Night Kills (17 page)

Jill hadn't been able to sleep since her visit to Madeline's apartment. She played it over and over in her mind, trying to remember the slightest details, trying to be sure the new Madeline hadn't paid her any undue attention. She couldn't be positive.

She paced her apartment, moving like a disassociated spirit from room to room. She was exhausted but couldn't make herself sit down. In the kitchen, she paused at the sink and ran water into a glass, gulped it down. She knew she should eat something, but her appetite had been replaced by anxiety.

It was possible—no, now it was likely—that mad Madeline's story was true. But even if it wasn't, there sure as hell was
something
creepy going on. And if Madeline's story was true, that meant Tony was…

Jill didn't dare let herself think about that. It seemed impossible.

She remembered mad Madeline's distrust of the police. But not all of them. The problem was, which ones could be trusted?

Paranoia.

Jill refused to let her mind tilt in that direction.

She realized she didn't have anyone to turn to. That was how she'd gotten into this mess in the first place. There was only Tony. Ordinarily he'd be the first person she'd go to for help, but if the real Madeline Scott was right, he'd be the last person she should go to.

Jill tried again to bend her mind around the seemingly inescapable conclusion, but again it was impossible for her to imagine Tony intending she should come to any harm. Incomprehensible. Gentle, loving Tony.

She ran another glass of water and carried it into the living room. She slumped in the corner of the sofa, feeling small and vulnerable, and absently used the remote to switch on the TV.

The set was tuned to a local channel, and a talking head wearing a serious expression said that another Torso Murder victim had been found. “The torso of a man…”

A man?

Jill turned up the volume and leaned forward, her elbows on her knees.

The news report had gone to tape. A tall, rawboned man in a white shirt and red tie, with strong features and a bad haircut, was striding just ahead of a gaggle of journalists dogging him with recorders and TV cameras. He ignored them and walked faster, nudged one of them aside, and opened the door of a large black car. It was a graceful but powerful movement. People instinctively got out of this man's way.

“Captain Quinn?” one of the media people, a woman, kept repeating. “Captain Quinn?”

The big man said something unintelligible as he lowered himself into the car. He had to remove the hand of a man from the door so he could get it closed. There was a shot of the knot of journalists standing and staring as the big black car squatted with power and drove away fast.

The camera moved in for a close-up of the woman who'd been calling the man's name. She was hastily rearranging her breeze-mussed hair with her free hand while holding a microphone with the other. Behind her, other media people were moving back in the direction they'd come from when they'd followed the big man. A few of them were running.

“As you can see,” the woman said, “the police aren't yet giving out any information on this new and startling development.” A lock of blond hair flopped over her left eye, and without closing the eye she shoved the hair back in place. “Lead investigator Captain Frank Quinn did let slip that this time the torso is that of a man. Speculation at this point in time is that this murder was the work of a copycat killer, as so often happens in these sorts of cases. This is something that impacts the entire city, and you can count on Team News to get the facts as soon as they're available and pass them on to you. Bill?”

The news anchor named Bill reappeared on the screen. “Thanks, Mary.” He gazed solemnly at the camera. “As you just saw, Team News is on the scene and on the story, and we'll pass it on to you at the speed of electrons.” He shook his head at the horror of the developing story. “Hopefully, this nightmare will soon be over.”

He glanced down at his desk, then back up at the camera. “Do you ever wonder what your dog does when you're not home?”

Jill stopped listening.
Quinn. Captain Frank Quinn.
She recalled the big man's name from the papers and earlier TV news. The lead investigator.

There was something about him, something solid and strong. A calm island in an angry sea. He'd be a policeman she could trust. At least he was the best possibility she could think of, and she had to talk to
someone.

She got the Manhattan phone directory, balanced it on her knees, and looked up the number of the precinct house closest to her apartment. She picked up the phone.

After punching in two numbers, she slowly put it back down.

It occurred to her what they'd want of her, what she'd almost certainly have to do if she contacted the police and told them everything.

They'd want her to look at a decomposed body. To identify Madeline Scott at the morgue.

Jill didn't know if she could do it. Didn't people sometimes get ill when they did that? Throw up? Sometimes pass out? Simply the thought was making Jill nauseated. She'd always considered herself to be a person with the willpower to do what was necessary, a person of commitment and courage. Now she wasn't so sure. She wasn't sure about anything. Her world seemed to have gone insane, and it was the only world she had.

