by Dan Padavona
The man grunts and brings the club down on her head again. Her eyes flutter shut.
She can feel his hand around her ankle, grass and stone under her stomach as he drags her deeper into the darkness.
And then she feels nothing at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lightning stroked across the sky as Special Agent Scarlett Bell gripped the steering wheel and fought to keep the Accord in its lane. Her partner, Neil Gardy, sat in the next seat, one eye on the darkening sky and the other on the case briefing.
She wasn’t dressed for South Carolina heat. The pant suit itched and made her dread what it would feel like on the beach. What she wouldn’t have done to pull her blonde hair back in a ponytail, trade the suit for shorts and a tank, and spend the afternoon in the hotel pool.
“That hurricane isn’t headed this way, is it?”
Gardy checked his phone.
“Nope. The National Hurricane Center predicts landfall over Central Georgia in the next 24 hours.”
“Still, that’s a little close for comfort.”
They’d attended a conference in Savannah and received a call about a dismembered body on Sunset Island, South Carolina, a narrow strip of land which curled into the Atlantic and drew tourists from as far away as Maine and Quebec. The barrier island barely jutted above sea level, a sitting duck in a storm surge. Were it not for the traffic the drive would have taken only a half-hour.
A sudden gust of wind pulled the car out of its lane into oncoming cars. A chorus of horns squawked as Bell righted the vehicle.
Breathing heavily, both eyes glued to the road, she wondered why he’d insisted on renting another Accord.
“Boy, I’d love to drive an SUV right now. One of those over-sized monsters that stand up to hurricanes, tornadoes, and New Jersey drivers.”
Gardy gave his trademark snicker, the one that reminded her of Muttley, the cartoon dog. He sneered at her and flipped between grisly photographs of a murdered woman.
“I tried, but they were out. Besides, nothing stands up to New Jersey drivers.”
“I think you wanted the Accord. It was all part of your evil plan. Do you own stock in Honda?”
As fast as the storm had formed, it split apart and died. Typical southeastern summer weather. One second a raging typhoon soaked you to the bone, the next it was sunny.
And perpetually humid. Even with the windows rolled up and the air conditioner on, Bell couldn’t stop sweating.
They were five minutes from where the body had been found on the beach. A woman, dismembered and buried in the sand.
“Our contact is Detective Joe McKenna,” Gardy said, closing up the folder and cracking the window open. He looked a little green. “He’s leading the investigation.”
Gardy burped into his hand. Bell glanced at her partner.
“Don’t tell me you’re carsick.”
“I shouldn’t read while the car is moving.”
“I’ll slow down.”
“No, just get us there. I’ll feel better once I get out and walk.”
Getting there proved to be problematic. The train of vehicles nearly came to a stop, edging forward, bumper-to-bumper as horns honked. Welcome to paradise. Bell saw the toll booths a half-mile up the road. Only two booths, hardly enough to handle peak season traffic.
Bell tapped a drumbeat on the steering wheel.
“You know what this reminds me of?”
“The traffic? I’d say D.C. during the morning rush. Or Beirut.”
“No, the case. You remember the Cleveland Torso Murderer?”
“Vaguely. That was the 1930s, right? Something close to twenty dismembered bodies, but they never found the killer. A little before my time.”
“You sure about that?”
He snickered again, and as she glanced over she detected fewer flecks of gray dotting his dark, brown hair.
“Agent Gardy, are you coloring your hair?”
“What? No…I…uh…”
“Uh-huh.”
He craned his neck out the window as if a secret route existed around the traffic.
“It’s been almost two hours since they found the body,” he said, checking his watch. “By the time we get there—”
“I know, I know. I’m trying.”
After several minutes of vehicles cutting each other off and drivers shouting lewd insults, they broke free of the glut. The way forward opened to a thoroughfare lined by palm trees and stores painted in bright pastel tones, as the Atlantic sloshed to both sides of the road. For a while, Bell felt a strange sense of vertigo as if she stood upon a monstrous ship, the suggestion of movement beneath as the sun sparkled off the water. She didn’t drive so much as the ocean pulled her forward.
