The Cleopatra Murders

by Mic Palmer

  Irresistibly, Jack’s face broke out into a glazy eyed smile. Truly feeling that he had achieved a breakthrough, he decided that the first thing he was going to do when he got out of there was to force himself to have a nice big hamburger, the way God had intended it, with gobs of ketchup seeping from the sides.

  For now, however, he checked his watch, which showed that he only had two minutes left, and that’s when it dawned on him.

  The scattered soda cans, the spilled leftovers, the knocked over ketchup bottle. The refrigerator had been moved.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Just as he suspected, there were well worn scratches in the ceramic tile, so he knew what he had to do, but the wheels were frozen, maybe purposefully so.

  “If he can do it, so can I,” Jack muttered to himself, his back feeling strangely loose.

  Given how large and heavy the refrigerator was, it had to be moved inch by inch, one side at a time, through a kind of rocking motion, until finally he was able to look behind it.

  “Holy Crap!” he said out loud. For he was right. At long last he was right. Behind the massive refrigerator was a door.

  Encouraged by his discovery, Jack moved fast and before long was able to make his way into a narrow stairwell.

  Time was running out, but all he needed was a quick look. Either he’d find a chamber of horrors or he wouldn’t.

  The light switch, unfortunately, didn’t work, so he switched on his flashlight which although weak would have to do.

  Having become inured to the siren, which at this point seemed to have dulled somewhat, he detected the strong aroma of some sort of detergent, maybe bleach.

  Slowly descending the concrete steps, he could feel his back and neck rippling with tension.

  With the alarm still messaging his eardrums, he wondered what he would find? Rotting corpses, amputated limbs? What types of trophies did this guy keep?

  “HELLO,” he yelled.

  If someone was there he wanted to know about it.

  “What’s this?” he thought. The last step was broken. Something extremely heavy must have fallen on it, maybe a steel cage or some sort of torture device.

  Finally making it to the bottom, he bounced the flashlight off the walls and pillars. Apparently, the basement had been divided into an assortment of rooms, the first of which was filled with wine racks, perhaps enough for two thousand bottles, but for the most part they were empty. In fact most of the wine was in boxes, but was he packing or unpacking?

  In either event the cellar was clearly in use, which again raised the issue of why there was no simple way to gain access to it. The notion of having to move that behemoth of a refrigerator every time he wanted a bottle of wine was ridiculous, unless of course the collection was valuable. Could it be that he was just playing it safe?

  Twenty-five seconds. He’d better hurry.

  Entering the next chamber, he could feel his heart pounding, but like the previous room, it didn’t contain anything particularly suspicious. In the corner he spotted a workbench above which were screwdrivers, wrenches, hammers, pliers, and an assortment of other tools hung from hooks attached to brown pegboard. Like everything else, they were well organized and not the least bit odd.

  As a result, he again started to doubt himself. Maybe there was another entrance, but he had missed it.

  Just then his eyes began to tear.

  Whatever type of cleansing solution Pelletier had used was not only strong but fresh.

  Probing the other side of the room with his flashlight, he made out what appeared to be a large tabletop band saw of the type a butcher might use. Then he recalled the buzzing sound. Sick bastard. Examining it more closely, he found the blade to be immaculate and like everything else stinking of bleach.

  “Damn it,” Jack grumbled. Time was up, and from past experience he was reluctant to deviate from the plan. Nevertheless, he gave himself one more minute.

  Scanning the last room, he came across a light fixture with a cord. He pulled at it and the space was illuminated.

  Against the cinder block wall were six Moroccan carpets. Again, Pelletier had lied. He wasn’t using these rugs, so why wouldn’t he sell them, unless of course they were intended for something else? But where were the newspaper clippings, the blood stains, the relics?

  Having again run out of time, he suddenly became aware of the siren. Just one more look, he told himself.

  Observing the washer and dryer, he couldn’t help but think of how commonplace they were, how customary, how innocuous. There was even an ironing board, just like in every other house in America.

  Could he be mistaken? What kind of monster did his own laundry?

  Not knowing where else to turn, he felt panicked. Then over the skirl of the alarm, he believed he heard something, but it was so faint that he thought he might have imagined it.

  Stopping in his tracks, he turned up his ear. There it was again, but he couldn’t be certain. Moving closer to where he thought it was coming from, he heard what sounded like, “et eee et,” but was it someone’s voice or just an odd pattern he had picked up within the din?

  He put his ear up to the sheetrock wall. Now it was clear. “Let me out!” screamed a female voice, but where was the entrance?

  To throw off unwanted visitors, Pelletier must have sealed up the wall every time he went out. The only way in therefore was to remove the screws. “It’s ok,” yelled Jack.

  Running back to the first room, he grabbed not a screwdriver but a mallet. “Stand back!” he shouted.

  Having busted a few holes in the half inch drywall, he tossed the hammer away and began smashing away at it with his hands and feet, until finally he was able to peer inside. There he saw an emaciated woman with matted brown hair, green skin, and gigantic black rings under bulging green eyes. Her ankle was chained to the wall like a damsel from an old pirate movie.

