Victim Six

by Gregg Olsen

  “You have no idea how much fun you are. How good you are. You’re my baby’s little whore. Do me proud,” she said, stepping back to regard her handiwork. “My, my, you really are a pretty thing, if I do say so. And I do.”

  Melody gathered her things from her worktable and straightened up the mattress in the Fun House bedroom.

  This is going to be so good, she thought. He’s going to be so pleased.

  She sipped more wine and imagined a conversation that she was all but certain would take place. Someday. She wasn’t sure exactly when, but someday.

  “Tell me about the head, Melody.”

  “You want to know about that, don’t you? Everybody does. I don’t really see what the big deal is. It’s just a head.”

  “What did you do with the head?”

  “You already know.”

  “Yes, but I want to hear from you.”

  “I’m sure you would. I’m sure you would like to know every juicy detail. Maybe you’ll want to write a book someday. Say some shit about me or Samuel. Get some money.”

  “This isn’t about a book. Or money. It’s about the truth.”

  “So you say. Okay, I’ll play along. I’ll accept that you want the truth for some sick, twisted reason.”

  “Whatever you say. Just tell me.”

  “It was just for fun. Just something to do. I’m sure you’ll try to pin all sorts of meaning to it. But you know meaning is what boring people come up with to explain why their lives really don’t suck. Why they are better than everyone else.”

  “The head. Tell me about it.”

  “I’m getting there. We just thought it would be fun. I painted her up like a little doll, and she gave Sam a blow job whenever he wanted. I’d hold the head and work it up and down on him until he came. I know it sounds nasty, but we had fun.”

  “Tell me about the makeup.”

  “I did it for him. And I will tell you, it wasn’t easy. He’s pretty picky. I had to get it just so. You have no idea how many times he made me haul that head back to the worktable and redo it.”

  She started to laugh.

  “You think this is amusing.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Not really. How did you keep it? Preserve it?”

  “You know we kept it in the freezer. I defrosted her by running warm water over her and painted her up and gave my man what he wanted. He always would say, ‘Shut up and suck,’ and, of course, she didn’t say much at all.”

  “How often did he have sex with the head?”

  “I don’t know. Ten times. He even took it into the shower a couple of times and played with it in there. Everything gets boring after a while. Even certain kinds of sex.”

  Melody downed more wine and tried to think her way through all that she was doing and what was likely to come.

  “You don’t understand him, and you never will,” she said aloud, her eyes seemingly incapable of landing on any single place. She tried to focus on her face in the mirror, but the commands in her head seemed to distract her. “You don’t understand how it was.”

  She smiled. She tightened her fists, balled up like weapons. She relaxed.

  “Not everyone is the same,” she began again. “Not everyone feels the same needs. Sometimes a man’s needs are outside the norms. But that doesn’t make them wrong, you know.”

  She tilted her head. She imagined right then that she’d be able to pull out some charm, something that would sway the listener when the time came to tell her story.

  Whenever that was…it had to be done right.

  Sam Castile let out staccato laughter as a puffed-up journalist on the Discovery Channel prattled on about how serial killers like to relive their crimes by amassing souvenirs of items that belonged to their victims.

  “They frequently get aroused by touching—fondling, if you will—the reminders of their kill,” the man said.

  Sam turned to his wife as they snuggled in bed. “What a moron.”

  “I know what you mean,” Melody said. Her affect was blank, but she tried to imbue her words with a touch of indignation.

  “You’re my lioness,” he said. “I bring things to you sometimes, just for love.”

  She touched the silver chain that hung heavy around her neck. It was all that he allowed her to wear. She knew then that love had nothing to do with their relationship. It was parasitic all the way around. She preyed on him. He preyed on her. Together, they were a force to seek out others who could be drawn, albeit unwillingly, into their game.

  “My fantasies are not about an object but the intangible,” he said hotly into her ear. “You know what turns me on. What makes me hard.”

  She knew, of course. Fear turned him on.

