You Only Die Twice

by Christopher Smith

  She had her entire life in front of her. And right now, she was going to secure that life. She was going to fight for that life because in spite of everything she’d been through, and especially because of the death she’d already been dealt once, her life was worth a fight. It was worth a battle. She didn’t know who this crazy motherfucker was, but she was going to take him on and she was going to win because she was worth the fight.

  And in her soul, even though she didn’t know where she was, because of her history of exploring the Maine woods with her father and grandfather, she bet she knew these woods better than that bastard ever dreamed he did.

  Game on, baby, she thought as she ran. Game on.

  CHAPT

  ER FIFTEEN

  Patty Jennings arrived at Cheryl’s apartment house on Maple Street in Bangor just past ten-thirty. She parked her Jetta in front of the house, stepped out into the cool air and went to the side door, where Cheryl had a private entrance that led to her second-story apartment.

  She rang the buzzer and waited while all around her, leaves in impossibly bright colors of orange, yellow and red fell from the trees standing tall along the sidewalks and behind her in the small yard. Soon it would be winter. After this morning’s threat, she wondered what her life would be like then.

  Two minutes passed, and no answer. She rang the buzzer again, waited, and then, when Cheryl didn’t answer, she decided they needed to just have it out so Cheryl could tell her off and so that Patty could apologize to her.

  To her left, against the foundation, was a rock. Beneath that rock was the key to Cheryl’s apartment. Patty got it, unlocked the door and called up the stairs. “It’s me, Cheryl. I’m coming up. I know you’re angry with me, so let’s talk.”

  There was no reply. She was ignoring her.

  Fine.

  She walked up the staircase, turned left into the kitchen and expected to find Cheryl sitting at her breakfast table having tea or coffee with a pissed-off look on her face. But she wasn’t there, though her cat, Blanche, was sitting on the window sill that overlooked the side yard. Patty kneeled down, called the cat over to her, and when she came, she noticed that her bowl of food was empty. So, Cheryl was still in bed, because if she was up, she would have fed Blanche by now.

  The cat rubbed against her leg and Patty scratched its back before she went into the dining room and found it empty. Same for the living room, which caused her to pause because the lamps on either side of the sofa were on and the shades at the windows were drawn. Puzzled, she called out Cheryl’s name again, got no reply, and walked through the hallway that led to her bedroom, which also was empty. The bed was made, the lights were on, and on the bed were various outfits that Cheryl must have tried on the night before.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Cheryl hadn’t come home.

  So, where was she? The Grind was a good eight miles from here, so she wouldn’t have walked. She could have taken a cab, but that obviously wasn’t the case because she’d be here now. Had she gone home with somebody? That went against everything she knew about Cheryl, but they had been a little drunk, so it was a possibility, though a slim one. She couldn’t see it happening. Ever since what happened to Cheryl at the hand of Mark Rand, she hadn’t been intimate with or close to any man. Patty knew that. For good reason, her friend wasn’t trusting of many people. She had acquaintances through work, but were any at The Grind last night? Did somebody she knew come out of the club and offer her a ride to their place, and then to her apartment in the morning?

  None of it sounded plausible.

  Standing here now, in her friend’s empty bedroom with the lights on and Cheryl’s bar clothes laid out on the bed, Patty felt an uneasiness that made her reach into her pocket for her cell so she could call Cheryl’s. The phone rang three times before the chill of Cheryl’s voice asked her to leave a message and that she would get back to her soon. The fact that she hadn’t come home and wasn’t answering her cell was enough to drive Patty out of the apartment and down the stairs so she could hurry around to the front of the house.

  The Colemans were Cheryl’s landlords. They were among the few people in Bangor who were kind to Patty because they had come to know her over the years through Cheryl, their longtime tenant.

  Once, in a moment of confidence, Mr. Coleman took her aside while she was waiting beside her car for Cheryl and told her in his own way that she could call on him for anything should she feel the need to do so. Since he was a lawyer, the undercurrent was clear. What he was telling her is that if she ever felt discriminated against at work because of “any gossip or lies that could affect you,” of which he must have heard, which humiliated her because she had developed a great fondness for him, he would help her.

  She walked up the steps that led to the front door and rang the doorbell. It was a moment before Mrs. Coleman, a woman somewhere in her late sixties with a broad face to match her thick body, answered with a kitchen towel in her hands. She smiled at Patty as she opened the door and when she did, Patty could smell the scent of something sweet behind her.

  “Perfect timing,” she said, stepping aside. “I just made sugar cookies for the grandchildren. Come in and have one. You can be the lab rat.” She looked behind her. “Is Cheryl not around?”

  Patty moved inside and stood in the foyer. “Actually, she isn’t, which is why I’m here, Mrs. Coleman. I was hoping you had seen her. Or possibly heard her come home last night? Or move around upstairs this morning?”

  “I haven’t, dear, but maybe Mr. Coleman heard her, in spite of his presumed hearing problems. He’s the light sleeper, not me. I read my little romance novels and they leave me exhausted. And trembling. All that activity knocks me out. At this point, I can handle one shade of gray. Forty-nine more would kill me.” She turned and called over her shoulder. “James,” she said. “Patty’s here. She’s wondering if either of us have seen or heard Cheryl since last night. Have you?”

