They Never Die Quietly

by D. M. Annechino

  When Simon bent forward to offer his hand to Angelina, a gold cross on a thick chain slipped out of his shirt and dangled from his neck.

  Certain his body would fold in half if he didn’t sit soon, he gestured toward his desk. “Why don’t you and Angelina have a seat?” He let them walk ahead of him so he could conceal his limp. As Simon eased into the chair opposite Sami and Angelina, he could not suppress a soft moan.

  Sami’s eyes searched his face. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Actually, I had a little mishap last night and broke my toe.” He grimaced as he adjusted himself in the chair. “Hard to believe that a baby toe can bring a two-hundred-twenty-five-pound man to his knees. I feel like an idiot.”

  Angelina hopped on Sami’s lap. “Oh, Simon,” Sami said, “you look like you’re in a great deal of pain. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’ll be all right. Just need to favor it for a couple of days.”

  She reached in her purse and handed Simon a business card. “Why don’t you give me a call when you’re feeling better?”

  He held the card but didn’t look at it. “I feel terrible that I made you drive all this way.”

  “It wasn’t that far. Besides, I’ve got a good friend who lives a few blocks away. Haven’t seen her in ages.”

  Simon looked at the card, glanced at Sami, and studied the card again. “I never would have guessed. So you catch the bad guys and lock ’em up?”

  “I do my best.”

  Intrigued with the possibilities, he thought for a moment, trying to ignore the gripping pain. “Why don’t you join me for dinner next Friday? I should be dancing the two-step by then. It’s the least I can do to make up for my rudeness.”

  “That’s sweet, Simon, but unnecessary.”

  “You like Italian food, right?”

  “Simon, it’s really not—”

  “I’ll call you Thursday to confirm.” Without standing, Simon offered his hand. “I’m sorry about today, Sami.”

  After Sami and Angelina left, Simon leaned back in the chair and carefully swung his leg up on the desk. He examined the business card. “Sami Rizzo, Homicide Detective.” Such a serendipitous encounter. For a moment, he forgot about the pain.

  After securing Angelina in the child car seat, Sami fastened her seat belt and headed for the hospital parking lot exit. Waiting for several cars ahead of her, bottlenecked where two lanes narrowed to one, Sami glanced to her left and noticed a black Ford Supercab in the employee’s parking lot. Ordinarily, Sami might not have reacted. After all, thousands of trucks similar to the serial killer’s cluttered the streets of San Diego County. If she paid attention to every one of them she’d spend the rest of her life running IDs on vehicle license plates. However, Simon’s unusual behavior piqued her curiosity. And of course the cross around his neck added another dimension. Perhaps their meeting at Katie’s Kitchen had not been a random event? She pawed through the glove box, found a crumpled napkin and pen, and scribbled the plate number on the napkin.

  Sami had just finished washing and drying two loads of laundry, so she grabbed a cold brew, sat on the couch, and turned on the Chargers game. Considering their pathetic season, Sami was surprised to see them featured on ESPN’s Saturday Night Football. Fourth quarter, three minutes to go. Lions twenty-four, Chargers zip. No need to watch this thrashing.

  She hit the off button on the remote and picked up the book she’d been reading: A Journey Through the Mind of the Serial Killer, by Brent Hartman, a former FBI profiler. She turned to the bookmark. Hartman contended that all serial killers and repeat offenders of violent crimes were once victims themselves. Most were either abused as children or brought up in severely dysfunctional homes. Often the parents of future killers were alcoholics or drug addicts. “Loonies,” as Hartman called them, unlike serial killers, were not difficult to catch. Driven by rage, uncontrollable behavior, and irrational actions, loonies were usually one-victim killers who did not possess the presence of mind to cover their tracks or carefully plan the murders. On the other hand, the true serial killer, usually intelligent, cunning, and often charming, carefully orchestrated his murders. Textbook serial killers distinguished themselves from loonies because their actions were well planned, and their desire to kill was driven by a profound urge to inflict pain.

