by Tara Moss
Over one hundred Polaroid photos had been slipped between the pages of Ed’s FETISH magazine collection. Breasts. Torsos. Feet. Body parts. All in various stages of life and death. Various stages of torture. The vivid colour photos were worse than any crime-scene pictures he’d seen. They captured the final struggles of faceless bodies, twisted and tensed in the throes of live autopsies.
There was already enough evidence to put Ed Brown away forever. But this was little consolation to Andy Flynn. He sat very still in his car while a hamburger cooled on the dashboard. He had no appetite. No one who had seen those Polaroids could be eating right now. He was neither hungry nor tired, although he hadn’t eaten or slept properly for a week. He’d watched Makedde for days, protecting her, and then, like a fool, he looked away.
There was something that was missing, something that would point the way. He had to think. The magazines, the photos, the shoes, the body parts; none of them were well hidden. Ed’s mother would not have been able to find them, but he must have been confident that no one else was going to come looking.
CHAPTER 61
Water crept up Makedde’s thighs. She had blacked-out again, and the freezing water’s progress woke her. She was still inside the van. Her whole body ached. Bones were broken, she could tell. Ribs were cracked. Her collarbone? An elbow too? Her arms were practically useless, particularly on her left side. No longer forced above her, they rested weakly on her chest, elbows bent. The shackles still held her wrists together, but the chains had been yanked from the wall with the force of the crash.
No more rumbling vibrations. No more movement. Only the calming rush of water around her. The van was on a forty-five degree angle, partially submerged, and her body was bunched up against the back of the driver’s seat. They should have sunk by now. Perhaps the water was shallow. It didn’t smell salty. A lake? A river?
She twisted her neck upwards and looked into the cab. Empty. He was gone. The doors were closed, the driver’s side window rolled down. Was it unrolled before we crashed? No, it wasn’t. He must have crawled out. There were red streaks across the handle and the dashboard. Windshield shattered. Glass everywhere. He must be injured. He had crawled away and left her.
On her back, Makedde slid herself up the floor of the van, straightening her legs. The water only came up to her knees, and it didn’t seem to be rising any further. With stinging eyes she looked around and saw the mechanic’s toolbox that had hit her in the crash. Everything looked different, drawers had come open, sections had come loose from the wall. The drawers in the van were full of kitchen utensils, knives and forks for camping out. No. Not kitchen knives, these were longer, thinner blades. Not forks. Different tools, gleaming and clinical.
She slid herself over to one of the drawers, her head still swimming. The drawer was clean and smelled of disinfectant. The implements it held were spotless. Scalpels. Long, thin knives. Things that looked like delicate pliers. Gadgets she knew no name for.
In a flash it came to her. Ed Brown, the morgue attendant. She knew him now.
He saved a lock of Catherine’s hair for me.
Makedde had to arm herself. What if he came back? Wrists still bound together, she rifled through the instruments and chose a sharp, long-bladed knife. She held it in both hands. She had never cut someone before, had never sunk steel into living flesh. She knew she could do it if she had to. She would not hesitate if the man came back.
Holding the knife as tightly as she could, she slid down the van floor and leant against the back of the driver’s seat. It was prickly with tiny pieces of glass, and the water around her was freezing cold. Her arms were of little assistance as she scrambled over the seatback and stuck her head through the window. She steadied herself by leaning her shoulder against the window frame. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and she could vaguely see a slow-moving river stretching away from the van. To her left, a muddy embankment sloped up to the road.
Count to three. One, two…three.
She used every bit of her fading strength to push herself through the open window. She struggled out, shackled arms outstretched, gripping her weapon, and slipped into the icy water. Her bare feet found the murky bottom and she tried to stand. Brilliant red and green stars exploded before her open eyes, her head spinning. Gradually the headrush passed, leaving a hazy residue of dizziness in its place. She held the knife in front of her pelvis and waded cautiously through the waist-deep water towards the river bank.
