by James Swain
Heller was in shock. She looked at the floor and shook her head. Cavanaugh took Heller’s hands, and tried to comfort her.
“I’m sorry, Ruth,” Cavanaugh said.
“I’ve worked a decade with that man,” she whispered.
Wondero said, “We’d like to spare the hospital as much embarrassment as possible.”
Cavanaugh looked at him. “Yes?”
“We have no evidence to convict D.B., just our suspicions. I want to speak with him — with Dr. Heller’s permission — and you can search his room. If you find evidence tying him to Osbourne, I’ll put in my report that you alerted us to what D.B. was up to, and not the other way around.”
“I appreciate the courtesy,” Cavanaugh said, petting Heller’s hand as the tears flowed unmercifully down her face.
Two beefy attendants led D.B. into the VISITORS room and handcuffed his arm to the leg of a chair hex bolted to the floor. Heller, who had put life back into her cheeks in the washroom, pulled a chair up beside her patient.
“D.B., this is Detectives Wondero and Rittenbaugh, of the LAPD,” Heller said.
D.B. stared at them, his eyes doing violent things inside his head. A twitch appeared in his throat.
Wondero said, “Do I have to tell you why we’re here?”
D.B. flashed two rows of perfect teeth. “I’m surprised it took you so long.”
“The wheels of justice turn slow,” Wondero said.
D.B. shifted in his chair and spoke directly to Heller.
“Ruth,” he said, dropping his voice, “I’m truly sorry about this — we made such a great team together — but all good things must end. I’m sorry if you feel used, but then again, I never thought that you weren’t using me. What kind of book are you writing? Something for a New York publishing company? Face it: you were in it for the bucks.”
“I wanted to… help you,” Heller said, seething with rage.
“And you did! You got me lots of privileges. And you told Cavanaugh I was getting better. You helped me a great deal.”
Wondero wished they were in Texas, where they still regularly executed killers like D.B. Heller bit her lip in anguish, her patient already turned away, tuning her out.
“Ready for my confession, detective?” D.B. asked.
He looked like the happiest person on the face of the earth, and when Wondero said yes, it did not register that the twitch in his neck had completely gone away.
D.B. started at the beginning. In gruesome detail he re-counted the hitchhikers and scores of runaways he had killed. First Cincinnati, then a short stint at the Port Authority in New York, then west to L.A. He had an appetite for killing, and it had grown enormous once he had gotten caught and locked away.
“When did you recruit Osbourne,” Wondero asked.
“I groomed Eugene,” he said proudly. “I saw a great capacity for violence in him, but no technique. He was just a hit and runner.”
“You mean he killed before you met him,” Rittenbaugh said, scribbling everything down in a small notebook.
“Oh yes. But not with purpose. I’ve spent half of my life inside of prisons and learned many useful things. In Eugene I saw my chance to pass this knowledge on, to mold him into what I might have been. It was a tremendous challenge.”
Heller leaned back in her chair, slowly relaxing, like a parent coming to grips with the confessions of a wayward child. She lit up a cigarette.
“Are we torturing the prisoner now?” D.B. asked.
Heller blew a cloud of bluish smoke at him.
“That’s enough!” he shouted. “Enough!”
Wondero saw Cavanaugh in the hallway, waving frantically to him through the wired window in the door. He’d found something in D.B.’s room, and the detective rose from his chair.
“Excuse me,” Wondero said.
D.B. came out of his chair as well, his bleeding left wrist twisted grotesquely where he’d dislocated it pulling it through the handcuff. Clenched in his right hand was a nail, its tip glistening like a diamond. Wondero raised his left arm, willing to sacrifice it to save his face or neck. A short explosion rocked the room, and D.B. flew sideways into the air and bounced off the wall, the right side of his face looking as if he’d just been stung by a hundred vicious bees.
Still sitting, Heller fired the tiny derringer in her hand again, this time at D.B.’s midsection. With both hands cradling his testicles, he shrunk to the floor, screaming a stream of obscenities. Lowering his arm, Wondero stepped over him and picked up the nail, feeling its tip. It was as sharp as a razor.
“It’s rat shot,” Heller explained as Rittenbaugh took the derringer from her. “I’ve been having a problem in my garage.”
Cavanaugh had entered the room without anyone realizing it. He grabbed Wondero’s arm and said, “It was all there.”
“What are you talking about?” Wondero said.
“In D.B.’s room,” Cavanaugh said. “Notebooks filled with descriptions of how to kill people. Step by step instructions for Eugene Osbourne to follow. He even plotted his escape routes for him.” He thrust a spiral bound notebook into Wondero’s hands. “This is the most recent: there are crimes in it that haven’t been committed yet.” Cavanaugh opened to a page with a bent corner and showed him. “This is supposed to happen today!”