The spell broke when the island widened and the thoroughfare dumped them into the heart of the tourist district. Surf shops and seafood restaurants. A few boutique hotels nestled between ice cream stands and arcades. The license plates represented the entire east coast and some from as far away as California and Texas. The largest hotels grew against a tropical blue sky. The ocean thrashed behind the concrete structures.
Gardy’s color improved the moment they stepped out of the car, and he immediately slipped on a pair of sunglasses as the glare intensified.
“Feeling better now?”
“Much better, thanks. But I should probably drive on the way back.”
She tossed him the keys. He caught them one-handed and slipped them into his pocket.
“Show off.”
Bell saw the crowd massing around the scene when they reached the beach. Yellow police tape stretched between roadblocks and flapped in the wind, the barrier holding back a curious throng. A few people held their phones over their heads and snapped photographs while a row of police officers urged them back.
A tall officer with cropped black hair held up his hand when Gardy and Bell approached. Gardy flashed his badge, and the cop nodded and waved them through.
Halfway between the looky-loos and the body, a middle-aged detective in a white Polo shirt jogged forward to meet them.
“You must be the agents from the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”
“I’m Agent Gardy, and this is Agent Bell.”
“Joe McKenna,” the detective said, shaking Gardy’s hand first, then Bell’s. “Glad you could come on short notice. How was traffic on the way in?”
“Stop-and-go.”
“You’re lucky,” McKenna said, walking. “This time of year, it’s a lot more stop than go. Anyhow, thanks for giving us a hand. This caught us off guard, and frankly, we don’t know what we’re up against.”
Bell glanced at the crowd and pulled out her phone in case the killer was among the onlookers. Gardy saw her taking photos and gave her a thumbs-up.
A freshly excavated hole lay twenty yards from the water. A pale hand poked into the sun.
Three crime scene techs in white suits finished collecting evidence and packed up their gear. Baggies covered their shoes. Bell wondered how they could walk on the sand dressed like that.
“Around one o’clock this afternoon we received a call about a human hand buried in the sand. A nine-year-old girl was digging around and found it. Fortunately, she didn’t find the rest of the body.”
Bell grimaced.
“I hope the kid is okay.”
“The mother noticed what it was and pulled the girl away before she saw too much. To be perfectly honest, the mother is the one who’ll probably end up with nightmares.”
“Do we have an ID on the vic?”
“Nothing yet, but I’m confident we’ll find out soon. Carlton Yates is the best ME in South Carolina.”
A female officer leaned in and said something to McKenna.
“That’s fine, Suarez. I’ll have the agents examine the body, then we’ll clean the scene up.” The female officer angled toward the onlookers as McKenna walked beside the agents. “Second body we’ve found like this, both dismembered, though the last was five years ago. The mayo
r is having a shit-fit. Not exactly good for the tourist trade when someone’s kid digs up body parts. Whatever insight you can lend is most appreciated.”
Bell knelt down and covered her mouth. The smell was terrible, a salty carrion stench that steamed out of the hole. Tiny crabs skittered over the scattered body parts, which were roughly arranged to resemble a human.
“Was the previous body found on the beach? The one from five years ago?”
“No. That one was found at a construction site five blocks south of the beach. Assuming it’s the same guy, is it normal for a killer to go inactive for five years?”
Bell glanced up at McKenna.
“It’s not unheard of. Serial killers change their patterns for reasons we don’t fully understand. Some target the same type of victim for years, often a woman who reminds him of someone important from his childhood, then completely shift gears for no apparent reason and track different women. Some kill on a set schedule, others need an outside trigger to set them off. In short, they make their own rules.”
