Pretty Corpse

by Linda Berry

  The yard was quiet except for the booming of her heart. Somewhere a dog barked, then all was silent again. Lauren inched forward using her hands to scope out the vehicle, confirming what she already suspected: a van with no side windows, double doors in back. She used a tissue as a makeshift glove and turned the rear handle. It opened. No alarm. She leaned into the interior and caught the faint, pungent smell of chloroform. Then she heard organ music. It sent a chill crawling up her spine. Deep. Gloomy. Coming from the shed.

  Lauren needed backup, now. She pulled out her cell and punched a button. The face lit up, then died. She tried again. Same thing. Shit. Shit. Shit. The battery was dead. No time to seek help. Gordon Keener might have a victim inside. Bursting into the shed like Rambo was not an option. She’d have to shoot the lock several times, giving Keener precious seconds to react, arm himself. The man was too smart and too dangerous to confront head on. Lauren needed the element of surprise.

  She pulled her Glock from its holster and crept silently to the back of the greenhouse. The door was hidden in shadows. Lauren maneuvered a credit card between the frame and the lock until the bolt clicked open. She pushed the door inward, slowly. No creaks. The mournful organ music grew louder as Lauren stepped across the threshold. The air inside the greenhouse was humid with the sweet scent of roses and fertilized soil. Rows of bushes were silhouetted against the plastic sheeting on both sides of the room. A central path led to the door of the shed, which was cracked open several inches.

  She followed the path, pressed her back to the wall, and stole a glance into the shed. A dozen candles cast wavering light across the prone body of a girl on a satin-covered planter table. Like Tina in the Polaroid found in the hearse, the girl wore a white bridal gown. Her limp fingers pressed a bouquet of white rose buds against her breast. The subtle lift and fall of the tulle veil covering her face told Lauren she was alive.

  Only half the room was visible from Lauren’s vantage point. The dancing light played tricks on her vision, suggesting human movement. Several times, Lauren aimed her gun only to quickly withdraw. Where was Gordon Keener?

  She waited, finger poised on the trigger. Had he heard her enter? Was he standing behind the door, waiting? Lauren’s hands were slick with sweat. Her heart battered her chest. She could stall no longer. With a quick intake of air, she sprang into the room, gun held high.

  Keener wasn’t there.

  Lauren backed up to the planter table, keeping her gaze posted on the two doors, praying she could arouse the girl quickly. She lifted the veil. Shock hit her with the force of a mule kick to the gut. Lauren stared into the deep green eyes of her daughter. She stood motionless, unable to catch her breath.

  Courtney was awake, but not fully cognizant. Her face had not yet been painted. Lauren snapped out of her paralysis and shook her daughter by the shoulder. “Courtney,” she whispered. “Get up.”

  Courtney blinked several times as she came out of her stupor. Her eyes focused on her mother’s face, then darted to a point behind Lauren’s shoulder. “A noose,” she cried.

  The warning gave Lauren just enough time to protect her neck with her hands before the noose slipped over her head. Her pistol clattered to the floor. The ligature tightened against her throat and she was yanked violently back against a man’s chest. She could smell him, feel his hot breath on her cheek, sense his immense strength. For a woman, Lauren was unusually strong, which caught men off guard. She spun hard to the left, jerked to the right, ramming him hard against the wall.

  He groaned, but didn’t loosen his grip.

  She bucked and heaved, jabbed him with her elbows, kicked his legs hard with the heels of her shoes. He grunted repeatedly in pain, but the garrote only tightened. As a last resort, she headbutted his chin and heard his astonished shriek. But he held tight. Lauren’s lungs screamed for oxygen. Panic clawed at her chest. Dots of white light burst before her eyes.

  A blur of white flew past her. Sudden added pressure on her back told her Courtney had straddled Keener from behind. He grunted with pain as Courtney’s fists pummeled his head. Keener turned, hard. Courtney hit the wall and slid into a heap on the floor. The noose loosened. Lauren yanked it hard and pulled it over her head. Gulping air, chest heaving, she spun around to face her attacker.

