The May Day Murders Sequel

by Scott Wittenburg

  It didn’t take much effort to assume what she had done after work—went to O’Dowds as she often did on Fridays. But she only knew this because it was her regular routine—she couldn’t recall actually going to the pub or how long she had remained there. It was one great big blur.

  Think, woman! Why is it so fucking hard to remember anything? Did you get so pissed at the pub that you staggered all the way back home before passing out on the sofa? This prospect alarmed her. Had that actually happened? She had never been that drunk in her life but reckoned there was always a first time for everything. But still—

  A snippet came to mind: that man—the American! Now what was his name? She couldn’t recall. Slowly it started coming back to her. After a couple of drinks, she’d felt tired and told the man she was going home. She had actually offered him a nightcap, and he had accepted. Then she had taken him here.

  Then—

  Then, what? They had come here and—oh yes, she had gotten them both a drink. And then—

  Then what? Then . . .

  Her mind went totally blank. In fact, she couldn’t remember a thing from that moment to when she’d awakened on the sofa.

  What had happened? And when had the man left her flat?

  She was absolutely clueless.

  Sarah looked at herself in the mirror and gasped. She looked horrendous! Hair disheveled, drawn skin and bags under her eyes. What in the world had gone on last night? Had the man done something to put her in this state of disarray? Whatever the case, all she wanted to do right now was take a long hot shower. She peeled off her skirt and undies. That’s when she noticed the bruising on her breasts.

  What the fuck?

  Total alarm suddenly overtook her as a thought came to mind:Had she been raped?

  Sarah recalled once reading an article about a woman who had been date raped by a friend she’d known for years. The woman had absolutely no recollection of the night before and was told that she had simply passed out on the sofa. It wasn’t until later in the day that she started having vague flashbacks of the attack. When she asked her friend if they had had sex the night before he totally denied it. But she knew better.

  The woman had done research on date rape drugs on the Internet and read how they were being slipped into the drinks of unsuspecting women. Once the drug took effect the woman became easy prey for sexual assault. Because the drug typically gave the victim amnesia the next day, a victim may very well not even be aware that she had been raped.

  Unfortunately, the woman had already destroyed any DNA evidence because she had taken a bath prior to her realization. She had been livid, wanting to bring charges against this so-called friend but realized it was probably too late.

  Sarah wondered if these bruises were left by the American she had brought home last night. Had he slipped her a drug at the pub and waited until she was incapacitated before raping her? Or was she just being paranoid?

  She looked at the bruises closely. Could those marks have been made by the stranger’s hands? His mouth? They were a bit tender to the touch. She turned around and looked at the reflection of her backside in the mirror. And nearly threw up.

  There on her bum were long red welts in the shape of fingers—one set per cheek. The American had done this to her!

  She began trembling and wondered what to do. She had been raped, or at the very least assaulted by the man and then left here to rot as far as he was concerned. He must be punished—

  Sarah ran back into the living room to search for her mobile phone. She found it in her purse on the kitchen counter. After only a brief moment’s hesitation, she dialed the police.

  Chapter 17

  Trent Mason stepped back from the easel and studied the scene he was painting, thankful to be back in Europe again. This is where he belonged. Over a year had passed since he’d murdered Claire Fournier and fled Paris for New York. Since his return to England he had made a vow that he would never, ever go back to the States.

  The moment he’d touched down at Kennedy International, he immediately had serious doubts about returning to America. Not only was it incredibly risky, he recalled how much it had cost to flee the country after his prison escape and how he had vowed then never to go back. Yet there he was anyway, going against his better judgment.

  But wasn’t that why he had left Europe in the first place? he’d reasoned. The botched, ill-fated encounter with Claire had made it more than clear that he had totally lost his touch with women. And his ability to achieve his goals. He had become weak, sloppy and ineffective despite his transformation into Trent Mason. And there was only one way to get it all back, and she was living back in Smithtown, Ohio.

  In hindsight, his return had been well worth the risk. As expected, Ann Middleton’s demise had enabled him to put his past to rest at last. True, he had never been able to have the woman of his dreams. But just knowing that nobody else could have her now either, not even hubby Sam, was downright liberating. Stanley Jenkins the super nerd and Jerry Rankin the super stud was all behind him now. He no longer had to carry that baggage. Instead he had become exactly who he had always been fated to be: Trent Mason the MAN!

  He smiled, recalling how quickly his luck had begun to change. His first sign that things were looking up had been while celebrating Ann’s death at that funky little bar in Akron. Having left Smithtown with no particular destination in mind he had finally decided to stop for a cold beer. That’s when he took the Akron exit and dropped into the Shamrock Pub.

  The place was crowded and noisy. He went over to the bar, ordered a cold Guinness and scoped out the chicks. There was one in particular that caught his attention. She looked to be around mid-twenties, petite with shoulder length blond hair and a dynamite body. This fox had just downed three double shots of Jack Daniels in rapid succession to the applause of several male patrons gathered around her. She was laughing uncontrollably and it was clear she was smashed.

  “Sweet, isn’t she?” he’d heard somebody say from behind him.

