John Lutz Bundle (95 page)

Jill deliberated for hours. Finally she returned to the phone and called the precinct house nearest her address. They didn’t know what she was talking about at first. Then they tried to convince her that if she had valuable information it wasn’t necessary to talk to a particular officer. She told them patiently that she’d talk
only
to Quinn. It occurred to her that they might be tracing the call, but that was okay. She’d decided on her course and didn’t care.

At last someone gave her the number to call to talk to Quinn. A detective named Fedderman told her that he’d be glad to help her, that Quinn wasn’t available. Again she insisted on Quinn and only Quinn. Finally, maybe because Fedderman heard the desperation in her voice, he relented. He told her to hold and he’d put her through.

There was no unmemorable background music, only a series of clicks and buzzes as her call was patched through to yet another number.

A voice said, “Quinn,” and the connection was made.

Charlotte was surprised when Dixie slowed the big Chrysler to a stop. They waited while a sectioned overhead steel door rumbled and clanked as it rolled up in front of them. She looked over at Dixie, who smiled reassuringly, as the door reached full open position and the long black car eased into what the dimness soon revealed to be a garage. Charlotte heard the steel door rattle closed behind them.

“Don’s garage,” Dixie explained.

Charlotte nodded. She hadn’t been paying much attention, but it didn’t seem to her that the garage was large enough to be part of a much larger building that would contain apartments. Of course, Don might live in one of those prewar brick or brownstone homes converted into apartments. Or it might be a rented garage; there must be plenty of them in Manhattan, considering the scarcity of parking spaces.

She felt better when a wooden walk-through door on the back wall of the garage opened and Don entered. He was wearing faded jeans and a gray T-shirt that might at one time have said
METS
. He was also carrying a white cardboard box.

As Dixie climbed out of the car on the driver’s side, Charlotte opened her door. She heard Dixie say, “Hi,” to Don, then, “See what I’ve brought.” As if Charlotte was a pleasant surprise. But Don didn’t seem surprised.

Charlotte got all the way out of the car and closed the door behind her. She thought she heard the electronic whisper of the doors locking. The garage smelled of gasoline and oil and something she couldn’t identify. Heat rolled out on her ankles from beneath the car.

Don looked over at Charlotte and winked. “Hi, Charlotte.” He placed the cardboard box on the floor, wiped his palms on the thighs of his jeans, and walked over to her. He was smiling. Charlotte thought he was going to offer his hand to shake. Instead he punched her hard in the stomach.

All the air
whooshed
out of Charlotte’s lungs and she slumped forward. Didn’t fall, though, because Dixie had walked around the back of the car and was there to catch her with her arms around her midsection just beneath her breasts.

Close to her ear, Charlotte heard her ask Don, “Bring everything?”

“Everything you wanted. This was your idea.”

Charlotte’s body wanted to draw into a tight curl. Her feet rose off the floor. But Dixie was strong and held her firmly enough so she didn’t fall. She was hanging there in the air with her legs pulled up almost in a fetal position.

The vacuum in Charlotte seemed to be drawing every part of her toward it. Her head was bowed. She couldn’t raise it as she tried futilely to suck in air. She saw that the garage floor was covered with something. A plastic drop cloth. She also saw that Don was wearing loose green booties of some sort, the kind doctors wore in operating rooms or other sterile environments. He reached into the cardboard box and pulled out a green surgical smock. It took him less than a minute to slip it on over his clothes, complete with cap. His movements were all very smooth and practiced, as if he’d done this many times before. He snapped on latex gloves with the same expertise.

Charlotte’s heart was about to burst. She worked harder to suck in precious oxygen, and this time managed a quick, sharp intake of breath. A rasping sob.

“She’ll be able to scream soon,” Dixie said.

“Can’t have that,” Don said.

He bent down, got a thick roll of gray duct tape from the box, and walked over to stand in front of Charlotte. He reeled out about two feet of tape and ripped it off the role. Charlotte felt Dixie tighten her grip and shift one arm so her hand was cupping Charlotte’s chin. She raised Charlotte’s head and Don quickly slapped the tape over Charlotte’s gaping mouth and wrapped it around her cheeks and neck, even her hair. He pulled out more tape and wound it tightly so she couldn’t breathe in or out through her mouth, couldn’t utter a sound. Then he stepped back and surveyed his work without really looking at Charlotte as a person. That more than anything scared her.