No sounds; just the gentle rushing of water and the wind through the branches. Twigs in the thick mud.
Snap.
Movement. There was movement in the shadows.
Makedde stopped and held her breath. Drops of water falling. Wait…crunching on gravel. Shadows moving. She tried to steady herself, but her head wasn’t right. She held the knife out in front, tried to be ready. She knew she couldn’t run, not like this. She would have to fight. She cleared her throat and tried to speak. Her voice was harsh.
“Who’s there?”
No answer. More crunching. A figure forming out of the shadows. Something in its hand. Something swinging towards her fast. A hammer. Quickly! Get out of the way!
Sluggishly she stepped backwards but still caught a hard blow to the jaw. The muddy ground swiftly rose to meet her, stars dancing in her head. Then, like a television being switched off, the stars around her flickered and disappeared.
CHAPTER 62
“If he hasn’t taken her there, we’re fucked,” Andy said as they sped along.
“You might just be right,” Jimmy replied. “He seemed to know too much. It has a kind of psycho logic to it. A revenge thing. You never even told me you and Cassandra had the place.”
“It was Cassandra’s originally, but I was going to get it,” Andy explained. “It was an investment, but she never resold it. I was supposed to move in months ago.”
“Let’s just hope that he’s the one that’s decided to move in,” Jimmy said.
“Think about it. He’s killed at least nine women, only five of which we knew about. Where are the other four? He disposed of them well. But not these last ones. Why? He wants to get caught, that’s why. Either that or he thinks he’s invincible.”
“Skata! If all these fuckin’ psychos want to get caught, why don’t they just waltz into the police station and have it over with?” Jimmy shook his head. “Nah, I’m not sold. He’s just gettin’ sloppy. All those sick malakas get sloppy eventually.”
CHAPTER 63
NAKED.
I’m naked!
Makedde woke to find herself inside a bedroom in a lot of pain. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t cover herself. For a moment she wondered, prayed, that it was a nightmare. She’d had dreams as a child where she was walking through the halls of her high school, or walking through the busy city streets and would suddenly realise that she was exposed.
Icy air passed over her damp skin. She was freezing, covered in goose bumps. A door was open, or a window. She was spread-eagled, secured to the bed by her wrists and ankles. Some kind of gauze was looped around her head. A floor lamp was switched on, spreading a feeble light through the room. Although she couldn’t move her head, she strained her eyes and looked around her as best she could. She was alone. There were dusty shelves decorated with vases of dried flowers and framed photographs. From her position on the bed, she could see the image in one of the closer photographs; a man in a tuxedo and his bride in a beautiful white dress.
There was no mistaking the smiling faces of Andy and Cassandra Flynn. This was the place he had told her about.
She struggled to free herself but the more she moved, the harder the twine around her wrists and ankles bit in. When she tried to move her jaw, a searing white pain shot into her temples and her ears.
Sounds came from nearby. Footsteps. Creaking wood. Metal. The red-haired man had returned. He came through the bedroom door, a garish vision in a surgeon’s gown and mask and latex gloves. He carried what looked like a mechanic’
s toolbox.
He dragged a wooden table across the room and placed it beside the bed, then with a small hand brush cleaned the top. He placed a plastic sheet over the table, setting the toolbox on top of it. Makedde struggled to speak and found that she was unable to form words. Weak groans escaped her throat. The man ignored the sounds, ignored her, intent on his preparations.
He pulled the floor lamp over to the bed. The light was bright this close, and it took her eyes a while to focus. Now she was face to face with this monster, she had to know. Why Catherine? She struggled to work her mouth around the sounds but her jaw was stiff and swollen.
Suddenly, strangely, the man laughed at her. It was a hideous sound. The cackle stopped as quickly as it had started. “No talking from the whore,” he said without looking at her. He turned away and continued with his preparations. She strained her wide eyes to follow his movements. He was checking the twine that secured her to the bed and it occurred to Makedde that he was going through some sort of checklist, one by one.
