You Only Die Twice

by Christopher Smith

  What have I done?

  She ran a hand through her hair and wondered how she could have been so careless. She had her share of drinks last night, but she’d certainly had more in the past and they hadn’t affected her like those drinks had. Did someone buy her a drink? It was possible, but she wasn’t sure. If they did―if he did―did he slip something into it?

  He must have.

  She remembered most of the evening, but not all of it, which worried her. Like what he said in his note about what she did. She couldn’t imagine ever doing that. She was no prude―she believed that consenting adults could do whatever they wanted to do behind closed doors. It’s just that doing that wasn’t her thing and frankly, she considered it dangerous.

  Still, she couldn’t ignore it. She needed to be tested. Patty Jennings knew she had a reputation for being a lot of things, much of which were negative and not of her own making, but she also knew that at her core, she was a good person who never would put someone else’s life at risk without being tested first. So, she’d be tested. Decision made.

  She went back to the kitchen, made a cup of coffee, took his note and went to her computer. She opened a browser and typed in the Web address he’d written down.

  When the page refreshed, it altered the course of Patty Jennings’ life.

  CHAPT

  ER EIGHT

  Kenneth Berkowitz knew next to nothing about Maine, but when he and Ted Carpenter arrived in the state five weeks ago after they completed their last kill in New Mexico, he came to know one thing intimately―the piece of land in Monson, about an hour northwest of Bangor, where Ted was currently hunting down Cheryl Dunning for her life’s worth of sins.

  Ted knew the land just as well as Kenneth knew it.

  For weeks, each had walked it, studied it in person, and also via computer through Google Maps and Google Earth.

  Some in their faith thought technology was a sin because it served as a catalyst for pornography and other sites deemed unsuitable or sacrilegious. But Kenneth and Ted were different. They saw technology as God’s tool to assist them in their divine calling. They understood that technology was created by the Creator to help them do what they were called upon to do―kill as many whores as possible before they were called to heaven to be acknowledged for their work by Christ Himself.

  They quickly came to appreciate the land for all the complications it offered. Only God could have composed such a masterwork of pitfalls. If someone, for instance, suddenly found themselves in the midst of it, as Cheryl Dunning did that morning, finding a way to freedom would be next to impossible if she didn’t know in which direction to run.

  The beauty of the land wasn’t just its size―thousands of acres, with a good two hundred acres blessedly devoted to wetlands―but that it had only one main path that ran through it.

  On either side of that path were country roads and thus, if Cheryl could find them, she’d strike the lottery because there was a possible way out for her. Otherwise, the land was so difficult to navigate, if you didn’t know exactly where you were at all times, becoming lost was a God-given certainty.

  Now, after leaving behind Patty Jennings, whom he fucked like the whore she was last night, which was part of his and Ted’s greater plan on this particular quest, Kenneth Berkowitz drove his black Ford F-150 northwest until he came to the nowheresville that was Monson, a rural hive of zero activity and little interest. If you didn’t count the random shut-ins who decided to live out here in their sad little shacks of doom and gloom, there literally was nothing here but the beauty of nature, which Kenneth and Ted would have preferred since that is how they believed this land should have been left―untouched by anyone but God.

  The entrance to the path that led into the woods was marked with a simple red ribbon tied around a branch. Berkowitz drove until he found it, and when he did, he pulled off to the side of the road and got out of the truck. He took a deep breath of the clean, crisp air, and once again, he connected with his Father, Jesus Christ the Lord God Almighty. Not a soul around. No houses for miles. Nothing but the blessed rush of birds migrating overhead and the otherwise hush of serenity.

  But that didn’t mean he didn’t need to take precautions.

  If anyone was to drive by right now, all they’d see was a young man in jeans, boots and a heavy brown jacket. He had a cap over his head to conceal his hair. He wore dark sunglasses at his eyes so no direct, personal connection could be made with anyone. He and Ted switched the plates on his truck when they first arrived in Maine, and they’d switched them weekly ever since. Best to blend in. Best to look like a Mainer.

  God helped them along the way, and they were grateful for that.

  CHAPT

  ER NINE

  Kenneth and Ted met three years ago when Ted posted a message on Craigslist that asked if anyone else believed that the whores of the world should be eliminated from the face of it in the name of Jesus Christ Lord God Almighty.

  Most of the replies were what he expected from that liberal playground of sinners, many of whom used the site to troll for sex. They joked about the post. Many told him to go to hell, which made him smile at the absurdity of the statement. Some said that they only agreed if their ex-wives could be put on the list, which he replied he’d be pleased to put them on it if they provided their addresses. Others posted photographs of naked women in response, and he said shame on them for sharing photographs of their mothers and grandmothers. No one took Ted seriously. But then, before the people behind Craigslist removed the post from their site, Kenneth himself saw it and replied.

  An email correspondence began between the two men.

  Ted lived in Denver. Kenneth lived in Los Angeles, the City of Angels, which he always viewed as the beginning of his divine calling regardless of the ironic, sheer amount of sin that occurred there.

