He was rapidly losing strength. “Call an ambulance."
"No, I can't. I'll go to jail."
"I forgive you,” he said. “Now, call for help."
"I've shot a priest, dear God, you think they're not going to put me in jail for this?"
"They'll certainly put you in jail for murder if I die."
I picked up the phone and dialed 911. The operator answered.
"Yes, I'd like to report an accidental shooting.” The operator was confirming the address. “Yes, that's the address. Someone's been shot.... no not me...."
"Tell them to hurry,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
"Can you hurry?” I paused as she asked a few more questions. “I'm Ben Jackson. Look, I gotta go help this guy. Bye.” I went to Priggish. “Don't die, please don't die. I don't want to go to jail."
"Please pick up the money, I don't trust the police."
Obediently, I snatched up the assortment of 20s and 50s and managed to rebundle them. I shoved them into my pocket and went back to help the poor priest I had shot.
"Hang on, they'll be here soon.” Together, we heard sirens getting louder and louder. “See, I told you they'd be right here."
"I need you to do one more thing. Please go into the kitchen and check on my mother. She's very old and deaf."
"Deaf? Sure, I'll go check on her. Let me open the door so the police can get in."
"Thank you.” His head lolled from side to side.
Quickly, I went to the other room to locate his mother. The kitchen was dark so I felt along the wall for the switch. An electric clock hummed, water dripped from a leaky faucet, and light from the street poured through the Priscilla curtains framing the window. As I found the switch and clicked on the lights, I heard the sirens rushing down the street.
Light from above bathed an even more ghastly scene than in the living room. His mother sat at the kitchen table, partially slumped, dead as the day was long. Her throat had been slashed from ear to ear. Large folds of peeled skin hung open on her face, exposing fields of muscle from eye to jaw.
He had been shaving.
Falling against the stove, I slid to the floor. The poor woman's legs were slashed open, too. He had tried shaving them, but somehow only managed to cut away sheets of her flesh. Her white orthopedic shoes were covered with sticky blood.
The police and paramedics screeched to a halt on the street outside. I had to get to them; I had to tell them about the gory murder in the kitchen. He wasn't a priest. He was some kind of sick murderer. I rushed into the living room, but I was suddenly thrust backward into the wall. Pain ripped through my stomach like a truck had hit me. Falling against a lamp, I tumbled to the white carpet. My clothes were now staining red just like everything in this house.
I was able to look up, and through my fear and pain, I saw him holding my dad's Glock. He'd shot me just as the cops stormed the room.
Easily, the cops disarmed Mr. Priggish, and paramedics swarmed both of us. Radios crackled and voices clashed in the confusion. Two paramedics laid me out on the floor and began working on the bullet wound to my stomach. My left leg went numb, my eyes clouded, and my hands trembled.
Before I knew it, I was on a stretcher and being taken out of the house. It was all happening so fast. Tubes of various sorts had been attached to my veins, and emergency personnel worked at a fever pitch around me. Mr. Priggish was also being cared for on the floor, obviously in much better shape than he had led me to believe. It was at that point, as I was being taken past him, that I knew my troubles were only just beginning.
"Officer, he broke in about an hour ago and killed my mother. He stole $4,000 from me and threatened to shoot me if I didn't give him more.” He made eye contact with me just as the paramedics shuttled me past. “I managed to get his gun away from him just as you arrived. Thank the Lord you were able to get here."
"No, that's not the way it happened. I came to clean the carpet."
No one listened or cared. I suddenly remembered the Koontz book and the reason I didn't finish reading it. The premise was utterly impossible and could never happen. Not in a million years, could something as preposterous as that happen. The ambulance doors slammed shut, taking me down the quiet neighborhood streets on my way to the hospital. Who knew what would happen after that?
Opportunity Lurks
Not a day went by that she didn't hear her mother's raspy vodka-laced voice instructing her in the fine art of survival:"no matter what, always look for opportunity.” Madeline's favorite story of all-time was when her mother actually took the time to help an accident victim because she recognized her as Jackie O's personal assistant. Tea with the former First Lady was fabulous, and it was all because of a car wreck.
Raised on a steady diet of Alexis Carrington and Erica Kane, Madeline knew what she wanted before she could talk. Her grandmother had gotten it, and her mother had gotten it, though it took six husbands. Madeline was the first female child in the family to not have it. And as her mother lay dying, penniless, she bestowed upon Madeline a motto which became the theme of her life:"Take it when you can and never look back. No one gives you anything in this world, you must take it. Listen to your mother ... be scared later, be ruthless now.” If Amanda Woodward could do it, Madeline surely could, or so she thought.
Outside, the crisp Michigan autumn crept over the city, and stiff winds gently rocked downtown Detroit's Penobscott Building. It was made to lean with the wind, that's what she'd always heard. The steel and concrete had to be flexible, be strong enough to bend, or it would tumble to the pavement below.
Her heels clicked against stone, sending hollow echoes that advertised her vulnerability. In her well-manicured hand, she carried a sign on a string; a tiny piece of Scotch tape dangled off one rose-red acrylic nail. From all appearances and outward projections, Madeline was the Polaroid of perfection: designer shoes and hose, skirt and blouse screaming Armani, and a pocketful of nearly-melted credit cards.