Wondero stared at the page’s heading. It was titled HARDARE, and gave cryptic instructions on how Osbourne should create a diversion that would draw Hardare from the Malibu beach house, allowing him to attack Hardare’s wife and daughter. The date was today, and each instruction was followed by a recommended time of execution. Wondero looked at his watch — it was nearly 1:30 — then at the corresponding time on the page.
1:30: Enter house. Butcher wife, kid.
Wondero wanted to kick himself. When D.B. had opened up to them, he should have sensed something was wrong. He pulled out his cell phone, hoping he was not too late.
Chapter 35
The Weaker Sex
Jan Hardare had just spied the empty dinghy with an outboard motor sitting a quarter of a mile off shore when the kitchen phone rang. She could not recall having seen any boats moored off the beach since arriving in Malibu, and the idea that someone would want to be diving in the ice-cold Pacific this time of year struck her as odd. Her eyes remained on the water as she crossed the living room.
The doorbell rang.
She glanced down the hallway as Li answered the front door. Kevin, their third bodyguard, had stepped outside to get their dry cleaning from the car, and Jan guessed he had locked himself out. She saw Li peer through the peephole, then unlock the front door. Satisfied, she picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Jan?” a frantic voice said.
“Yes, who is this?”
“Harry Wondero. You’re in danger — Osbourne’s there, at your house. “
In her mind Jan could still see the dinghy rocking in the waves. “I know,” she said into the phone without thinking.
She shouted a warning to Li. Kevin stood in the open doorway, his massive frame teetering on an imaginary tightrope. He fell face-first into the foyer, and Li could do nothing but jump back, his lethal hands and feet out of striking range as Osbourne entered the house brandishing a pistol.
Dressed in a wetsuit, Osbourne fired two silent shots, and Jan saw Li reach out and pluck the first dart a few inches from his face, his fingers moving faster than lightening. The second dart imbedded in his wrist, and the man Jan had considered her greatest security asset collapsed to the floor.
“He’s here, Harry,” Jan said, placing the phone on the kitchen counter.
Osbourne danced over the two bodies, his tiny laughter claiming victory. Pulling another pistol from his dripping wetsuit, he ripped off his headgear and threw it to the floor. Then he looked down the hall at Jan, his face a freakish mixture of elation and fear. Strange noises left his throat, like an animal.
For an instant Jan could not move. Osbourne had a sophisticated looking automatic, while he
r .9 was in her purse in the living room. If she made a run for it, he would have a clear shot at her back. That was not the way she wanted to die.
Jan waited for him to make his move. His popping eyes drifted past her face, and she felt the muscles in her legs twitch. He was giving her a chance to run for it, as if shooting her in cold blood wasn’t sporting enough. No, Jan thought; she had to make him come to her, and close the distance between them. If he came within striking range, they would be on even terms.
Bending over, Osbourne struggled to pull Kevin’s stiff body into the foyer, then shut the front door, locking it in the process. Jan continued to stare before what was happening made sense to her.
He had not seen her.
Dropping behind the counter, she peeked around the corner. He was heading toward her, pointing his gun at the shadows. He was as scared as she was, and she decided to tackle him the moment he got in range. Her heart skipped a beat as she heard a pair of feet came bounding down the staircase.
“Hello, little girl,” Osbourne said.
Crystal screamed.
“No, don’t back up…,” he said. “I’ll shoot you.”
“Oh God,” Crystal cried.
“Walk slowly down the stairs,” Osbourne said. “That’s it. Very good. Did you study ballet?”
“Yes,” Crystal said evenly.
“I thought so. Beautiful movement. Come here… closer.”
“Don’t touch me!”
“I said, come here!”
Jan heard Crystal whimper, and guessed he had gotten his hands on her. Their voices were coming closer. Now she had to have her gun. Stay put, she told herself. Think.
“Where is your mother?” Death said.
“Who cares?” Crystal snapped back.
Jan bit her lip; don’t goad him, Crys, she thought fearfully; you don’t know what he’s capable of doing.
“I asked you a fucking question,” he said.
Crystal screamed, and Jan started to jump until she saw Osbourne’s reflection in the oven door. He was holding Crystal by the hair like a caveman, and had shoved the barrel of his pistol into her face.
“I can shoot your eye out without killing you,” he whispered into Crystal’s ear. “Think of how that would feel.”
“Noooooo…,” Crystal sobbed. Her cries did not sound real, and Jan thought; she’s only pretending to be scared. But why?
“Where is your mother?” he repeated.
“She’s not my mother,” Crystal said defiantly. Then, “Jan’s with my dad. They went downtown to the theatre.”
Jan peeked around the corner. It was a beautiful line, but would he buy it? Osbourne had pinned Crystal against the refrigerator, his knee between her legs, his gun still in her face. Jan’s eyes met Crystal’s, and saw her mounting fear.
Hang on, Jan silently told her.
“Why didn’t she stay?” Osbourne said. “I thought she was protecting you.”
“Jan doesn’t care a goddamned bit about me,” Crystal said, her face inches from his. “She never has! She just wants my father’s money. She’s a bimbo.”
