"Cary, I think you should see a doctor. This has gone too far. What you have can't be simple insomnia. Those awful nightmares..."
"I think the dreams are simply the only way I've found to vent the pressure I feel during the day when I'm writing." Trying to write, he added silently to himself. "Things haven't been going as well as I'd hoped they would. And I guess you're right; maybe the French Revolution isn't such a good idea."
"I didn't say it like that," Diana insisted. "Now don't get slippery on me. Can I make an appointment for you with my doctor when you get back?"
"Okay," Cary sighed. He was relieved that Diana had taken matters into her own hands. "And after I get a clean bill of health I'd really like to drive the Beemer up to your mom's place. Just take a week for the two of us."
How many times had he promised that? But this time he really meant it.
"Sounds great, honey."
"How's Tweetie?"
"She's fine."
"Good."
They had run out of conversation.
"Well, I have to unpack," Cary said. "I'd better go."
"Bye."
"Bye."
Cary hung up and took one of his suitcases into the tiny bathroom, where he laid out a few of his toiletries. Then he unzipped two of his three suits from their garment bags and hung them in the closet. He turned on the TV and wandered around his room aimlessly for a bit.
He was bored. He hated traveling. He'd seen almost every major city in the U.S. and each was as dull and lonely as the next. Only a short way into this book tour, and he already couldn't wait to go home. He sat on the bed and flipped channels.
The white envelope sat on the night stand, where he had left it. Cary picked it up and tore off one end.
He slipped two fingers inside and carefully slid out the contents.
This was no note from Al. It was another Insta-Pic.
Cary's hands began to tremble. He sat down on the bed and looked at the photograph. As with the first, it was dark and grainy, probably meaning that it had been snapped at night using a cheap phone camera. The dead girl in the photo was the same one that was in the first. Only, this image showed what Bonfiglio liked to do after he'd prettied up his Brandies... If Cary didn't already know what he was looking at, he never would have guessed that the jagged black holes where her nipples should have been were now housing her eyeballs. The woman's head was nowhere to be seen, and the Brandie doll was jammed cruelly up her crotch.
The phone in his room rang abruptly, causing Cary to fumble, then drop the Insta-Pic. It landed face down, and Cary could see the handwriting on the back: Compliments of your Ghost Writer.
Cary snatched up the phone, desperately thankful for the diversion. "Cary Bouchard," he snapped.
"Mr. Bouchard?" a tentative female voice asked needlessly. "I'm Kallie. Al Jackson's assistant. I've been waiting at the airport for you for almost two hours. I know your flight was on time. What happened?" Rather than sounding annoyed, as she should have, she only sounded apologetic, as if it had been her mistake. "I don't see how we could have missed each other. Gosh, I'm so sorry. I'll make sure you're reimbursed for taxi fare."
Cary dropped the phone. If that girl was Al Jackson's assistant, then who had driven him to the hotel?
Al Jackson Productions sent a car for Cary and he was driven to the studio without incident. Backstage in the green room, which was actually a queasy shade of beige, Cary met Al Jackson for the first time.
He was a big man. Not just tall and robust, but he had a rather hefty paunch, too. Probably solid muscle. He was somewhere in his sixties, and he dyed his hair a brilliant blue-black. He had a white mustache, but rather than camouflage, it seemed to accentuate his voluminous Jaggeresque mouth. His flat, hard hazel eyes were quite small and set in close. Although he had the look of a mean, dumb bigot--an image which he'd carefully cultivated over the years--Al Jackson was in actuality an extremely shrewd, intelligent business man.
Al Jackson started out as a journalist. His column was so controversial--and popular--he gained an even larger audience when he graduated to radio and his program became manna to the skinheads, neo-Nazis, gay-bashers and other assorted hate-mongers who tuned in across the nation. His television show was now syndicated in as many cities as would accept it. Shot in Los Angeles in front of a live audience, The Al Jackson Show was more popular than anything on late night TV. People tuned in just to see what or whom he would be bashing next. Most people didn't believe he was for real--no one could be that hateful, after all--so they simply laughed at the show and relished in the demolition of the hapless guests. Al Jackson could mow down the opposition whether they were democrats, pro-choice, animal rights activists, atheists, or whatever. Al Jackson was against abortion, for the death penalty, against wildlife preservation, for hunting, against the ACLU, for the KKK... Or was he? No one was quite sure and Al Jackson wasn't talking--except on his show.