  Mason turned and saw a guy wearing a Cleveland Indians ball cap who was practically breathing in his ear. “And a great fuck, too.”

  “Oh yeah?” Mason said.

  “You betcha. Only problem is she’s cold as a fish.”

  “So how do you know she’s a good fuck?”

  “Let’s just say, I got my ways. I mean, Tanya would never give me the time of day but I still managed to get into her pants.”

  “She was smashed, then.”

  “Tanya’s almost always smashed—it wasn’t that. Something else.”

  He reached into his pocket and held out his hand. In the dim light Mason saw a tiny white pill in his cupped palm. “This.”

  “What is it?”

  “A roofie.”

  “What the hell’s a roofie?”

  “The key to any girl’s heart. Crush one of these up and sneak it into her drink; in half an hour she’s yours for the night.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I shit you not.”

  “But what about afterwards? The girl’s going to cry rape so you’re doubly screwed.”

  The man shook his head. “She won’t remember a thing—it’s like it never happened.”

  “Now I know you’re shitting me,” Mason said.

  “This drug gives the chick amnesia, man! Gotta say I’m surprised you’ve never heard of date rape drugs. You been living under a rock or something?”

  “I guess so,” Mason replied. “So why are you telling me all of this?”

  He grinned. “Because I sell ’em. Thought you might be interested.”

  “How much?”

  “Five bucks.”

  “Kinda stiff for a one-night stand, isn’t it?”

  “These things are imported from Europe so there’s a lot of overheads, ok?”

  What the hell? Mason thought. As much as he doubted if it really worked, he might as well give it a try.He glanced around, pulled a five-dollar bill out of his pocket and slid it into the deal
er’s hand. The man slid the pill into his own hand.

  “Have a good night.” He winked and walked away.

  And what a wonderful night he’d had. After Mason finished his beer he’d struck up a conversation with a woman across the bar who couldn’t hold a candle to Tanya, but was still decent enough for a test drive. After some idle conversation he’d managed to slip his recent purchase into her daiquiri without her noticing and the fun began. Twenty minutes later she was slurring her words and he actually began to fear she would pass out before he ever got her out of the bar. He managed to keep her awake long enough to load her into his car and in no time he was running the show. She gave no resistance as he proceeded to remove her clothes and screw her right there in the parking lot. He’d felt like a teen parked on Lover’s Lane.

  Afterwards he wasn’t sure what to do so he drove around Akron for half an hour looking for the best place to dump his unconscious passenger. He finally pulled up near a city park and when the coast was clear carried the girl over to a bench and stretched her out on it. As he pulled away all he could think was how miraculous that little pill was!

  His luck continued to improve from that day on. As much as he wanted to go back to Europe now that he felt whole again, he had one little problem. Money. He was all but broke. The prison escape, obtaining the fake passport, the flight to Paris, plastic surgery and his return flight to the States had all but wiped out his savings. He had just enough left to last maybe a month, and that would only be after maxing out his British credit card.

  This was not acceptable. Trent Mason required, and by God, deserved the very best.

  So he had decided to do what he’d done in the past to get rich quick: hit the casinos. Only this time he’d give Atlantic City a try. It was closer than Vegas and his blackjack betting system might win him more cash in less time in the smaller venue.

  So off to Atlantic City he went. After settling in he went to work and was thrilled to discover that he hadn’t lost his touch. His winnings were fantastic. The casino owners however eventually started watching him a bit too closely and he was feeling the heat. So after a few months he’d headed west to Vegas after all.

  In less than nine months he had accumulated over eighty grand. Ironically, finding a way to launder and invest his winnings had been more difficult than earning it. Because he had vowed never to contact anybody he’d known before either as Stanley Jenkins or as Jerry Rankin, he had to locate new sources to get the job done. After a lot of research and considerable up-front cash, he was eventually able to employ a reliable individual to handle his assets.

  While getting rich at the casinos, Mason’s luck was holding out in the social department as well. He had eventually become a playboy of sorts, attracting women like a magnet with his winning ways at the card tables. Scoring with the chicks is easy when you’re a winner and there were times when Mason likened himself to James Bond in Ian Fleming’s 007 debut, Casino Royale as he beat the house and bagged the beautiful babes.

  After a while Mason made a realization, and the irony was palpable. The women he scored at the blackjack tables weren’t really doing it for him. It was nice taking them out and screwing them but after a few months it got old. Trent Mason was a man who loved a challenge. And excitement. He had never been one to appreciate things dropped in his lap. In a nutshell, he wanted something more gratifying than those easy casino chicks.

  So one night he’d decided to go out bar-hopping for a change of pace. He went to one of the more popular clubs where he knew there would be plenty of female patrons. As he sat at the bar and nursed his beer, he devised a game. The object of the game was to select one woman in the crowd that he’d like to screw within a five-minute time frame. She had to be “available,” in the sense that she wasn’t already hanging all over some guy and adequately drunk. If he couldn’t find a girl fitting that criteria in five minutes’ time, he had to leave and go to another bar. Then start the process over again.

