A Fatal Obsession

by James Hayman

  But once he had them, he raped and murdered at least thirty of them in the most painful way possible before he was finally caught.

  Fighting the rising sense of panic, Zoe told herself that the worst thing she could do at this point was show fear. Bradshaw probably got off on women showing fear. Which meant she had to at least try to let the actress in her be in charge. Use her theatrical training and her talent to become someone else and move the conversation from her impending death to something else. The longer she could keep him engaged, act as if the situation was normal, the better her prospects for survival. Sort of like Scheherazade in One Thousand and One Nights. Except she was pretty sure this dude wouldn’t be all that interested in listening to her tell him stories night after night.

  She looked up at him looming over her. “Is Tyler Bradshaw your real name?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  “Interesting.”

  “What’s interesting?”

  “That you remember the name I gave you. The drugs you were injected with usually induce amnesia for details like that. They’re used for surgical procedures, and most people don’t remember a thing that happened.”

  The truth was, Zoe didn’t remember anything from the moment she felt the hypodermic going into her butt until she woke up wrapped in the rug in the back of the SUV, but she remembered every word and detail from before and after. She had what was called an eidetic memory. It ran in the family. Her uncle Michael had it as well. As did her aunt Fran. Among the millions of bits or perhaps bytes of information stored in the hard drive of Zoe’s memory was every line of every play ever written by William Shakespeare. She never had to struggle to learn a part. She could read a play once and remember every word.

  “You told me your name before you gave me any drugs. Is Tyler Bradshaw your real name?”

  “Let’s just say it’s the name of the character I play.”

  “And where do you play this part?”

  “In my own little dramas. I’m the male lead. And I’ve decided to cast you as the female lead. Congratulations.”

  In spite of her determination to stay cool, the smugness in his voice turned resolution to anger. She looked around for a weapon. Anything she could use to hurt him. She saw nothing but gravel. And with her hands still cuffed behind her back and her ankles still taped, there was no way she could even throw a handful of that in his face.

  “The female lead?” she said. “Lucky me. And could you tell me what the name of my character is?”

  “An interesting question. We could call you Desdemona, I suppose. But I think I prefer Zoe.”

  “Does that mean the male lead’s name is Tyler?”

  “Yes.”

  “And does this play have any other characters. Or is it just the two of us?”

  “Just you and me. And occasionally for comic relief, my little brother.”

  Little brother? Did that mean there were two of them she had to deal with? No way of knowing.

  “And, in your play,” she asked, “is Tyler the kind of the character I think he is?”

  “And what kind of character that?”

  “A kidnapper. And a serial killer. One who murdered a ballet dancer and dumped her body on a beach in Connecticut?”

  His face took on a look of injured innocence. “Me? A serial killer? Of course not. Zoe, trust me. I would never do a thing like that.”

  She’d learned long ago never to trust anyone who said, Trust me. Never to believe anyone who said, Believe me.

  “I wouldn’t harm a fly. Well, maybe a fly. Possibly even a mouse or two. And in the interest of full disclosure, I have shot quite a few quail and pheasants. Most of which I hung, cleaned and roasted. And once I shot a rabbit, which I made into a stew. But destroy a thing of beauty like yourself? I don’t think so.”

  He smiled what she supposed he thought was a charming smile. And if truth be told, he wasn’t far from wrong. She supposed that’s what had made her comfortable enough to allow herself not to panic when he approached her on the street. A charming smile, a good-looking face and an educated accent were probably all he needed to attract the women he wanted to kill. She wondered how many there had been. If he was a normal human being, she could imagine a lot of women being interested. But he wasn’t a normal human being. He was a psychopath. Probably a rapist. And almost certainly a murderer. She told herself again that it was important not to show fear. The character she was about to play needed to exude strength. And not just strength. She needed to make herself too fascinating for Bradshaw to want to end the drama. She had create a play in which the female lead was too interesting to kill off. Too fascinating for him to want to bring down the final curtain.

