You should’ve seen the hallway after that. What a mess.
We left the twins where they’d fallen. All we really cared about, now that they were out of our hair, was getting back to Denise.
She was still on the bed, Tom clutching her hair and holding the shears to her throat. But now she was lying on her back and Minnow was bending over her, busy pulling the torn remains of the nightgown down her legs. She didn’t move at all except to sob and gasp for air.
Minnow blocked her view of us until he finished with the nightgown and stepped out of the way. Then she raised her head. Must’ve hurt, pushing her neck against the edges of the shears. But she did it anyway, and looked at us.
Seeing all that blood must’ve unhinged her.
Or maybe it was the sight of Ranch’s chainsaw, which was pretty gory.
She went nuts. Nobody was holding her arms, so she grabbed Tom’s hand and shoved the shears away from her throat. She even managed to turn them and poke Tom in the belly with them. They went into him far enough to leave a pair of quarter-inch scars. He yelled and fell backward off the bed.
Before Denise could do anything else, four of us pinned her to the mattress by her arms and legs. All she could do was twist and squirm. That left Minnow free to go first. So he took off his jumpsuit and climbed aboard. Must’ve been like a dream coming true for him. I mean, we’d all had the hots for her, but he’d been obsessed. For years. He must’ve thought he’d died and gone to heaven.
Ho ho. Now he is dead, thanks to Jody. Bet he didn’t go to heaven, though.
Even if he’d been a regular saint for every other second of his life, the stuff he did to Denise for about fifteen minutes while we held her down bought him a one-way ticket to hell, that’s for sure.
We basically didn’t rush Minnow or anything, figuring he’d waited so long for a chance at her. Also, it was a fantastic turn-on to watch both of them.
By the time he was done, Denise was still alive but we didn’t need to hold her down anymore.
Private went second, then Clement. Ranch went next, and showed a certain flair and originality—not to mention good taste—by licking her clean before getting down to real business. Then it was my turn. Denise didn’t look like much by then. In a way, though, that made it even better. Mostly, I remember how slippery she felt.
Tom went last. His belly was bleeding pretty good from the way she had jabbed him. He was smiling, though. Denise was still alive when he started. He used the shears on her. She still had enough energy to scream, but we’d shoved a wad of nightgown into her mouth way before then, so not much sound came out. She was in a few pieces by the time Tom finished.
After that, we took quick showers so we wouldn’t have to leave the house with blood all over us. We took our tools into the showers with us and washed them, too. Then we got dressed and took everything out to the car with us.
All of us climbed in except Tom. He said, “Back in a minute,” and we had to wait while he went into the house. He was gone for a lot longer than a minute. Finally, he got in and started the car.
But he didn’t pull away.
“What’re we waiting for?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
Pretty soon, I saw.
Orange light through the living room curtains. Orange light that shimmered and shook and got brighter.
“Pretty good idea,” I said.
“Cremate the fuckers,” Ranch said.
“It’s more to cremate the crime scene,” Tom explained.
Then we drove back to his place.
Chapter Thirty
It really ate up the time, telling all that.
If I tried to give you that much detail about everything, it’d take me forever. Or at least longer than I’ve got.
My headache is gone. The aspirin must’ve kicked in. Also, I went ahead and made myself bacon and eggs after I got done telling about our fun and games at Denise’s house. We had some fun there, didn’t we?
I probably shouldn’t have gone into so much detail. I might end up running out of time before I have a chance to tell everything else.
But our attack on Denise’s house deserved some attention, since it was the first time we did that sort of thing. It was like a major event in the history of our little gang. A lot bigger, scarier and more exciting than just nailing one person we might find in the streets somewhere. It was like a quantum leap into a whole new dimension of mayhem.
The news media treated it that way, too.
They called it a “Manson-style massacre.”
As to who had committed the atrocity, they didn’t have a clue.
I think Tom’s mother probably had a pretty good idea about who’d done it. But we didn’t need to worry about her telling.