What will they do to me if I’m not human anymore?

“She won’t suffocate, will she?” Don asked.

“She’s breathing through her nose,” Dixie said.

Charlotte was, but it took every bit of will and effort she could manage. The ache in her stomach had spread throughout her body. But she
was
breathing again. She could hear the air hissing through her nose. Getting louder. The frantic hissing reminded her that all they had to do was pinch her nostrils for a minute or so and she’d be dead. That was all that stood between her and nothing. Now she was truly terrified.

She calmed her fears somewhat by telling herself there was at least some hope. Don had been afraid she might suffocate with the tape over her mouth, so they didn’t intend to kill her.

Did they?

She tried to convince herself that the answer was no. Then what
was
going on? A kidnapping? Hardly. There wasn’t anyone who’d pay even a small amount of money to have Charlotte returned. There was no place for her to be returned to, since she’d cut off all family ties a month ago when she moved to New York after the inevitable blowup. It wasn’t acceptable to be a lesbian in a small town in Indiana. Her parents had said that they didn’t want to see her again, that she was no longer their daughter. Charlotte had accepted their judgment and pronouncement, and after meeting Dixie she knew she could live with the situation.

Now this. Some kind of sexual thing? Dixie was plenty kinky. Maybe this was all to frighten Charlotte, give her the ultimate masochistic kick. But they’d never gone this far before. Not half this far. Charlotte managed to crane her neck and look up at Dixie. Dixie smiled at her. Charlotte knew that smile. This time it frightened her.
Really
frightened her.

Was that the idea? She prayed it was the idea. A kinky game. Nothing more. In an hour or two at most it would be over.

She saw that Don had something else in his hand. A thin strip of white plastic. It was one of those ties that once placed around something had to be cut to be removed. Sometimes the police used them instead of handcuffs.

The police. Charlotte wouldn’t mind seeing
them
right now.

Dixie momentarily released Charlotte, then grasped her wrists and yanked her arms behind her back. Charlotte felt the plastic tie go on and tighten, cutting painfully into her flesh. She screamed silently into the duct tape.

Now she struggled to stand on her own. Dixie helped her, grabbing her beneath each arm and supporting her. The way Charlotte’s wrists were strapped behind her, she still had to slump forward, but she was standing.

While Dixie held her, Don went to the box and returned with some kind of cutter with a razor blade in it. Charlotte kicked out her legs desperately and banged her heels against the hard floor. She remembered the clear plastic sheet spread over the floor, the kind painters used so they wouldn’t make a mess. Don was going to cut her throat. A single, quick slash and her life would gush from her. She knew it!

But he didn’t use the blade that way at all.

Instead he used it to cut along the seams of her blouse. He yanked the blouse away as if performing a magic trick and tossed it over by the box. He cut her bra straps and removed her bra. Tossed it over to land on her blouse. She kicked out futilely. One of her sandals flew off and landed near the pile of clothes, as if she’d tried to place it there. Don was staring at her intently now, but while his eyes were alive his features were set, almost wooden. He cupped one of her bare breasts in his hand for a moment, then unbuckled her belt, worked the button and zipper on her jeans, and tugged at the waist. When he’d inched the jeans down a bit, he lifted her feet and clutched the denim around her ankles and pulled the jeans off, along with her remaining sandal. Charlotte wriggled and tried to kick him. He sidestepped her bare foot and had her panties off before she knew what had happened.

Don went back to the box and drew from it a folded clear plastic drop cloth, like the one on the floor, only smaller. He unfolded it and draped it over the hood of the car.

He came back and stood in front of Charlotte, just out of kicking range, and looked at Dixie.

“Do we really want to do this?” he asked.

“Both of us do,” Charlotte heard Dixie say in a throaty voice. She could feel Dixie’s warm breath in her ear.