She replaced the phone book and trudged to the sofa. Sat down and pressed her face hard between her palms. Her features were distorted as if squeezed in a vise. She didn't feel like crying; she felt like screaming. And screaming and screaming…

She held the screams inside, but it wasn't easy.

Eventually she might call Captain Frank Quinn, but not yet.

 

Charlotte was daydreaming while walking along Christopher Street and didn't recognize the car right away. There were so many big dark luxury cars running around New York. Then she used her hand to shield her eyes from the sun and saw the shiny Chrysler emblem. She realized it was Dixie's brother's car. What was his name? Ron? No, Don.

The car slowed and then pulled to the curb about twenty feet ahead of where Charlotte was walking. Uh-oh. This might become an awkward situation. She'd caught the way Don had looked at her the other night, when he'd tried to get her and Dixie to go to his place for drinks, and knew he might not know about Dixie's sexual orientation. He might think she and Dixie were simply friends.

Charlotte pretended she hadn't recognized the car and kept walking at the same pace, hoping maybe she'd been wrong about it being Don's car. But when she was almost alongside it the tinted window on the passenger side glided down, and at a slant through the rear window Charlotte saw the figure behind the steering wheel lean over toward the passenger side to say something out the window.

“Charlotte.”

Not Don's voice. Dixie's.

Relieved, Charlotte approached the car and bent down.

There was Dixie, leaning across the front seat toward her and smiling. She looked terrific, dressed in black, as usual, with her red scarf, her glossy black hair pulled back to emphasize the prominent bone structure of her face and the force of her dark eyes. It was her eyes that had first attracted Charlotte to her.

Charlotte grinned widely as she moved closer to the car, one foot down off the curb. “Dixie!” She bent even lower to look inside the rest of the car. Dixie was alone. “Isn't this your brother's car?”

“I borrowed it to drive down here to the Village.”

“How come?”

“To see the woman I love.”

“That would be me?”

“That would be you, sweetheart. Hop in.”

“Why? Where we going?”

“Get in and I'll tell you.”

No reason not to. Charlotte moved back so she wouldn't block the big door from opening, then lowered herself into the car.

The interior was cool. An air freshener attached by a suction cup to the windshield emitted a faint lilac scent that seemed to overlay some other, more acrid odor. The upholstery was soft leather and felt almost like velvet beneath Charlotte's exploring touch.
Nice.
As soon as she pulled the door closed, the car was filled with silence. She felt isolated but comfortable and cozy, being in here with Dixie.

“This some kind of surprise?” she asked.

“In a way it is. We're going to my brother Don's.”

“Oh.” Charlotte realized she'd sounded disappointed and regretted it. She didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings. “I mean, how nice! But how come?”

“He's home today and we were talking on the phone, and he said he wanted to meet you. Said you looked like a nice person.”

“Is that why he wants to meet me? Because I look nice?”

Dixie gave her a sideways glance and pulled the car smoothly away from the curb. “He's interested. He figures you're my significant other.”

Charlotte laughed. “I was afraid he might be interested in another way.”

“Not Don. We know all about each other. He understands.” Dixie braked the big car hard to avoid a cab making a wide turn. She glanced again at Charlotte. “Buckle up, hon.”

Charlotte did as she was told. “Am I?” she asked.

“Are you what?”

“Significant to you.”

Dixie smiled and ran the fingertips of her right hand along the inside of Charlotte's left thigh. Charlotte's body stiffened and she caught her breath.

“You have no idea,”
Gloria
said.

Jill deliberated for hours. Finally she returned to the phone and called the precinct house nearest her address. They didn't know what she was talking about at first. Then they tried to convince her that if she had valuable information it wasn't necessary to talk to a particular officer. She told them patiently that she'd talk
only
to Quinn. It occurred to her that they might be tracing the call, but that was okay. She'd decided on her course and didn't care.

At last someone gave her the number to call to talk to Quinn. A detective named Fedderman told her that he'd be glad to help her, that Quinn wasn't available. Again she insisted on Quinn and only Quinn. Finally, maybe because Fedderman heard the desperation in her voice, he relented. He told her to hold and he'd put her through.

There was no unmemorable background music, only a series of clicks and buzzes as her call was patched through to yet another number.