  Sami’s eyelids began to droop, so she set the book on the cocktail table, rested her head against the back of the sofa, and closed her eyes. She loved little naps on quiet afternoons.

  Simon.

  She’d been thinking about him. More than she wanted to. She could not ignore the attraction. The charming young man with his gentle voice and innocent politeness had stirred a hunger in her that she’d repressed for longer than she wished to admit. But now something troubled her. If the black Ford Supercab pickup did belong to him, she’d be forced to take the next step. But her suspicions stemmed from more than the truck. She couldn’t ignore the gold cross or the fact that Simon fit the serial killer’s description. He stood well over six feet tall and had blue eyes and light brown hair. Another issue bothered her. Sami felt certain that Simon contrived the story about his broken toe. Why he would lie, she had no clue. To invite her, insist that she drive to the hospital immediately, and then fabricate a story about a broken toe didn’t make sense. Simon’s eyes had reflected something unsettling, a quiet storm. In Sami’s heart she hoped that all her idle suspicions would prove unfounded because she felt wildly attracted to him. Friday seemed like decades away.

  As Sami’s thoughts faded to blackness, the door chime rang a familiar melody. She had drifted from consciousness just enough to give her a feeling of disorientation as she wobbled to the front door. She twisted the doorknob and Tommy DiSalvo stood on the porch, grinning like a little boy who’d just gotten everything he’d asked Santa for.

  “Better late than never,” Tommy mumbled. “Where’s my little angel at?” As always, he was two days unshaven, and his eyes were severely bloodshot.

  Not wanting him to come in, Sami didn’t budge. “Get lost on your way to a poker game?”

  “Ah, that’s the Sami we all know and love.” He puckered his lips. “Give us a kiss, sweetheart.”

  Sunday afternoon and already he was toasted. “What do you want, Tommy?”

  “Would a blow job be out of the question?”

  “I’d rather have my toenails torn out with pliers.”

  “There was a time, Sami—”

  “When you weren’t such an asshole?”

  “Your fangs are showing, Sami.”

  “You always bring out the best in me.”

  “Where’s my daughter?” It was more a demand than a question.

  Angelina loved Grandma Josephine’s lasagna. So much so that she nagged for nearly an hour before Sami surrendered. “She’s spending the afternoon with my mother.”

  “Watching her when you’re working isn’t enough?”

  “I don’t have the time or patience to dick around with you. You’ve got exactly fifteen seconds to tell me what the hell you want or you’ll be talking to the outside of an oak door.”

  He scratched his stubble. “Geez, Sami, lighten up. When did you get so friggin’ bitchy?”

  Sami glared at Tommy. “The moment your child support tab hit five grand.”

  His eyes narrowed. “That’s what I wanted to talk about.”

  She didn’t know what he really wanted but doubted that he intended to give her any money. She could have had the worthless excuse of a man locked up. Many times. And in a sense she would have been doing him a favor. But he was Angelina’s father, and once in a while he actually acted like a dad. Sami stepped to the side and he walked in the living room. He looked like a forlorn soul.

  “Mind if I sit?” Tommy asked.

  “Suit yourself.”

  He fell heavily into the armchair. Sami stood with her arms folded.

  Tommy had introduced Sami to the once-uncharted world of intimacy, a world that had always been taboo, one that the
nuns at Saint Agnes Catholic Elementary School had conveniently edited from Sami’s sex education class. Before meeting Tommy, Sami’d thought that sex was fun for the guy and an obligation for the girl. But Tommy had disproved her theory by giving her pleasures she never knew existed. He taught her that sex had no limitations between consenting lovers. No one would argue that Tommy DiSalvo was for the most part a seedy character, but Sami, perhaps more than anyone, could not deny that on the rare occasion he actually maintained sobriety, Tommy made love like a champion.

  “I’m in a heap of shit, Sami.”

  “And I should be shocked?”

  “This is different.”

  “It’s always different, Tommy. A different story with the same bullshit.”

  Silence.

  “I’m into the bookies for twenty-two grand.”

  “And this is my problem, why?”

  “I really need your help.”

