by Tara Moss
His face was close to hers, tongue protruding, those shocked eyes staring at her. His jerking body crushed against her…a heavy sack of twitching blood and flesh lying across her.
Words…words in her ears. “It’s all over now, Makedde.” Her name sweet again, no venom in the sound. “You’ll be fine. I’m here Makedde, I’m here. Quiet. It’s all right. Don’t try to speak. You’re safe now.”
Andy. The voice was Andy.
A weight being lifted off her, that convulsing mass taken away. The staring eyes no longer watching. She felt light. Her ankles suddenly free, the twine cut away. Her wrists now.
Softly—softly, something falling on her, cloth, a blanket covering her. She turned on her side and swept the cloth into her, tears filling her eyes, sobbing with joy and relief, pulling her arms and legs into her, holding herself, holding her pain.
Curled up in a tight ball, they carried her to the ambulance.
CHAPTER 68
Andy Flynn strode down the corridor, his partner at his heels.
“After all that, she still won’t believe her son did it,” Jimmy said, shaking his head.
Andy didn’t respond. It was taking shape now. Serial killers were never made overnight. He had to figure out the Stiletto Killer. He thought about Ed’s polite and unobtrusive presence at the morgue.
“Hello…Earth to Flynn, do you read?”
“Yes, Jimmy. I hear you. That woman’s a lost cause. She’ll never come around. Eileen Brown was a prostitute, Jimmy. Different men every night, dolled up in stilettos and miniskirts with her young son looking on. Drugged out and angry, blaming her kid for being born. Little Ed snapped.”
“ To say the least…”
“The homicidal triad. You were right. The house was torched when Ed was ten. He did it, Jimmy. He tried to kill her when he was ten.”
“Yeah. But he didn’t kill her, he crippled her.”
“Exactly. But he’s been symbolically killing her ever since.”
“So if all these malakas are really wanting to kill their parents, why don’t they just do it?”
“You’d have to ask a psychologist about that one. Guilt? Displaced anger? Edmund Kemper killed his mum and practically gave himself up, but only after killing hoards of innocent women. And our Ed Brown took his time in the end, even though he knew we were onto him. Maybe in some way he was giving himself up, too.” Andy was rambling again. “All he had was his mum. He waited on her hand and foot for decades after the fire. Her clients would have left after she lost her legs. Her son was the only one she had to take care of her. And I guess she was the only one Ed had, too.”
“Ed Kemper, Ed Gein, Ed Brown. What is it about all these psychos named Ed?” Jimmy asked.
Andy laughed. If only offender identity were as simple as a common first name.
A doctor emerged from Makedde’s room and walked up the hall in their direction. “How is she?” Andy asked.
“Improving. Getting a lot of sleep. She’s healing well. We successfully drained the subdural haematoma—”
Jimmy stopped her. “Oi, English please.”
She paused. “We drained her brain haemorrhage. If she had gone untreated for much longer, she would have had serious trouble. But she’s a fighter. Strong as an ox. We can’t say for sure, but at this stage we’re optimistic there will be no residual effects on the brain.”
Andy smiled. “What about her big toe?”
“The microsurgery appears to have been successful. Time will tell. She won’t have much feeling in it, but she’ll walk fine.”
The doctor excused herself and they continued towards room 312. Sitting in a chair outside her room, a young blonde in a short skirt was reading a magazine. When Jimmy noticed her, he nudged Andy’s side. Andy ignored it.
Before they reached the door, Jimmy pulled him close and asked in a whisper, “Does she know about Ed?”
Andy shook his head. Makedde had not been told. She didn’t need to know that Ed was temporarily in another wing of the same hospital. He was well guarded, and as soon as he was treated for a concussion and his shoulder and chest wounds, he would be transferred to Long Bay to await a committal hearing.
They approached a tall, grey-haired man who stood in the doorway. He was conservatively dressed, probably in his mid-fifties. Andy introduced himself. “Hello, I’m Detective Flynn and this is Detective Cassimatis. You are…?”
“Leslie Vanderwall.” The accent was Canadian. He offered a hand shake. Makedde’s father had deep blue eyes like his daughter. His face was tired and worn, though still handsome. His clothes were wrinkled.
“Mr Vanderwall, I’m so pleased you could make it down—”
“I should have flown in weeks ago and taken her home,” he replied sharply.
“I’m so sorry. She’s been through more than anyone should have to,” Andy offered.
“When’s the committal?”
“I’m afraid it could take some time to get the brief together. I’ll see to it that her travel is taken care of when we need her to return for the hearing and the trial.”
Mr Vanderwall nodded. His voice softened. “I was glad to hear you’d been cleared over your wife’s murder. My condolences.” Andy nodded his head. “You saved my girl’s life,” Leslie went on. “I could never thank you enough.”
Jimmy interrupted them. “She’s waking.”
Makedde stirred in her bed, her face swollen and multi-coloured, jaw wired shut. A large raised bruise covered her face on the left side. A section of her head was shaved.
