Bottom Feeder
Page 8
“I don’t expect you to just take my word,” Deena replied, a little confused. “But we…I…have to do something.”
“Okay, don’t get upset,” Arlene said gently.
“I’m okay,” said Deena. “But this is important to me. It’s my house…my basement…”
“Your smell.” Arlene grinned at her.
“That doesn’t sound good.” Deena spoke with all the dignity she could muster. “He really did freak me out.”
“And that makes him a jerk for doing so,” Arlene said.
“Give me some time and I’ll try to come up with a way to eliminate the smell, okay?”
Chapter 7
Deena smiled hopelessly. “All right.”
Ten days after adding Jennifer Raymond to his horror lair, Frank Marsden went on the prowl again.
Get me more to feed one, it told him.
This time he came home with twenty-nine-year-old Beverly Dutwin. She had been working the streets in nearby Harrisburg when Frank had lured her into his car with the promise of a quick fuck and fifty bucks. Everything from his using Beverly to the time they arrived back at the basement was pretty much a blur to Frank. One thing was certain, however; she was a constant thorn in his side. Almost from the time he took her to join the others in the basement, she proved to be a never-ending source of aggravation.
Disharmony was already surfacing among the captives, as Rosemary’s situation and solidity was coming into question. She was not much more than a large pile of gelatin that smelled of feces and death. Frank Marsden did not need more dissension, especially from a woman who challenged his authority at every opportunity.
As the number of women grew, a pecking order developed. Rosemary Spiner, the first member, would have been the leader, Frank surmised, yet she was slowly melting away and he no longer had to concern himself with her. Now, Angela “Angie” Quirino was the self-proclaimed leader of the group. She was learning how to manipulate the manipulator. As time went on, Angela was punished more than the others to try and put a stop to this, and just as Rosemary had, she too became coated in a thick, slimy coat of goo. It then fell on Jennifer as defacto leader. She worked herself steadily into Marsden’s trust, performing any task he wanted, even those she considered taboo and gross.
Marsden soon added a fifth woman, Tabitha “Tabby” Burke to the group; seeing that two of them were piles of ooze, the others could sense a frustration coming over Marsden. It seemed to them as if someone was pulling his strings in order to make him do these things. However, they never saw another person besides the other women and Frank Marsden.
In order to make certain that he was in command at all times, one of Marsden’s favorite tactics was to pick one of the three women that were not covered in goo and slime and put them in charge when he left them alone, a sort of boss-of-the-day approach. Later he would come back and ask the one who had been responsible who had misbehaved so he could dole out punishment. Discipline at first consisted of being whacked with the shovel handle, but went on to include a restricted diet, and ultimately time in the hole and or being handcuffed to the eye hook. Of course they all knew that if they were put into the hole the good news was that Frank Marsden would no longer touch or violate them. The bad news was that they would be turned into a horribly smelling pile of goo.
This reality became an even worse nightmare for the women one day when Marsden had declared the pile that had once been Rosemary Spiner to be “ready.” Ready for what, they were not certain until they watched in horror as Marsden shoveled the remains into “the hole”. Once inside the hole the gelatin remnants of Rosemary Spiner slowly began to disappear as if they were going down a drain. The pulsating grew the strongest it had ever been. There was a loud slurping noise, and to scare the women even more, a long, serpentine tongue-like object seemed to lick the edges of the concrete hole from behind the basement itself.
“What the fuck is that?” the women shouted amid cries and other bellows.
This display did not diminish Frank Marsden’s sexual appetite. It was like every other day for him. He forced himself on Tabby, and then he went from one of the others to another, like a bee pollinating a flower bed, until he finally climaxed or grew bored or tired.
Besides the punishment, sexual abuse, and whatever thing was underneath the hole in the basement, the women had another problem to worry about. Hygiene was minimal. Marsden brought a portajohn in for the women to use as a toilet, and for feminine hygiene he brought them tampons. But in the early days he refused to let them bathe. The only way they had to clean themselves was with disposable pre-moistened towelettes of the type many people used to clean babies’ bottoms after changing their diapers. On one instance Beverly accidentally pulled two of the towelettes out of the container, which sent Marsden into a rage. Accusing her of wasting property, he laid into her with the shovel handle.
Later he relented and brought a bucket of clean water so they could wash themselves with it. While the cleanliness situation improved somewhat, the food situation deteriorated.
On one occasion he was feeding them dog food, not merely as punishment but it was all he could find. It wasn’t even the moistened kind; it was the hard, dry food. Frank watched, making sure each of the women, save Angela who like Rosemary before her was turning into a big pile of goo that reeked of decay.
Jennifer ate the food and her gums bled. As Tabby ate she broke a tooth and she screamed, which resulted in her getting slapped harshly across the face. The rest of the meal the women ate the dog food in silence even as Frank Marsden sodomized Tabby roughly first with the handle of the shovel then his penis. In the face of all of this Jennifer Raymond could not take her mind off the thing that waits for her and the others in the hole in the corner of the basement.
