by Tilty Edin
The Girl Who Loved a Killer
I have known people that radiate vulnerability. Their facial expressions say I am afraid of you. These people invite abuse. By expecting to be hurt, do they subtly encourage it? - Ted Bundy
1
4:45pm
Seattle, 1974
A howling wind carried a feeling of urgency as Leanne Robinson pulled out an empty box of fruit stacked underneath a table.
A worn face looked over to her with the name Samuel wrote across his tarnished name tag hanging loosely on his sweat drenched shirt.
"Tracy's waiting for you by the phone booth," he called out in a voice that had been the victim of one too many cigarettes.
Tracy was her best friend, but not exactly a patient one.
She stopped packing oranges, reached into her pocket and pulled out a ring of keys.
"Tell Trace to roll up my windows for me, will ya?” she asked in a cool voice loud enough to conquer the rain, one that portrayed a sort of confidence that didn't exactly match the soft look in her eyes.
He caught the keys and put them in his stained apron dangling from his protruding gut. He raised a brow, "Why don’t you?"
She pointed to an empty crate, the last left to fill.
He lifted up his burly shoulders and eyed the pouring rain, "Don't know where she went. And hell, I'm not going out there."
Swingling lamps flickered on above the dainty markets. It was getting dark, and his rather irritable response was to be expected. She turned back to working and finished up. She couldn't wait to leave.
When all of the oranges were tucked away, one rolled off underneath a gap in the stand and hit an unscathed leather shoe.
She reached for it quickly, but the wearer of it bent over and grabbed it first off the wood floor.
She stood up and brushed off her dusty apron, wanting to ask the young man if she could help him with anything, or at least tell him thanks, but as if time had suddenly went still, her mouth couldn't move. Her curious glance lasted into a stare, struck by his mysterious grey eyed gaze as he handed back the orange.
A coy smirk flashed on his face, so subtle it was barely seen, but she saw it, and she'd be damned if she'd ever forget it.
She tucked a piece of her long, dark hair into her worn black bandana, feeling time slowly make it's way back again and watched him disappear into the thining crowds.
Why did he look so familiar?
She asked herself if that was really the word. Maybe it wasn't exactly familiar, but friendly? Inviting, almost.
She swept, did some inventory, locked some bins and sprinted back over to Samuel as if the moment never happened.
He showed her empty, dirt stained hands. Written on his face was a twinge of disappointment, "Tracy took 'em."
She glanced ahead and noticed her black car pulled up to the curb. A small smile crept on her face.
He crossed his arms and gave a weak huff. "Well, good luck at that rehearsal," he said. "Or whatever it was."
She waved, "Catch ya on the flip side," and sprinted in the drizzling rain to her car door.
She got in and sat on a towel, reached into her purse and pulled out a carton of cigarettes.
Tracy's bright eyes gave it a puzzled look. "I thought you were tossing all your cigs?" she asked. "What's the skinny?"
Leanne glanced out the rain drop covered windshield and handed over the carton.
Tracy grabbed them, took a stick out and brought one to her lips. "Sure?"
Leanne nodded. "I'm tired of smelling like an old ashtray."
Tracy gave a booming laugh. "Old ashtray? Thought you'd be more worried about flooding your car or gettng it stolen, leaving the window open like that."
Leanne pulled out a lighter and handed that over as well. "Well, I'm more worried about coughing up a storm at the tryouts."
Tracy lit up, "Like you have all the time in the world for another side job."
"You can't blame me for this, Trace."
"Don't sweat it. You'll get the part."
"You know, you could try out too if you wanted."
Tracy exhaled as she took the car out of park. "I'm not the ballet type," she said. "And the only thing I'm doing is getting back to law school, if I know what's good for me, anyway."
The front wipers smeared off all the raindrops, clearing the view of lights shutting off in buildings and owners locking up doors.
"And I dance," she went on. "But the thing is, I only dance for myself. I can't see myself doing it for a living. Not like I used too."
"Maybe if you got with a different dancing gig? Nothing erotic."
"I'm going to be a lawyer," Tracy said with a firm certainty. "And by the time I'm out of school, not one man will take that from me."
"Talk about big plans."
It was true. They did like to dream big, but at least they always put some action into it, no matter how pathetic the attempt.
"We're way outta our heads, aren't we shakes?"
Leanne nodded, "Way."
Before leaving the curb, Leanne carefully watched a group of pedestrians cross the hazy blue street. It was a sudden to hope, but a part of her did, that maybe she'd see familiar grey eyes from the fleeting moment they appeared.
