You Only Die Twice

by Christopher Smith

  And now, even though he had carefully concealed his own identity, everything she did with him was on a website, with the threat that if she didn’t take her life in the name of Jesus Christ Lord God Almighty for committing her whorish sins, the Web address would be sent to her family and to her employer, and her life, such as it was, would be exposed, vilified and ruined.

  “When the photographs are made public, you can consider the rest of your life a public stoning,” he wrote.

  Patty Jennings had no illusions about how people viewed her. She was aware of her reputation and that people judged her because of an event that happened six years ago, when she was labeled the town slut.

  In her life, she’d been with five men, not the thirty or the forty or even the fifty some claimed she’d been with.

  In a town as small as hers, her mistake was to sleep with the wrong man, her ex-boyfriend of two years, with whom she shared her past loves just as he shared his with her.

  When she broke up with him after he slapped her in the heat of an argument, he devised a life for her that she’d never lived. He told everyone he could about that life. And the town, happy to revel in its newfound gossip, directed its ire at its new pariah.

  Some would have moved on, but Patty, raised by strong-willed parents who supported her because they knew her, decided she wasn’t going anywhere. She stuck it out. With her father’s help, she got a job at a bank and worked hard in spite of the rumors and the disapproving looks from her co-workers. She ignored them because she knew herself better than anyone, with Cheryl being the exception. She knew she was no saint―she had, after all, gone home with a stranger last night―but she also knew that the people who condemned her were just as flawed as she. Life had dealt her the raw hand of poverty, deceit and abuse, but until this morning, Patty always felt that somehow, likely through the passing of time, that things would get better.

  Now, that obviously wasn’t going to be the case.

  She had decisions to make, but she wouldn’t make them alone. She reached for the phone on her desk and called Cheryl to tell her what had happened. She knew she would be in bed asleep―Cheryl loved to sleep in when she could―but this was critical, so she listened to the phone ring and waited. When no one answered and it went to Cheryl’s voicemail, she called out for Cheryl to wake up and answer the phone. When she didn’t, she spoke louder, asking her to please answer and to not be angry with her, because she was in trouble.

  But Cheryl didn’t answer.

  Patty knew that Cheryl’s phone was next to her bed. She knew she was listening, knew she was choosing not to answer and now she understood the full weight of how much she had disappointed her friend last night. She had to fix this with an apology, and there was only one way to handle that. In person.

  She went to the bathroom off her bedroom, turned on the shower, undressed and hoped as she stood beneath the hot spray that Cheryl would at least answer the door when she arrived at her apartment.

  If there ever was a time that Patty needed her, it was now.

  CHAPT

  ER THIRTEEN

  Kenneth Berkowitz cut through the forest, found the path he and Ted had studied countless times since they arrived in Maine, and then started to run to the marked area where they agreed Ted would dump Cheryl Dunning last night.

  Throughout his life, Berkowitz had been an athlete and so he ran easily and steadily, jumping over the exposed roots of the tall pines when he needed to, but keeping his footfalls and his breathing as quiet as possible so he could remain stealth.

  As he ran, he thought about Patty Jennings and wondered what she would do with her life now that the rotten truth about who she really was as a person was threatened to be exposed. Would she take her own life and burn in hell, as he knew she should? Or would she take the risk that he was bluffing and continue on with her life of sin, thus snubbing her nose in the face of God?

  He’d have to pay attention to the local paper to see, but if she thought for a moment that he wouldn’t go through with his threats, she was mistaken.

  Berkowitz’s mission in life was to root out whores like Jennings and Dunning, whom they saw at The Grind five weeks ago, asked discreet questions about them and then, when they had enough information, including their names, they decided to target them. So far, with a body count of only sixty-eight women, they’d barely made a dent in weeding out the women who needed to be snuffed from this world. But with Ted at his side, the notoriety they had achieved in the press had nevertheless gone nationwide, which was perhaps more important because their message was getting out there.

  With each whore they killed, a note was left pinned to the body with a reason why they were killed. In many cases, that note was leaked to the press, which ran with it. When that happened, he and Ted considered it a win, because the note clearly stated that if the whores of the world would just leave their sins behind and turn their lives over to Christ, their mission would cease because there would be no need to continue it.

  He remembered what his father, a longtime preacher in Arkansas who moved the family to Los Angeles for opportunities that ultimately failed, said to him once in a moment of financial desperation: “Son, you put your trust in Jesus Christ, and there ain’t nothin’ in this world you can’t fix or do. He will protect you. He will give you what you ask of Him, especially if it’s sound, just and part of His plan. I know things look dire for us now, but because of my absolute belief in Him, we won’t be in this mess forever.”

  And they weren’t. Within a few weeks, his father landed a job that was enough to save their home, buy them food and keep them off the streets. For Kenneth, whose mind already had begun its turn toward madness, that moment was a powerful sign. If Jesus Christ would answer his father’s prayers, then certainly He would answer his if they were “sound, just and part of His plan.”

  Even if they suspected that something was off about him long beforehand, which they did due to behaviors no one wanted to discuss but which generally left Kenneth with a blistered backside by his father for his reproachable actions, the moment he entered high school, it became clear to Kenneth’s family that something was very wrong with him.

