Another half hour at no wake speed till he docked his vessel in a slip he rented from a friend. Nothing here would be purchased or rented under his name. He could not be too careful.
The sun was just beginning to set, casting a golden halo around Catalina. A cool ocean breeze swept up off the marina. He let it wash through him, calming his nerves.
The walk to Lido Island was another half hour, which he didn’t mind. It invigorated him, made him ready for the chase.
A two-story nightclub on the tip of Lido Island called The Warehouse beckoned the young and restless. Young women here, some in their twenties, others merely appearing so, were the norm, their bodies tight, not from exercise but plastic surgery, the latest diet drugs, and cocaine. As much as cocaine was considered “the drug of the eighties,” its popularity was still alive and well in this crowd.
He paid the cover charge and walked into a sea of strobe lights and cigarette smoke. Patiently he waited. Waited for someone to catch his fancy. Many of the women roamed in packs, apparently out for a quick night’s screw with the girls. He did not want one who seemed experienced.
Rather he searched for innocence, a kind of insecurity that told him this girl did not belong here, for she was special. Watching women flirting and swigging back martinis, he found no one who met his needs.
Better try my luck upstairs.
Ascending the dark staircase, he entered the first bar, ordered a vodka tonic, and kept moving. Coming upon what he wanted, he watched her at a distance for some time. From what little he could hear of her voice, she was a tourist, Southern girl, by the drawl. Dressed in black ruffled taffeta, she looked more like a prom date than a serious lay. The girl she was with had been whispering in her ear, pointing at some nerd seated at the bar.
“Go on, go up and talk to him,” she’d said, shouting over the booming music.
“How can I? What if he’s with someone?”
“He’s been sitting there for an hour nursing that Coca-Cola like it’s the last drink on earth. You think if he was with someone, she would have showed by now?” The girl did not disguise her sarcasm.
“I guess you’re right,” her friend said shyly.
“Yeah. How do you expect to have a good time if you don’t grow some balls?”
With this statement, she simply blushed, getting off her barstool cautiously.
He took his chance; rescue the damsel from her fate. Exactly what he was looking for.
She took ten steps in his direction across the smoke-filled bar. He got down, walked to her, and took her arm, guiding her away from the object of her intentions.
“Now, you don’t really want to be seen with him, do you?” he asked charmingly, eyes dancing over her, delighting in her.
“Not really. My friend’s been goading me all night. I guess I’m not exactly date material out here, although in South Carolina…”
He stopped himself from grinning.
“Would you like to have a drink with me? I promise, I’m harmless.” He bowed just slightly, his arm making a debonair swirl in the air, as if he were at her command.
Laughing, she gave him the once over and responded, “I guess it’s okay.”
Attentively, he guided her to a table in the corner, away from the blinding light and blaring music. “There, this is much better, isn’t it? We can talk.”
He was amazed she even sat like a lady, her hands running along her buttock as she sat to smooth out her dress, ankles crossed demurely. She was, in a word, refreshing.
“Are you here visiting?” He asked the obvious question, figuring it would be an easy way to get the conversation rolling, put her at ease.
“Yes, my daddy’s out here on business. He works with Toshiba, you know, the electronics company. Management. Some big seminar they’re having.”
“That’s very nice. And what brings you to a place like this?”
“Well, I got all excited when Dad said Mom and I could come along. Never been to California before.” The girl was so excited the words shot off her like bullets. “Already seen Disneyland. Tomorrow we’re doing Knott’s Berry Farm.”
He merely smiled. “Would you like a fresh drink?”
“Oh, yes, please. I’ve been drinking rum and coke. Adds to the California vacation atmosphere, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” He motioned to the waitress, then thought the better of it and got the drinks himself, without any fuss. He kept his chin down and eyes averted. As many faces as this bartender saw in one night, he didn’t want to give the guy a reason to stand out from the crowd, to be remembered.
“Here you are,” he said, returning promptly. “So are you in high school?”