We behaved ourselves and began our university careers. Tom decided against Willamette because he didn’t want to break up the gang. He went to Pepperdine instead. Ranch, Private and I went to UCLA, Minnow to USC and Clement to Loyola-Marymount.
Maybe we weren’t angels, but we weren’t dumb. Sure, sometimes we acted like dopes and goofed off, but that was just for fun. Underneath it all, we were smart enough to get into pretty good schools.
We got together sometimes over the next few months, but we didn’t go out and kill anybody.
In November, my urges got the better of me and I nailed a coed in one of the UCLA parking structures. I raped her and used an electrical cord to strangle her. (Quiet, and not much blood to speak of.) This couldn’t compare with hitting a house and doing a whole family, but it was better than nothing.
Anyway, we knew we couldn’t hit a house very often. That sort of crime is just too big.
By the first week in January, we figured enough time had gone by. We all had time off for our winter breaks. Tom had recruited three new members. Somehow, he had a talent for picking guys with the right kind of urges and guts.
I wonder if there’s something about Tom. Maybe he has a sixth sense about these things, or maybe he has a force inside him that switches people on. Serial killers are almost always loners. That’s probably because there just aren that many guys around who have the right mixture of necessary ingredients to bake that particular cherry pie, if you know what I mean. Sometimes you hear about two working together, but that’s pretty rare. We started off with four, and worked our way up to twelve...
Unheard of, as far as I know.
So I guess we’re “history makers.” That makes me pretty important, being one of the charter members and also the guy telling the tale.
Also, I’ve been in on every kill done by the gang. (Not to mention that I’ve done more than a few on my own.)
I’m one of the only guys who knows it all.
Just call me the Boswell of the Krull Gang.
Better get back to the story. I got sidetracked about the new members Tom brought in.
They were Lawrence “Dusty” Rhodes, Bill Peterson, and Frank “Tex” Austin. Dusty is still with us, but the other two are toes up.
I already told what happened to Bill Peterson.
Tex caught it the third time he went on a house raid with us. That was in Reno, Nevada. (We got around, not wanting to foul our own back yard anymore than necessary.) The wife happened to be in the john taking a leak when we made our entry. She took us all by surprise, but it was Tex that she killed. Jumped on his back and stabbed him in the neck about ten times with a little pair of toenail scissors. One of the stabs opened up his carotid.
Tex was our first member of the homosexual persuasion. By the time we found out, though, we all liked him so it didn’t matter. Besides, he never messed with any of us. He saved it for the guys we met on our forays. Which worked out very nicely. He took special care of the fellas while we handled the babes.
Before he got killed, he brought in Mitch and Chuck. They were okay, I guess. I liked them fine, mostly, till Friday night when they were so useless going after Jody and Andy. And on top of which, the assholes ditched me.
In my bo
ok, they’re all a bunch of assholes. The whole bunch.
They all deserted me. And now they’re all ganging up on me over this Jody and Andy business. Guys I thought were my friends.
They’re probably hoping I don’t make the deadline, so then they can have their fun and games with Lisa.
Just for the record, Lisa doesn’t know anything about our little adventures. She knows I get together with the guys once a month and sometimes I end up staying out all night, but she always thought we were meeting at Tom’s house to play poker and get drunk. She didn’t like it, either. She’s been trying to get me to quit.
We got engaged a couple of months ago, and the wedding is set for Labor Day weekend. Ranch is supposed to be my “best man.” He’s been talking about throwing me a bachelor’s party where we take a sorority house—really plan ahead and go in there with some heavy artillery and take control of the place, then pick out the best looking babes for our entertainment.
I told him it sounded awfully risky.
He said, “You only get married once.”
I think we really might have done it. Hell, it would’ve made more history. But everything’s down the tubes, now. Even if I can manage to save Lisa, it’ll all be over between us. And it’s all over between me and the guys, no matter what. Even if they forgive me for screwing up, I can’t forgive them for the way they turned against me.