The truth was she hated to work. School had been a waste because she didn't land a fraternity man stinking of family money. No matter how she had honed her maturing bitch skills, she couldn't bring in a keeper. The only thing it did get her was an office job that let her play the part of debutante while she hunted for her future.
She prowled the high floors of the office on a daily mission to stalk and land that house in Bloomfield Hills. Work simply wasn't something she was made to do. Her muscles were fine and her bones elegant. Madeline was designed to laugh at functions, tossing her glorious auburn hair with a flip while sipping champagne. Art gallery openings and private parties were her natural habitat, she just had to find a way home. Mother spent many years exposing Madeline to it, but it was all taken away after the corporate investigations and lawsuits. There was nothing left for Madeline; she had to start over, scratching, clawing, chewing, and screwing.
After months of research and well-calculated manipulations, Madeline knew that the gravy train was Elliott Partridge. He was incredible—perfectly tailored to all her needs in his custom-made suits that gave his body an intimate, supple hug. As she continued to walk the deserted late-night hallways of the 44th floor, she looked at mental snapshots of him.
On more than one occasion, Madeline had attempted to strike up a conversation with him. But he was a mysterious man who liked to work long into the night. They only shared a glance and a curt hello in the elevator. Other than that, she could have been the cleaning lady. Since they shared the same floor—he in is manly, musky law office and she in her tiny cubicle that shrieked of her higher aspirations—Madeline readily volunteered to work on the Baker Project to get it done by the next morning. Hopefully, as she walked to and from the bathroom, she'd meet his cool-as-mint-frosting green eyes or brush past his strong, bold hands.
This was the third trip to the ladies room for her, and it was nearly time for her to go home. Midnight wasn't far off, and she was going to meet some friends just around the corner if nothing came up. In h
er heart, she dreamed of standing up her clan of catty females because of a late-night tryst of panting and sweaty office sex. That surely would have made her mother happy, not that she would have shown any amount of affection or outward approval. Madeline imagined tasting his hot tongue and feeling his rugged hands roaming her body.
The hallway was dim on the way to the small ladies’ room at the far end of the building. Pathetic fluorescent lights flicked, desperate for attention. There was a bathroom much closer to her office, but this one was two doors down from Partridge & Partners.
As she walked past the heavy, ornate door, Madeline noticed lights within. Earlier, the office had been dark, but now someone was there. It had to be him. Somehow, she had to get his attention. Elliott Partridge didn't even know she was alive, much less working on the same floor.
Madeline opened the white door of the ladies room and went to the middle stall. She hated using the bathroom in public. She wasn't made for this. In her mind, her urine was meant only for the finest, private porcelain. Public toilets swam with bacteria and opportunistic diseases of which she had distinct distaste.
Carefully, she taped the Out-of-Order sign to the stall door. The sign always discouraged anyone from attempting to enter. How humiliating, she thought, having someone open the stall door and gaze upon you in the most defenseless position possible. They could do anything they wanted to you.
It didn't matter if the 44th floor was barren of people; her mother always said opportunity lurked in the most unlikely of places. It was the truth, for Madeline's father happened to be on a plane in first-class and her mother in coach. Needless to say, by the end of the flight, he had a dinner and sex companion for the night. And nine reluctant months later, he had a child, then a wife.
Careful not to crack or chip her on-credit manicure, Madeline pooled her hose around her feet. The plastic toilet seat was icy-cold against her warm buttocks, but soon it was bearable. As she sat, she returned to the daydream of sex with Elliott. Was he rough? Was he gentle? Would he bring her gifts without occasion? Yes, she answered on all the questions.
Just as she was about to finish, commotion in the hallway drew her attention. She heard a man's voice, then a woman's. Their words were heated, passionate. Each took a turn at saying something terrible about the other. Madeline grinned; she could hear it all like a back-fence gossip.
Suddenly, the excitement in the sparse hall spilled into the ladies’ room. Madeline lifted her legs, still wrapped in pantyhose, and placed her feet against the stall door. She wasn't sure if it was out of embarrassment of being there or for the desire to hear the rest of the fight, but she wanted to go undetected. No one would look in a stall marked Out-of-Order.
From the sounds of the words, the violence and venom, they weren't interested in Madeline. Only a thin door of enameled steel separated the scuffling duo from the unseen eavesdropper. Madeline breathed in short, shallow spurts to make sure she heard every word of the fight. Her veins pumped with adrenaline as she recognized the man's voice. Elliott Partridge was shouting the most vile things at this woman, and she returned it upon him with equal vigor.
He was not as she imagined at all. He was hateful, calling her bitch and slut and whore. The woman countered with a string of obscenities, followed by the threat of telling the world that Elliott Partridge—highbrow lawyer to all of Detroit's finest executives—loved his sex rough and his money dirty. Madeline had the answer to one of her questions, and she thrilled with the instant fantasy of him ravaging her. Other truths then flew out of the strange woman's mouth, accusations of affairs and group dalliances, of photos and sin, of treachery and criminality.