Frowning at the question, she responded, “No, I’m a freshman in community college.”
A thin painted smirk remained glued to his face, but he appeared to listen intently. His mind was already far away.
“What do you do?” she asked, a spring in her voice.
“I am in the medical profession.”
“A doctor?” She seemed instantly awed.
“Of sorts.” He changed the subject quickly. “Do you like the ocean?”
“Yes, that’s one of the reasons I was so excited to come out here. To be close to the water and all. It makes me feel, well, it makes me feel alive.”
“Then I guess you’re in luck.”
She questioned him with her eyes.
“I’ve got a sailboat moored about a half hour from here. Would you like to go for a sail?” He did not need her to answer.
“That would be great.” She leapt up, practically giddy with excitement.
“Why don’t you freshen up in the bathroom, and I’ll meet you…”
She sprang from the chair and was gone before he could finish his sentence. He left a not too generous tip, waited a few minutes, and followed.
Outside, a typical Southern California night. The stars stood as if at attention in the sky, the air not balmy, but cool.
“Take your shoes off,” he coaxed her. As she did what he said, he savored his growing command over her.
Black two-inch heels dangling from her hand, he caught a whiff of her spicy perfume. On the way to the yacht, he slipped his fingers into hers, tantalized by her touch. A coolness, yet warmth to it. That lyrical quality in her eyes.
Within the hour they were outside the bay, heading farther south for Dana Point, Carrie Ann Bennett sipping champagne, already downing three quarters of a bottle, almost all by herself. They passed a few boats heading in, all with their red and green night running lights reflecting off the water.
Above, the heavens opened its black cloak studded with diamonds. A peaceful breeze from the north caressed the sails, the water rhythmically lapping the sides of the sailboat. Now skirting the distant lights of Emerald Bay, an exclusive community made famous by two events—the Laguna fires and as the residence of Nicole Brown Simpson’s family.
He paused the boat here, contented with the twinkling lights of the coastline on one side, endless blackness on the other, and the stars above. Smoothly, she asked for him to sit next to her. As he went to her, he smiled disarmingly, seeing that one of her ruffled shoulder straps had fallen, revealing a milky white neck, delicate bones.
He took her champagne flute and placed it some distance away, wanting her to have no distractions. Kissing and caressing her, she quivered as his tongue darted in and out of her mouth, a teasing kiss that made her beg for more. Over her now, his hands stroked her body through the taffeta. She could see nothing but the stars and the face of this man who was professing his love for her. From the shining tears in her eyes, he could see that it seemed so incredible, so unbelievable to her.
“There is no reason to be scared,” he said in a whisper.
“I’m not. It’s just I can’t believe this is happening. You’re so wonderful,” she said, her voice deep and throaty, filled with emotion.
“Can you understand what I see for us, a future?”
“Yes,” sh
e replied, thinking he was speaking of love, a home, family, togetherness.
In an instant he was back at her neck, the kisses so tender she could not control herself any longer. She moaned in sheer delight, moving her body closer.
His mouth was at her ear again, nibbling on her lobe, a little pain, enough to further excite her. Slowly, very slowly, he brought his lips to hers and kissed her softly, then harder, the way he wanted to. Tenderly, his fingers slid down her back, the zipper now open. Skin soft, the gentle curve of her spine, as she arched up for him. Hands roamed down, then up, slowly to her thigh. He held his hand there, enjoying the feel of the taffeta and her skin. In his ear, she was breathing hard now, the moans occasional, as she pushed her hips into him.
For a second he looked up. It was magical on the ocean, a canopy of midnight black darkness all around, covering them like a shroud, the stars providing the faintest light. Pavarotti playing from inside the cabin, counterbalanced by the peaceful lapping of the water at the bow, in operatic perfection. How absolutely flawless this evening is, he thought.
She commanded his attention, moaning louder now. His hands went to work, moving along her contours, underneath her dress. He watched her. The way her back arched at his touch, the way her mouth hung open.