  “Look, Tommy, the last time you begged me for eight grand I cleaned out my savings. Remember? You even promised to get help.” His face looked pathetic, like he’d just been informed that every member of his family died in a plane crash. She wanted to tear into him but suppressed her fury. “I’m living from paycheck to paycheck. There’s nothing I can do.”

  Tommy combed his fingers through his greasy black hair. “If they don’t get their money by Friday, I’m gonna be doing a triple gainer off the Coronado Bridge.”

  “Well, then I guess you should be taking some swimming lessons.”

  Tommy shook his head. “You really don’t give a shit, do you?”

  Sami didn’t utter a sound.

  He pulled a pack of Winston’s out of his shirt pocket. “You mind?”

  When they’d been married, Sami put up with his habits—all of them—but not in her house. Not anymore. “As a matter of fact I do.”

  He removed a cigarette from the pack and held it between his index and middle finger.

  “So, who’s hunting your ass this time?” Sami asked.

  “You know I can’t tell you that, Sami.”

  “Maybe I can talk to them, buy you some time.”

  “Time? I take home four-fifty a week. Time ain’t what I need.”

  “I can’t wave a magic wand and make the money appear. If I was crazy enough to actually give you the money, where do you suppose I’d get my hands on twenty-two thousand dollars?”

  Tommy stood up, waving his arms. “There’s a bunch of equity in this house. I heard that some banks can do a deal in forty-eight hours.”

  Sami had to repress the urge to smack him in the face. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I tap the equity in this house to pay your gambling debts.”

  Tommy’s face flushed red. “I don’t think you clearly understand what I’m dealing with here. These motherfuckers are gonna kill me, Sami. End my fucking life!”

  “If you want me to reason with these guys, I’ll do what I can, but I’m not giving you a thin dime.”

  Tommy stormed toward the door and yanked it open. “When they fish my dead ass out of the water, tell Angelina you could have helped me but instead told me to go fuck myself.” He slammed the door.

  SEVEN

  Awkwardly using his left foot to accelerate and brake while he straddled his aching right leg across the seat, Simon survived a painful, nauseous drive home, one in which he was forced twice to park on the shoulder of the freeway and vomit on the pavement. He spent the rest of Saturday and all of Sunday in bed. He had no appetite but drank plenty of liquids. To reduce the swelling on his severely black-and-blue foot, he kept his leg elevated and used an ice pack. By late Sunday afternoon, the stabbing pain had lessened to a bearable throb. Still feeling guilty and not completely absolved of his sin, Simon decided to treat his guests to a special dinner.

  Trying not to place undo pressure on his right foot, he hobbled around the kitchen and prepared roasted chicken, rosemary potatoes, grilled zucchini, and a fresh salad with walnut oil vinaigrette. He loaded the steaming dishes, garnished with mint leaves, onto the tray and carefully negotiated his way downstairs. He peeked through the lens and saw Peggy and April lying on the bed, cuddled together. When he walked in with the tray, Peggy sat up but didn’t say a word. Simon set the tray on the table next to the bed.

  “I thought April and you might enjoy a home-cooked meal.”

  Peggy sniffed the air and licked her lips. April was still sleeping.

  “I don’t care what you do to me,” Peggy whispered, “but please don’t hurt my daughter again.”

  Her weak-willed tone pleased Simon. Maybe the wild filly had been tamed.

  He sat on the bed. “I never intended to hurt her. Her fate was, and is, in your hands.” He pointed to the tray. “Why don’t you wake April? I’m sure you both could use a good dinner.”

  Simon limped to the door, glancing at his wristwatch. He guessed that sixty minutes would be enough time for them to finish their meal. And for the doctored chocolate milk to take effect. “Bon appétit.”

  For the sixth time since cleansing his first sinner, Simon went into the garage, grabbed the license plates hidden under the drop cloth, and switched them with the current plates on his truck. He was not a fool. No telling how many honest citizens may have jotted down his plate number while he was engaged in his holy work. When stealing plates, he’d been careful to select only vehicles identical to his own: same year, color, and model. And he always replaced the plates with another set. Because most people didn’t have a clue what their plate number was—unless of course they owned vanity plates, which he never stole—the plates were rarely reported missing. And even if they were reported stolen, he never kept them on his truck for more than a week.