  She wondered if she could make him genuinely fall in love with her. Make him not want to live without her. And fool him into thinking that she loved him back. She thought of the tough, manipulative female characters she’d seen in old movies. Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity, Kathleen Turner in Body Heat, or Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. Any one of them could probably have played Tyler Bradshaw like a fiddle. But could she? Was Zoe McCabe tough enough, sexy enough and devious enough for someone like Tyler Bradshaw to literally die for?

  However good an actress she might be, she wasn’t one hundred percent sure she could handle the role. After all, didn’t they say about psychopaths that they never really love anyone but themselves? Still, she had to be strong enough to try. “So you don’t want to kill me?”

  “No. I don’t want to kill you.” A long pause. And then a smile. “At least not in the first act.”

  “Ah, so we save that for the final curtain?”

  Bradshaw smiled. “No, not quite the final curtain. Perhaps Act V, Scene II.”

  “I see. A death like Desdemona’s. But before we get to that, what exactly are your plans? A little rape perhaps? I would have thought a man as good-looking as you, and frankly as charming as you were last night, could succeed with women without resorting to violence? Without forcing himself on them? But perhaps you can’t.”

  “Of course I can.”

  The delivery of the line was a little defensive. Exactly how she would have told him to deliver it if she were directing the play.

  “And I have many times.” A little more confidence in the follow-up. “With many women.” Back to defensive.

  “Without having to resort to rape?”

  “Zoe, rape is such an ugly word. I wish you would stop thinking in those terms.”

  “I’m sorry, Tyler. You’re right. You seem like a man with enough self-confidence not to have to resort to that. But you do want to make love to me? And that’s the reason you brought me here?”

  “Yes.” Another phonily charming smile. “Making love will do.”

  “Don’t you think we should marry first?”

  “Now you’re being silly. I mean you did live with Dr. Alex for two years without marriage.”

  Bastard must have been stalking her for some time to know that. Why had he only surfaced now? Was it because of the breakup with Alex? She supposed it had to be. “Ah,” she said, “you know all my secrets.”

  “No. Just a few. And perhaps someday we will marry if I can convince you to take that step. In the meantime, all I really want is for you to stay here with me, at least for a while, and see if you might not come to love me when you begin to know me. And if you do, you may decide you want to stay here till we both grow old.”

  “Wouldn’t you grow bored with me?”

  “Bored with you? Never.”

  Jesus Christ, this guy really was loony tunes. The key was to work that to her advantage if that was at all possible, and she wasn’t sure it was. She smiled at him, “I hope not. I will try my best to make you happy.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “I promise.”

  That seemed to make him happy. At least for the moment. “Stay here. I need to get something else from the car.” He headed toward the barn, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the gravel, still handcu
ffed and taped. The only way she could move was to hop, and that wouldn’t get her very far.

  Zoe looked around to get her bearings. The narrow dirt road they’d come up led into the circular gravel driveway where she was now standing. Directly in front of her loomed a large three-story house. A mansion really, boasting high gables on either side and at least four chimneys and possibly more she couldn’t see. The place looked enormous. Six or seven thousand square feet. Maybe more. A kind of bastardized Tudor-style, gussied up with extraneous details and a Spanish-style red tile roof. The house reeked of excess that would have looked more appropriate in Palm Beach or maybe Beverly Hills than it did here in the more conservative northeast.

  To the right of the house Zoe saw a clay tennis court with no net that looked like it hadn’t been played on for a long time. Years, she guessed. Near the court was a rectangular swimming pool that held no water and had no plastic cover like the one Zoe’s father had the pool company install every fall over the pool at their house in Dutchess County. Some of the tiles had fallen from the trim and there was a fair amount of leaves and other debris scattered across the bottom. Again, it looked like it had been many years since anyone had used it for swimming.