When he finished he turned his face to her and for the first time looked her straight in the eyes. He spoke directly and calmly. “I have to take my time with you. You are special.” He said it proudly, as if she might be flattered by the sentiment. “Have you ever witnessed an autopsy, Makedde?” he went on in his odd altar-boy voice. “I know you’ve seen my work elsewhere. What would you like done first? I promise I will save the fatal incisions for last. I only regret that your head wounds have dulled your senses so.”
She had to try and speak. Speech was her only weapon now that she was physically helpless. He doesn’t care about your pain, she thought, he enjoys it. Say something that surprises him. Don’t let him see your fear. She took a deep breath, forced her lower jaw down and an indecipherable noise escaped her throat. Ed cocked his head to one side, clearly amused by her efforts.
“What did they do to you?” she asked in a weak, grating whisper. His expression changed slightly. “How did they force you to do this?” she slurred.
Something flickered in his eyes. Recognition? She imagined that they changed, became those of a child. A young boy, looking at Makedde with wide, curious eyes. Remorse? No. He turned away and grabbed something. Will he cut me loose? When she saw his eyes again, the look she thought she’d seen was gone; replaced with the cold, steady glare of the man who had brought her here to kill her.
He was holding what looked like a rubber ball with straps dangling from it. His latex-gloved hands forced her jaw open and he shoved the ball in her mouth. He fitted the straps over the gauze on her head and secured it.
“No more talking,” he said as he chose another item from his toolbox.
CHAPTER 64
As the two detectives neared the Lane Cove house, they turned the siren off. They didn’t want to scare Ed Brown into a dangerous reaction or a quick getaway. If he was there. If. Andy prayed that he was right. Suddenly, an image jumped out of the thick, black night like a neon sign.
“Did you see that?” Andy said, hitting the brakes.
They skidded to a halt and Andy threw the car into reverse. He’d seen something near the trees.
The blue VW van was partly submerged on the edge of the river.
“Jesus, look at that,” Jimmy said, throwing open the car door.
Andy jumped out and ran down the bank, the headlights illuminating the van like a pale ghost. He drew his gun. The van was half-submerged, the back end rising out of the water. He held his Glock high in front of him, waded over to the driver’s side door and cautiously looked inside. The cab was empty, the windshield broken. He examined the driver’s seat quickly—there appeared to be blood streaked across the open window frame, and also across the steering wheel.
“Phone for backup!” he yelled out to Jimmy. “I need a flashlight over here. It’s hard to see into the back, but I think it’s empty. There’s blood. The bastard may be hurt. They can’t be far!”
The door was jammed. Andy squeezed through the window and slid onto the front seat. Gun poised and ready, he squinted and checked the back of the vehicle. There was no time. He struggled out the window and pushed through the water to the river’s edge. Jimmy was hurrying towards him with a flashlight. Andy snatched it from him and shone it across the gravel.
There were clearly visible drag marks.
CHAPTER 65
Ed Brown was leaning over her, his breath putrid and hot against her neck. Makedde tried to spit at him, but the rubber gag caused the spittle to drip from the corners of her mouth, down her chin. She pulled at her restraints, but only felt the twine bite unforgivingly into her flesh. She could see the man’s face clearly so close to hers. The lamp light played across a deep gash on his forehead. The split was long, still oozing blood, but his eyes were alert, alive, dancing in sadistic satisfaction.
“You’re drooling, Makedde.” Her name sounded loathsome on his lips. He was holding something in his latex-gloved hand…bringing it to her throat. It was a surgical sponge, dripping with disinfectant. He was cleaning her down, removing the river’s soil and smell. His hands slipped over her naked body, over the goose bumps, pausing on her raised nipples. The cloth moved over her breasts, her navel, down her stomach. She tried to close her legs, but her ankles were held too far apart.