Tracy glanced in her direction. "Looking for someone?"
Leanne puckered her lips tight, suddenly missing the lack of a cigarette between them.
Tracy giggled and mentioned their quiet and acne ridden, comic obsessed co-worker. "It's Jase, isn't it?"
Leanne sighed, "Jase?"
"I catch him staring at you. You know, when his face isn't burried in spiderman."
"Green lantern," Leanne corrected.
"So it is Jase!"
Leanne grabbed the cartoon of cigarettes and gave a look that told all too well there was something wrong about making fun of the guy. Sure he was a little geeky. Okay, well, very geeky, but he was always helping them out whenever they needed it, and they needed it often since Sam didn't believe in favors. Not a creepy vibe in him too, at least Leanne thought.
"Yeah, yeah," she sighed with sarcasm. "You got me. It's Jase."
"Oh chill out, Lee," Tracy giggled, "And take that cig out of your mouth before you smell like an old ashtray heaven forbid."
"It wasn't Jase."
"Give me a reason to believe it wasn't."
Leanne melted into the red wool seat, staring out at the passing by pedestrians. "I only know it's Green Lantern because Green Lantern's the only comic I pay attention too. So, yeah. He's got that much going for him."
"Who was it?" Tracy prodded.
"I didn't get his name."
"Who? You need to tell me. I think I saw him too."
Leanne fiddled with her thumbs and half smiled. "He was fast," she said. "One second I saw him, but the next he was gone. I couldn't get his number if I yelled for it. Not that I would, anyway. He's got to have a girl steady."
"Sounds like you need to get out more often. Maybe you'd see him again."
Leanne straightened her back and listened to the clamoring rain.
Being anywhere other than home, school, or work wasn't exactly easy. Free time was only growing scarce. Some days it didn't exist at all. Not with finals coming up and the constant effort of trying to put a life of some sort together. Her parents were already pulling out the marriage talk, even if she hadn't had a boyfriend in quite a while, let alone a husband. All these ambitions but no wedding or baby might have been making her look a little too hopelessly aspiring, even for a decently affluent city gal.
She scanned through her weeks scheduale in her head. "How about after my dance rehersal?" she asked. "To a nice restaruant. You can invite your sister and her man. We'll make it a goo
d time."
"I was thinking more like the bar. But yeah, I guess I could use some real grub and a night off from booze."
Leanne chuckled. "You know, I wouldn't be in the least bit surprised if you knew him."
Fucked him almost slid past her lips, but that might've sounded a little harsh.
Tracy gripped onto the sterring wheel tight. "I'll keep my eyes wide," she said. "What did he look like, anyway?" She peered around. "Was he that TDH?"
"I know who you're talking about, but no, it wasn't him. He wasn't dark. He was pale actually, but pale that's not totally a turn off."
Tracy tapped her cigarette in the crystal ash tray between them. "House ridden pale, huh?" She turned on the radio. "But not Jase?"
Leanne gave a small, desperate laugh. The topic was getting a bit mundane. In her mind, there was no way she'd see that man again, whoever on Earth he was.
2
7:25pm
A piano played slow and low key music in the dim lit walls. Leanne had danced to songs like it earlier that day, and it had been exhausting, but progressive none the less. Her toes ached and her ankles felt bruised, but whether or not the effort got her the part was anyone's guess.
The host impatiently eyed her, tapping his foot and fiddling with his pen. "Ready?" he'd asked from time to time, but she was too busy looking back to the door. After 15 minutes of waiting for Tracy to walk through it, her stomach urged to stop the pointless, rather agrivating wait and give into the aroma of well spiced cooking.
“Miss?”
She cleared her throat. "It's just me.”
The host nodded and lead her over to a table in the middle of the resturant where she hung her mist congealing dark rain jacket behind the chair and took a seat.
A waiter arrived to her table quickly from the party in a reserved room hosting a small wedding event.
“What will you have tonight?” he asked.
"I'll take a sherry, please."
He gave a skeptical look at the bareness of her table, but he didn't ask for an ID.
She reached down into her purse to finish some skimming a crumpled newspaper. The pages laden with Vietnam war updates and articles about the tornados that'd been spewing wildly across the U.S. The Seattle Rainiers were winning, one home run at a time, as well as the new Starbucks coffee shop over achieving their profit expectations. Another turn of the page took her to an article about 20 year old Aria Moore, but that was a whole different story. It pulled a nerve. Harder than the one Tracy already pulled by no showing. It was the story of a young college student who seemed all too pretty, well loved and just as ambitious as herself to be missing for nearly a month.
