He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not

by Willis, Becki

No, she had to stay positive. Lange would come. She had to believe that.

  “I thought you were going to be different,” he lamented. “I thought you were going to be worthy. I didn’t want you to end up like the others.” She could hear true regret in his voice.

  “What-What others?” She had to ask. She didn’t want to know, she couldn’t bear to hear the answer, but she was compelled to ask.

  “The others. The ones before you. Sarah, and Becky, and Marylou. They had such potential. But they weren’t pure, either.”

  Sarah? Becky? Marylou. She had heard those names before, but where?

  “They had the right looks, but not the heart and soul. Sarah was nothing but a slut, a dancer at one of them nightclubs.”

  If possible, Ashli felt even more ill. She recognized the names now. Sarah Millican, Becky Harper, and Marylou Peterson. Three of the four blonds that went missing thirty-some-odd years ago. The women with the severed feet.

  “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.” This time, the words were whispered under her breath. The man standing before her, the man she had cared about as a grandfatherly figure, was a serial killer. He had killed seven women in the past, and now Jasmine, too.

  “What-What -What about Pollyanna?”

  “Couldn’t sing,” he said simply. He finished emptying the contents of the trash bag into the machine and wadded up the plastic. Seeing her perplexed expression, he was irritated that she didn’t understand, that he had to explain everything to her. Maybe she wasn’t as smart as he had given her credit for. “Can’t be the next Doris Day if you can’t sing and dance and have a heart as big as the great outdoors! Gotta love dogs, too, and Becky didn’t like dogs.”

  That explained the membership to the ASPCA. Funny how her brain could still function on some levels, even though she knew she was in shock. Her body was beginning to tremble, as a terrible cold settled into her blood.

  “And Marylou was older than she looked. What’s the use in replacing an aging star with one just a few years younger? Gotta be young, and fresh, and still in your prime.” He turned accusing eyes upon her, his voice turning solemn. “And pure. Can’t be sleeping with men you aren’t married to.”

  Crazy, random thoughts floated through Ashli’s boggled mind. He had misinterpreted her relationship with Mitch. When she started going out with him, even though it was business, it set the old man off. . . From what she had read, dear little Doris had hardly been a virgin. She may have looked all wholesome and innocent, but her love-life had been far from pure. . . Lange’s eyes had been so sad tonight, so beseeching. He may have been holding Diane, but he had reached out to her with his eyes. . . The door. She had to get to the door, so that she could get free.

  “And- And the others?” She took another step away from him.

  “Melanie didn’t like Rock Hudson. Can’t make another huge hit without your number one leading man.”

  Melanie? Who was Melanie? Oh, God, there had been more than the seven.

  “The last one, Spring, couldn’t dance.” He continued to ramble as he ran the machine a final time.

  Spring. Few people were naming their daughters Spring in the middle of the last century. It was more of a modern trend. Hadn’t there been a story about a college student named Spring who disappeared a few years ago? Spring Davidson, or Davenport, something with a “D”.

  With sickening fascination, Ashli watched the machine spit forth from two outlets. The dry ingredients, like bones, chipped off into neat little pieces and flew into a bin that waited to catch the shards. The soft, wet ingredients, most of which she preferred not to think about, dripped from a spout and collected into a jug. The worst of the smell came from the wet ingredients. She was going to be sick again.

  Propelling herself closer to the door, she heaved again, hoping he wouldn’t suspect her deliberate placement. If she could get free of the machine, she could make a run for it. He might be stronger, but she was faster.

  Mr. Parnell leaned down and retrieved a bottle from beneath the mulcher. With meticulous care, he began to clean the machine. The acrid smell of straight bleach burned her lungs and added to the sensation of being light-headed.

  As Ashli straightened, she took another step away. “What about Jasmine?” she asked.

  “What about her? She was making fun of you, just like the others. Had to teach her a lesson.” It was the same thing he had said earlier.

  “Making fun of me? Or of Doris Day?”