The blonde woman was in the doorway now, looking in. “Hi. I’m Loulou,” she said. She was wearing heavy make-up and looked a bit like Cyndi Lauper in her heyday. Andy thought there was something odd about her eyebrows. He and Jimmy introduced themselves.
Mr Vanderwall had gone to his daughter’s side, and the rest of them stayed near the doorway to give the father and daughter space. Mak blinked away her sleep and opened her puffy eyes, joy enveloping her face at the sight of her father. She nodded silent hellos at her three other visitors, suddenly awake and alert.
“You’ll be fine, honey,” her father reassured her. “You’re healing well. You’ll be back to normal in no time.”
Andy wanted to make her laugh. “Oh, Miss Money Penny, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said.
Leslie Vanderwall looked up, puzzled, and through her wired jaw, Makedde began to laugh. It was wonderful. It was the sound of a survivor.
CHAPTER 69
Brilliant white clouds stretched out, an endless Arctic landscape suspended in the air, soft pillows of mist cradling them as they flew steadily over the Pacific. Flying never bothered Makedde, but the white-knuckled grip on the arm rest of her companion didn’t go unnoticed.
“You all right, Dad?” she mumbled through an uncooperative jaw.
He turned, his face pale and startled. “You’re awake.”
“Yes. Wouldn’t miss this view for the world.”
“I knew you’d like the window seat,” he said, attempting to sound composed.
“I knew you wouldn’t like it. I still can’t believe you flew all the way across the planet to get me.”
He looked at her wearily. “I kind of liked it better when you couldn’t talk.”
Makedde still couldn’t speak very well, but over the weeks she had gradually improved. She could go home for a while, but it wasn’t over yet. There would be a committal hearing, and almost certainly a long trial to follow. There was indisputable evidence that Ed Brown was a killer, but as with so many victims, it could take the police months to assemble a case. She didn’t know when she would have to go back.
Makedde had learnt the man who abducted and attacked her intended to try for the McNaghten defence, claiming diminished responsibility due to mental illness. There was already one forensic psychiatrist who believed that Ed Brown’s psycho-sexual disorder was somehow interwoven with a homicidal impulse to kill women who wore stilettos. For Ed, any woman in stilettos wa
s a whore, and all whores needed to be killed to be cured of their promiscuity.
In light of his unhealthy relationship with his mother, this defence had some value. The basis for legal insanity was delusion, and that type of delusion, if genuine, would qualify. However, Ed’s sadism, precise methods and sexual interference with his victims suggested a very different side; someone purposely killing for sexual satisfaction, not seeking some delusional “cure” for perceived sins. He wasn’t a textbook psychopath, but on the other hand, did he really qualify as insane? It remained to be seen how the jurors would view it.
Put him away Makedde, put him out of your mind.
The flight home was comfortable, with ample leg room and plenty to read. The Sydney Morning Herald and the Telegraph both sat on her lap. Every day there had been an article about the Stiletto Murders, but it no longer made the front page. Mak was more interested in an article about the once powerful heir to the Tiney and Lea surgical supply empire who was now being divorced by his wife and sued for everything he was worth. Poor James Tiney Jr. He had been demoted too. It seemed that his father, who was a board member of the AMA and had been a topnotch surgeon at one stage, was ultra-conservative. He didn’t take the news of his son’s adultery well.
“Tiney Junior. No wonder he had a Napoleon complex.”
“What?”
“Nothing Dad.”
An impeccably coifed stewardess moved through the first-class cabin offering treats.
“You’ve never flown first class, have you Dad?” “No,” he replied, staring with determination at the sick bag in the seat pocket in front of him.
“See the things I do for us? If it wasn’t for all this we’d be jammed up against those lavatories in the back, hearing a flush every thirty seconds. And maybe we wouldn’t even be arriving home in time for the birth.”
“Yes. Pushing you around in a wheelchair with that precious toe of yours and those fluttering eyelashes is an effective combination. Not to mention that thing around your neck.”
“It’s a collar and cuff, Dad.” She had to wear it until her collarbone healed. It had been artfully decorated with a few choice messages from Andy, Loulou and even Charles, scrawled in felt pen. She remembered Andy’s message, Please keep in touch. Love, Andy. We’ll see, she thought to herself. We’ll see.
“I’m going to be a grandfather,” her father said.
She grinned. “And I’ll be Auntie Mak.”
She thought about her family. And Ed’s. She had been shocked to see the old photo of Eileen Brown. Mak looked so much like Ed’s mother when she was young. A copy of the photo of her and Cat had been found in Ed’s wallet, too. Andy must have been relieved to know that Ed was obsessed with Makedde before Andy became involved with her. She sensed he still couldn’t forgive himself for not finding her sooner though. And she couldn’t forgive herself for not believing him. Regardless of his temper and his motive, when the search of Ed’s bedroom turned up Cassandra Flynn’s gold wedding ring, there could be no doubt of his innocence.
Andy cared about her, and she cared for him, but there were a lot of problems between them, and now there was distance, too.
No more fear. Never. Fear is worse than death itself.
“Nothing freaks me out now,” she said. “Nothing. From now on, anyone messes with me, they’re toast.”
“Toast, eh?”