* * * *
Seated at his desk in her cubicle at the Dauphin County Sheriff Department, Detective Gary Chapel wiped his nose with a tissue and glowered at his computer monitor. He had gotten reports of five missing persons that had happened in the past few months, all of this among the cut backs the department was facing, meaning he was going to have to work them by himself.
Chapel blew his nose and told himself not to worry, it was job security. He first wanted to see if the reports could link the victims together by any means necessary. He plugged the names into his computer and immediately noticed that the majority of the missing had been arrested for prostitution multiple times in the past. They were also all women, roughly in the same group of early twenties to early thirties.
Something was amiss. There was a sense he felt that told him that there was more to these disappearances. Though, presently, he could not see it.
Sniffing, Chapel tossed the tissue into his overflowing trash can tucked under his desk. This cold—plague—as he liked to refer to it—he’d contacted was starting to really piss him off.
* * * *
Chapel glanced at the clock mounted high on the wall. It was off a few minutes. Nothing seemed right today. But soon Sheriff Lindsey Hill would be wanting a status report on these cases and the numerous others the department was handling on her desk.
But Chapel doubted he would have much to report. The person or persons responsible for these crimes, and that was if these were crimes were not just people not wishing to be found, could be identified. Chapel had no physical evidence, no witnesses that he knew of as of yet, and nothing more than someone had reported these women as missing. If not for a curious clerk who had seemed to think that these five cases could be related, they might have not ended up on his desk for several more days or even weeks.
He bit his lip and tapped his fingers as he thought about how hard these cases were going to be to solve. He slid a glance to the clock on the wall. Nearly five p.m....no way would he get anything done today.
Something though was wrong with these cases. They had to be connected, yet other than being women and that some had a police record, there was nothing Chapel could link them with.
Chapel scooted
his chair back and tried not to think about overcomplicating the cases. Sniffing some more, Gary Chapel leaned back in his desk chair. He wasn’t one to obsess much, but today he felt a stark urge about these cases.
He tossed the picture of the first missing woman, Rosemary Spiner, onto his desk alongside the others. The only woman he did not have a picture of was Tabitha Burke. Jennifer Raymond, Angela Quirino, and Beverly Dutwin were the names of the women.
All of these women had been walking alone downtown when they had last been seen. As the police records showed, at least four of the women had prior arrests for prostitution. Chapel knew that they had either been picked up by a John or just as likely holed up in some drug house somewhere getting wasted.
Chapel took a sip of his now almost cool coffee, then found a cough drop and sucked on it as he read over the reports for the dozenth time. As he did he was more certain than ever that these women were related and more than likely in trouble, or worse, dead.
He sniffed a third time and popped a couple of sinus relief tablets, hoping to hell he was wrong.
* * * *
“Would you like to have dinner with me?” Deena couldn’t believe the words had actually come out of her mouth. As soon as she had spotted Frank Marsden leaving one morning she rushed outside to offer the invite. It was almost done unconsciously. She waited, watching hopefully. There was no answer from Marsden, and so Deena spoke again. “I mean upstairs in my house...I mean your house. It would make me most happy to get to know you more. I’m just a little embarrassed about the whole dehumidifier fiasco the other day. I’m sure this could go a long way to improving the situation.”
Still no answer came. It was as if Frank Marsden was frozen. He remained motionless, staring blankly at Deena long enough for her to speak once again. “Are you okay, Mr. Marsden?”
“Fine.”
“How does dinner sound to you?”
“It’s fine.”
Suddenly a thought entered Deena Hopping’s mind, and before she could stop herself, she asked, “Hasn’t it been cold down in the basement?”
“It’s been cold.”
“Yes, it has.” Deena heard herself agreeing with him eagerly. She was curious to see how he would act at this meeting. But instead of confronting her angrily as he had before he began to barge off away from her.
“Mr. Marsden,” Deena said most gently. Her momma always said you get more flies with honey over vinegar, or something like that. “Dinner my place tomorrow night. I think it would be wonderful if you could join me and some of my friends.” She stared at him, hopefully. “Mr. Marsden?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“It’s nothing fancy,” Deena went on, sensing an advantage. “Just a few of my friends whom you probably already know. And I know if you come, Mrs. Balleza will make something special for us all.”
Still she waited. “We’re having loads of food.” Deena laughed nervously. “Will you come?”
More silence.
“It would make me very happy, Mr. Marsden.” She waited some more.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” she asked, perhaps a tad harshly.
“I’ve got nothin’ to wear.”
His reply was so simply and honestly answered, and as a problem so solvable, that Deena almost laughed with relief.
“Don’t you worry about that...what you have on is fine...” If dirty overalls and a stained T-shirt were accepted wear to dinner parties, Deena told herself. “Really, we’re all going to be wearing jeans and the like.”
There was silence, which took her as a silence of affirmation. “Well, then—” she went on, “we’ll be here tomorrow night. Say about six-thirty?”
He was off before she could say another word.
Deena steadied herself on the porch and wondered internally what she had just done.
Chapter 8
Deena was dancing along with her MP3 player to a spirited song from the 1980s. Several times she thought she had heard the phone ring and stopped to listen, only to catch a great beat and forget it. Finally, she did in fact hear the phone ringing and removed her ear plugs to answer it.