  Piercing blue eyes fixed on hers above a dark bandana. Courtney had pulled back the hood of Gordon’s dark robe, revealing his bald head, glistening with sweat. His gloved hands still gripped a thick strand of corded rope. Lauren acted fast, thrusting a knee hard into his groin. With an agonized moan, he grabbed his crotch, eyes glazed with pain.

  Courtney staggered to her feet. The Glock lay on the floor evenly spaced between Lauren and Keener.

  “Get the gun,” she told Courtney, panting heavily, eyes trained on Keener.

  He fell forward, making a play for it. The full force of Lauren’s knee met his face halfway down. She heard cartilage crack. He stumbled backward, fingers clawing off the bandana to reveal blood gushing from his damaged nose.

  Courtney grabbed the gun and passed it to Lauren, who aimed it at Gordon. “Hands behind your head!”

  The hostile look Gordon gave her chilled her blood. He did as he was told, blood spurting from his nose and dripping off his chin.

  Lauren pressed her daughter tightly to her chest with her free arm. “You okay?”

  “I think so,” Courtney said.

  “Drop the gun.” The sharp command came from behind Lauren. She turned to see the short, round figure of Agnes Keener filling the doorway. The music teacher looked different with a pistol in her hand, her eyes hard black orbs, her mouth a tight, thin line.

  The barrel of Agnes’s gun pointed at Courtney. A wave of nausea rose to Lauren’s throat. She fought it down.

  “I said drop it.”

  “I can’t do that, Mrs. Keener.” Lauren marveled at her calmness. She motioned with her gun, and Gordon crossed the room to stand near his mother.

  “Do as I say, or I shoot your daughter,” Agnes growled.

  Lauren studied the elderly woman without flinching. “Your hand looks a little shaky, ma’am. You’ll probably miss. I’m an expert shot. My first bullet goes into your son’s brain. The next goes through your heart.”

  No one moved.

  Lauren noticed sweat mingling with the blood running down Gordon’s face. She felt the intensity of his gaze, the heat of his anger pummeling her from across the room.

  Long seconds ticked by.

  Agnes showed no sign of backing down.

  Gordon’s nasal voice broke the silence. “Give her the gun, Ma.”

  “Listen to him, Agnes. It’s over.”

  Agnes didn’t flinch.

  “Don’t make it worse for your son,” Lauren said. “Or yourself. It’s only a matter of time before someone identifies Gordon from the police sketch. Another killing—”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” Gordon hissed.

  Agnes held on to her tough composure for an admirable length of time. The two Keeners locked eyes. “Your work wasn’t done, Gordon,” Agnes said in a defeated tone, an ugly stain of color on her face. “You’ve killed me, son.”

  Lauren saw a shadow of misery darken Gordon’s eyes.

  Finally Agnes lowered the gun and let it drop to the floor.

  Courtney retrieved the firearm and handed it to Lauren, who tucked it into her waistband. “Face down on the floor, both of you. Hands behind your heads.”

  “Ma’s sick. Don’t make her get down,” Gordon said in a threatening tone, sinking to his knees, but Agnes was already complying, with obvious difficulty.

  “Courtney, go use the phone in the house. Call 911.”

  Courtney dashed from the shed. Lauren expelled a long, ragged breath. Hang in there. Her throat burned, fatigue was affecting her lucidity, her finger was overly tense on the trigger. But the hunt was over. The man who had terrorized millions in two cities lay powerless on the floor, gulping air through his mouth, blood from his nose spreading
in a pool around his chin. Lauren studied Agnes Keener, her fleshy face pressed to the dusty floor. Moments ago, that face revealed a chilling ruthlessness that convinced Lauren she was capable of pulling the trigger. Which of the two Keeners was more dangerous?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  WITHIN MINUTES, the Keener property was crawling with Oakland cops, detectives, forensic specialists, and EMTs. Agnes and Gordon were cuffed and taken in for processing. Lauren and Courtney were ushered into an ambulance and examined by paramedics. Though bruised, exhausted, and badly shaken, they were both found to be in stable condition. Before leaving the crime scene, statements were needed from both. A long night lay ahead. Alone in the privacy of the ambulance, Lauren gently delivered some unpleasant news to Courtney. “Honey, I’m so sorry, but you’re going to have to get a more thorough exam tonight.”