  Increasingly, he started to verbally assault his female classmates, which caused him to get expelled twice from two different schools, and which landed him in a therapist’s chair because his parents were as bewildered as they were concerned. When the therapist tried to question Kenneth about his behavior, he refused to answer her. When she ultimately gave up on him, his parting words to her was that an apocalypse was coming and that he was the lightning bolt at the center of it.

  At sixteen, he started to buy pornography online. When his mother came upon the magazines while cleaning his bedroom, she was repelled to find that her son had written in black marker “words I didn’t even know existed” throughout the magazines. She showed them to her husband, who took them to Kenneth and asked for an explanation.

  “Do you disagree with what I wrote?” Kenneth asked his father.

  “I disagree with the language you used.”

  “Then I’ll need to pray for you,” Kenneth said. “Because if you don’t see what I see in those magazines, you never had any right to be a preacher in the first place. You were a sham. You obviously only did it for the money and for the glory of the pulpit. But you couldn’t even sustain that because He saw through you and allowed you to fail.”

  On his eighteenth birthday, he joined a fringe anti-abortion group in Bangor and stood on street corners with massive photographs depicting either grisly late-term abortions or those that had gone horribly wrong in the early stages of pregnancy. He was instructed by the group’s leader to say nothing to those who heckled them as they drove by. They were just to lower their heads in prayer and have their peaceful display of free speech. That way, the police couldn’t touch them. When his father learned what his son was doing, Kenneth was asked to either change his ways or to leave the house and thus the family forever.

  “You�
�ve got something wrong with you, boy. You need help.”

  “Sorry, but I have nothing wrong with me. What I have is a point of view. Oh, and I also have Jesus. Remember Him? Is there something wrong with honoring Him?”

  “There is where your interpretation of His beliefs are wrong.”

  Kenneth cocked his head at his father. “So, you believe in abortions, then? And you believe in prostituting yourself for a magazine? And you believe that the whores in my former high schools should just be allowed to be whores with no correctional measures?”

  “I never said that.”

  “But you’re telling me to leave the house and never to return to it because I have strong beliefs against all of that. Isn’t that right?”

  “I want to take you to a doctor, Kenneth.”

  “I’ve been to a therapist.”

  “A therapist isn’t a doctor. I want you to see a psychiatrist.”

  “But I don’t believe in science.”

  “I’m telling you that something is wrong with you.”

  “What if I was to suggest that something is wrong with you?”

  Before his father could answer, Kenneth lowered his head, clasped his hands and started to pray for him. By the end of the day, his father gave him five hundred dollars and asked Kenneth to leave.

  Without emotion, Kenneth threw his clothes and other items into a bag, took his Bible, held it close to his chest, and met his father and mother at the door before he left. His mother’s eyes were red and damp, as if she had been crying for him when she should have spent her tears on herself and his father.

  He looked sadly at them, as if he knew that when they died, they’d burn in hell. “’Whoever believes in the Son has eternal life,’” he said to them, quoting the Bible. “‘But whoever rejects the Son will not see life, for God’s wrath remains on him.’ This will be true for each of you. You must know that. You must know that the sinful mind is hostile to God. It’s in the Book. You two are hostile to God. You will pay with your souls for that. You’ll burn in hell for that.”

  And Kenneth Berkowitz, whose mind already was gone, was now physically gone from their home as well as their lives.

  * * *

  Ahead of him, in the middle of the damp path, Kenneth could see the impression of a body on the bed of leaves and needles. He stopped beside it, got on his knees to smell the area, and in spite of the heady scent of earth and rotting foliage, he could smell her. He could detect a hint of her cheap perfume.

  He stood up, looked around him and saw blood spattered on the forest floor. There were signs of a struggle. He looked to his right and saw footsteps leading into the woods. To his left, a few small trees were mashed to the ground, which is where Ted said he’d be hiding until he goaded her into action.

  He was chasing her now. The hunt was underway. Ted said it wouldn’t be long before he reached her. Kenneth wanted to be there―needed to be there to witness the end of her―and so he crashed through the thick of woods to his right and started to rush through them. Covered by his heavy jacket, his forearms were raised to protect his face, and parted just slightly so he could see.

  Their tracks led straight ahead and then curved to the left. It wouldn’t be difficult to find them, especially since she’d decided to run toward the wetlands, which would be the end of her. It was so thick with mud there, she’d sink into it and eventually would be unable to move.

  Charged by the kill at hand, he continued to follow the footsteps and ran as fast as he could, only stopping for a puzzled instant when he heard the distinct sound of someone shrieking.

  CHAP

  TER FOURTEEN

  When Cheryl Dunning saw the moose grazing at the edge of the wetlands in front of her, she initially felt a sense of dread before she realized that its presence might offer her an opportunity for escape.

  It was a male bull, it stood about seven feet at its shoulders, and it had a massive rack of palmate antlers on its head that suggested it was probably around ten years old if she counted the points correctly and also took into consideration the regression of the palmate.

