Beautiful Maids All in a Row

by Jennifer Harlow

  “I thought so. The feeling is obviously mutual. But first some ground rules,” he said. “One: If I hear anything but your voice, I hang up. So no signaling to the boys in blue through the walls, and no tape recorder. I hear a click, I hang up.”

  Shit! “Fine.”

  “Good. Two: No insults. We’re both intellectuals. There’s absolutely no need for name-calling. I can refrain if you can.”

  “Anything else?” I asked through gritted teeth. I hated being spoken to like I was a kindergartner.

  “Yes. Honesty. I intend to be honest with you, and I expect the same in return. Agreed?”

  “You sure like control, don’t you?” I snapped.

  “Was that an insult, Iris?” he asked me like you would a child.

  “Simply a question,” I assured him, regaining my composure.

  “Then we’re agreed. Good.” He paused for a moment. “I was surprised to hear you were involved in my case. As a matter of fact, I’m flattered you’d come out of retirement for me. It’s quite an honor.”

  “Glad you’re happy,” I said, my words dripping with poison.

  “Why did you, Iris? College students in North Carolina not thrilling enough?”

  “You’re killing people, and I want to stop you.”

  “People are killed every day. What makes me so special?”

  “You like that, don’t you? Thinking you’re special? Well, you’re not. You’re nothing but a psycho—”

  “Insults, Iris,” he interjected quickly. “That’s twice I’ve had to warn you. There will not be a third time. Answer my question. Why me?”

  I bit my lower lip. “You killed someone I knew. Justine Romy.”

  The other end was silent for a second. “Oh yes, the doctor. She put up a fight, that one. I’m still bruised. Quite a spitfire. But she broke, just like the rest of them. Cried out for her father, and her God.” He chuckled at his own private joke. “Neither came.”

  Sick fucking bastard. “Have you called just to gloat?” I asked, my voice even.

  “I told you why I’ve called. But you’re right; it’s not polite to speak about one’s conquests. I apologize. Was she a friend of yours?”

  “She worked with my husband.”

  “The late Dr. Hayden Sage, last victim of the Rosetta Ripper. Gunned down in his prime while his helpless FBI agent wife stood not five feet away and watched. If we were living in Ancient Greece, Euripides would pen a tragedy about it. It must have been absolutely devastating for you, Iris. I am truly sorry for your loss.”

  “No, you aren’t,” I said. “You have antisocial personality disorder. You feel nothing for anybody but yourself.”

  “You’re probably right, Iris,” he said sarcastically. “What a fantastic psychologist you are, telling all of that from just two minutes of conversation.”

  “You’d have to be to do what you do,” I said, my voice hard.

  “I’m not in disagreement with you, Iris,” he said, his voice going up an octave. “I have been diagnosed a sociopath on multiple occasions. They just never pick up on it so quickly. Tell me some more about myself. I’d love to hear what you think about me.”

  “I’m afraid that would break the ‘no insults’ rule. If you want me to, I’d be more than happy to tell you what I really think about you.”

  “I can guess. No need to vocalize it. So, tell me why I’m doing this.”

  “You enjoy hurting women.”

  “Well, that is blatantly obvious,” he said. “No, I mean your profile on me. I want to see if you’re as good as we both believe you to be.”

  I pressed my temple to stop the throbbing. My blood pumped so fast the rest of my body couldn’t take it. “You’re white, age thirty-five to fifty. You have an apartment and may or may not live alone, but you have a girlfriend or wife. She’s submissive and does whatever you want, including being tied up and feigning rape while you strangle her. Oh, and she’s blond. Am I on the right track?”

  “Frighteningly so. Please continue.”

  “You live in or around New York City, where you have a job that either allows you to travel or lets you go away for extended periods of time. You trained in medicine, but you don’t practice much anymore.”

  “You’re wrong there,” he cuts in. “I’m always practicing, just not in the way you think. Please continue.”

  “You were raised rich but alone. Your father was gone and your mother worked all the time. She lived for her job. You didn’t like that. You wanted her all to yourself even though she abused you. She was a cold woman.”