  Busy Southern Californian lifestyles were such that few people paid attention to their license plates. Driving around town with plates that did not match Simon’s registration posed certain risks. However, most cops were looking for speeders, reckless drivers, vehicles with broken taillights, or people driving around with one headlight. With a population of more than two million people, many of whom drove like maniacs, the chances of Simon getting pulled over were minimal. As long as he observed the speed limit, he felt it was unlikely he’d ever be stopped.

  Simon carefully sat on the garage floor and loosened the screws on the front license plate. He recalled how intensely Sami’s eyes had focused on the cross around his neck when she came to the hospital. Her detective instincts, no doubt, were attempting to piece things together. He’d have to be extra cautious. Simon felt certain that meeting her had been a divine gift. He wasn’t yet sure how the detective would fit into his plans but knew for certain she would play a significant role.

  Peggy sat upright with her back against the headboard. Her red hair looked ratty and uncombed; her skin ached like it did when she’d had the flu. How could this deranged monster cook them such a sumptuous meal? At first she’d been hesitant, thinking wild thoughts about what he might have hidden in the potatoes or what Satanic ritual he’d used to slaughter the chicken. But having eaten only macaroni and cheese, canned soups, sandwiches, and snack foods for—had it been three or four days?—she couldn’t resist. Carefully she examined the food and decided that the nutcase did not have a hidden agenda. At least not for the moment. The meal was nothing short of gourmet.

  Curled beside Peggy in the fetal position, April fell asleep right after dinner. While she slept, Peggy gently replaced the dressing on her severed ear, cringing at the grotesque sight of it. The side of her head reminded Peggy of a species of monkey she’d seen at the San Diego Zoo. Revolting. Disfigured for life. Her little girl had been reduced to looking like a monkey. Peggy could not fathom anyone capable of hurting a child in such a way. As she stared at her peacefully sleeping daughter, almost mesmerized by her missing ear, Peggy felt a wave of hopelessness wash over her. She’d read about her captor, how three other women had been raped and brutally murdered, their hearts cut out. Unless she devised a survival plan, soon her picture would b
e plastered on the front page of every newspaper in the country.

  Quite to her dismay, Peggy McDonald did not feel terror from what most certainly would be an unimaginable and unavoidable death. Perhaps her motherly instincts, her will to protect April, diluted the impact of her impending appointment with the Grim Reaper. She knew that the children of the other three victims had not been injured, yet April had been maimed in a most gruesome manner. She could only blame herself for riling him.

  Peggy heard the dead bolt unlock. Simon appeared in the doorway with two pieces of lumber under his arm. He wore some kind of leather apron with a hammer hanging from a metal ring. He closed the door and locked it.

  “Is April sleeping?”

  “Yes.” Peggy looked into his cold eyes and knew her time had come.

  He set the wood on the floor and pointed to the chair up against the wall. “Move April to the chair.” His voice chilled her to the core.

  “I don’t want to wake her.”

  “Do as I say, Peggy.”

  She knew not to disobey. Peggy carefully lifted April. Her daughter felt as limp as a dishrag. Gently, she lay her down, then stood at attention next to the chair, waiting for further instructions.

  “Today is the most important day of your life,” Simon said. “Are you prepared to cleanse your soul?”

  Peggy’s throat felt constricted. She couldn’t form a word.

  “Remove your clothing.”

  His words flipped a switch in her. A charge of bitter reality surged through her body. The thought of him touching her almost made her gag.

  Keep your wits, girl.

  At first she considered charging him like a mad bull. She’d noticed when he delivered their dinners that he favored his right foot. If she could catch him off guard, jam her heel into his instep, maybe, just maybe, she could incapacitate him long enough to snatch April and escape. But the son of a bitch was big. Powerful. If she failed, what might he do to April? She forced the idea out of her mind; had no choice but to comply and wait for the ideal moment.