“It’s Arlene, Deena.”
“Arlene?”
“No, it’s Maggie, Deena. Willard got a phone call from Steve saying something happened to Arlene.”
Bastard beat her up again. The words screamed through Deena’s mind—followed by that mad, but on-target know-it-all attitude of hers that always made her ex-Joseph want to strangle her.
She leapt up, skidding her socked feet on the slick wooden floor, and grabbed the table. The lamp and a empty bottle of beer on it rocked madly, then righted themselves, and she saw that the glass bottle of perfume she kept handy to mask the smell, which had been half full when she brought it out, was empty.
No wonder she was feeling lightheaded and a little woozy. She had been spraying so many perfumes and other air deodorants inside the house it was surprising she hadn’t passed out. She got her balance and steadied herself as she answered the phone.
“What is going on?”
“Deena? It’s Arlene. Something’s happened to her.”
“Listen to me. Call the cops this time. Don’t let Arlene talk you out of it. The bastard has to pay this time. And don’t waste time on me…I’ll be there shortly.”
“I can’t. She won’t let me call, Deena.” Maggie Swader’s voice broke.
“Won’t let you? She can’t possibly have an argument this time for not calling.”
“You’re right…you’re right…” Maggie babbled on.
“Look, I know it’s a lousy night outside…but I’ll be there. Tell her I’ll be there,” Deena pressed.
Deena had become aware of the splattering rain and snow on the windows about a half an hour before the call.
“Hurry, Deena. She needs you.”
* * * *
The snow and rain had an icy sound to it, the roads and sidewalks were slick, and Deena kept her car at around thirty miles per hour. The main thoroughfare through Strafford was an empty shining black strip, with its lone stoplight thrashing in the wind on its cable.
* * * *
Arlene, Arlene, she thought as she traversed the two blocks of little houses that made up her neighborhood and that spilled over into Arlene’s. Be okay, dear, be okay. Please be okay.
In a matter of moments, long, agonizing moments later, Deena pulled up to the house. She noticed Willard and Maggie’s car already pulled into the drive and she tucked hers safely on the curb out of the way of traffic.
“In the bedroom,” Steve said answering the door. “She won’t eat, drink, go to the hospital or speak. Just sits there shivering and sobbing.”
Arlene was in a wing chair next to the bed, three quarters back to the door, and leaned out of the chair to see Deena when she called out her name. The radio was playing a big band tune softly; Arlene had her feet up on the bed, her body covered by a blue-and-tan afghan under which her clenched fists made small lumps.
Deena turned off the radio, moved her feet aside, and sat on the bed to look Arlene at eye level. Her skin was moist and very pale, except for a flush of red, hot specks that dotted her upper chest and cheeks. Her eyes were glassy, the skin around them looked wet and bruised, and there was the beginning of a pink welt on her forehead.
“Slip, fall, or did the bastard hit you again?” Deena asked impolitely.
Gingerly, Arlene touched the spot on her forehead. “Is it that bad?”
“How’d it happen?”
“Later.” Arlene’s lips barely moved. “Talk to Maggie, did you?”
“Yes, stop avoiding the situation.”
“Talk to her some more; she seems to know what goes on in my house more than I do. I think she’s in worse shape than I am.”
“She cares about you as do I, Arlene. Why can’t you see that? We are the ones who truly care and love you, not that bastard Steve.”
Maggie slunk in and laid on the bed next to Deena some towels, a first aid kid, some ice in a small bowl and a cordless phone. She left without looking at Arlene and saying nothing.
“Tell her I’m okay,” Arlene pleaded.
“I’ll tell her you’re okay when I’m certain you are.”
She used a small hand towel to wrap some ice in and handed it to Arlene. It was apparent to Deena that Arlene needed more appropriate healthcare from a doctor. She said as much, but Arlene shook her head and her eyes got a flat look she’d only seen a few times: Arlene digging in, she thought. But she’d call someone later and the cops and the paramedics could sort the care and blame out.
She went to work dressing the wounds.
Deena’s blood pressure soared, but nowhere out of control. Her eyes were clear as she took Arlene’s pulse and it was strong and steady in both wrist and ankle.
She asked Arlene if she’d blacked out or gotten dizzy when she’d “hit” her head. Arlene said she’d seen some light spots, and everything went white. “But I’ve been hit harder before.”
“I wouldn’t brag,” muttered Deena.
Arlene mentioned it before to Deena and Maggie had confirmed it was a common concomitant before Deena had returned to town.
“Do you know what day it is, Arlene?” Deena snapped out the question and Arlene gave a faint smile.
“You’re really worried about me, aren’t you?”
“Answer the question.”
“I believe it’s Tuesday. My name is Arlene Floyd Balleza. My third grade teacher was named Melody Keller and she smelled like rotten peaches most of the time. I’m okay, Deena, really.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because you are my friend.”
“I’m your friend, but I have to say this has gone on far too long,” Deena said.
“I agreed. And I will take care of it on my own,” Arlene told her friend, looking Deena squarely in the eyes. “Okay?”