Crystal began to blubber shamelessly, and Jan rooted her on, the months of private drama coaches and constant playacting around the house finally paying dividends. Suddenly Osbourne noticed the phone on the counter. Picking it up, he held the cradle to his ear, listening.
Finally he said, “May I help you?”
A moment later he was bellowing with laughter.
“Hello Detective Wondero,” he said. “You’re too late, once again.” He shoved the receiver into Crystal’s face. “I have someone here who would like to say hello.”
“Oh God, you’ve got to help me,” Crystal half-screamed into the mouthpiece. “Jan and my Dad are at the theatre and this crazy man… he’s going to kill me!”
With that Crystal feigned hysteria, her body a quivering mass of fear. In the reflection, Jan saw Osbourne slip his gun beneath his waistband, and draw a curved hunting knife from his belt. She cautiously crept around the counter on all fours.
“Wondero, listen closely,” Osbourne said. “The next sounds you hear will be death. The one with the small d.”
He put the phone down, the receiver facing him. As he brought the knife up to Crystal’s throat, Jan stood up and grabbed a metal skillet off the counter, and smacked him in the back of the head. He crumbled, dropping his knife, and Crystal pulled free.
Osbourne crouched helplessly on the floor, trying to ward off Jan’s vicious blows.
Picking up the phone, Crystal said, “We got the bastard!”
Then she hung up, and dialed 911.
With a well-aimed blow, Jan split Death’s forehead open, his blood staining the tiled floor. The night before Vincent had told her of his out-of-body journey while buried alive, and of the lost souls he’d met in some nether world. He had described them at length, as if they were real.
“Their faces look so tortured,” her husband had said. “All those poor, brutalized women and girls. And I keep thinking: what did any of them do to deserve a punishment like this?”
“They were born female,” Jan had said.
Female. The weaker sex. Little girl. That was Osbourne’s license to kill: because they were there for his taking.
He crawled on his belly across the tile floor, begging Jan to stop as she repeatedly sent her right instep up between his legs into his crotch. He was wearing a hard plastic cup, no doubt from experience. Undaunted, Jan kept at it, having once been able to break plywood boards with this kick.
She cracked the cup on her third try. Her next kick caught nothing but flesh and turned his cries into screams of pain; he curl up protectively in a ball, and Jan kept at it, kicking him in the back and head whenever Osbourne showed signs of life.
“The police are coming,” Crystal said, watching her inflict punishment. “Come on, Jan, you’re going to kill him…”
“That was the idea,” Jan said, hearing a rib break. She sized him up for another kick and thought: this could take forever. Once the police arrived, her chance would be gone.
“Get my gun,” Jan said. “It’s in my purse on the couch.”
“But —,” Crystal said.
“I said get it!”
Crystal began to cross the living room when Osbourne’s eyes popped open, and he sprang to his feet. With the rip of Velcro, he removed a jet black bayonet from the leg of his wetsuit. Standing in a deep, painful crouch, he tossed the bayonet from hand to hand. As Jan came at him, he advanced toward Crystal.
“I’ll cut her in half,” he threatened, the bayonet slicing the air. “Stay away from me, you vicious bitch. I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
With her eyes Jan motioned to Crystal, who began to back up.
“Stay put, little girl,” he snarled.
“Rot in hell,” Crystal replied.
Crystal backed up into the living room. Osbourne followed her, and Jan followed him. Crystal hopped onto the illusion that her father had borrowed from Siegfreid and Roy. To the naked eye, it did not even look like a trick, just a metal cage sitting on a thin stand with a sheet partially draped over it. The German illusionists had a number of similar props lying around the house, having found them easier to maintain than an elaborate security system.
As Crystal draped herself in the sheet, Osbourne leapt toward her, too filled with murderous intentions to notice that Jan hadn’t moved, and was doing nothing to stop him.
Jumping onto the stand, he dug the bayonet into the draped form. As the sheet fell, he saw something beneath it begin to stir, and jerked the sheet away, ready to stab again.
The sleek, gold spotted cat inside the cage jumped on Osbourne and began to maul him even before he could scream. It was a lepjack, half leopard, half jaguar, an animal that had never existed until Siegfreid and Roy had succeeded in cross-breeding a litter. As the lepjack threw Osbourne to the floor, Jan helped Crystal out of the illusion, and retrieved the .9 from her purse.
Osb
ourne rolled across the living room, unable to free himself from the lepjack’s grasp. It had raked his entire body with its claws, setting every inch of skin on fire. He stared up at Jan and Crystal, imploring them to save him.
“Help me… please.”
“No,” Jan said.
Osbourne staggered to his feet. The lepjack clung to him, its claws digging into his side. Jan readied her gun. Then she hesitated, fearful of shooting the cat. Clutching the lepjack to his chest, Osbourne ran across the living room and threw himself headfirst through the picture window overlooking the water.