Al smiled like a wolf leading a lamb to slaughter and extended his hand. "Hi, I'm Al Jackson. Nice to meet you, Mr. Bouchard."
Cary extended his hand. "Likewise." He didn't seem so bad. Maybe Al would go easy on him. After all, what was to hate? Cary was a fellow Republican.
"I hope you're not nervous."
"No, I've been on TV before."
"Not with an audience like mine." Al smiled sheepishly, like a father apologizing for his rambunctious but basically good kids. "They can get a little out of hand sometimes."
Cary had seen bits and pieces of the Al Jackson Show. He really didn't like it, but he knew what it was all about. The audience, mostly frat boys and dropouts, were whipped into a frenzy by Jackson. Jackson interacted with his audience quite a bit and encouraged them to shout at the guests and boo them, throw things, ad nauseam. It could be very humiliating, but Cary hoped the exposure would help his book even more. It seemed that people liked to read "forbidden" books, whether the subject interested them or not, and Cary had a feeling the college crowd would snap up The Brandie Killer once given a whiff of the bait.
Al smiled and waved as he left the room. "See you onstage."
Cary smiled back.
As Al Jackson left the room a makeup lady entered. Cary hated the thick, sticky HD makeup, but without it, he'd look even paler on television than he already did in real life.
She gave him a perfunctory smile. She had her dishwater blonde hair pinned back and wore an orange smock over her jeans and tee shirt. "Are you nervous?"
"You're the second person who's asked me that in the last five minutes." Cary grinned, but could not conceal the edge of annoyance from his voice. Did these people all think he was a total neophyte? He'd been on a dozen shows, for chrissakes!
"Well, sometimes the guests are a little bit worried about how Al will treat them out there." She began to smudge his cheeks with a smelly, makeup-laden sponge. Cary wondered how much dead skin was caked into it, and whose. "Your publisher booked you here, right?"
Cary nodded slightly, trying not to get any makeup on his pristine collar.
"Well, you see, the ones who're sent here against their will, so to speak, are the ones who are usually shitting a brick by now. You should see the ones who ask to be on the show--in like a pit-bull, out like a whipped dog, baby. It doesn't matter how you get here, the end result is always the same."
He hated having this woman's hands on his face. The way she talked sickened him. It was very unladylike, not to mention unprofessional. "Mr. Jackson didn't seem so bad to me," Cary said.
The makeup lady smirked and snorted.
When she was done and gone, Kallie McCork, Al Jackson's personal assistant, slithered into the dressing room. She was an extremely shy and obviously withdrawn girl, and Cary was amazed she could handle the demanding job of working under such a busy and overbearing man.
"Hello, Mr. Bouchard," she said, ducking her head and peering out from too-long white blonde bangs. She wore a loose-fitting cowl-neck sweater dress, but Cary could see she was amply endowed and had l
ong, shapely legs. Had she worn a touch of makeup and cut her bangs, she could be quite attractive. But, Cary had Diana and thought no more of the girl's attributes as she pulled up a chair and sat beside him. "Have you met Al?"
"Yes, we met," Cary said. "He seemed like a nice guy."
Kallie smiled in much the same way the makeup lady had, but quickly regained her businesslike poise and said, "He can be, but not on his show. After all, that's his claim to fame. I wanted to let you know that Al is going to talk about your book a little bit, then he's going to call you out."
When talking about the show, Kallie suddenly sat up erect in her chair and looked Cary directly in the eyes. Perhaps she was more capable in her work than Cary had initially given her credit for. "You enter stage left, then sit down beside Al's desk. There is one other guest tonight, but you don't have to worry about moving from your seat unless Al orders you off the show."
Cary raised his eyebrows. "Why would he do that?"