She pulled away, surprising him. Standing, she allowed her dress to slip away, so he could see her in the milky moonlight. Sensually, she removed the remainder of her clothes till she stood there naked, making herself an offering to him.
He rose, her eyes looking up to him now. Facing her, he was still fully clothed. She knelt in front of him, her hands on him, one groping at his buttocks, the other busy with his zipper. His hands were on her hair, touching it softly.
In an instant, his touch went from tender to brutally rough, grabbing her long chestnut mane. Startled, she glared at him. What she saw in his face shocked her. Wild, crazy eyes.
Yanking her up to him, she screamed. The lapping music off the water drowned out her terror. With the back of his hand, he knocked her across the face, sent her reeling across the bow. He watched as she looked for something to fight back with, frantically trying to open the top sliding storage cabinets. But there was nothing. He had carefully locked away anything she could use as a weapon.
Flashing a wicked grin at her, he laughed.
And approached.
Reaching up, she touched a wet trail on her chin, looked at trembling fingers to see blood. She began pleading with him, her naked body shivering suddenly, even though the air was warm and balmy from the Santa Ana winds.
“Please don’t hurt me…” Her words trailed off as she realized the futility of her begging. She began to weep. Closing in on her, the Burning Man took her in his arms again, his tenderness returned. Painted on her face, he could see the relief, feel it wash over her. He held her like this for a moment, her body bleeding, shivering, defenseless. Coughing, hard labored breathing, tears on his shoulder.
Lifting her chin so their eyes met, he told her softly, “It will be all right.” With this, he reared his head back and, with his full body weight, rammed his forehead into hers, forcing her to the deck. Slamming his boot up against her cheek, he crushed her bruised face into the deck. Frantically, she grabbed at his ankle. Fright reigned in her face, from what he could see, tears coming hard and fast now, streaming down, into her mouth.
Here, she was his alone.
No one would hear her screams.
Picking up his foot, he brought it back down on her throat. He watched her close her eyes, then open them wide. Above her, he took her entire frame of vision. She realized, no doubt, that the silver-haired man she trusted, looming over her here, would be the last thing she’d see. Her body seemed smaller than before. He smiled again. Eyes wild, staring in her direction, but through her as if she weren’t even there.
“Look at me.” In his voice, there was something diabolical. His pupils seemed to fill his eyes.
“Please don’t kill me. I want to live…” Her pleas came quickly, but without much hope.
“What you want is not important now,” he told her in a smooth statement.
“I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t kill me.”
“I will do what is right with you. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
With that, as quickly as he had snared her, he let her go. She scrambled to her knees, gasping for breath, coughing and retching, rubbing at her throat. Wide-eyed, frightened, certain that he would kill her, she asked her first intelligent question of the night. “Why?” she whimpered, her voice barely audible above the lapping sea.
He did not answer.
Moving in on her, he knocked her into submission. This time she was too weak to offer any resistance. This time she would not awaken.
He stood, mesmerized. Despite what he believed earlier, she really was an ugly creature. Too much baby fat lodged in the wrong places, her face splotched, bloody. More so than the way she looked now, he found her actions repulsive. Like the others, a whore, nothing less.
He listened to the water for some time, as if in a trance. Reaching up to touch his forehead, above his right eye, it was tender, slightly painful. With a little disinfectant and maybe a butterfly stitch or two, it would be fine.
He could not say the same for Carrie Ann Bennett.
Disappearing below, he brought back the tools of his trade. A scalpel, surgical gloves, sulfuric acid in an antiqued glass bottle with a rounded cut-glass stopper. A six-foot length of sheet metal he had picked up at the local hardware store, nine eyehooks welded into each of the corners and the midsection. Thick black nylon rope.
His fantasy was progressing, developing with each kill.
Tonight he would write a new chapter.
He sat beside the crumpled mass. Dipping her fingers into her blood, he tasted it. Warm, metallic. The elixir of life, just as he was the giver of life.