  Zoe let herself wonder if a much younger Tyler Bradshaw once splashed around in this pool or played on the tennis court. No way of knowing. On the pool’s far side was a pool house, or maybe a guest cottage, that looked big enough to house a good-sized family. Guests? Maybe servants? Beyond that was a mess of plantings and weeds that might once have been a formal garden. In the direction of the road she saw nothing but seemingly endless woodland. Large stands of first-growth maples and oaks, tall pines and spruce. Most of the deciduous trees were cloaked in their full autumnal glory. Zoe listened hard but couldn’t hear any cars passing by. It was as though she was standing in front of a haunted house in the middle of nowhere. What ghosts might be wandering inside this place she couldn’t begin to imagine.

  Chapter 14

  Bradshaw walked back from the barn holding up a long dress on a hanger. It looked to be an exact replica of the dress Desdemona had worn in the play. Was this the dress he planned to kill her in? Perhaps he’d smother her with a pillow? That was something she didn’t want to think about. He pressed some buttons on an electronic lock to the side of the front door.

  Pressed his injured thumb against the lock. The door clicked open. He carried the dress inside and then, leaving the door ajar, returned without it.

  “What is this house?” she asked.

  Tyler swept his arm in the direction of the house. “My home. My humble abode. Chez Bradshaw.”

  “I see. And is Bradshaw your real name?”

  He seemed to take a second or two to think about that before answering. “No. No, it’s not. But it will do for now.”

  “You also told me you lived on Stanton Street. Around the corner from me. Not in some country estate.”

  “Another semi-fiction. I do keep an apartment in the city but not on Stanton Street. But I spend more time here. I prefer it.”

  “And you live here alone?”

  “Except for my little brother.” He again smiled his charming smile. “Welcome to our little family. We’ve been looking forward to having you join us.”

  Words like cuckoo, nutcase, weirdo and psychotic skittered through Zoe’s mind. This guy was definitely some kind of crazy. Had to be. Exactly what kind of crazy and how close to death she or possibly Tyler might be, Zoe couldn’t begin to guess. It was something only time would tell.

  “Can you please take the tape off my feet? I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Madam.” He bowed gallantly. “I will do so gladly once we’re inside. Your wish is my command.”

  He picked up her duffel, scooped her up in his arms like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. They climbed the steps to the front door. He pushed it open with a foot and carried her in. He kicked the door closed behind him. Zoe heard a metallic click. Locked in, she thought.

  The interior of the house reflected the exterior. What had once been a large, elegant and expensive mansion still seemed neat but somehow oddly neglected, as if it belonged to another era. Black and white marble floor tiles. A few of the tiles were cracked, others partly covered with what she was sure were genuine antique Persian rugs. Dusty oils by long-dead artists hung from walls covered in dingy William Morris papers. The house felt like an aging movie star, once rich, elegant and successful and still trying hard to maintain the image, but not quite pulling it off. Nevertheless, it did look clean. Zoe wondered if Bradshaw dusted, vacuumed and mopped the floors himself, or whether there was a loyal housekeeper somewhere in residence. The image of the demented Mrs. Danvers from Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca flashed through Zoe’s mind. Sadly, it was beyond ridiculous to imagine the husband and killer of Rebecca, Maxim de Winter, being played by anyone other than a young and beautiful Laurence Olivier. Certainly not by Tyler Bradshaw.

  Tyler carried Zoe across the entry hall and then up a sweeping circular stairway to the second floor. Again, she felt like she was in a movie. Rhett Butler carrying Scarlett up a similar flight of stairs at Tara to make love to her as soon as they reached the bedroom. Of course, the original Scarlett wasn’t bruised, battered, tied up with tape and wearing pee-soaked underwear.