A voice said, “Quinn,” and the connection was made.

 

Charlotte was surprised when Dixie slowed the big Chrysler to a stop. They waited while a sectioned overhead steel door rumbled and clanked as it rolled up in front of them. She looked over at Dixie, who smiled reassuringly, as the door reached full open position and the long black car eased into what the dimness soon revealed to be a garage. Charlotte heard the steel door rattle closed behind them.

“Don's garage,” Dixie explained.

Charlotte nodded. She hadn't been paying much attention, but it didn't seem to her that the garage was large enough to be part of a much larger building that would contain apartments. Of course, Don might live in one of those prewar brick or brownstone homes converted into apartments. Or it might be a rented garage; there must be plenty of them in Manhattan, considering the scarcity of parking spaces.

She felt better when a wooden walk-through door on the back wall of the garage opened and Don entered. He was wearing faded jeans and a gray T-shirt that might at one time have said
METS
. He was also carrying a white cardboard box.

As Dixie climbed out of the car on the driver's side, Charlotte opened her door. She heard Dixie say, “Hi,” to Don, then, “See what I've brought.” As if Charlotte was a pleasant surprise. But Don didn't seem surprised.

Charlotte got all the way out of the car and closed the door behind her. She thought she heard the electronic whisper of the doors locking. The garage smelled of gasoline and oil and something she couldn't identify. Heat rolled out on her ankles from beneath the car.

Don looked over at Charlotte and winked. “Hi, Charlotte.” He placed the cardboard box on the floor, wiped his palms on the thighs of his jeans, and walked over to her. He was smiling. Charlotte thought he was going to offer his hand to shake. Instead he punched her hard in the stomach.

All the air
whooshed
out of Charlotte's lungs and she slumped forward. Didn't fall, though, because Dixie had walked around the back of the car and was there to catch her with her arms around her midsection just beneath her breasts.

Close to her ear, Charlotte heard her ask Don, “Bring everything?”

“Everything you wanted. This was your idea.”

Charlotte's body wanted to draw into a tight curl. Her feet rose off the floor. But Dixie was strong and held her firmly enough so she didn't fall. She was hanging there in the air with her legs pulled up almost in a fetal position.

The vacuum in Charlotte seemed to be drawing every part of her toward it. Her head was bowed. She couldn't raise it as she tried futilely to suck in air. She saw that the garage floor was covered with something. A plastic drop cloth. She also saw that Don was wearing loose green booties of some sort, the kind doctors wore in operating rooms or other sterile environments. He reached into the cardboard box and pulled out a green surgical smock. It took him less than a minute to slip it on over his clothes, complete with cap. His movements were all very smooth and practiced, as if he'd done this many times before. He snapped on latex gloves with the same expertise.

Charlotte's heart was about to burst. She worked harder to suck in precious oxygen, and this time managed a quick, sharp intake of breath. A rasping sob.

“She'll be able to scream soon,” Dixie said.

“Can't have that,” Don said.

He bent down, got a thick roll of gray duct tape from the box, and walked over to stand in front of Charlotte. He reeled out about two feet of tape and ripped it off the role. Charlotte felt Dixie tighten her grip and shift one arm so her hand was cupping Charlotte's chin. She raised Charlotte's head and Don quickly slapped the tape over Charlotte's gaping mouth and wrapped it around her cheeks and neck, even her hair. He pulled out more tape and wound it tightly so she couldn't breathe in or out through her mouth, couldn't utter a sound. Then he stepped back and surveyed his work without really looking at Charlotte as a person. That more than anything scared her.

What will they do to me if I'm not human anymore?

“She won't suffocate, will she?” Don asked.

“She's breathing through her nose,” Dixie said.

Charlotte was, but it took every bit of will and effort she could manage. The ache in her stomach had spread throughout her body. But she
was
breathing again. She could hear the air hissing through her nose. Getting louder. The frantic hissing reminded her that all they had to do was pinch her nostrils for a minute or so and she'd be dead. That was all that stood between her and nothing. Now she was truly terrified.

She calmed her fears somewhat by telling herself there was at least some hope. Don had been afraid she might suffocate with the tape over her mouth, so they didn't intend to kill her.

Did they?