  As a child and into her early teens, she hunted moose and deer with her father and her grandfather, who were master huntsmen and who taught her everything she knew about them, from how to hunt them to how to gut them. Hunting was a family tradition, something they did in the fall in an effort to put food on the table throughout the tough winter months.

  She herself had bagged three moose. She knew how to take one down and she knew how dangerous they could be during the rutting season, which it was now.

  In September and October, going anywhere near a bull was akin to poking a grizzly bear with a stick. You just didn’t do it unless you were armed with a rifle to take it down, like the Remington M700 Mountain Rifle in .280 caliber, which her father and grandfather favored.

  Behind her, she could hear her attacker closing in. She took a quick glance around, couldn’t see him and stepped behind a large pine tree so he couldn’t see her when he arrived.

  She pressed her back against the bark. In the near distance, she heard branches snap and the sound of him running toward her. She looked at the moose, who was looking back at her, and she saw the last thing she wanted to see―the hair on his back was raised and his ears were lowered. Worse, he was licking his lips, all sure signs that he was about to charge.

  She remained perfectly still, keeping her eyes fixed on the moose, which had stopped chewing whatever it was eating and let out the sort of loud, furious snort that would break bones if bones could shatter from fear alone.

  If he charged her, she wouldn’t run. Too risky. Instead, she’d wait until he was just upon her and then turn quickly to the other side of the tree in an effort to protect herself from being struck.

  The problem with this is that her plan would only protect her from the moose. If she turned to the other side of the tree, she’d expose herself to her attacker, who was growing closer with each step.

  She looked at the moose and willed it to wait.

  But it didn’t.

  It took a step toward her, its tall legs sloshing in the murky water. She watched the hair prick up higher on his back and she saw him lick his lips again. He was twenty yards away and his eyes were absolutely steady with hers. She gripped the base of the tree trunk and prepared herself for the worst when the bull suddenly charged. She felt a start, watched it close the distance between them, its head lowered, antlers poised, its coat of muscle and fat shaking right along with the ground beneath her feet, and then she prayed that her attacker would appear now and distract the moose.

  But he didn’t.

  With only seconds left, she scooted down, swung her body to the right, pressed her back as low as possible against the trunk and felt the tree shake when the moose’s antlers connected with it. She shrieked from the impact, which was so hard, she bounced off the trunk and landed on her stomach in a pool of standing water.

  She could hear the moose behind her, stumbling backward, likely hurt and more enraged now than before. She tried to get to her feet, but her hands and feet were lodged and sinking in mud. She heard a man say, “Hey!” She heard the moose shift its body around. A gunshot sounded and Cheryl Dunning knew she was finished.

  Only she wasn’t.

  The earth began to tremble beneath her feet.

  With an effort, she flipped over and spun away from the water and the mud. She landed on a piece of reasonably dry ground, and turned to watch the bull charge toward the man who was hunting her.

  He shot again, but he missed because he didn’t get it. To kill a moose―especially a bull moose rushing toward you at full throttle―you didn’t aim at the head when you’d likely hit an antler instead of the animal’s considerably smaller forehead, as he just did. Instead, you aimed for the heart, the liver or the lungs. That’s how you brought down a moose, but generally only if you had a powerful rifle, and not the Glock he possessed.

  That’s what she was raised to know. That’s the kn
owledge her father and grandfather instilled her with because they knew that when you chose to live in Maine, it was a trade-off. Maine offered a beautiful coast and only a trace of crime, but finding a good job with a working wage was difficult, if not impossible.

  Because of the latter, families came together, as hers had for generations. To survive, you learned things. You learned how to grow your food in the summer and you learned how to kill a deer or a moose or both in the fall so you had meat to eat in the winter, a skill this man, thank God, lacked.

  She watched him fire his gun again, but with the moose nearly upon him, he was so rattled, he missed it entirely and instead turned around and started to run away from it―and her. It was like a scene from some bad dinosaur movie, only the dinosaur was a moose and it was hurtling forward to take the man down.

  This was her chance and Cheryl wasted no time in seizing it. She stood, shook the mud off her arms and waited for the man to recede from sight before she bolted to her right in her rotten high-heeled boots and tapped into old instincts as she ran. Her father and grandfather had taught her how to survive if she ever was lost in the woods, which sometimes happened with hunters and often with hikers.

  The woods were a sensible habitat. She first needed to get to a place where she could stop, listen and collect herself. Panic also was her enemy, so she needed to avoid it. She needed to find or build the sort of shelter that wouldn’t just protect her, but also act to conceal her from him, should he find her. It wasn’t starvation or dehydration that would kill her first. It was either hypothermia or, if he did find her, her death would be delivered by him.

  But she refused to allow either to happen. Cheryl Dunning already had died once. She died at the hands of Mark Rand and she was damned if she was going to die twice. At least not now. Not this soon. Not at thirty-one. Not when she hadn’t met the man of her life and married him, not until she had children of her own and watched them grow, not until she had her grandchildren around her, and not until she and her husband, whoever he turned out to be, grew old together so they could appreciate all they had accomplished at the end of their lives.