She tried to pretend she was somewhere else.
I’m walking on the beach, walking free, not here. Not with that stinging cloth pushed between my legs. Please…
Ed turned from her. He was reaching for something, pulling something from his toolbox with both hands. She strained her head, saw a sharp tip. He moved down her body, towards her bound ankles, caressed her bare feet with his fingertips, and slid something around her foot. Her shoes! He had fetched her stilettos from the van and was now placing them on her feet.
“Mother…” he sighed.
She felt so groggy. Her breath was shallow and laboured and she was trembling. He was walking back to the toolbox, arranging implements, laying them on the plastic sheet, then wiping them clean. Makedde made out what looked like a scalpel, a knife with a long sharp blade, pliers…
She forced her legs back and forth violently. Break the twine! It bit angrily into her. The pain was overwhelming, but she had to keep on. The bed posts protested with loud creaks and strains.
Ed stood over her, lips twitching. His slim, gloved hands held the disinfected scalpel elegantly and her eyes followed the progress of the sharp tip towards her naked body, towards her naked breast, her cold raised nipple.
CHAPTER 66
There were few houses in the area. No neighbours close by. That’s why Cassandra had liked it. The privacy.
The drag marks led to the house. They had to be there.
Andy sprinted up the gravel road, vaguely aware of Jimmy’s presence a few feet behind him. His wet pant legs pulled against his knees, trying to slow him down, but he ran with all his might. Nearing the house now, just beyond those trees. A light—a dim light—the bedroom window. Andy raced across the grass, a flitting shadow. He ran for the front door, gun extended.
CHAPTER 67
The scalpel blade pressed on her breast, ready to pierce. She wanted to scream. She wanted to fight back. She prayed it would end soon.
His eyes were so close to hers and yet they were so distant, part of another world she could not comprehend.
“Are you ready, Mother?”
Mother?
Those words, so terrible, spitting from those mean lips. Are you ready…Mother? Her father about to push her down the slide, those gentle hands holding her. Are you ready? Her mother, unveiling her sculpture, a clay figure.
She would die now…she was ready to die. Wait. She pulled herself back. That was it! She would pretend. It could stall him. Anything. Try anything.
She rolled her eyes back in her head and shook violently on the bed, convulsing and groaning. The scalpel pricked her as she moved, tearing her skin, but then moved away. She choked on the gag, as convincingly as she could manage. The movem
ent hurt, her ribs screaming out, everything immersed in pain, but the scalpel had pulled away.
He was speaking to her now. What was he saying?
“You forget my expertise. You’re not dying until I say so. Mother’s going to be cured right. No fooling.”
She tried to speak, to demand he release her, but the sounds coming from her throat were inhuman, her jaw too swollen.
“I told you there was to be no talking. And yet you refuse to desist.” He shook his head slowly, then smiled and bent over her, placing his hands around her skull. She felt the straps around her head tighten painfully for an instant and then release. He pulled the rubber ball from her broken jaw, strings of blood and saliva hanging from her mouth. She tried to speak. He cocked his head to listen. He was playing with her now, teasing her.
He answered her chokes and moans. “No, I won’t let you go. No. But you have such beautiful toes. Lovely toes. Would you like to taste them? Suck them for me?”
She nodded, gurgling a bit as she tried to speak. She looked down to the twine biting through her ankles.
“Remove the twine? No, no. I don’t think you’re that flexible. No, I’ll bring the toes to you. Shove them in your mouth. You can bite down on those pretty polished toenails.”
The scalpel moved down her naked skin, down her legs, down to her right foot. He muttered something, “The right foot, because it’s right…” He slipped the shoe off and dropped it on the wooden floor.
Makedde closed her eyes, felt the scalpel sink in, the pain hot and unbearable as it sliced through. She screamed, the sound blending with everything. Noises everywhere, sounds filling her ears, colour danced before her eyes, red, green, swirling, such pain, she was falling away…