“To complicate things further,” Gardy said, slipping on a pair of latex gloves. “Maybe the unknown subject spent time in prison. It’s not uncommon for a serial killer to have a rap sheet of lesser crimes. The five-year lull might be a clue. I’ll have Quantico run a search on anyone from this area who was incarcerated during that time frame.”
McKenna nodded absently.
After Bell put on gloves, Gardy manipulated the body. He slipped his hands under the upper torso and tilted it. A dark purple bruise tattooed the woman’s neck.
“Blunt force trauma to the back of the neck.”
“We saw that, too,” McKenna said, wiping his sunglasses on his shirt. “Looks like he struck her with a bat or a rock.”
The body was organized like a mad god’s doll parts. Four faint purplish tints marked the ankle.
“He dragged her by the ankle,” said Bell. “Detective, did the techs dust the ankle for prints?”
“Yeah, but the sand mucked everything up. When we get the body to the coroner’s office, we’ll take a closer look. They found a blade of grass though.”
“Which suggests the body was dumped here.”
“That seems likely. We didn’t find blood or signs of a struggle nearby, but this stretch of beach is four miles long. Too much area to cover.”
The wind gusted and dragged sand across the body. The officers shielded their eyes as children splashed through building waves, oblivious to the macabre scene playing out behind the barricades.
Bell examined the woman’s right hand.
“Detective, did you notice the missing forefinger?”
“I meant to ask you about that. We couldn’t decide if it was lost in the dismemberment or—”
“No. He took it with him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Darkness slides across the plate-glass windows fronting the Island Mart. The sun is down, and the aisles are empty of shoppers as the crowds flock to clubs and take night walks on the beach. The store is a ghost that whispers memories of squealing shopping cart wheels and intercom squawks. All that remains is the contemporary pop drivel pumping out of the speakers.
Derek Longo reaches into a loaded shopping cart and stocks snack treats on the shelves. Pudding and chips. Mixed nuts and Jello. The man’s frame is portly and soft, his head bald. Dark circles ring his eyes. Not from exhaustion. The circles are always there, a permanent tattoo.
He likes the night shift. Only a few customers visit after nine o’clock, usually kids with fake IDs trying to buy beer. One assistant store manager, who he rarely encounters, runs the store overnight. She’s in the back office cruising the Internet and pretending to work. She leaves him alone, just the way he wants it.
He doesn’t like being around other people. They make his skin itch. If he spends too much time in a crowd, he breaks out in hives, red welts which burn and swell. Once a group of college students came into the Island Mart after midnight and made nuisances of themselves, yelling across the store, drunkenly giggling and knocking items off the shelves. They found Longo in the bread aisle and wouldn’t stop asking him idiotic questions. How long does it take to bake the bread, and does he bake it himself? Does he prefer white or multi-grain? Can you make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with gluten-free ingredients?
What he wouldn’t have paid to skewer them on meat hooks.
They saw the hot splotches burning his neck and arms and snickered. Whispered and pointed as though he was a freak show. When they were gone, he stole a tube of hydrocortisone cream and slipped into the bathroom where he covered his body until the itching ceased.
He pushes the memory away and pulls a step ladder over to the shelves. Two younger workers, both fat girls without college educations, appear at the end of the aisle and look in his direction. One says something into the other’s ear, and they both giggle and hurry away.
Longo’s nickname is Nosferatu, for he only works the night shift and his complexion is preternaturally pale for a coastal southerner. They all laugh at him. He knows this and doesn’t care.
He finishes stacking the pudding and turns to the Jello cups. His lunch box is beside him. Gray with metal latches. It looks like something a mother buys her son when the boy outgrows cartoon and superhero lunch pails.
Ensuring the aisle is empty, he runs his hand along the edges of the pail. He senses her inside. Her finger, wrapped in a freezer bag and blanketed with ice. The ham sandwich will surely freeze because of this, but he doesn’t care.
It is dangerous bringing a part of her to work. The risk excites him, makes him touch the front of his jeans when he’s sure nobody is looking.