  “I just want to go home,” she sobbed, in her bras and panties, not appearing quite sure of what was happening.

  A thick enveloping stench hung over the room. For next to her was the large metal bucket that served as her toilet.

  “You’re safe,” said Jack, as he scanned the chamber with his flashlight.

  “I knew it,” he thought to himself. “They just can’t help themselves.”

  Strewn across the walls were hundreds of newspaper and magazine clippings, some of which went back several years. “He’s been at it a while,” Jack eerily thought to himself.

  As to the articles relating to the Cleopatra killer, many contained bright red exes and the phrase, “BULL SHIT.”

  So much for the possibility that he and the other nut were working together.

  “I just want to go home,” repeated the woman.

  Jack knocked out another few chunks of the wall, which allowed the room to be fully illuminated. It was then that he saw something that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  On a shelf beside the globular remains of an unlighted candle were two disembodied heads with well kept but coarse blond hair. Except for being a bit gaunt, they were almost lifelike, causing Jack to think that they had been treated in some way. The only major imperfections were the collapsed eyelids. Whether the eyeballs had been ripped out or merely rotted away Jack couldn’t be sure, but the fact was that he was staring into the terror stricken faces of the mother and child he had seen in the photograph.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. Then everything went black.

  Chapter Seventy

  The carpet was thick and clean. In fact it was comfortable.

  Jack took note of the design, a blue and white floral pattern, which was rare for a Moroccan.

  Still groggy, he gazed up at row after row of ceiling joists, many of which were separated by a dusty array of cobwebs.

  Having been struck in the head with a tire iron, he felt a wet throbbing sensation just above the hairline, but when he went to touch it, he found that he couldn’t move his hands.

  “Shit,” he groaned, l
ying there in his underwear. Looking down at his feet, he noted that they had become blue and swollen. Pelletier had pulled the wire too tight, causing a pins and needles sensation.

  “Now what?” he thought to himself, strangely missing the high pitched squeal of the siren.

  “Let me go,” moaned the woman, but it was purely out of reflex. The fact that she had almost been rescued seemed to have been lost upon her. After perhaps weeks or months of captivity, her words had become meaningless relics of a time when there was still some life behind them.

  Jack was positioned about twenty feet away, in the room containing the drill. “It’s going to be alright,” he shouted, knowing full well that it probably wasn’t. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but experience a modicum of pride.

  Finally he had been vindicated and in so doing had beaten out legions of psychologists, herds of journalists, and thousands of cops. His reasoning, moreover, was sound. Once Pelletier had become famous, he began using the rugs as a kind of calling card, but originally they were nothing more than a means to keep things neat.

  “It was that simple,” Jack thought to himself, but his sense of accomplishment was quickly interrupted by the realization that in all likelihood he was about to be dismembered.

  “Son of a bitch,” he grumbled. Why was it that he could never enjoy his triumphs?

  With his hands tied behind his back, he struggled to his feet and hopped over to the work bench.

  The woman’s hands were free. If he could get a pair of pliers to her, perhaps she could cut him loose. Grasping it with his teeth, he started to think that he had a chance, but just then he heard a rather squeaky almost girlish laugh. It was Pelletier, all boney and relaxed. Still wearing his work clothes, which consisted of a blue pair of slacks, white shirt, and grey tie, he appeared drab, ordinary, banal.

  “Let me out,” sobbed the woman.

  “Shut the hell up,” growled Pelletier. Looking more like a clerk than a monster, he smacked the pliers out of Jack’s mouth with a cold almost reptilian confidence.

  The handle of the tool chipped one of Jack’s lower teeth and he could already feel the pain of an exposed nerve. “What are you going to do?”

  The lanky merchant threw him back down onto the carpet. He spoke slowly with the imperious tone of someone used to getting his way. “How did you find me?”

  Lying on his back, Jack could barely breathe. “The carpets.”

  Pelletier’s voice was smooth and deep, with just the slightest hint of an accent. “You mean the Moroccans? You can get them anywhere.”

  Jack spit out a wad of blood. “True, but only you and one other guy sell them exclusively.”

  The Frenchman had a sharp Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down when he spoke. “Very good, but now our little competition must come to an end, the better man having won.”

  “I’m not the guy.”

  “What was that?” asked Pelletier, not quite sure of his meaning.

  “I’m not the one you’ve been competing with.”

  Pelletier found this amusing. “Really? So all of the evidence I’ve seen, the scratches on your face, the murder of your girlfriends, the attack on your co-workers – it’s all just a misunderstanding?”

  “I’m being framed.”

  “Yes, me too.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “And you just happened to realize that there were two different people involved?”

  “Yes, I mean look at the techniques. They’re as different as night and day.”

  “If it wasn’t you, who was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Pelletier kicked Jack in the side. “I’m tired of playing games. Admit that it was you and I’ll be merciful.”

  “You want me to pretend? Fine, it was me.”