  “My mother is off limits,” he snapped.

  “Why? Sore subject?”

  “Not important,” he countered.

  “Isn’t she? She’s the reason at least six people are dead.”

  “Get off the subject, Iris,” he commanded. “The past is in the past; we’re in the here and now.”

  Could he possibly be that deluded? “You do know these women are substitutes for your mother, don’t you?” I asked incredulously.

  “I took Psych 101 as well, Iris. I know what you’re getting at. But I killed these women because they were beautiful, and when I looked at them…I wanted them. So I took them.”

  “So the fact that they all had brown hair, light eyes, were all professionals, and had sons under seven is just some bizarre coincidence?”

  “Time to move on, Iris. I’m not going to bring up your father,” he scoffed, “if he can even be called that. Doesn’t even acknowledge you’re his own child. That must sting.”

  “It’s your dime,” I said. “Just mull over what I said. The path to enlightenment is inside yourself.”

  “Thank you, Deepak Chopra,” he said sarcastically before pausing. “Why do I tie them to the riverbank?”

  “So we’ll find them. So you can dazzle us with your prowess and intellect. There’s no thrill if we don’t know about you.”

  “And why do I take their hearts?”

  “Half their heart,” I corrected. “A very, very personal souvenir you can take out and look at so you know how great and powerful you are. You like the left half because it pumps the blood everywhere, giving the body life and getting nothing in return. You take what they give you, something Mommy never did.”

  “You’re skating dangerously close, Iris,” he cautioned me. “I won’t warn you again.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Okay, I won’t mention the ‘M’ word again. But did I pass your little test?”

  “With flying colors. I can tell they selected the right woman for the job, not that I ever had any doubts.”

  “Want to know how I’m going to catch you?”

  “Do tell.”

  “You think you’re the great and powerful Oz, that nothing can touch you. That’s your weakness: pride. It’s the same reason you called me, to show how smart you are. You’re getting too cocky, and that’s not a bright thing to do.”

  “I haven’t made a single mistake.”

  “We have your picture plastered from coast to coast on every news station. Someone’s bound to put two and two together and call us.”

  “Yes, I saw the sketch,” he said with a slight edge in his voice. “It wasn’t very flattering, but neither was the footage of you being wheeled out mangled and torn on a gurney. Do you have nightmares, Iris? Does the not-so-good Sheriff of Rosetta creep into your bedroom night after night and stick that knife in again, and again, and again?”

  “Fuck you,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “I’ll let that one go,” he said graciously. “So how does it feel to be back amongst old friends and lovers? Have you fallen back into bed with our favorite ginger stud yet?”

  “Are you trying to provoke me?”

  “No, simply asking about your love life. We already discussed mine. It’s only fair. So, do old habits die hard or have you been able to resist temptation like a good little widow?”

  “It’s none of your fucking business.”

  “Sore subject, I suppos
e. You did sleep with the man just a month before your husband’s brains were splattered on your nice, freshly painted white walls.”

  My radar went off. “What?”

  He ignored me. “Do you suppose he knew? He must have. A husband knows these things. It’s like a sixth sense. Now, was it just the once or was Agent Hudson sneaking into your hotel room on a regular basis?”

  “How did you know my walls were white?” I asked.

  “I saw the crime scene photos. As you may have guessed, I have quite an interest in forensics and law enforcement. And I have friends in high places to feed my obsession.”

  “Why did you look at those photos? My photos?”

  “I was following the achievements of the intriguing Sheriff Meriwether and your paths simply crossed. I was interested to see what fresh new carnage he had wreaked. The hole in your husband’s head was impressive, I must say, as large as a baseball, according to the reports. He died instantly—no pain, if it’s any consolation. You weren’t so lucky, were you? I saw the wound. Lost your colon. Lost one of your ovaries. A shame. Did you scar badly?”

  I touched the rough red skin under my shirt. “Could have been worse.”