"Well, I don't think he will in your case, but sometimes he will order a guest off the show when a situation gets too volatile. A fight broke out two seasons ago, and the audience beat a guest rather badly. We have lots more security people now," she added quickly.
Cary gulped. Now he was getting nervous. He hoped that Diana would not be watching...the show was on awfully late, but he knew Diana didn't like to miss any of his television appearances. Cary composed his thoughts. He was the intelligent, experienced veteran here. Al Jackson might poke some fun at him, but what could he really do?
"You're on in five minutes," Kallie said, turning on the television monitor which was mounted high in one corner of the dressing room.
The titles were coming up. THE AL JACKSON SHOW -- made in the USA! Was emblazoned across the screen in red, white and blue. Then the camera went live to Al Jackson, sitting at his desk. He had an American flag on the wall behind him, along with photos of himself shaking hands with Ronald Reagan and both of the George Bushes. There was a candid framed snap of himself with his aged mother sitting up on his desk, facing the camera. Cary was mildly surprised that the air in the studio wasn't scented with apple pie.
The camera panned across the audience. There were a few bald-headed and leather-jacketed youths, but most of them were blonde, blue-eyed fresh-faced college boys. There were very few females in the audience. Some of the kids held up handmade signs as the camera panned: Al Rules, You Drool! Skinheads 4-Ever! Heil Hitler! Hi, Mom!
The camera came back to Al, close-up. He looked into the lens and said very solemnly, "Good evening. Tonight, we welcome author Cary Bouchard." The audience booed, whistled and jeered. "I use the term 'author' loosely." More hoots and hollers from the crowd. "This man--again, I use the term loosely--has made a fortune by berating, humiliating and killing women...on the printed page only, of course." His tone was snide, and implied that there may be more to it than that. "Women like your sainted mother. Like your beautiful girlfriend. Like your beloved sister. This sicko takes pleasure in writing about killing women! Is he a faggot, or just a psycho? We'll find out. Welcome Cary Bouchard!"
Cary stood dumbfounded, staring at the monitor as the camera panned the audience, who were looking more and more like an angry mob with the ticking of each second. Cary could almost picture torches and pitchforks stowed beneath their chairs.
Kallie McCork gave him a shove and said, "That's your cue."
Cary scrambled out the door and a stage hand grabbed him by the arm, practically flinging him out. Cary stumbled and staggered, much to the loud amusement of the audience, then seated himself with as much dignity as he could muster in the chair next to Al's mahogany desk.
Al did not acknowledge him. Instead, he continued to address the audience. He looked intently into the camera. "His first book was called Vengeful Ghost. There was nothing special about that one--a typical, badly written pulp horror about a malevolent spirit. He did kill a nice old lady in it, but other than that, nothing special. Even I could write a more interesting shopping list."
The audience laughed and there was a smattering of applause.
"But then, he comes out with The Brandie Killer." Al held up a copy of the book, and the audience booed and hooted enthusiastically. "This book reveals the true psyche of our twisted author." Al opened the book to a dog-eared page and began to read: "Bonfiglio's hands tightened around the Brandie's soft, yielding neck. She coughed and tried desperately to pull away as he choked the life from her naked, bucking body. Her erect nipples brushed his arm and enraged him further. 'You like this?' he sneered. 'You want it?' The Brandie only managed strangled cries as the strapping Italian unzipped his pants and... I won't disgust you any further," Al said, punctuating his statement by slamming the hard covers of the book.
Cary couldn't help jumping, then he shifted in his seat hoping the camera had not been on him. The camera was actually on the audience, who were whistling and jeering. Then it came back to an extreme close up Al's concerned face. "Mr. Bouchard, why do you hate women?"
"I don't," Cary stated evenly. "That is only a story. I have to write what sells."
"You do, huh?" Al looked at his audience. "I think he's sick and is finding a way to turn that mental illness into big money! What do you think?" The audience's reply rose like a barbarian battle cry. Al Jackson turned back to Cary. "Oh, I see. Children's books don't sell? Spy thrillers don't sell? Romance novels don't sell? Tell that to Jackie Collins and Danielle Steel! Those two ladies could buy and sell you a hundred times over, my friend. And one of them is even dead!"
