like I had known him a lifetime. I took the picture out of the frame, folded it, and stuffed it in the back pocket of my jeans.

A trap door in the middle of the barn had been swung wide open revealing a set of stairs. Carefully I walked down, being sure not to make any noise. There was a small light source in the corner of the basement, but John was hovered over it, blocking it from reaching the last step and I stumbled.

“Lilac, wait there! It’s a surprise!” I stopped, John’s hands began working quicker, and then he took a deep breath and turned to face me. His hands were stuffed into rubber gloves up to his elbows, they were covered in a red liquid, but his face held the brightest smile I had ever seen. I walked closer to him, the smell of ammonia was stronger now and it burned my nostrils. “Sorry about the smell, I just had to make sure everything was perfect.”

“What is it John?” My voice came out softer than I expected. He signaled me to come closer and stepped out of the way so I could view his masterpiece in the light. There was a large freezer he had been leaning over, and now it was the only thing emitting light in the darkness. “Oh, John,” I breathed as I looked over his work. It was a body, perfectly sewn together by each major joint. The skin was mismatched, but other than that it was a very accurate representation of the subject. On top of the neck sat a picture of my face, another I hadn’t even known John had taken. I had on a smile that I wore just for him, a hidden smile, one that attempted to mislead him on how excited he made me feel. I knew he could see right through it.

“Do you like it?” He was nervous. I don't think I've ever seen him nervous before.

“No one has ever done something like this for me before,” I turned to him, again enjoying the unwelcome pause my lack of an answer created. "I love it." John grinned and embraced me, the liquid on his hands seeped into my cotton t-shirt, but it didn’t matter. Only John and I mattered, and the legacy we would create. I looked back down at the body, “She’s like a doll.” I leaned my head into his chest and could feel John smile into my hair. The sound of his heartbeat was like my own personal lullaby.

“I want to make a collection.” He rested his forehead on mine, eyes closed, taking in the moment.

“Someday the world will appreciate your art, and they’ll all remember our names.” I replied and closed the lid over the cooling chamber that John had stored her in. It took us all of five minutes to load it into the back of his truck on the other side of the barn. We were a team, a family. He was the only real family I’d ever had.

*************************************************************

It’s hard to believe sometimes that it didn’t’ work out. I thought John and I were invincible, that we would always be together. We both should’ve seen the storm headed our way. There’s a reason the bad guys in my stories always get caught, and I did not ever plan on being one of them. It must have been about a month after we had first eloped; John had just gotten back to the shanty of a motel we were staying at, near the border of Washington and Canada. He wanted to go straight into Canada, but our dolls didn’t last long and he had to keep finding new parts. It was a hassle and took a toll on him; already our relationship was beginning to deteriorate. John was starting to get sloppy. The men chasing us were close; they drove right by the motel we had been staying at a few towns prior. I knew I couldn’t let this go on any further, and from what I understood in the small bits of news I had time to see, my father had convinced everyone John had kidnapped me. My father, the Good Samaritan, just wanted his daughter back. He knew I could never do something like this, and when he spoke people listened. He was my saving grace, and I was his lost doll.

It was a little after 12:00 a.m. when I made the call.

The knife I had stolen from John's tool box felt cool to the touch. It was his favorite. Not too long, wide, the blade sharpened earlier that day. A far off siren sounded and grew louder with each passing moment, soon red and blue lights were flashing outside the motel. I crawled in bed and curled my body to match the contours of a sound asleep John, he had such a long day searching for the perfect woman. His fingernails were permanently stained red now. I ran my finger along his chiseled jawline for the last time. He had to shave his beard to avoid being recognized in the neighboring towns and I missed running my hands through it. A single tear slid down my cheek as I looked at him, so peaceful. This was how I wanted to remember him for the rest of my life.

“We are eternal, thank you.” I whispered against his cheek. Then I raised the knife and slid it across John's throat. His eyes fluttered open for a moment and blood poured over my hands and body, in spurts at first, then slowing to a steady flow after a few moments.

Someone was speaking into a megaphone. I wasn’t paying attention, and I could barely summon the strength to walk out of the motel. The room kept shifting and my eyes blurred; I couldn’t think about him anymore, what I’d done was final. I opened the door to my room and walked out with my hands up.

“Please,” I choked out. “Please, help me. I just want to go home. I just want to go back to Finn Brooke.” A swarm of officers rushed around me and into the room. I fell to my knees as another officer came up and grabbed my arms. I was hysterical, crying and shouting, the pain I felt was extraordinary. My wrists were cuffed and someone helped me into the back of a police car. Two familiar faces caught my eye. I looked back at the motel and saw Dave and Barry from Norton PD talking to a couple of the Finn Brooke officers. Dave kept shaking his head, he was upset, and Barry just walked away. Once the door of the police car closed I came back to my senses. I was acutely aware of the coolness of the blood soaking my clothing, reaching everything hemline until there was nothing else left. Just his blood.

I was taken to the police headquarters in Norton, where my father was waiting for me. Apparently Dave and Barry had made quite a case against me, but my father, being the influential man he was, managed to convince the agents assigned to John’s case otherwise. I was “confused”, “stolen from my family”, I couldn’t have possibly known what was going on, right?

It had been hours since I had been taken into custody and I had no idea what was going on. They didn't have a change of clothes available in the police department, but the blood had dried by now and my top felt stiff. I must have begun to doze off because the sound of the door banging open would have made me jump out of my chair if I hadn’t been handcuffed to it. The police chief gave me a sympathetic smile and gently released me from the handcuffs. I stood just in time for my father to come running in to hug me. As he did the force of his hug caused some of the crusted blood to spray, permeating the air around us and falling to the floor like dust. It felt strange; we had never been a close family so I suspected my father's affection was just for show. I tried to look sheepish, sorrowful; I must have succeeded.

We were about to leave, my father was signing some paperwork while I waited at the doors; a free woman. I heard someone walk up behind me, and turned to find Dave. He looked pale, had bags under his eyes, and wore the general demeanor of a defeated man. He leaned in close to me, so close that his lips nearly touched my ear.

“I know. I know what really happened and just because your father has everyone convinced that you’re innocent doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying to prove the truth." I blankly stared at the officer before me, he hardly looked like the one who had questioned me what seemed like a lifetime ago. He stepped back abruptly. "Do you even care about the lives you’ve destroyed?” His eyes were menacing, his voice verging on anger. “You will not have a normal life, I will never forget this.”

I gave him a warm smile. “No one will.”