  “I suppose so. Look at poor Sheriff Meriwether. You stabbed him, piercing his lung with his own knife, then you shot him square in the forehead for good measure. How did you feel, squeezing that trigger? Taking his life?”

  “I did what I had to.”

  “I thought we agreed to honesty. I told you I saw the photos. You’re going to sit there and tell me you didn’t stand over that man and execute him?”

  “According to the inquest it was self-defense.”

  “Of course it was,” he whispered. “I know your lover lied for you, as did most of the people in the investigation. But better to deport the offender to a life of tedium and insanity in the South than admit one of their own is a cold-blooded killer.” He paused and then said in a low voice, “Tell me how we’re different, Iris.”

  “You’re crazy, and I’m not.”

  “Insult?”

  “Statement of fact.”

  “You are entitled to your professional opinion. But if I may, you’re deluded if you think you don’t have a touch of insanity in you. Panic attacks in the middle of a lecture? Blockading yourself in your fortress? Living on pills and alcohol like a common redneck? Tell me that’s not insane.”

  “Compared to a man who goes around stalking, raping, and eviscerating women he doesn’t even know, I’m very comfortable with my state of mental health, thank you.”

  “You took the gun that had just blown away your husband and shot a helpless man in the head as you stood above him like a god. Don’t get me wrong—I have no problem whatsoever with what you did. As a matter of fact, I applaud you. It showed you were strong and unlabored with conscience, as we all should be. Bravo.”

  “I have a conscience.”

  “You simply don’t listen to it.”

  “I listen to it every hour of every day. I may have killed a man, but by God he deserved it. Did Justine deserve it? Did Audrey?”

  “Perhaps they wanted it. They’re free from the pain and misery of life. Can we say the same?”

  “There’s always suicide. Go. Have at it. Unless you’re a coward.”

  “I am not the coward, Iris. I am not the one who failed to answer my initial question to my satisfaction. I know diversion tactics when I come across them.”

  “I don’t think anything is ever done to your satisfaction. That’s why you’ll keep killing. Hoping that the next time it will be perfect, that the pain will go away. Well, it won’t.”

  “You’re evading again, Iris. Why? Afraid to answer?” He paused. “Why are you chasing me, Iris? It’s not for a woman who was an acquaintance at best, and it wasn’t to get another crack at the red-haired Adonis. So why?”

  “You tell me.”

  “It’s because I’m your redemption, Iris. I am your chance to crawl out of the hole you’ve dug yourself into. I’ll bet you haven’t had a single pill, cigarette, or drop of alcohol in days. Have the nightmares stopped? Have the ghosts stopped chasing you?”

  “No, I’ve got fresh ones. Audrey Burke and Ranger Bruce McIntyre.”

  “They don’t blame you,” he assured me. “I chose her even before you knew I existed. Her death is not on your head. But have you begun your recovery? Are you more like your real self, strong and unlabored by conscience? If I were right in front of you, would you shoot me?”

  “No, I’d just kick you in the balls and slap the cuffs on you. That’s a fate worse than death, right? Having your life controlled day after day. Having people tell you when to eat, to sleep, to piss, when to shower? Oh, those fun showers. Best not drop the soap.”

  “Strong and unlabored by conscience, just as I thought. You are definitely a worthy adversary. I thank you for this conversation, Iris. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed it.”

  “If you want to thank me, tell me how you choose them.”

  “A magician never reveals all his secrets,” he chuckled. “I’ve given you enough as it is. I do wish we had met under different circumstances. Perhaps one day we will. I bet we’d be fast friends. Maybe I’ll approach you one day and just strike up a conversation. It’s not as if you’d know who I am. Maybe we could even become lovers if you can toss out your widow weeds. You’re not really my type, truth be told, but I’d love to feel inside you.”

  The urge to vomit rose. I swallowed it back down. “Name a date, time, and place,” I said in my strongest voice. “Me and about a hundred of my closest gun-toting buddies will be there. We’ll have a party.”