  “Have I what?”

  Mrs. Coleman turned to Patty with an irritated look on her face. “The man claims he can’t hear a thing. I’m not sure whether I believe him, because he has selective hearing. If I ask him to take out the trash, guess who’s doing it an hour later? If I tell him it’s time to eat and it smells good, guess who’s seated at the dinner table? And he wonders why I consume those novels of mine. Why I rip through them. Oh, look who’s here now.”

  She looked up at her husband, who came from somewhere in the back of the house and now stood tall behind her, his silver hair neatly clipped, his eyes almost unnaturally blue. “I mentioned that you have bad hearing and suddenly you can hear. I wonder how much of your hearing loss is true.”

  He looked at Patty and shook his head. “Don’t ever get married,” he said.

  “Someday, I’d like to.”

  “Save yourself.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Coleman said, “save yourself. Run if anyone comes. You’ll never regret it. If you want children, you can always adopt, which isn’t a bad option at all. You can have the pick of the litter.”

  Patty flushed.

  “What’s the matter, Patty?” James Coleman said. “When we put on a show like that, you’re usually up for it. What’s the problem?”

  “I can’t find Cheryl,” she said. “I was wondering if you or Mrs. Coleman heard her come home last night, or maybe heard her this morning. Mrs. Coleman said she hasn’t heard or seen her. Have you?”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t. She’s not answering her phone or her door, I take it?”

  “She isn’t.”

  “I heard her leave last night,” he said. “Was that your car that pulled up? I didn’t see it, but I heard a car. Sounded like yours.”

  She nodded. “That was me.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, where did you go?”

  “It was my birthday. We went down to The Grind to dance. It was a girls night out. Some fun since I was turning thirty.” She realized she sounded defensive about going to a clu
b, as if it was wrong for someone her age to go do a dance club. She wondered if she’d ever shake the damage of what her ex-boyfriend had done to her.

  “Well, happy birthday,” James Coleman said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Did you leave together?”

  She shook her head, and when she did, her stomach sank. A few more questions and she’d be on the cusp of telling him that she left Cheryl behind and taken off with a man she didn’t know. She felt overwhelmed at that moment, not because she had disappointed herself, which she had, but because she was about to disappoint them, which was more upsetting to her because they were among the few who believed in her. Worse, because she had gone off with a man, she wondered how that would affect her relationship with them now. She knew what would happen. She knew the connections they’d make. They’d wonder if all those rumors about her were true. It was only human. Whatever they thought of her now, their minds would turn to all that town gossip and question whether they really knew her at all.

  And what if they believe the rumors are true? You did go off with a stranger. And he caught it all on camera. How will you explain that when it leaks?

  “Mr. Coleman,” she said.

  “Patty, would you like to talk? Privately?” He looked down at his wife, Barbara. “Would you mind if we spoke alone? I know the grandkids are coming soon. We won’t be long.”

  “Of course not,” she said. She looked at Patty with concern. “I don’t know why I’m about to straighten up the house, because they’ll just make it a mess again. Pride, I guess. You two go and have a chat. See if you can figure out where Cheryl is.” She put her hand on Patty’s forearm and furrowed her brow. “And don’t look so concerned, dear. Cheryl is going to be fine. It’s not as if you did something wrong.”

  CHAP

  TER SIXTEEN

  “I did do something wrong,” Patty said.

  She was sitting in James Coleman’s study, the walls of which were lined with bookcases filled with law books and, in one corner of the room, a space reserved for the popular thrillers he enjoyed.

  It was a masculine-looking room. The Coleman’s house was a large Victorian that dated back to 1870. A true New Englander, probably owned not by one of Bangor’s former lumber barons, whose mansions mostly were found on a small portion of West Broadway, but by somebody in higher management who could afford a more reasonably sized home with the finer details she saw now.

  The wood never had been painted and it gleamed dark against the light green walls. Above them was an ornate tin ceiling and, where the walls met the ceiling, intricately carved molding. Light in the room was dim because the windows faced west. Later in the day, it would be ablaze with sunlight. The inlaid floor was a mix of maple and mahogany. It gleamed with a high-gloss sheen, as if it recently had been refinished.

  James Coleman was sitting opposite her in the same sort of leather wingback in which she sat. “There are layers of wrong,” he said. “Human layers that, depending on your perspective, are subjective and not necessarily wrong. What do you consider wrong?”

  The sense of shame she felt was almost crippling. “We got a little drunk last night.”

  “I’ve been drunk several times in my life. Mostly, I enjoyed it. Sometimes, the next morning, not so much. Was I wrong to do it? Subjective, but I don’t think so.”

  “I did something stupid.”

  “We all have.”

  “Not like this,” Patty said. “I left with a man last night. I left Cheryl alone at the club. I took him to my house, something I’ve never done with a stranger, in spite of what this town thinks of me. I was drunk. I was attracted to him. I took him home and I left her there. Now, she’s nowhere to be found.” She paused. “And it gets worse.”