  Each went to an Abundant Love church, which they agreed was a sign of some sort. Out of all the churches in the world, they chose Abundant Love. It was uncanny to them. More over, each was active as aggressive anti-abortion activists, another sign that couldn’t go ignored.

  They talked about the evils allowed to thrive in the world and the responsibility of men like themselves to take actions to stop them. Obviously, they couldn’t stop everything―it was just two against an army of many―but through certain actions neither discussed for several weeks, perhaps they could send a message to the world about the whores that defaced it. When the news stories struck, maybe the world would hear their call.

  Soon, they were talking by telephone. Their Sundays no longer were spent at their respective churches, but instead, each took turns either reading their favorite passages from the Bible aloud to each other or, in some cases, delivering a passionately delivered sermon to each other. They talked about their private lives and how each, because of their “radical beliefs,” had been ostracized by their families and friends.

  “I haven’t seen my mother in eleven years,” Ted said one day on the phone. “Eleven years. Won’t have anything to do with me. Said she couldn’t do anything more for me and that I needed help. She actually said she’d pray for me, which made me laugh. I told her I’d pray for her. I told her I’d pray for the whole fucking family because the family was going to hell. Not me.”

  “They always say that,” Kenneth said. “They always say they’ll pray, which is a joke because all they ever pray for is more money, a better house, material things. In my family, I know all of them are praying for me, whatever that means. Let them waste their time. Let them pray and pray and pray. They’ll never get it. They’ll never understand the reason behind prayer, the reasons why you pray, or the importance of both.”

  “You’re right. They won’t.”

  “You know what? My mother called me a con. She said how can someone like me stand on the street corner with my abortion posters and my Bible, and also own pornography? Does she not get it? Looking at porn isn’t the sin. It’s simply the evidence of sin, something that needs to be noted an
d called out. It’s the whores posing naked for the photographs who are the sinners. Am I missing something here?”

  “Not a thing, my friend.”

  “And sex,” Kenneth said. “When I fuck a woman, I fuck her hard. I want her to hurt. I do it because I know it hurts. I do it because if I can pick her up at a bar, without us even knowing each other, then she’s nothing but some slut who needs to be dealt with. So, I pound the shit out of her. Slap her around. Sometimes―and I’m gonna be honest with you here, Ted―sometimes I want it all to end with my hands around their throats while I squeeze the life out of them.”

  A silence passed.

  “You feel that way, too?” Ted asked.

  “I feel that way all the time. I’m never not thinking about it.”

  “Ever do anything about it?”

  This time, the silence stretched.

  “Kenneth? Have you?”

  “Yeah. Maybe. Maybe once.”

  “Just maybe?”

  “Once.”

  “Just the once?”

  “No.”

  “How did it feel?”

  “It felt right. It felt clean.”

  “Each time?”

  “More than each time.”

  “How many times?”

  “Eight times.”

  “Ever fear of getting caught?”

  “Is that even a question? You know He has our backs. I’ll never get caught. He has charged me with this and He will see me through on my mission.”

  “I asked because I’ve done it, too.”

  “You have?”

  “I have. And I enjoyed it.”

  “How many?”

  “I’m proud to say that I’ve sent fourteen to Hell. And just like you, I’ll never get caught for the same reason. He believes in me. He will carry me through the brightest of days, and through my darkest hours.”

  A week later, Kenneth Berkowitz was in Denver to meet Ted Carpenter for the first time. Though at twenty-six, Kenneth was sixteen years younger than Ted, it wasn’t just a meeting of the minds when they finally came face-to-face―each felt as if he had just met his long-lost brother.

  Their killing spree began six weeks later in Nevada. Since then, they had murdered sixty-eight women, all deemed worthless whores by two men who believed in their souls that cleansing the world of these women was their divine right and purpose. And though once they nearly were caught in Austin, the law had yet to touch them even though the FBI and police forces all over the country knew about them. What those organizations didn’t have was anything that could link the killings to them. Ted and Kenneth were too careful. They were pros.

  Jesus, after all, had their backs.

  CHA

  PTER TEN

  Before he entered the woods, Kenneth called Ted on his cell. When he answered and Kenneth heard the elated panting of Ted’s breath, he knew the chase was underway.

  “She’s quick,” he said. “Quick as Satan.”

  “Where are you? On the path?”

  “Too smart. Went right of it. Getting close to the wetlands. Could be over soon.”

  “Don’t kill her without me there. Shoot her in the leg or something. I want to be there.”

  For forty-two, Ted Carpenter was in fine shape, but he sounded as if he was moving so fast that he was running out of breath. “Got it. The other one going to hell?”

  Kenneth reached for the Glock in his jacket pocket, checked the magazine, felt his pants pocket for the other two, and moved into the woods. He removed his cap and his sunglasses―no use for them here.

  They’d never done two at once. This was an experiment to see if they could do so easily. “No idea. Don’t know if she’ll take the bait.”

  “Do you think she saw the photos?”

  “I’m sure she did.”