  He chuckled, a hearty laugh that sent chills down my spine. “I hope we can talk again soon. I’d wish you good luck, but…you know. Good night, Iris. And pleasant dreams.”

  The line went dead. I listened to that low-level hum for a few seconds, willing myself to breathe. I managed a few raspy breaths, put the receiver down, jumped out of my chair, and ran to the bathroom.

  Bye, bye, burritos.

  —

  I stood in the hallway, pounding on Luke’s door so hard the Do Not Disturb sign fell off. After the fifth succession of pounds, the door opened. Before Luke could say a word, I pushed my way into his room and turned on the light by the side of the bed with my trembling hands. Luke stared at me as if I were the wild woman of Borneo. I suppose that’s the way I looked, with my hair going five different directions and my pupils still dilated from the adrenaline rush I was coming off of.

  “Are you okay?” Luke asked as he stepped toward me.

  “My hands won’t stop shaking.” I balled them into fists, which helped a little but didn’t totally stop them.

  “What happened?”

  “You need to call Richmond and tell them to back-trace a call to my hotel room that ended about two minutes ago,” I instructed, my words flowing like water. “He probably used a prepaid cell, but we should still check.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Please! Now! You have to do it now!” I shouted.

  “Not until you tell me what happened. You’re trembling. Did you have another nightmare?”

  I scoffed. “Will you please stop talking to me like I’m some hysteric?” Which was exactly how I sounded. I took a deep breath. “I didn’t have a nightmare.”

  “Then what is going on?”

  “He called me,” I said. “He called me.”

  Luke’s eyes narrowed. “Who called you?”

  “I-I-I,” I stammered, “I was asleep, and the phone rang. I picked it up, and a man whose voice I didn’t recognize came on. He said he was…the Woodsman.”

  Luke’s expression of concern didn’t change. “A man claiming to be the Woodsman called you?”

  “No,” I said, “the Woodsman called me.”

  Relief washed over Luke’s face. “God…I thought something bad happened.”

  My jaw dropped. “A serial killer just called my hotel room. That’s not a good thing, Lu
ke!”

  “Iris, it was a crank,” he assured me. “I can’t tell you how many—”

  “It was him! I didn’t believe him at first either, but it was him!” His voice came back into my head, “I’d love to feel inside you,” and my body began to tremble almost as if I were having a seizure. “I’m—I’m—I—”

  Luke grabbed my shoulders. “You need to calm down.” He sat me down on the edge of my bed and strode into the bathroom. A second later, he returned with a glass of water. “Drink this.”

  I grabbed the glass and took a tiny sip. “There, now I’ve drunk your stupid water, so will you please get on the trace?” I asked, my voice hard.

  Deciding it was better to just do what I asked instead of having to sit through another of my hissy fits, he picked up the phone and told the Richmond field office to trace the call. “Happy now?” he asked as he hung up the phone.

  “I’m not crazy,” I insisted. “It was him—I’d bet my life on it.”

  Luke pulled out the chair from behind the desk and moved it toward the bed so he could sit across from me. “Iris…”

  “It was him,” I said again. “I know it.”

  “Tell me what he said.”

  I rehashed the entire conversation in a spew of verbal diarrhea. I told him about the hearts, the pompousness, and the profile. I decided to leave out the part about how much he knew about our tryst. No need to worry Luke about things he couldn’t control.

  “Give me your impressions,” Luke said after I’d finished.

  “Intelligent, no accent, sounded older, like he was in his forties or fifties. He was very polite, or as polite as a psychopath can be. He kept calling me ‘Iris.’ He seemed to end every sentence with it.”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “No,” I said, “not really. Just idle taunts.”

  “I still think it was a crank,” Luke admitted. “I mean, why call you? What could he possibly gain from it?”

  “He wanted to see if I was as good as he thought, if I would make a ‘worthy adversary,’ to quote,” I said with disdain. “I passed.”

  Luke scoffed. “I’m sorry. I said you’d be kept out of sight,” he said, shaking his head. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

  “It’s okay; it was bound to sometime. I’ve never exactly been a low-profile person.”