  At the top of the stairs Bradshaw turned left and walked down a long hallway. At the end, he paused in front of a heavy paneled door with another electronic lock on the left-hand side. Tyler dropped the duffel, and Zoe watched closely and memorized the four-digit code, 0391, as he entered it onto the keypad. He then pressed his wounded thumb on the glass plate at the top. She heard a click identical to the one downstairs. He swung the door open and carried her in. Even though she now knew the numeric code, there’d be no sneaking out of this particular prison. Not unless she could find a way to complete the job of severing his thumb and use it to open the locks of her elegant prison. Assuming, of course, the thumbprint still worked once it had been detached from a living body.

  Once inside, Zoe found herself in a spacious bedroom that, unlike the rest of the house, looked like it had been newly furnished. He laid her down on a queen-sized canopy bed covered with a floral spread, with a half-dozen matching pillows at the head. He retrieved the duffel and deposited it on the floor of what appeared to be a large walk-in closet. With the door open Zoe could see dozens of garments hanging from the bar inside. She wondered who they’d belonged to. Sarah Jacobs? Maybe. Or perhaps an assortment of earlier victims. She supposed it was possible he’d bought this particular wardrobe just for her. Which meant he knew her sizes. Which, in turn, would mean he’d been in her apartment before last night. She shivered involuntarily.

  Bradshaw tossed the duffel on the floor of the closet and closed the door. Zoe managed to work her way up to a sitting position on the bed to check out the rest of the room. In the far corner she saw an easy chair upholstered in a pattern that complemented the bedspread, a side table and a lamp next to it. An antique or maybe just a very good repro desk made of mahogany or maybe cherry was pushed up against one wall. On top, what looked like the kind of visitors’ book you might find in a New England bed-and-breakfast. A pen had been placed in the spine of the book. Zoe wondered if Bradshaw wanted her to write a remembrance of this adventure. My Amazing Visit With Tyler, or perhaps, I’ve never before experienced such a delightful and thoughtful rape.

  On the opposite wall stood a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with hundreds of volumes. Both hardcover and paperback. Some looked old. Some looked new. She supposed reading was how she was meant to amuse herself when she wasn’t busy fulfilling Tyler’s sexual dreams. And to make sure she didn’t get fat and soft lying around reading and perhaps eating bonbons, a treadmill stood in the corner. Presumably, Tyler didn’t like having sex with fat, soft women. Only slender, fit ones like herself. Two large windows curtained in a fabric that matched the bedspread overlooked the rear of the house. Wouldn’t do her any good to break the gla
ss. Even supposing it was breakable. Steel bars blocked exit from either one.

  “This will be your room as long as you behave.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “We’ll change your quarters to an underground cell beneath the basement. Just a cot, a sink and a toilet. You’ll stay there until you decide that misbehavior doesn’t make any sense. I’m sure you’ll be much happier up here.”

  Unless, she thought, the underground cell and the cot depress your libido. “I told you. I have to use the bathroom.”

  “Stand up and turn around.”

  Zoe did. Bradshaw pulled a knife from his pocket and cut the plastic flex cuffs. “You can take the tape off your feet yourself.”

  He put his hands under her armpits, picked her up and deposited her atop an old-fashioned steamer trunk at the foot of the bed where she could unwrap the tape. Once her feet were free she looked up at Bradshaw and weighed the wisdom of kicking him in the groin and making a run for it.

  “Don’t try it, you won’t get far,” he said as if reading her mind. She had to be careful not to let her facial expressions reveal her feelings.

  “Your bathroom’s in there.” He pointed to a door with an ordinary glass knob and no visible locks.

  Zoe went in, closed the door and looked to see if there was some kind of a lock. But, of course, there wasn’t.

  Chapter 15

  McCabe was sleeping fitfully in the visitor’s chair in room 437 in the ICU at Montefiore Hospital when he was jarred awake by the sound of Duke Ellington’s “Take the A Train.” He pulled the phone from an inside jacket pocket. One-twenty in the afternoon. He’d been out for more than two hours. Maggie, seated next to him, was softly snoring away.

  “Hey, Bobby. What’s going on?” he asked, his voice heavy with sleep.