At the height of her malediction, the woman suddenly paused. Although Elliott had said nothing, he obviously was making a new statement. Her voice changed to apologies for saying such horrid things. She wouldn't say anything to anyone, she loved him, she vowed her undying love. Put the gun away, she begged. Madeline's heart pounded in her throat. She was trapped, unable to escape from the garish scene unfolding within the bathroom. He couldn't know she was there. Don't let him open the door, don't let him look under the stall.
The pistol cocked; Elliott exclaimed it was too late. She'd said too much, too many times. She wouldn't leave when asked, she just kept on talking and talking. Madeline heard the woman obviously backing away from Elliott, and her heels tapped upon the tile much like her own in the hallway. Elliott squeezed the trigger, and a whispered bullet struck the woman. The gun apparently had a silencer; of course it did, Madeline thought. The voice of her mother's motto was all that kept her from weeping. She looked deep into her heart for strength from images of Alexis Carrington and Amanda Woodward. They would handle this situation like a vixen, taking advantage at every turn.Suppress the fear, for you'll die if he finds you.
The woman fell hard against the middle stall, startling the powerless Madeline. As the woman slid down the steel door, Madeline could literally hear the life draining away with the imagined sounds of every drop of blood hitting the floor. The woman, no longer able to stand, slumped onto the floor. Blood began to pool on the stark surface.
Obviously, Elliott knew the precise location to shoot her. Madeline realized this as the woman's head, now resting upon the cool tile, tilted slightly until it was partially under the stall door. Her neck was ripped open by the bullet; each ever-weakening throb of her pulse squirted blood out of her body. She had brilliant blue eyes and creamy flesh. Looking up into the stall with tear-filled eyes, the woman saw Madeline, silently sobbing on the toilet seat. Then, the woman closed her eyes as the last bead of life left her body.
Wasting no time, Elliott grabbed the dead woman by the feet and hauled her away from the stall door. Madeline heard him dial his cell phone and give instructions to someone known as The Thumb to come and get her. He had work to do. Then, Madeline heard him leave the bathroom.
The few seconds after his departure seemed like hours. Trembling, Madeline willed herself off of the toilet. She wiped up, pulled her stockings tight, and dared not flush. He might hear the water and return. The bacteria would have to swarm.
There was only one way out of the stall, and that was over the woman's still-warm corpse. Emotions tore at her. As a human being, she wanted to rush to the police and wail and scream, but she wasn't like any other human being. Her life was about opportunity. Keep the fear under control, or you'll never make it out of here.
Immediately upon opening the door, Madeline's foot came down in blood. The woman was a pile of lifeless, bloody designer clothes. Her shoes matched Madeline's skirt better than her own. Madeline knew what a true soap-opera vixen would do. Reaching down, without considering what revulsion she should have felt, Madeline switched shoes. After all, the woman was dead. She couldn't possibly use them.
Madeline stood over her for many minutes, just staring at the body. Digesting the carnage with several sweeps of her eyes, she realized opportunity was at hand. Mother would have taken swift advantage; this was her ticket if she played the game perfectly. Fear would simply have to wait.
She knew she had to leave soon, before The Thumb arrived. In her mind, she punished herself for not feeling sick, guilty, or remorseful. These are the things anyone would feel in the face of such gore. Not Madeline, she wasn't anyone, she wassomeone . She had no intention of going to the police. Every shred of decency cried out for her to go to the cops, but something deeper, more powerful was in charge. Her mother's voice echoed again,"Be scared later, be ruthless now."
Elliott Partridge had the house in Bloomfield Hills. The dead woman on the floor had the clothes, hair, and purse she always wanted. She didn't know how the two of them were linked, but it must have been passionate.
Inside her brain, Madeline's manipulation machine cranked into overdrive. Every trick her mother taught her had prepared her for an opportunity as rare as this. Certainly, she would meet her friends at midnight and brag about her fabulous new shoes; and, perhaps, her new fianc Elliott Partridge, if she was
feeling particularly confident.
But first, she had to get home and write everything down. After all, there was nothing stopping Elliott from killing the only witness to his crime if he knew she was still in the building. He'd have to find out first, and he would when the time was right. Just like her father found out he was going to be a daddy—his unborn daughter just a poker chip or a trump card to win the last hand.
Madeline reached down and snatched the woman's small purse still clutched in her dead hands. Turning to the mirror, Madeline adjusted her makeup and clothes. Her reflection was bitter and remarkably like that of her mother thirty years ago. With a little water and Paul Mitchell hairspray from the murder victim's handbag, she fixed her tremendous curls. She couldn't help but make mental comments on how gorgeous she found herself.
In the reflection, she could see the dead stranger. Blood now trailed from the cooling body to the floor drain, passing down through the building only to be diluted by raw sewage beneath the streets.
Some of the most successful creatures in the world were beasts of opportunity: cholera, pneumonia, AIDS. You had to take it where you could get it. It won't be me lying on the floor of a bathroom, Madeline vowed. That woman didn't know what she was doing. Ah, but Madeline, she knew how to play the game. Mother would be proud.
SLClimer - Rumours of the Grotesque Page 2