  He looked at her in the strangest way, as if he couldn’t comprehend the difference. He was drifting in and out of coherent thought, at times knowing who she was, at times confusing her with his favorite movie star.

  “Doris,” he finally decided. “You heard her that day. Laughing all the way through the movie. Just like those others.”

  Which explained the women of ethnic background, the ones that didn’t fit the pattern of blond hair and blue eyes. In his sick mind, they must have insulted his idol. But why leave the feet behind?

  Again she asked; again she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Her morbid curiosity, as Lange called it.

  “You cut off one foot and left it behind. Why?” It was surprising how calm her voice sounded, given that she was shaking uncontrollably by now.

  “Doris could have had a brilliant dancing career. Her leg was crushed when she was a child. Her foot kept her from dancing.” He shrugged, as if the connection was obvious. As if the women deserved to suffer the same disappointment. As if losing their lives was equivalent to losing a career.

  Detective Sullivan was right; it was impossible to understand the mind of a murderer.

  Detective Sullivan. Maybe she could find a way to call him, too. She reached into her pocket and fiddled with the phone, but she couldn’t tell what she was doing without at least glancing at the screen. Shouldn’t Lange be here by now? She eased another step toward the door. She was almost to the edge of the horrid machine, almost to the edge of freedom.

  “No need in trying to leave, Missy,” he said in a calm voice. “You know I can’t let you do that.”

  She had to try. She dove for the small opening between the man and the machine, almost making it. He barely caught her, knocking her to the ground. She tumbled, but at least she fell forward, free of the machine and closer to the door. She tried scrambling to her feet, only to find he had her by the ankle.

  “Let go of me!” she cried, kicking at him with both feet. She caught him in the jaw. He took the blow with a painful grunt and tightened his hold. “Let me go!”

  “Can’t do that, Missy.” At least he was winded, Ashli thought with some satisfaction. He was strong, but maybe he would wear out soon. All she had to do was outlast him.

  She did a fancy maneuver with her feet, forcing him to mimic the motions with the hand attached to her ankle. Judging by his labored breathing, her plan appeared to be working; unfortunately, she was wearing herself out, as well. She paused for a moment to rest and to devise a new strategy.

  “I’m a patient man, Missy,” he said, reading her mind.

  “You must be, to carry out a thirty year killing spree!” she retorted.

  “Thirty years?” He looked truly surprised at her words. “It’s not been thirty years.” Doubt crept into his voice, making him sound vulnerable. “Has it?”

  “What year do you think this is?”

  “I know what year it is. It’s 1986,” he answered confidently.

  Just for a moment, Ashli felt pity for the man. He was clearly confused. And clearly insane, she reminded herself harshly. He didn’t deserve her pity. She started kicking with renewed vigor, twisting her body so that she could reach the bottle of bleach he had replaced beneath the machine. She snagged it on the third try, kept her feet swinging to distract him as she unscrewed the cap, then stilled suddenly.

  When he glanced up at her, curious as to why she abruptly stopped moving, Ashli splashed the bleach directly into his face. He clutched his eyes with both hands and let out a blood-curdling screech.
Ashli scrambled to her feet and hit the door at a run, crashing directly into the warm body blocking the exit.

  Ashli screamed, her fear-ravaged eyes not recognizing the man she slammed into. When hands reached for her, she blindly fought them off.

  She had no way of knowing Lange was propped against the doorframe to keep himself upright. Weak from blood loss and pain medication, he slammed back against the door like a rag doll and made a desperate attempt to grab for her waist.

  “Ashli! Ashli, it’s me!”

  “Lange?” She pulled her eyes into focus. “Lange, it is you! Oh, God, Lange, I was so scared!” She threw her arms around him, causing him to sway further.

  “Are you all right?” He demanded. He was light headed again, but this time it was more from relief than from blood loss.

  “Y-Yes, I think so. Ohmygod, Lange, it was Mr. Parnell. The whole time, it was Mr. Parnell.”

  “Is he hurt? Did your stalker get to him?”