Don went again to the box and this time drew out what looked like a broomstick, only it was shorter, and pointed.

At first Charlotte didn’t realize what that meant. When she did, she was aware of a warm wetness flowing down her legs as terror took over every corner of her mind.

This isn’t happening. This is a dream. Please, God! It has to be a dream!

Maybe God had heard her, because she became oddly detached from what was happening. It was as if there were no place, no time, only fear so deeply rooted she couldn’t bear to accept its reality.

It was a mercy that she was in a trance as Don took her from Dixie and walked her as if she were a zombie to where the plastic sheet was draped over the hood. He shoved her onto the hood, lifting her slightly so her feet were off the floor.

She felt her legs being forced apart. She tried to put them together, but Don’s body was between them now, easing them ever farther apart. Charlotte saw Dixie on the other side of the hood watching her. Both of Dixie’s hands were on the hood and she didn’t have the sharpened broomstick.

Don must have it.

Don must have it!

The trance was broken.

Through unbelievable pain, the terror and panic rushed in.

Charlotte began to scream, over and over. Each scream filtered through the tape as a muted, soft hum. Almost like coos of intense pleasure. Dixie leaned closer over the warm hood, still watching with glittering black eyes, her face like stone.

Charlotte loved Dixie. She really did.

Then there was only the pain.

It took Jill Clark almost half an hour to tell Quinn everything. When she was finished, she wasn’t sure how she felt about what she’d done.

She still felt she’d had to do it, to talk to Quinn before her next date with Tony. But now she began to think again about what Madeline had told her and wondered if she really trusted Quinn. If she trusted anyone.

She hadn’t been disappointed in Quinn. His strength and calm were obvious and reassured her, drew her out. He seemed to understand and to forgive her for any naïveté or foolishness that had led her to this predicament. But was that the idea? Was it a trick? Was everything a trick?

The sense of being drained, of absolution, after telling her tale was fast disappearing. She’d opened herself to new problems. She was still suspicious of everyone.

You’re being paranoid. Like Madeline.

Dead Madeline, who’d had
real
enemies.

But she didn’t know for sure that Madeline
was
dead. Jill had only been sure enough to come here, to talk to Quinn.

Tony. Why didn’t I talk to him? Why didn’t I trust Tony?

It was as if her heart had known secretly what hadn’t yet found its place in her mind. Her heart hadn’t trusted Tony. Was her heart right?

It hadn’t been right yet.

She was still afraid.

Appraisal time.

Quinn had been reviewing his notes when Jill arrived. He’d left his reading glasses on so he’d seem less intimidating. Anything to make her conversational and keep her talking. And she’d told him plenty, the words tumbling out sometimes so close together they got tangled up.

He leaned back in his desk chair and peered over the rims of his glasses at this young woman who’d just unburdened herself to him. She seemed entirely rational but obviously distraught. She was wearing lightweight blue slacks, a white blouse with a coffee stain on it, very little makeup. Her blond hair was carelessly combed and slightly flattened on one side, as if she’d been lying down. Her eyes were red, but he couldn’t be sure if she’d been crying. She was perched on the very edge of the visitor’s chair in front of his desk, facing him. Quinn, after all his years as a detective and all those lies he’d been told, could almost unerringly know if someone was telling the truth. Jill Clark seemed too frightened to be lying.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” she said, mistaking his silence. “I didn’t believe it myself at first.”

“And you think the woman you saw in the elevator on Seventy-second Street has taken over the identity of the one you referred to as mad Madeline. Has moved into her apartment.”

His words were statements, not questions.

“Only Madeline wasn’t mad,” Jill said. “I’m sure of that now.”

Quinn peeled off his glasses, folded them, and slid them into his shirt pocket.

“It’s hard to believe,” Jill said again.

“It’s hard to believe we’re finding human torsos lying around the city, but we are.”

“Then you
do
believe me!”

He wasn’t ready to give her that yet. “I think you and I should take a ride in my car,” he said.

“To Madeline’s apartment?”

He smiled. “It’s a little premature for that, I’m afraid.”

She shuddered and her lower lip trembled. “I know where we’re going. I expected it.”