  “That could do it.”

  “Could isn’t will. But this is an experiment. We’ll see if she takes my advice and ends her life. It’s doubtful―we both went into this knowing that―but it could happen. Shame could undo her. The threat of exposure could lead her to her own death. We’ll see.”

  “You need to hurry, Kenneth.”

  “Can you see her?”

  “Barely. She’s fast. And I fell. But she fell twice.”

  “Don’t lose her.”

  “I don’t intend to.”

  “If you shot her right now, in the calf or something, would it be too soon?”

  “I think so. She’s wearing high-heeled boots. She’s barely keeping ahead of me. She can’t win this.”

  “Agreed.”

  “You’ll have time to get here.”

  “I’m on my way. Keep after her. I’m coming. I promise.”

  “I can’t wait for this, Kenneth.”

  “Same here.”

  He clicked off his phone.

  The question now is whether Patty Jennings, who had swallowed him whole the night before and thought nothing of it, would be fearful enough for her soul to do the right thing.

  CH

  APTER ELEVEN

  Cheryl Dunning wasn’t sure how far she’d run, but she was sure that she couldn’t run much farther without stopping to catch her breath, which was out of the question since he was not far behind her. And so she ran, her chest burning, her legs hurting, her heart hammering, her entire being alive with the fear that this might be it for her. And for what? She didn’t know. She only knew that she had no choice but to run in these ridiculous boots to save herself if she could, though doing so was increasingly looking doubtful.

  She’d run through so many twigs and branches, she could feel the blood trickling down her face just as she could see it on her outstretched arms, which were cut and scratched far more than they were earlier, when she woke on the forest floor. Parts of her forearms and hands were splintered and bruised because she had to slam through some of the thicker branches just to get through them.

  Worse for her, the ground was turning into a carpet of mud concealed by a deceptive blanket of needles and leaves. Sometimes, it sank quickly beneath her when she crashed one of her heeled boots down onto it in an effort to propel herself forward, which told her that she was going in the wrong direction. She was a born Mainer who once, as a child, hunted yearly with her father and grandfather. She knew the early signs of oncoming wetlands, and there was no question that she was headed straight toward them now.

  And with me wearing high-heeled boots, she thought in despair. When the mud turns to slop, what then?

  There wasn’t time to process the “what,” or what was happening to her now, or why she was being chased, or who was behind it, or why she woke bruised and beaten on a forest floor less than an hour before.

  She was in pure survival mode, railing on instinct while driving herself forward as quickly as she could in an effort to keep a reasonable distance between whomever was chasing her.

  All she saw in front of her were trees and branches. She ducked to miss them, she swung left and then right to escape others, and sometimes she had no choice but to plow through them because they were too dense to skirt.

  Pain registered and it evaporated. Twice she stumbled and fell, but she was quick to right herself and charge forward even faster than before so he couldn’t close the distance between them. Each time she screamed for help, the man behind her laughed through winded gasps. Once, she heard him say, “Jesus ain’t going to help you, whore. Jesus is the reason you’re running right now. Jesus is cleaning his house of warts and he wants you out!”

  He was crazy. A religious zealot. Maine was filled with them, but nothing that approached his level of insanity. He planned to kill her.

  So, why doesn’t he just do it then?

  Because he wants the hunt.

  She took a sharp turn around a large rock covered with moss and leaves, and this time, the woods opened to her. Fewer branches to dodge, fewer twigs to scrape her face, but the ground sank quicker beneath her boots, which worried her because she knew what that meant.

 
Soon, she’d approach an estuary or worse. Maybe something deeper. A larger water source. Something she wouldn’t be able to run through without becoming mired in it.

  And then what?

  Should she turn right? She glanced in that direction and saw nothing but Autumn’s brownish hues and the pools of water on the ground, the latter of which shimmered in the sunlight slicing through the trees.

  Going there held no hope, so she looked left. And what she saw when she did was something so threatening, it either would be the end of her or, if she played it right, it could offer her a possible way out.

  CHA

  PTER TWELVE

  With a profound sense of shame, embarrassment and rage, Patty Jennings went through the graphic and disturbing photographs of her having sex with the man who called himself “Jack” before she switched off the computer, turned away from it in disgust, and focused her attention through the window beside her.

  What had she done? What would this mean for her going forward?

  She didn’t remember any of what she just looked at, which told her one thing. He did drug her. He must have bought her a drink and slipped something into it. She hadn’t had enough to drink last night for her to forget him taking photos of her, so there was no other explanation. He bought her a cocktail and tainted it. Did he do the same to Cheryl? She didn’t know.

  But at what point did he do it? Was it at the bar? Or was it when she fixed a drink for them when they returned to her apartment? She remembered doing that. She remembered excusing herself to use the bathroom so she should freshen up. Did he put something in her drink then? It was possible, because up until the moment they left The Grind and entered her apartment, her memory was reasonably clear. Later, at home, when he raped her, she would have remembered a camera flashing in her face. She would have remembered the strobes of light. She was certain of that.