  Yet, he did keep some things from those who didn’t win the game or who bored him. Or displeased her. High up in the garage rafters was a bright yellow canoe, its floor stained with blood. In the kitchen drawer, under the mess of things for which there was no defined storage place, was a cell phone with numbers, starting with the 604 area code, captured in its speed-dial directory.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  March 26, 8:15 p.m.

  Key Peninsula

  His father was out in his shop and his mother was preoccupied with something in the computer room. Their warning, threatening as it had been, had done little to stop Max Castile’s desire to ferret out the source of the noise he’d heard coming from the mobile home. He lingered in the doorway of the main house, looking at his mother as she clicked through Web pages and answered e-mail. A glass of Chablis sat next to her mouse. It seemed as if after every download she took a sip.

  Max pulled the door closer to its frame and returned to the kitchen, where he retrieved the flashlight from the drawer and padded across the lawn. He moved as silently as he could, not wanting to stir a leaf or snap a twig. He did not turn on the flashlight. He planned to use that once he got inside. He’d seen where his folks had kept a spare key, in the hollow of a plastic “rock” that had been set there for that purpose.

  He fumbled for the rock in the dark, finding it after a couple of tries.

  The key went into the lock, and he turned the handle.

  The foul air hit him hard. It smells like a dirty diaper, he thought.

  He passed the light over the dinette table and shone it around the small kitchen. The place was so clean, he wondered about the source of the odor.

  With the flashlight directed at the floor, he went to the bedroom. He passed the beam over the mattress.

  It was not a dog or other animal: it was the naked body of a girl.

  What is she doing here?

  Her eyes fluttered a little.

  “Hey, lady,” Max said. “Who are you?”

  “Help me.”

  Adrenaline surged through Max’s body, and he dropped the flashlight. It hit the floor and spun in a near complete revolution, casting a spray of illumination over the mattress, where the woman whimpered in a ragged, hushed voice.

  Max picked up the flashlight and crawled close to her.

  Duct tape had fastened her ankles and wrist to the exposed metal frame of the interior of the mattress. She’d been gagged with some cloth, but it had slipped enough to allow her to speak.

  “Hurry,” she said. “Before he comes back.”

  “Who are you, anyway? What are you doing here?”

  “My name is Carol. Please…please get me out of here.”

  Max sat mute for a moment. She hadn’t explained what she was doing there, but he didn’t press her. He knew that this was not some computer game; it was real.

  “How?” he asked, knowing to keep his voice low.

  “Over there.”

  He followed her gaze to the wooden chair next to the wall. The chair was facing the wall, leaving its rails like a cage. Protected by the wooden slats was a box of tools: a box cutter, screwdriver, electric drill, and spools of duct tape.

  “There’s a knife in there,” Carol said, struggling to use her eyes t
o indicate where Max should go. “Shine the light. You’ll see it.”

  The box was wooden, with hinges that had the patina of age. Max remembered when he and his mother had bought several such boxes when they’d gone shopping in Port Orchard some months back.

  The beam met the shiny glint of a utility knife, and Max lurched for it as if it might move on its own to elude him.

  “Please,” she begged again, tears streaming from her eyes now.

  Max was unsure why his own eyes had misted, but they had. It made what he had to do all the more difficult. As he bent at her bound feet, he winced as he sliced.

  She let out a cry, and he was afraid he’d cut her. She wriggled her feet, bloody and bruised.

  “It’s okay,” she said, her voice a rasp. “My hands next.”

  “Max!”

  Jolted by his name, Max turned around. It was his mother’s voice.

  “I have to go,” he said.

  “You have to get me out of here. Cut my wrists,” Carol said.

  He looked at her.

  “Max! Max!”

  In the flash of awareness of what he had to do, what had to be right, Max Castile sawed on the tape.

  “Thank you. Thank you,” Carol said. “Thank you…Max.”