"Of course, they could, but this is where I have found my audience. I--"
"Your audience, huh? Where does your fan mail come from? San Quentin?" Al and the audience sniggered together.
Cary knew he had already lost. He couldn't very well defend the genre. He hated it, too. He decided to try and use that angle. He smiled and said, "Yes, that's very funny. You're probably right. I, personally, am rather squeamish and don't care for the whole serial killer chic trend. But I must make a living."
"Yeah. Well, if you're such a sissy-boy, how can you write scenes like that? Don't try and tell us you've got a ghost writer."
Those last words plunged an icicle through Cary's heart. He looked up sharply, but Al was already moving on.
"This guy," Al was looking into the camera again, "obviously hates women. He made his hero a sociopathic serial slayer of women who look like his mother. Mr. Bouchard here blames all of Bonfiglio's problems on the dear old mom. So, she was working as an exotic dancer to support her son; sometimes single mothers have to take desperate measures. What was your mom's problem?" Al asked Cary, leaning in so close that Cary could smell the other man's fetid breath.
Cary shook his head vigorously from side to side. "I didn't hate my mother. I loved her."
"Did you love her the day she went insane and tried to kill you?"
Chapter 6
Cary tried not to think about it, but it was true. His own mother had attempted to murder him. He was only a baby then; he didn't remember it, of course, and it was never discussed in his household...until one beautiful, lazy day in late summer.
Cary remembered how he had found out. The memory was set forever like a hot-brand in his brain.
He was ten years old. He was in the fifth grade, and basically a happy kid. His dad was a well-respected man in the community and his mother was the prettiest of all mommies. Sometimes she shut herself in her room and cried, but that wasn't often. His dad liked to take him fishing and, much to his father's chagrin, his mother liked to play dollies with him. Cary enjoyed the time spent with his mother and really didn't mind the dolls. Cary wanted desperately to please both of his parents, and usually he did. He got good grades in school, did his chores and kept his room clean without a peep of complaint. He never got into trouble and he always minded his manners.
That lazy day in his tenth summer, sometime while Cary was riding his bicycle home from the movies, his mother had cracked.
He'd spent
a typical day with his friends, starting at the break of dawn. His mother had seemed as normal as ever that morning as she made him eggs and an English muffin and admonished Cary when he balked at drinking all of his milk. From home he'd gone straight to Billy Hicks's house. Billy Hicks lived a few blocks away. His parents were divorced, and Cary had always wondered how strange it must be to live like that; with your parents split up. Billy never talked about it, and Cary didn't pry.
The two boys worked on building a fort in Billy's backyard, then rode their bikes to the movies after having the "healthy" lunch Billy's mother had insisted they eat. Cary liked Mrs. Hicks; she was plump and matronly. Cary's mother looked more like a model than a mom.
While at the movies, Cary and Billy shared a jumbo deluxe popcorn, red licorice, sour gummies and two big cherry colas, decimating Mrs. Hicks's well-laid nutritional plan. After the movie they went their separate ways. Cary stopped at the liquor store to buy a comic book, then headed for home.
The yellow and robin's egg blue Victorian style house looked as warm and inviting as it always did. Dad's Buick was in the driveway, and the lawn sprinklers were on, creating a rainbow over the grass. Cary walked his bike into the open garage and carefully leaned his Schwinn up against the wall. The smell of wood permeated the interior of the garage, and Dad's circular saw was still plugged in; Cary's father, an executive at a local factory, liked to spend his weekends making antique reproduction furniture. But Dad wasn't there. Cary guessed that his dad had probably gone inside to make a cup of coffee.
There was no one in the kitchen. The lights were off, and the waning afternoon sun cast a dim glow on the spotless linoleum floor. Cary loved his home; Mommie always kept it clean and Lysoled, but cozy and lived-in at the same time. Maybe she would bake some cookies for him tonight if he was really, really good.
The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller Page 10