  Suddenly Pelletier was calm, even jovial. “I don’t blame you for denying it. I mean who goes around murdering former lovers? Could you be more obvious?”

  Jack appeared disgusted.

  “Between you and me, what was it?”

  “How’s that?”

  Pelletier put his mouth near Jack’s ear. He had a malevolent yet playful expression on his face. “What set you off? Was it the women?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “They can be infuriating, no? The way they can draw you in only to cast you off like yesterday’s trash.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Or was it something else,” Pelletier went on, “maybe a problem in the boudoir?”

  “Maybe they deserved it,” Jack finally responded.

  “That’s more like it,” grinned the merchant. “You seem almost angry?”

  Perhaps one of the neighbors had called the police in response to the alarm. Jack’s only hope was to buy time. “Shouldn’t I be?”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because nothing’s ever enough. No matter where you work, how you look, or what you know, they always want more.”

  Sitting himself down on the floor with his legs crossed, Pelletier seemed curious. “Then why all the flowers and romance?”

  Jack smiled. “I knew you were out there. That was just my way of saying hello. Like you said, we had a kind of rivalry going. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “I don’t even know you. It was just a gag. Something to get under your skin.”

  Pelletier seemed a bit distant. “Why do you do it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why do you do what you do?”

  “I don’t know, revenge? You know what I’m talking about.”

  Quickly rising to his feet, Pelletier was incensed. “Stupid little man. I don’t kill out of hatred. I kill because I can; I kill because it works for me. Not that you could ever understand, but with each death I become stronger, less inhibited, more in touch with what I’m supposed to be. You act as though I suffer from some common pathology. I’m not compelled to do what I do. I do it out of choice, for what it does for me.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “Out of choice? Please. You couldn’t quit if your life depended on it. You’re at the mercy of your impulses.”

  “Stop projecting you disturbed little drone. I could stop any time I want. It’s purely within my control. But I’m like a finely tuned athlete. To maintain my edge I have to keep pushing.”

  “You pretend that you’re beyond simple characterization, but you’re as predictable as a cat on a canary. You know what you’re going to do just as well as I do, and there’s no turning it off.”

  “Really,” sneered Pelletier.

  “Look at who you’re talking to,” offered Jack. “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “It starts off as a passing thought, but before long it’s all you can think about. In a way it’s like being in love. You feel anxious, restless, tormented, and the more you wait the worse it gets, until finally you feel like you’re going to explode.”

  Appearing as though he were thinking, Pelletier removed from the nearby workbench a utility knife.

  “Go ahead,” uttered Jack. “I understand. You have no choice.”

  Pelletier paused for a moment, but then realized what Jack was up to. “Clever,” he smiled. “Faux bonhomie, uh?” Leaning against the workbench, he retracted the blade. “So what did you plan on doing if I hadn’t gotten to you first, strangle me?”

  “I wanted to talk. Form a partnership.”

  “You lie.”

  “No I’m not. Can you imagine the possibilities?”

  “Two men deliberately acting as though they were one?”

  “We’d be unstoppable.”

  Pelletier had a contemplative look in his eyes. “The authorities wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “Then again if I found you, surely the police will.”

  “Perhaps we should move,” Pelletier responded.

  Jack couldn’t help but hide his relief. “That might be a good idea, I mean with the alarm an
d all.”

  “Right,” said Pelletier, “except for one thing.”

  Jack didn’t like the tone.

  Pelletier moved away from the workbench. “You’re going to die today, only now it’s going to be painful.”

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Having stepped out for a moment, Pelletier returned with the tray of knives and placed it on the work bench. “Before your little ruse, I was just going to slit your throat as kind of a professional courtesy, but now you’re going to suffer.” Grabbing Jack by the neck, he pushed his head against the floor while placing the blade against his cheek. “I think maybe I’ll start with your eyelids.”

  Suddenly, the woman became frenzied, and no matter how many times Pelletier instructed her to be quiet, she wouldn’t listen. “Let me out, let me out, let me out,” she screeched over and over again, until her vocal cords began to fray.

  Quickly rising to his feet, Pelletier grabbed the tire iron, walked to the chamber, and repeatedly struck the woman in the head, after which there was silence.

  Jack jumped up and reached for a knife, but before he could even position it behind his back, his captor had returned.

  Splattered with blood, Pelletier seemed pleased. “Yes, that’s the look I wanted to see: pure unadulterated desperation.”

  Within seconds, however, he realized that he had let his emotions get the better of him, thereby making Jack’s point. “Do I sometimes get carried away?” he rationalized. “I suppose, but I assure you, the enterprise as a whole is based on a well thought out psychological principle.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Ok, I’ll indulge you. Consider it the granting of your last request.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It all began with Dr. Thomas Littman, a probing, insistent, ittle fellow, with a lazy eye that gave me the feeling he could look right into my soul. I can’t tell you how disconcerting it was. The slightest glance and I’d actually feel myself flushing. That’s right. Are you surprised?”