It was time. He snapped on the latex surgical gloves, squeezing and closing his palms, making sure they were a good fit. Although he was not a big man, he easily moved the girl’s limp weight onto the sheet metal. “Maybe the adrenaline rush,” he spoke to her, as if she could hear.
“Now, my dear, you will return from whence you came.” Reciting the Hippocratic oath, he tied her down to the steel frame, looping the rope tight around her neck, then her forehead, working his way eventually to each arm and ankle, wrapping the rope securely as he went. He posed her like he had the last one, her legs spread apart, arms straight out to the side.
“…Do no harm…” That phrase struck him as ironic. The world had done him harm, the odds against him from the very beginning, and yet he had made a success of himself. In the face of the adversity, he was a giver of life.
He continued to bind her. Picking up electrical tape, he considered taping her mouth. No, that would be no fun, being able to see the eyes alone. Who was it that said the eyes were the windows to the soul? He could not remember. It would be far more exhilarating to hear her screams. Her voice, after all, had that pleasant Southern drawl to it, the drawn-out r’s, the rounding out of words ending in g. It would be good to listen to her.
Satisfied, he stood back, examining his handiwork.
Pulling down a cushion from one of the seats, he placed it below him as he sat. He touched her hair as tenderly as a father would his newborn child. Picking up the scalpel, the blade reflected moonlight, glistening as if it had a life of its own. Kneeling over her, he began to cut, pouring the acid in each wound as he went.
Shrill animal screams filled the night.
By the time he fulfilled his perverse sexual needs over her, there was only silence.
FIVE
Pleasure is the only thing to live for. Nothing ages like happiness.
—Oscar Wilde, An Ideal Husband
Seen it lots of times before, doc, but never like this,” detective Jim McGregor said, looking down, his hand swirling now-cold coffee in a Styrofoam cup.
“So you took the photos at the scene of the first gir
l?” Cat asked.
“Yeah, Stevenson over there—” His big Irish alcoholic nose pointed in the direction of a man across the room. “He was busy that day. So I took them. Photography’s sort of a hobby on my days off. Helps me relax, ya know?”
Cat nodded. “Mind if I have a seat?”
“Help yourself; it’s a free country ain’t it?” Jim “the Coach” McGregor responded. The press had tagged him “the Coach” when he had helped some kids from Rancho Santa Margarita make it to the Little League World Series semifinals. He didn’t really like the name, didn’t dislike it either. Just kind of stuck. None of his colleagues used the nick name. He told them not to. He hated it. He went by McGregor now.
“I’ve seen your work, very impressive.”
“Thanks.” He seemed genuinely not to care, far more impressed with swirling dregs.
“When you took the pictures, was anything moved?”
“Nope, everything was by the book. I swear on St. Anthony.” He put his right hand up in a mock gesture.
“There’s no need for that.”
“Hey, when the Feds come in, better make sure you dot your i’s and cross your t’s, know what I mean?”
Cat merely nodded. This man did not fit the Irvine Police Department’s newly modernized image. Other cops walked around in polished-looking yet casual denim shirts and Dockers. This guy sat in front of her with one shirt tail hanging out, circles under his eyes, a definitive double chin. She wondered what his cholesterol level was.
“The first one, what was the location like where you found her?”
“Nothing unusual really, for a homicide, if you know what I mean.”
Cat looked at him puzzled. From what she had heard, the man spoke from fifteen years of experience as a cop, the last ten years homicide exclusively. He had seen a lot. In a way, she understood the quiet, deliberate distance he maintained. It was born of the need to isolate the soul from the horrors he investigated, day in and day out.
He took his eyes off his coffee dregs, met her quizzical stare, and returned to them.
“We found her dumped on the southern edge of Caspers Regional Park, off Ortega Highway, about a half mile from the 3,300-foot elevation. By the time we got to her, raccoons and possums had made good work on her fingers.”
The Burning Man Page 4