  The boy said nothing in response. He dropped the blade and ran for the door. He didn’t look back, but Carol, battered, nude, and scared to death, was right behind him.

  He didn’t remember picking it up, but Max had the flashlight back in his hand. The beam stabbed over the cedars and firs.

  “Max, there you are. Where have you been?”

  Melody was in the middle of the yard.

  “Just looking for the raccoon that was eating the dog food,” he said, his words choppy with fear and the breathlessness of what he’d just done.

  “What have you done?” Melody screamed at her son. In the light coming flooding the grassy space of the yard from the kitchen window, she could easily see a smear of blood on her terror-filled boy’s T-shirt.

  She knew.

  Melody looked over at the Fun House. Then she saw the white figure of Carol Godding stagger into the woods.

  “Sam!” she screamed in the direction of the garage. “Sam, get your ass over here. We’ve got a problem!”

  She looked down at her son and grabbed him by the arm so hard, Max thought she would pull it from its socket. “You,” she said, “get to your room. Shut up! Say nothing about whatever you think you just saw. This is a grown-up game, and you had no goddamn business playing over in the mobile!”

  As angry as she was, Melody Castile knew better than to call it the Fun House.

  Max studied his mother’s face and wondered what kind of game could be so cruel.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  March 27, 8:30 p.m.

  Key Peninsula

  It took Carol Godding a moment to orient herself in the darkness of the forest. She had no idea where she was or where she should go. She only knew what direction Max had gone when the woman’s voice had summoned him, and knew that that was not where she should go. She shivered as she tried to gather her wits. Where? The moonlight illuminated a narrow slit of water on the forest floor, a small creek. She followed it, trying not to make a sound, but her lungs heaved with each step. A woman who had never been on a Washington beach without flip-flops because the rocky shoreline was too jagged, Carol did her very best to ignore the pain in the soles of her bleeding feet and pressed on as fast as she could.

  Where am I? God, please help me!

  A dog or coyote howled somewhere far away, and Carol froze for a split second. She had no idea which way to turn. She looked up through the fir trees that surrounded her; the sky was indigo, the moon nearly three quarters full. She wished that the boy who had found her on that mattress had given her the flashlight. Had she managed to escape, only to wander aimlessly in the darkness of the forest?

  She fought down a wave of panic. Only one direction made sense: forward. Away from where she came.

  She was sure that her captors were searching for her.

  The white-blue spectrum of light confused Carol, burning her eyes as it bore down on her. She was weak. Terrified. Disoriented. She’d had nothing but strawberry gelatin since her capture, and she couldn’t think clearly enough to comprehend what she was seeing. A light from God? Had the moon crashed into the roadway?

  As the headlights of the car came closer and the sound of the engine and tires on asphalt grew louder, a wave of recognition broke over Carol, and she started to wave frantically. She no longer cared about modesty; the fact that she was naked meant nothing to her now. She just wanted the car to stop and take her away from there.

  “Help! Please! Help!” she said, her voice growing in volume with each word. “Help me!”

  The car slowed, and then swerved slightly to avoid her. The taillights went bright red, and the driver pulled over to the side of roadway, forty yards from where Carol stood motionless for a second, her eyes still blinded by the brightness.

  A plume of exhaust pulsed as Carol ran toward the car.

  Gravel flew as the driver accelerated.

  “Don’t leave! Don’t go!” she cried out, tears flowing down her cheeks.

  The car disappeared over the hill. Help had vanished.

  Carol was crying, wondering if what was happening to her was real or a terrifying dream. She dropped to her knees on the roadway, gravel digging into her skin as she cried out for help.

  Why didn’t that car stop? Why didn’t the driver save me?