  “No, no. He is the stalker! Mr. Parnell killed all those women. He killed Jasmine.”

  “Whoa, whoa, slow down here. What are you talking about?” Maybe he had lost too much blood, after all. He couldn’t make sense of her words.

  “We have to call the police.” Ashli pulled away, fumbling in her pocket for her cell phone. “I have to call Detective Sullivan.” She glanced back over her shoulder. Mr. Parnell lay writhing on the cold stone floor, still holding his eyes and moaning.

  “I already did. He’s on his way.”

  “I don’t understand. How did you know to call? Lange, are you all right? You’re so pale. And you’re still bleeding!” She looked down at his leg, which still seeped blood. “Why didn’t they sew you up? Didn’t you go to the hospital?” In typical fashion, she pelted him with questions.

  “They sewed my hand up first.” He held up a thickly bandaged paw. “I got your text before they got to my leg. Ripped the i.v. out and got here as soon as I could. I called Sullivan on the way.”

  “I was so afraid I wouldn’t type the right letters.” She slid her arms around his waist again and buried her face into his shirt.

  “What’s SOA?”

  “It was supposed to be SOS. I couldn’t let him see I had a phone.”

  “It was really the old man?” Lange asked in amazement. He looked over her shoulder, making certain her landlord was still immobilized.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re shaking.”

  She leaned further into his warmth. “So cold,” she admitted, teeth chattering.

  “I hear the sirens. As soon as the ambulance gets here, you’re going to the hospital. You need to be treated for shock.”

  “Not-not going without you. Your leg.”

  It was becoming increasingly difficult for her to talk. She couldn’t manage full sentences. She couldn’t even manage a full thought. The only thing she knew for certain was that she was cold. Mind-numbing, bone-chilling, blood-stopping cold.

  Just as the ambulance pulled into the driveway, Ashli passed out. Cold.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  By the time Ashli and Lange were both treated and released from the hospital, and by the time they made preliminary statements to the police, the night had turned into a new day. An hour before sunrise, they crawled into bed at Lange’s apartment and succumbed to exhaustion.

  Four hours later, Lange waved a coffee mug beneath her nose, teasing her awake with the promise of caffeine.

  “What time is it?” she muttered thickly. Her hair was a disaster. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot and her lids were puffy. Her skin was deathly pale, except for the dark circles beneath her eyes. Her cheeks were gaunt.

  “God, you’re beautiful.” The words slipped out of his heart as he handed her the mug.

  She didn’t even laugh off his words. There was a haunted sadness in her eyes as she accepted his offering and gulped the hot liquid without a flinch. When she glanced around in search of a clock, he answered her earlier question. “Almost ten. Sullivan wants us down at the station before noon.”

  Ashli pressed the warm mug to her cheek. She was still so cold.

  “Did yesterday really happen, Lange?” she whispered. She hoped this was all a terrible nightmare.

  He hated to see the fear in her eyes. The anguish. Cupping the back of her neck with his good hand, he traced the corner of her mouth with his thumb. “Yes, sweetheart, it really happened.”

  She could hear the regret in his voice as he confirmed her worst fears. And if this was real, then he was injured. “How’s your hand?”

  “Sore.”

  “And your leg?” Her eyes fell to the bandage just below the hem of his plaid boxers.

  “Sore.”

  She took a fortifying sip of caffeine. She didn’t really want to know, but, again, she had to ask. Her and her morbid curiosity. “How is Diane?”

  He blew out a weary breath. “Undergoing psychiatric evaluation.”

  “Mr. Parnell?”

  “He died on the way to the hospital. Cardiac arrest.”

  Ashli set her coffee mug aside and pulled her knees to her chest, curling into herself. Lange wrapped his arms around her, shoulders, knees and all. She remained stiff at first, then eventually slid her knees down and allowed him to pull her close against his chest.

  “Oh, Lange,” she sobbed, and it was the sound of pure heartache. “He wanted to kill me. She wanted to hurt me. How could this happen? What did I- What did I do?”