“You’ve given this some thought.”

“Of course I have.”

And you’ll give it more thought after today. Probably for the rest of your life.

Quinn scooted back his chair and stood up, then walked around the desk and placed his hand on Jill Clark’s shoulder. He could feel the fear and tension like electric current in her slender body. “You’re safe now, dear. You did the right thing coming here.”

She surprised him and placed her hand on his and squeezed. “I don’t think anyone’s really safe,” she said. “Not anymore.”

“Relatively safe,” Quinn amended. “And that’s about all we get in this cockeyed world.”

She managed a smile, but it wasn’t much.

“Ready to take that ride?” he asked.

She nodded and stood up from her chair as if she were an arthritic old woman. The mind was forcing the body where the body didn’t want to go. Quinn couldn’t blame her for being reluctant.

“We’ll make it as easy as possible for you,” he said. “Nothing’s as bad as the fear of it.”

Almost nothing.

He scribbled a note to Pearl and Fedderman explaining where he was going. Then he placed a hand gently on Jill Clark’s shoulder and steered her toward the door. He saw that the label on her blouse was sticking up out the back of her collar and deftly tucked it in. She glanced over at him and they exchanged smiles. He had to keep her moving, keep her from thinking too much.

They were on their way to the morgue.

Victor paced in his apartment, roaming through all the rooms, head bowed, his mind processing new experience, the new Victor.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It was business. He’d started out so detached. The dismembering was useful as a public signal to the waiting client as well as a hindrance to victim identification. And most of all, it helped to divert the police by convincing them a psychosexual serial killer was operating instead of a unique and profitable business. If the dismemberment didn’t do it, surely the phallic broomstick stakes forced up through the vaginal and womb walls, or the rectum, would.

At first there was no emotional reaction to using the sharpened broomstick stakes. But soon he’d become fascinated by the homemade stakes and began taking great care in their selection and transformation in his skillful hands. The sharpening, sanding, and oiling became tremendously important to him. Somehow extremely personal. It made using the broomstick stakes easier.

It made doing business easier. That part of the business.

Then slowly, without him being aware of it, he began to enjoy more than the preparation. He began to enjoy using the stakes.

That wasn’t like him. Not at all. He was Victor the businessman, not Victor the Impaler.

He glanced over at his bookshelves, at the Vlad the Impaler books. When he’d seen them in the biography section at Barnes & Noble he had to have them. That really was when he first suspected the presence of a demon in him, a sickness, and his uneasy suspicions were confirmed when he read more and more eagerly about the sadistic despot and warlord.

Good Christ! He and the long-dead Vlad had something in common.

They were kindred spirits.

Victor wasn’t pleased by this. He went into the kitchen and poured some Johnnie Walker Black into a water glass. The liquor felt hot going down; maybe it would jolt him out of his depression, his reluctance to accept what he’d done, what he was.

It was Gloria who’d suggested using the broomstick stakes. Maybe she was the one who’d infected him. And she was the one who’d suggested that Charlotte’s penetration be anal, like that of the man. Victor remembered what he’d immediately thought when she’d suggested that. It was the way Vlad had impaled his victims. He’d agreed to Gloria’s suggestion without argument, as if it was all business with him so it made no difference. But he knew by the smile in her hard, dark eyes that she was aware of this new side of him, or old side that had always been there as a secret even from himself. He and Gloria could have few secrets from each other.

Victor continued to pace. He simply couldn’t sit down and be still.

He knew why he couldn’t sit and be still, the real reason. What had happened wasn’t Vlad the Impaler’s fault, or Gloria’s. The decision had been his.

He’d make the same decision again.

He took another generous swallow of scotch, nailing down the admission that hadn’t come easily, and that somehow made him feel marginally better.

This time when his mind began replaying Charlotte’s squirming and soft screaming on the hood of the car, he didn’t immediately deflect his thoughts, the muted pleas for mercy and the violent images. He found his courage and welcomed them into his consciousness, into his new being.

Victor the Impaler.

Another swig of scotch.

I enjoy my work. Why shouldn’t I?