  He was looking at her intently. “How does it get worse?”

  “The man I took home? He drugged me. He raped me. He made me do sick things I don’t remember doing. He caught it all on camera and then he placed the photos on a website. He told me that if I don’t kill myself for my sins as a whore that he would send my family, my employer and my friends that link. He said it would confirm who I was. He said when it came to my ‘friends,’ the link would go viral and the rest of my life would be akin to a public stoning.”

  James Coleman stood. “You said he drugged you?”

  “I know he did. He must have.”

  “And he raped you?”

  She nodded.

  “You’ve showered, so there might be an issue gathering evidence, but there’s always a chance, so we need to try because it could tell us who this person is if he’s on record. I need you to go to the hospital with me. They will perform a procedure to see if they can get any of his DNA from you. They also will do a blood test to see what he drugged you with. This is a crime, Patty, and it’s something you must do, but time is of the essence.”

  “This will go to the press?”

  “Probably.”

  She sat with that knowledge for a moment, and then she shrugged. “So, everyone will finally get their confirmation letter about me. Whatever. I’ve dealt with this for years and I’ll deal with the fallout now. It’s Cheryl who matters. We need to find her.”

  “So, we call the police now,” he said. “I have a good friend there. A detective. In a bit, we’ll tell him what happened. He and others will then begin their investigation at The Grind. I’m assuming you left Cheryl there?”

  “In the parking lot.”

  “Then they’ll check the parking lot. And they’ll question the owners. And they’ll question the regulars the owners know by name to see if they were there last night and saw anything unusual. I’m sorry, Patty. This is awful―I understand that. But you didn’t do anything wrong. Between us, Barbara wasn’t exactly the first woman I had relations with. When you’re in the Army and away from home and living in Paris, as I was in my early twenties, things happen and I don’t regret any of it. Especially Eveline. But when Barbara and I married? That was that. You’re a single woman and a consenting adult who had a crime committed against her. Those are the facts. You did nothing wrong. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “Now, we need to follow procedure and we need to act quickly. Are you willing to do that?”

  “I’ll do anything for Cheryl.”

  “That’s good to hear, but soon you’re going to have to start doing things for yourself. You matter as much as Cheryl does. Are we clear on that? What happened to you last night was terrible. We’ll get to the bottom of it. We don’t know where Cheryl is now, but we’ll find her. I need you to believe that. That girl is as special as you are. We will find her.”

  He got up from his desk and called downtown to one of his detective friends. “Steve,” he said. “James. Fine, fine. It was good seeing you and Mary last week. I know―he tends to get that way. Listen, I have an issue. I need you to meet me at the emergency room at Eastern Maine in ten minutes if you can. I’ll be there with a Miss Patty Jennings.” There was a silence and in that silence, James Coleman frowned. “I’m not sure if she’s the Patty Jennings you know of, Steve, but we’ll see you there in ten? Good. And Steve? A favor for an old friend? I’ve come to you with this for a reason. For as long as possible, would you keep this quiet for me? I understand. But whatever you can do would be appreciated. See you soon.”

  He hung up the phone and looked at her. “Are you ready?”

  “Do you think he’ll call the press?”

  “Not right away, but eventually, if Cheryl does go missing for more than twenty-four hours, it will come to that. At that point, she’ll be a missing person and the two stories will become one.”

  She stood. “So, let’s do this,” she said.

  CHAP

  TER SEVENTEEN

  Kenneth Berkowitz stopped cold when he heard the shriek far off in the distance.

  He listened to the woods. He listened to the breeze and he breathed it in. He felt the beat of the sun on his face, he listened to the leaves fall from the trees,
and he heard birds signing. He tuned in hard to his surroundings, fully aware of all that could be lost to him if he didn’t listen carefully.

  In spite of having run far, he was so fit, he hadn’t broken a sweat and he was breathing normally. And so he listened with no interference. A silence passed. Then, he thought he heard movement in the underbrush, but it was too far away to tell if it was human movement or an animal’s movement.

  In woods this deep, it could be anything.

  But he knew the shriek he heard was human, and that it belonged to the cigarette-smoking whore that was Cheryl Dunning. He was certain of that. Was she dead? Had Ted killed her without him? Did Ted have no choice because God commanded him to do so? He wasn’t sure. The only thing he knew is that what he heard was Dunning and that right now, her death might already have happened.

  If that was the case, he felt cheated and disappointed. Was he not to be there for each death? Was he not to help deliver the divine calling with those he targeted with Ted? He would never, ever challenge God’s will, so he only could accept what might have happened and that Ted was meant to learn something from that kill for a reason.

  Still, as much as he wanted to believe this, he knew he was, after all, a divine spirit that existed above Ted. He knew that Jesus Christ viewed him differently. He was brighter than Ted. He had a vision for their mission that Ted lacked. He might be younger than Ted, but spiritually, he was thousands of years older. He was sent here for a purpose. So was Ted, but only to serve him. Before they met, Ted may have experienced more kills on his own, but Kenneth obviously was his superior in every way. And his kills were more creative.