  A beat later, she heard the squeal of brakes. The driver had turned around and was coming toward her. Thank God! She was going to be saved. The headlights were trained on her then, and she squinted, shivering and crying. She was going to be saved. The car stopped, and she blinked in the intensity of its high beams.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  March 27, midnight

  Port Orchard

  On Saturday night, while her parents were at the Clearwater Casino in Poulsbo, Paige was stuck babysitting her younger brother in the Wilsons’ home on Beach Drive in Port Orchard. Foamy water curled and smacked against a stone bulkhead as she watched a ferry go to Bremerton. It wasn’t the last boat of the night, but she was sure it was full of people who’d been out partying in Seattle. They were the lucky ones. They understood that the world was a bigger place than Kitsap County.

  Paige turned off the floodlights that illuminated the thin edge of the shore. Whenever her parents went out to gamble, it was a sure bet they’d be home very, very late. If she didn’t have to watch her little brother, Kerry, she could slip away and party with the rest of her friends. It didn’t seem fair. She’d done everything right. Good grades. No drugs. And a beauty queen to boot. Yet, as she lay on the couch with HBO flickering over the flat-screen TV, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d end up stuck in Port Zero for the rest of her life.

  She popped on her Facebook account and posted some comments on her friend’s “wall.”

  Watching the brat again! I hate him! I hate this town! LOL!

  Later, her phone pinged with a text message from a number she did not recognize.

  YOU EVER DO ANY MODELING? HAVE A LEGIT AGENCY. WOULD LIKE TO TALK.

  Paige answered with the speed of a practiced teenage two-thumbed texter.

  U R GROSS.

  He answered, CALL ME.

  I M NOT STUPID, she texted back.

  YOUR LOSS. BYE.

  The HBO special she was watching about life in a house of prostitution concluded, and Paige went off to bed. As she pulled up the slippery satin duvet, she heard the ping of her cell phone once more.

  It was a new text from the supposed modeling agent:

  DIDN’T MEAN TO BUG YOU.

  She texted:

  OK. NO BIGGIE.

  STILL THINK YOU COULD BE A MODEL. GOOD LUCK TO YOU.

  Paige slipped under the covers. It was after 1 A.M., and the house was deadly quiet. She’d checked on Kerry, and he was
asleep, butt up in the air. The cat was out for the night. The dishwasher had cycled. It was the same as any other Friday night. She wondered if every other Friday night for the rest of her life would be the same. Sure, she’d get older. She’d go out on her own. She figured that her Fathoms scholarship would get her nothing more than a quarter at Olympic Community College in Bremerton. The only way out of the town was either to get pregnant by a boy whose family had money or something totally unexpected taking place.

  She picked up her cell phone and pushed the call feature for the number of the man who had offered her what she hoped was her golden opportunity.

  A ticket out of town.

  Paige didn’t tell anyone about the contact with the agent. She didn’t want to hear anyone say that the Fathoms o’ Fun crown had caused brain damage. She remembered what a boy at South Kitsap had posted on Facebook when she won the pageant:

  Paige Wilson is a Port Orchard “10,” but that’s a Seattle “4”!

  She would prove them wrong. All of them.

  Melody Castile looked one last time at the home page that she and her husband had put up with images of young, pretty women they’d pirated from the Internet. She knew it was as easy to erase as it had been to create. A gallery of women with pearly smiles, streaked hair, and big dreams had been search-and-click-easy to find. It was a hidden site, the kind that could only be found if a link was provided. No search engines picked it up. Password protected and accessed by approved readers, it was a phantom Web site. A trap.

  Melody hit the delete button, and Dantastic Models was no more.

  Although no one knew it, neither was Paige Wilson.

  The Poplars Motel was a few blocks south of the Kitsap Mall in Silverdale. If there had been any poplars at one time, they’d been replaced by a rotating assortment of the kinds of businesses that populate strip malls off major thoroughfares: teriyaki huts, copy centers, bridal boutiques, and the like. Paige Wilson had heard of casting calls taking place in motel and hotel rooms, so she thought nothing of the request to meet at one. She’d talked to the woman who ran Dan Prendergast’s agency, Mercedes, and she indicated that Dan was based in Oxnard, California, and would be in the Kitsap area only for two days.