I don’t know how I’m going to get my hands on Jody in time for the deadline, anyway.
I’ve been trying to tell myself she’ll come walking in the door any minute, but it isn’t likely. Those dresser drawers of hers were just too empty. She must’ve taken enough clothes for a week or two. You don’t do that, then come home the next morning.
God, I’d like to forget about Lisa and the deadline and all that shit, and just sit here and talk. I’ve never talked so much in my life as during the past couple of days. It’s great. Telling about this stuff, it’s like being there all over again. I can see it, smell it, taste it, feel it. What a turn-on!
What I’d really like to do is give the whole history in detail. Maybe it could end up as a book. Call it, The Incredible Krulls. Har! No, that’s an awful title. How about The Sex-Cult Massacres? I like that.
Maybe that can be my project if I get out of this mess alive.
Anyway, I’d like to just keep sitting here and really get into it, but ... It’d be nice. It’d take my mind off shit, too.
But shit beckons.
In other words, I’ve got some calls to make. First, I’ll give Tom a try. Maybe if I explain things, he’ll give me a break. I know I can get my hands on Jody. I need time, though. Maybe a week.
He’ll give me a week, my ass.
No way.
I could get down on my knees and beg, and he’s the sort of guy who won’t give me one extra minute on the deadline.
Well, screw that. I don’t beg.
What 1 will do, though, is phone up my sisters. Depending on how things turn out tonight, Tom and the guys might go after them next.
This’ll be real fun.
How do you tell your sisters that you had a falling out with some of your pals, and now those former pals might come along and torture, rape and butcher them and their husbands and children, so they’d better leave town for a few days or a month or the rest of their lives?
Talk about embarrassing, huh?
I wonder if they’ll even believe me.
They’re nine and eleven years older than me, so they never knew me very well. They were hardly ever around the house by the time I started getting into stuff with Tom and the guys. So they think I’m a sweet, quiet fellow. It might be awfully hard convincing them I’m mixed up in anything that could get them destroyed.
Maybe I should just wait a while before I call them. See how things go. If I can just get my hands on Jody ...
No. I shouldn’t have waited this long. It won’t be any major deal if I let the guys nail Lisa—I mean, I do want to save her. But it’s not like she’s family, you know? I’m not even sure I wanted to marry her. But I can’t let the guys get to my sisters.
Okay. Here goes. I’m gonna call.
I’ll start with Dora, I guess. I get along with her better than I do with Sandy. Sandy’s a real know-it-all.
Oh, man, I don’t want to do this.
Here goes.
I guess I’ll take the recorder along so I can tape my side of these miserable conversations for posterity.
The phone’s in the kitchen.
This makes my stomach hurt.
Vhat duss not kill uss makes uss schtronker. Yah-vole!
I don’t know my sisters’ phone numbers by heart. Isn’t that awful?
So, what’s the number for directory assistance?
Five-five-five something, I guess.
Hey, what’s this?
Folks! I see some numbers written on a pad here by the phone. They look suspiciously like a couple of long distance phone numbers.
Might these numbers provide a clue, perchance, to the whereabouts of Jody?
Fat fucking chance, Watson.
Eeeny meeny miney moe ...
The bottom number it is.
Who knows what evil lurks ... ?
“Woops.”
For those of you listening, I just hung up. Can you guess who I encountered at the other end?
The police. The Indio police. That’s Indio, California.
Be still, my heart. Whew! Be still, my ass. Have you ever noticed, when you’re really scared, how your bowel area gets hot and tingly and feels like it’s squirming around on you?
That’s how I feel right now.
It’s no picnic, making an innocent call and having a guy on the other end say he’s the official answer-boy for a police department.
Who does the other number belong to, the fucking FBI?
I think I’ll have another cup of coffee and give myself a couple of minutes to calm down before I try that one.
Okay. My bodily functions are slowly returning to normal.