  “What kind of exam?”

  Lauren swallowed. “One for sexual assault.”

  Courtney looked stricken. “No, Mom.”

  “Honey, it’s procedure. You’ll be examined by a trained nurse. I’ll be right there with you. They need to collect evidence. You want Gordon to pay for what he did, don’t you?”

  “He didn’t touch me that way.”

  Lauren looked long and hard into her daughter’s eyes. “We need to be sure.”

  “I am sure. I was awake the whole time I was in the shed.

  Lauren desperately wanted to believe her. “If that’s true, your exam will only last a few minutes. Think you can do that for me?”

  Courtney nodded and caved in to sudden, quiet weeping. Reaction to the violent events of the night was settling in. Lauren hugged her tight, her own eyes moist, her hands trembling, waves of shivers overtaking her body. When Courtney’s weeping was reduced to sniffles and Lauren’s trembling had subsided, the two sat quietly, Lauren stroking her daughter’s head. She finally broke the silence by asking the question that burned in her gut. “How did Keener get to you?”

  Courtney swiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  Lauren handed her a tissue and she blew her nose.

  “When I got out of swimming tonight, Grandmom Ann wasn’t waiting out front. He was.” She shuddered. “Only he was dressed in a suit. He had on glasses and a wig, and he flashed a badge. He said he was a detective, and Grandmom couldn’t make it, so you sent him over.”

  Lauren seethed. “Conniving bastard. What happened next?”

  “A few blocks from Grandmom’s house, he said his tire was going flat. He told me to get out while he changed tires. It was a really dark stretch of road. A van was parked in front of us. That’s when I got suspicious. I started to walk away but he rushed up behind me and put that stinky cloth over my face.” Courtney wrinkled her nose. “I held my breath forever. I finally had to take a breath, and I breathed in a little of it just before he removed it from my mouth. I pretended to go limp. It made me really groggy but didn’t knock me out completely.”

  “That was very smart of you,” Lauren said, admiring her daughter’s survival instincts. “Lucky you can hold your breath longer than the average girl.”

  “Thank God for swimming.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He lifted me into the van. He drove for a long time. I tried to stay awake, but I fell asleep. I woke up when he was carrying me into the shed.” Courtney paused, quick tears spilling from her eyes.

  “Want to take a break?” Lauren said softly.

  Courtney nodded, sniffling. She wiped tears away with the tissue.

  Lauren also needed a break, to steel herself for what Courtney would tell her next.

  A movement at the door caught her attention.

  “Hey,” Josie Keach said.

  Lauren was relieved to see a familiar face from San Francisco. “Hey. Dave here too?”

  “Yeah. We’ve been all through the house and the shed. Some real strange shit in there.” She looked at Courtney. “Sorry. Street talk. You two up to giving a prelim?”

  Lauren looked at Courtney, who nodded.

  “They need to get this ambulance back. We can do it in my car.”

  Courtney stumbled out of the ambulance, tripping over the bulky bridal gown, which was tattered and falling off one shoulder. She looked like a child playing dress up in adult clothing. She shivered in the cold night air and Lauren removed her jacket and draped it across her shoulders.

  As they followed Keach to her unmarked car, Lauren took in a sweeping survey of the Keener property. The shed was cordoned off by yellow tape, and every light in the bungalow burned bright as forensic specialists scoured the rooms. Keach slipped into the front seat of the white Buick sedan. Lauren sat in back with Courtney, her daughter’s hand pressed firmly between her own.

  “How you holding up?” Keach asked, turning in the seat to face them.

  “Okay,” Lauren said. In actuality, her throat burned, and her body ached. She was certain she had a lot of bruising from her struggle with Gordon.

  Keach looked at Courtney, asked gently, “How about you?”

  “I’m okay, now that The Strangler’s in custody. And his psycho mother.”

  “Amen to that. Are you up for going first?”

  “Yes.”

  Keach switched on her handheld tape recorder and handed Courtney the tiny mike.