“Custard fried French toast. Besides, do I have psycho magnet written on my forehead, or what? Between Stanley and Ed, I have four lifetimes of bad karma out of the way. I should be so lucky now that miracles spring from my fingertips—”
An unexpected jolt stopped her mid-sentence.
The plane dropped, free-falling for a second or two. Mak’s stomach seemed to hit the ceiling and fall back down. Instantly she grabbed for her father’s hand, holding it tight.
The plane quickly levelled out and a seatbelt sign flashed above their heads. The tension around them broke, chatter resuming nervously up and down the aisles. Father and daughter held hands tightly as the sound of seatbelts fastening clicked around them.
In that moment she knew the answer.
Makedde, no longer a psycho-magnet?
Don’t bet on it. You’re in for a bumpy ride.
EPILOGUE
“Makedde!”
That woman’s name was called out again, a familiar sound reverberating through the corridors of Long Bay jail.
“Makeddeeee!”
Wilson shook his head with irritation and walked towards the sound, keys jangling on his belt. His polished, steel-toed boots echoed through the halls. The inmates on his wing couldn’t mix with the other prisoners. He found that some of them got strange in their isolation, if they hadn’t been crazy to begin with. He had a couple of psychotics, several paedophiles, and a couple of fellas who had been convicted of drug dealing but had squealed on the wrong people. Those types weren’t safe in the general prison population. But this one, the one who took to chanting that girl’s name at ungodly hours, was allegedly a serial killer awaiting trial.
Word was, the other prisoners wanted to be protected from him.
He was famous, but Wilson didn’t read the papers, so he didn’t much care. To him, Brown was just the chanting pain in the arse with the stitches across his forehead, who kept smearing his own shit into his wounds to keep himself going back to the infirmary. He was definitely weird, but Wilson had seen his type before; once the trial was over, they usually stopped playing nutty.
“Makedde—Makedde—Makedde!”
“Go to sleep, Brown,” Wilson said, and banged his riot stick on the cell door.
But he didn’t stop. “Makedde—Makedde—Makedde!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Wilson banged his stick again, harder this time.
The chant continued, starting in a low but powerful voice, then building higher and higher until it morphed into a howling wail, the words running together. “Makedde—Makedde—Makedd—Maked—NAKED—Naked—Na—Ma—Mama—Mama—Mother…MOTHER!”
“Save it for the judge,” Wilson scoffed, and the chanting abruptly stopped. With the peace of his area restored, he walked back to his station. He had a crossword to finish, and Celebrity Home Shopping was still on.
Ed Brown sat on the cot in his cell, as alert as a caged, nocturnal animal. This was but a temporary setback.
He had a plan.
Put your stilettos on, Makedde.
I’m coming for you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Among the many people I want to thank for their help in bringing my first novel to life, I would like to make a special mention of Selwa Anthony, my guiding hand and unbeatable literary agent; my tutor and friend Marg McAlister; Dr Kathryn Guy for her friendship and medical consulting; my buddy Senior Constable Glenn Hayward for his police consulting; Dr Robert Hare PhD for his consulting on psychopathy; and the entire team at HarperCollins, particularly Angelo Loukakis and my editor Rod Morrison, for believing in me. Special thanks to Chadwicks and Sisters in Crime for their great support. Much love to my pals Linda, Anthea, Pete, Alex, Phil, Michelle and little Bo for helping me through; Nicholas for the wisdom; Christopher for the Conundrum; and everyone who has been so supportive on this journey. Most of all, my father Bob, my sister Jackie and all of my wonderful family for their ongoing love and support. I appreciate you all.
About the Author
Tara is the author of four bestselling crime novels published in fifteen countries in ten languages. Writing has been a lifelong passion for her; she began penning gruesome ‘Stephen King-inspired’ stories for her classmates when she was only ten. Tara enjoyed a successful international career as a fashion model before pursuing professional writing, first earning a Diploma from the Australian College of Journalism. She began writing her debut novel, Fetish, when she was just twenty-three. Her crime novels have been nominated for the Davitt and the Ned Kelly awards. She has a star on the Australian Walk of Fame: the first person so inducted for services to literature.
/> Not a writer to rely solely on imagination, she has toured the FBI Academy at Quantico, spent time in squad cars, morgues, prisons, labs, the Supreme Court and criminology conferences world-wide, taken polygraph tests, shot weapons, conducted surveillance, flown with the RAAF, and acquired her CAMS race driver licence. Tara recently earned her PI licence, and was set on fire by Hollywood stunt company West EFX and choked unconscious by Ultimate Fighter ‘Big’ John McCarthy for her research.
Born in Victoria, BC, Tara is a proud dual Australian/ Canadian citizen, and divides her time between Sydney, Los Angeles and her hometown in Canada. She is a UNICEF Goodwill Ambassador, as well as an ambassador for the YWCA and the Royal Institute for Deaf and Blind Children.
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OTHER BOOKS BY TARA MOSS
Split
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Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in Australia in 1999
This edition published in 2010
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited
ABN 36 009 913 517
harpercollins.com.au
Copyright © Tara Moss 1999
The right of Tara Moss to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.