  “Nothing, sweetheart. You didn’t do one thing to deserve any of this. They were both crazy. Certifiably insane. None of this is your fault.” He pressed the words into the sunshine of her hair, pressed his warmth into her shivering body. She was so brave and strong; sometimes he forgot how fragile she was.

  “It can’t be real,” she whimpered.

  “It is.”

  “He killed Jasmine.” This, rocking back and forth in grief.

  “I know, sweetheart, I know.”

  “She stabbed you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She stopped rocking and pulled away, just far enough to look up at him. “She tried to stab me. You stopped her. You got cut, instead.”

  “I told you, Ashli,” he whispered in a voice rough with emotion, as he pressed a kiss onto her forehead, “I would protect you with my life.” His dark eyes were warm and glowing.

  “But you chose her.” Ashli’s whisper, barely audible, was raw with pain.

  Lange stared down at her for a long moment. Some of the warmth left his eyes. “Is that what you think?”

  “You called her. You told her . . . You told me to leave.”

  “I had to get you out of there. I had to keep you safe.”

  Before she could formulate a reply, even a coherent thought to what he was saying, her cell phone rang. She would have ignored it, but Lange glanced at the number. “You need to take it. It’s your Mom.”

  “But . . .”

  “We’ll talk when we get back from the police station. Answer your phone. Your mom is worried about you.”

  When he pulled away from her, she knew it was more than just physically.

  ***

  It was late afternoon when they returned to the loft. Ashli’s parents met them at the police station and sat through the grueling questioning that took hours to complete. With their support, she made it through the day with minimal breakdowns. The police allowed them into Daisy House long enough to gather a few personal belongings, but the entire premises, particularly the gardens, were under strict police quarantine. The whole estate was covered with crime tape and reporters. Her parents begged her to go home with them, but in the end, Ashli stayed with Lange.

  Back at the loft, an awkward silence settled between them. She was almost relieved when he announced he had to go out for a little while. She needed time alone to think, and the best way to do that was to get in the kitchen and start cooking. It was the best therapy she knew.

  Ashli found the extra key to his apartment and ran a
few errands of her own, making it back long before he returned. Fortified with a cup of coffee and a newly stocked refrigerator, she stepped into Lange’s virgin kitchen.

  The therapy session had begun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  From the moment he stepped into his apartment, Lange was keenly aware of her presence. Signs of her were everywhere, assaulting his every sense.

  He could hear her in the kitchen. She was banging around pots and pans, rattling dishes and humming a song. After all that happened, she was humming. He shook his head in amazement.

  He sniffed the air. The heady aroma of a home cooked meal swirled around him, causing his stomach to rumble. He could detect peppers and onions and cinnamon, and that unique sunshiny smell that was hers alone. Knowing she was in his kitchen, cooking him a meal, caused his heart to crumble.

  He noted the visual signs of her presence. A new rug peeked out from under his sleek black couch, some sort of long shag in deep, vibrant red. New throw pillows, some red, some dusty blue, added instant warmth to the cool leather. Looking through to the kitchen, he could see she had the table set for dinner. Damned if his table wasn’t sporting a cheerful blue paisley cloth and an actual centerpiece.

  Best of all, he could feel her. The cold, empty space of his apartment felt warmer, fuller. Homier.

  Only half teasing, he called out, “Honey, I’m home!”

  Her laughter floated from the kitchen, drawing him to her. As if that was something new. He had been drawn to her from the very first moment he had seen her.

  If he thought seeing her domestic beauty in her own kitchen had affected him, it was nothing compared to seeing her in his. The sight almost brought him to his knees. She had changed into the same yellow dress she had worn the first day he met her. The first day he had fallen for her. She was standing in the middle of his kitchen, whipping something in a bowl, and had a smile upon her face. If it was the last sight he ever saw, he could die a happy man.

  “You’ve been busy,” he said. It was a wry statement, spoken around a smile.

  “A little. Go wash up, dinner’s almost ready.”