She tried to convince herself that the answer was no. Then what
was
going on? A kidnapping? Hardly. There wasn't anyone who'd pay even a small amount of money to have Charlotte returned. There was no place for her to be returned to, since she'd cut off all family ties a month ago when she moved to New York after the inevitable blowup. It wasn't acceptable to be a lesbian in a small town in Indiana. Her parents had said that they didn't want to see her again, that she was no longer their daughter. Charlotte had accepted their judgment and pronouncement, and after meeting Dixie she knew she could live with the situation.

Now this. Some kind of sexual thing? Dixie was plenty kinky. Maybe this was all to frighten Charlotte, give her the ultimate masochistic kick. But they'd never gone this far before. Not half this far. Charlotte managed to crane her neck and look up at Dixie. Dixie smiled at her. Charlotte knew that smile. This time it frightened her.
Really
frightened her.

Was that the idea? She prayed it was the idea. A kinky game. Nothing more. In an hour or two at most it would be over.

She saw that Don had something else in his hand. A thin strip of white plastic. It was one of those ties that once placed around something had to be cut to be removed. Sometimes the police used them instead of handcuffs.

The police. Charlotte wouldn't mind seeing
them
right now.

Dixie momentarily released Charlotte, then grasped her wrists and yanked her arms behind her back. Charlotte felt the plastic tie go on and tighten, cutting painfully into her flesh. She screamed silently into the duct tape.

Now she struggled to stand on her own. Dixie helped her, grabbing her beneath each arm and supporting her. The way Charlotte's wrists were strapped behind her, she still had to slump forward, but she was standing.

While Dixie held her, Don went to the box and returned with some kind of cutter with a razor blade in it. Charlotte kicked out her legs desperately and banged her heels against the hard floor. She remembered the clear plastic sheet spread over the floor, the kind painters used so they wouldn't make a mess. Don was going to cut her throat. A single, quick slash and her life would gush from her. She knew it!

But he didn't use the blade that way at all.

Instead he used it to cut along the seams of her blouse. He yanked the blouse away as if performing a magic trick and tossed it over by the box. He cut her bra straps and removed her bra. Tossed it over to land on her blouse. She kicked out futilely. One of her sandals flew off and landed near the pile of clothes, as if she'd tried to place it there. Don was staring at her intently now, but while his eyes were alive his features were set, almost wooden. He cupped one of her bare breasts in his hand for a moment, then unbuckled her belt, worked the button and zipper on her jeans, and tugged at the waist. When he'd inched the jeans down a bit, he lifted her feet and clutched the denim around her ankles and pulled the jeans off, along with her remaining sandal. Charlotte wriggled and tried to kick him. He sidestepped her bare foot and had her panties off before she knew what had happened.

Don went back to the box and drew from it a folded clear plastic drop cloth, like the one on the floor, only smaller. He unfolded it and draped it over the hood of the car.

He came back and stood in front of Charlotte, just out of kicking range, and looked at Dixie.

“Do we really want to do this?” he asked.

“Both of us do,” Charlotte heard Dixie say in a throaty voice. She could feel Dixie's warm breath in her ear.

Don went again to the box and this time drew out what looked like a broomstick, only it was shorter, and pointed.

At first Charlotte didn't realize what that meant. When she did, she was aware of a warm wetness flowing down her legs as terror took over every corner of her mind.

This isn't happening. This is a dream. Please, God! It has to be a dream!

Maybe God had heard her, because she became oddly detached from what was happening. It was as if there were no place, no time, only fear so deeply rooted she couldn't bear to accept its reality.

It was a mercy that she was in a trance as Don took her from Dixie and walked her as if she were a zombie to where the plastic sheet was draped over the hood. He shoved her onto the hood, lifting her slightly so her feet were off the floor.

She felt her legs being forced apart. She tried to put them together, but Don's body was between them now, easing them ever farther apart. Charlotte saw Dixie on the other side of the hood watching her. Both of Dixie's hands were on the hood and she didn't have the sharpened broomstick.

Don must have it.

Don must have it!

The trance was broken.

Through unbelievable pain, the terror and panic rushed in.

Charlotte began to scream, over and over. Each scream filtered through the tape as a muted, soft hum. Almost like coos of intense pleasure. Dixie leaned closer over the warm hood, still watching with glittering black eyes, her face like stone.

Charlotte loved Dixie. She really did.

Then there was only the pain.