  With the game rules in place, Mason easily picked a contender within a couple of minutes. This woman was so drunk and obnoxious that her friends were clearly trying their best to ignore her. Mason felt that what she needed was somebody willing to listen to what she had to say.

  Noticing that she was drinking a margarita, Mason ordered one and while waiting for his order reached under the bar and poured the contents of a small envelope into his hand. A pulverized roofie. When the drink came he clandestinely sprinkled the powder into the glass. He then stood up and walked directly over to the woman. She was sitting at a table with three other girls who were hysterically laughing at something. Whatever it was, his target apparently missed the punch line.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “A man at the bar wanted me to give you this.”

  The girl’s face lit up. “Really? Which one?” she asked, staring over toward the bar.

  “The one now standing here at your table.”

  She looked around and saw that there was nobody there but himself. Suddenly she got it.

  “Oh, you’re the man!” She giggled. “Right?”

  “Guilty as charged.” He smiled, handing her the drink. “This is on me, uh—?”

  “Rachel. Thanks, that’s so nice of you!”

  “My pleasure.”

  Mason felt the eyes of the other girls on him. Before they could say anything, Rachel stood up. “Let’s go find somewhere else to sit.”

  Mason nodded and led Rachel away from her stunned companions.

  “Thanks for bailing me out—those girls are such bores!” she said.

  “No problem. Shall we sit over there?” he said, pointing to a table near the pool table.

  Mason smiled as he eyed the canvas, recalling how the rest of that night had gone down. Never since his prison escape had he felt more in control than that time with Rachel. His timing had been perfect. He had watched closely as she drank her margarita, awaiting the first sign that she was going under the drug’s spell. Then he had taken her out to his car, driven to her place and simply waited for the right moment to pounce.

  Words could never describe the power in knowing that he owned Rachel at that point. Her body was there for the taking—soft, warm and compliant. He could do as he pleased with her, limited only by his imagination.

  He had always enjoyed it when women objected because he knew he could eventually overpower them. It gave him a feeling of immense control. But this kind of control was different—more total and much more satisfying. He liked the way they just lay there, lifeless, while he had his way with them. He didn't have to worry about his performance—was he hard enough, or big enough, or coming too soon? He had learned from Claire that there were some intriguing possibilities interacting with the virtually dead as he called it. He could play God, with absolutely nothing to stand in the way of his darkest desires. And after it was all over the miracle really began! All he had to do was leave his prey there, where she would eventually awaken and have not a clue as to what had transpired.

  The scene was taking shape nicely. He already knew what he would title it: Evolution. There were three women outstretched on a concrete floor. The perspective was directly from above, as if being viewed by a fly on the ceiling. The women were totally nude, their pasty white bodies forming a perfect equilateral triangle. Head to toe, toe to head, head to toe. Two of the women were lying flat on their backs, the third one face down.

  The first woman was a perfect likeness of Claire Fournier. Using one of the photos he had taken of her corpse as his source, he had been able to make her look chillingly lifelike—had she been alive for the photo, of course.

  At Claire’s feet but not quite touching was the head of Vanessa Setters, his last American victim. His rendering of Vanessa bore a stunning resemblance to the photo he had snapped of her lying on her living room floor. He recalled how difficult it had been taking that photo, considering the small space he had to work in and the little time he’d had in which to take it. As with Claire, he had not planned on murdering Vaness
a. But his anger had again gotten the best of him that night, unfortunately, and he had strangled her with his bare hands in an uncontrollable fit of rage.

  Vanessa’s murder had prompted his abrupt departure from the States. It had been a real bitch gathering up everything he could and blowing Vegas for London the following day. But he had managed to pull it all off without a hitch.

  The third woman was unrecognizable, her face turned on its side in darkness. He purposely wanted her to be anonymous because she symbolized the future. Nobody could predict the future and Mason wasn’t even going to attempt to. All he knew for certain was that he had at last become the man he always wanted to be, that he was where he wanted to be, doing what he wanted to do. The rest was a like a blank canvas that would continue to take shape and evolve.

  Mason had learned from his mistakes and he had no intention of repeating them. His biggest mistake of all had been letting his short temper prompt him do things he did not want to do. Like murdering those women. He had not planned on that in either case, yet it had happened. That showed weakness. It had also had forced him to take risks that potentially jeopardized his freedom. Unacceptable.

  It wasn’t until after the night he’d spent with Sarah Clark a couple of weeks ago that he realized other mistakes he’d made that could jeopardize his freedom. He hadn’t been careful enough with regard to leaving evidence of his actions. In the past, he had always been prudent not leave any telltale signs of his presence at a scene. He had in fact been meticulous to a fault, having carefully thought out every possible aspect of what to do and not to do in order to avoid leaving so much as a scintilla of trace evidence. But that had not been the case since his prison escape. He had become reckless and sloppy. And since his transformation into Trent Mason, he had been living in a sense of false security, as if he were this totally brand new person who had no past and therefore was untraceable. That was not the case. He couldn’t alter Stanley Jenkins’ DNA, after all.