He cannot be without her. Freezing the body part slows the decaying process. Eventually it will rot, no matter how long he keeps the finger on ice. Then he will need to say goodbye, and parting will hurt.
He lifts the lunch box and carefully places it on the shelf. Slides it into the shadows where the fluorescent lights fail to reach. No one to ask questions as he resumes the monotonous work.
The cart is almost empty when the automatic doors slide open at the front of the store. A visitor at this time of the night is rarely good news. Probably someone looking to cause trouble like the college students. Longo instinctively ducks his head though there is nowhere to hide in the antiseptic glow. His pulse races as footsteps approach. Maybe he should retreat to the back until the intruder leaves.
Longo is halfway down the rows when he sees her. She is beautiful, skin soft and flawless. Black hair, darker than midnight, curls down to her shoulders. Her eyes are a striking green. Green like the Caribbean. Her ample chest is barely contained by a black halter top.
She enters Longo’s aisle, and he turns his shoulders so his face is hidden. She puffs an exasperated sigh and retreats, unfamiliar with the store layout, and heads toward the rear of the store. He hears her move down one aisle and up the next.
Her footsteps quicken. Longo knows she’s found what she was looking for.
Carefully, he glides to the end cap. He can be quiet when he needs to be.
Peeks around the cheese snacks and snaps his head back when she turns. She saw him, he thinks.
The woman goes still. No footsteps. His breath quickens. If the woman saw him spying, she might tell the manager. At the front of the store, a female cashier talks on her phone.
The patter of sneakers against the recently mopped floor resumes, and he slips out of hiding.
The rows are empty. He can hear her although the woman remains hidden from view.
He walks, silent as a cat. Checks each aisle. No sign of her.
A look over his shoulder confirms the assistant manager is still in her office, the cashier at checkout. Nobody watches.
He finds the woman in the pharmacy, stooped over on one knee and reading a bottle of Tylenol. She touches her forehead and groans. Spins around and sees him.
He quickly averts his eyes and turns to the shelves. Rearranges the protein powd
er containers.
He feels her eyes. Senses the quickening of her heart.
The itch begins on his forearm, then the welts spread across his stomach. Longo winces and bites his tongue. Fights the urge to drop the containers and scratch bloody streaks into his flesh.
“Are you okay?”
The woman’s voice freezes him.
“Sir?”
He cannot turn his head. Throat too dry to answer.
Longo twists his head slightly, just enough so the supple outline of her figure touches the corner of his eye. He nods slowly and feigns arranging the powders again.
She steps forward and pauses.
His longing to scratch the festering hives grows. The welts are everywhere now. His legs, buttocks. The bottoms of his feet and between his thighs.
When he is certain she will speak to him again, she unexpectedly veers around another end cap and gives him a wide berth. Hurries to the checkout lanes and away from Longo. He chews his tongue until the taste of copper fills his mouth.
Voices echo through the nearly empty store as the cashier greets the woman. Soon she will pay for her item and disappear, and he will never see her again.
He moves from one aisle to the next until he crouches beside the candy rack of an empty checkout lane. Hershey bars, Skittles, Starburst fill his vision. He smells the sugar bleeding through the paper. The security cameras capture his every move but he doesn’t care. She is the one. The woman he needs.
Longo spies her from behind the rack. Can see the Nike sneakers and bare ankles. His eyes crawl up her capris. She twists her head as though she senses him. He ducks behind the candy and knows her glare is fixed on his hiding spot.
The cashier thanks her, and now the sweat bubbles out of his pores because he hears the crinkle of the bag, jangle of keys. She is leaving.
If he follows her out the front door the cashier will know. The girl will demand Longo tell her where he is going or threaten to report his truancy. Where should he tell the girl he is going? Maybe to his truck. He forgot something. No, that won’t do. Regardless of what he tells the cashier, he can’t walk through the sliding doors. The beautiful woman will notice him following.