  Courtney cleared her throat and then repeated everything she’d told Lauren up to the point where Gordon carried her into the shed. “Inside the shed,” she continued, “it was dark, and spooky. Just a kerosene lamp for light. He laid me down on a hard table. I pretended to be asleep. I figured I’d make a run for it as soon as I got a chance. Then the old lady came in. She started telling him what to do. Light the candles. Put on the music.”

  Lauren gasped. “The old lady helped him?”

  “Yeah. She’s in on it, Mom. She’s the one who took off my clothes and put me in this … ugh … yukky gown.”

  Keach’s eyes widened. Lauren would have been skeptical too, had she not seen the old lady in action, aiming a gun at Courtney’s head.

  “While she was dressing me, she told Gordon to bring the roses and the veil.”

  “Sounds like she was the boss,” Keach said, with a touch of amazement.

  “She was.”

  “What happened next?”

  “He did exactly what she told him. She put the veil on my head and the roses under my fingers. Someone took pictures. I saw the flashes from a camera. Then she asked Gordon if the sacred device was ready. He said yes.”

  “Sacred device?” Keach asked. “Did she say what that was?”

  “No. They both left the shed. That’s when I should’ve escaped, but I was so tired. I fell asleep again. Next thing I knew, Mom was standing over me, waking me up.” Her voice choked and she looked at Lauren, teary-eyed. “Mom saved me. She beat the crap out of Gordon.”

  “Your mom’s a badass,” Keach said with a hint of a smile. “Lauren, you want to take over from here?”

  “Sure.” Lauren licked her dry lips and filled in the rest of the story, detailing the assault by Gordon, his mother appearing in the doorway with a gun, and finally the two Keeners surrendering and lying prone on the floor with their hands on their heads. “Courtney ran to use the phone in the house. I waited in the shed until the Oakland officers arrived and relieved me.”

  “That’s some pretty damning testimony,” Keach said, enthusiasm gleaming in her eyes. “You got a monster off the streets. We got enough to put Lady Macbeth behind bars for a long, long time. Hope she rots there. Keener will end up with a lethal injection, no doubt, for killing a cop.” She turned off the tape recorder. “Why don’t you two sit tight while I go check on my partner.”

  Keach left the car. Lauren squeezed her daughter’s hand. “I’m so proud of the way you handled yourself tonight. You kept your cool. You were very brave to jump on Gordon’s back like that.” She swallowed, not wanting to think of the outcome if Courtney hadn’t acted. “No cop could have done better.” Lauren’s eyes m
isted, and her voice choked. “When Agnes had that gun pointed at you … I …” she shuddered.

  “I know, Mom. I was scared, too. I was praying you wouldn’t give in. If you had, neither of us would be sitting here talking about it. That was the coolest bluff I’ve ever seen. Now I know what you mean when you say you’re good at your job.”

  Lauren swept her daughter’s hair back from her face and kissed her forehead. She reflected on the grave peril Courtney faced this evening, and how close she had come to losing her. Once Courtney was safely home in bed, Lauren was going to barricade herself behind her locked bedroom door and have a well-deserved nervous breakdown.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  LAUREN drew in a deep breath and steeled herself. Time to call her mother.

  Ann answered on the first ring, hysterical. Lauren did her best to calm her down, assuring her that Courtney was safe and seated right beside her. When Ann reached an even keel, Lauren passed the phone to Courtney. Courtney put on an impressive performance, reassuring Ann in a calm tone that she was fine, though her tight expression and creased forehead revealed her anxiety. When she handed the phone back, Lauren tried to sound as cool as her daughter, and asked the tough question: “Mom, why didn’t you pick Courtney up after school?”

  “I couldn’t get the front gate open,” Ann said, her voice strained. “The code system malfunctioned. We had to call someone from the alarm company to come out. I called your cell phone. No answer. So I sent a neighbor to Cypress High, but she couldn’t find Courtney. Then I called your station. They couldn’t reach you. They put out an all-points bulletin.” She paused for a moment. Lauren heard her sniff, blow her nose. “I’ve been beside myself all evening. Harry and your sister, too.”