Question. What is the number for the Indio cops doing on a pad by Jody’s kitchen phone?
Answer. Somebody called them recently.
What I might do is make the call again, say I’m with the LAPD, wing it, see what I can find out. Terrific idea. No way.
Here’s a little lesson in crime: don’t mess with cops, avoid them.
If I call up and try to play games, the oink at the other end is gonna catch on and pull a cute stunt such as tracing the call. (You call some numbers, like 911 for instance, and your call gets traced aummaticauy. They don’t even have to stall and keep you on the line like in the movies. Bang, the computer gives them the address you’re calling from. The miracles of modem technology.)
I’ll try the other number.
If it belongs to cops of some sort, I’ll say nothing and hang up.
Here goes.
The voice you’re about to hear will be yours truly.
“Yes, Frank. This is Captain Duke Eastwood, LAPD ... Are you a mechanic there, or ... ? Ah, I see. One of our officers gave us your number, indicated he might be heading out your way. The name’s Fargo ... Uh-huh ... Oh, that’s very good news! Excellent! We always hope these things will go that way. A kid that’s actually been snatched just doesn’t stand much of a chance, you know? ... Right, or they do get found. In a shallow grave. Terrible. God knows, I’ve seen enough of that. But we can count our blessings on this one, Frank. I’m just surprised Fargo hasn’t passed the word to our end yet. What time did the boy turn up ?... Uh-uh ... Well, that’s wonderful, wonderful. Now, do you know if he’s on his way back with the boy? ... Really? What makes you think that? ... You can? From your window? Is it one of our black and whites? ... No, we don’t use unmarked blue Fords. It must be his own personal car. Which motel is that? ... Uh-uh. I’ll give him a call over there. Frank, I want to thank you for your cooperation. You’ve been very helpful. Have a good one, now.”
Do you believe it?
I don’t believe it!
Oh man, oh man, oh man!
Okay, now what? I’ve gotta do some fast thinking. They’re still at some motel called the Traveler’s Roost across from the gas station—good old Frank can see Fargo’s car in the lot.
It’s eight-thirty now.
Thank God I woke up at dawn! And thank God I didn’t ditz around any longer with the tales of our adventures!
Okay okay okay.
I’ve gotta make tracks for Indio.
And hope they sleep late.
Got an idea!
I do know Ranch’s number by heart.
Come on, come on, answer. Be there!
“Yo! Ranch! ... Not too good, you wanta know the truth. But a lot better than I was five minutes ago. Look, I know all about Lisa and everything ... I know, I know ... No, it’s all right ... Yeah, we’re still pals. Now look, I know where the kids are. I’m going after them. You wanta come ?... Ha! Thought so. Now listen up, the girl’s old man is a cop, and he’s with her. There’s the three of them—the cop, Jody and Andy ... Yeah, she sure is. Better than that, my man. Dusty was understating it. Wait’ll you see her ... That’s the idea. Take her alive, play it by ear with the boy ... I know, but who gives a shit what those two want? Now look, let’s get Dusty in on this. I know he’s got the hots for her, and a sharpshooter like him might come in real handy—case we wanta pop the old man or someone at long distance. So call him, okay? Just him, though. And tell him this is just between the three of us. We don’t want everybody else trying to horn in on us ... Tell him it’s off if he pulls any stunts. I’m the only one knows where they are, and he wants her in a big way, so he’ll go along with it ... No. We’ll take your car, so make sure it’s gassed up and ready to roll. We’ve gotta be quick, or we’ll miss them. I’ll be over at your place in fifteen minutes.”
Part Seven
Checkout Time
Chapter Thirty-one
Jody woke up. The room was sunny. Rolling onto her side, she saw Andy on the other bed. He lay with his head turned away from her, his arms tucked under his pillow, his back bare down to where the sheet covered him. He’d gone to bed wearing Jody’s robe, but he wasn’t wearing it now. The sheet looked smooth over his rump and the backs of his legs.
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