She looked away from the somber article to see the door ahead, but no familar faces were walking through. Not a one.
She didn't want to get too bummed about dining alone, just slight worry that something had gone wrong. Maybe there was an accident. A telephone booth was just outside to try and find out, but the waiter already returned with a large glass of warm maple colored Sherry.
It wouldn't be the first time Tracy didn't show up, and it was more likely that she either forgot or was already passed out drunk somewhere else.
The brimming glass of sherry the waiter set on the table left a comforting aura, even surrounded by empty chairs. She drank a little too fast, like the way laughs and chatter of the restaurant crescendoed until it nearly emptied.
Missing people. Oh, where, where or where do they go?
"Have you decided?" the waiter asked with urgent eyes.
Her stomach growled again feircely.
She glanced at the first item on the menu. "Clam chowder's fine," she said. She thought he'd question the second drink, but he didn't. "And I wouldn't mind another Sherry."
"Sure thing."
One night. Just one night out of the whole week that wasn't even a weekend, and it's blown off.
She glanced back at the tables behind her as if to see Tracy there laughing at her for being there the whole time. She wasn't, but there was someone else. Someone she didn't expect. No. Not at all. A striking, familiar looking young man sitting just as alone, and before her eyes could dash away from him, they were caught in his.
She turned her head and reverted attention back to the sherry glass, nearly emptied now. The question of him didn't make any sense, at least, not until she found the answer burning away in the memory of packing oranges just the day before.
He was that same man with those same enigmatic eyes. It seemed odd, almost too coincidental that the man she wanted to see could possibly be the same one right behind her.
Tracy...was she up to this?
The waiter returned and rushed to set her order and another Sherry on the table.
"Thank you," she told him, listening carefully as she stirred the soup. Beneath the clamour of clinking silverware and gossiping whispers, existed a small sound of a creek from a moving chair.
Impossible.
Tracy knew a hell of a lot of people, but she as hell didn't know everyone.
With an almost mischevious smile, the grey eyed man was no longer behind her. "May I?" he asked.
Her throat tightened, glancing into his eyes aglow like cold blue steel.
Now that she had a better look, she analyzed every bit of him, from his alabaster white skin to his styled dark amber hair; His dark pants, a leather jacket and a cerulean blue button up underneath, with the kind of good looking on a man that's soft and gentle, yet in ways she couldn't describe, fierce.
"Sorry," he said with a soothing voice despite his intense eyes. "I had this feeling I must have seen you somewhere."
She nodded. "I think it was at the market?"
He took the seat across from her. "That must have been it."
She took a prolonged sip of the Sherry, slowly easing in an inviting smile and a sudden jest of confidence.
"You are?" she asked.
He reached out a hand to shake hers. "Tod," he said. "Tod Hagan."
Images of coming across him at the market danced behind her eyes.
"Leanne."
He sat down across from her and repeated her name as if tossing fine china in his mouth. “Leanne...I don’t hear that name too often,” he said, reaching for a cigarette in his shirt pocket.
"It's common."
He gently blew smoke, "Is that right?"
Tracy.
Nearly without a doubt Tracy was up to his mysterious and sudden presence. And if this went at all well, she might have to thank her every day for it, but the idea, twisted with hints of alcohol had her nearly giggling like a little girl under her breath.
It's fucking ridiculous.
A tingling feeling caught up to her, examining him again, wondering just how much of a stranger he really was now that she knew his name.
"So, are you in college?" she asked.
He twisted the cigarette between his fingers, 'I am."
"What for?"
He half smiled, "Take a guess."
She looked at him for a second, "Dentistry."
His eyes turned just a shade darker, and his face, a little more stoic than it had been, almost enough to make him look like a completely different person.
"A dentist?" he questioned.
"Surgeon," she stammered.
He shook his head.
"Doctor?"
He patted both his hands on the table and laughed a kind that sounded both at her and himself.
"You're horrible at this game," he said, and stood up from his seat with a rather playful grin he tried wiping from his face. "Thank you for company, but I'll be excusing myself. This meeting is adjourned."
"Law," she nearly shotued, a desperate plea to get him back down in his seat.
And it worked. That's exactly what he did.
"Quick thinking," he said.
"The hint helped."
"Not everyone's as good as sherlock," he said.
"What about me?" she asked. "Take a guess."
He folded h
is hands together, giving her a good look. "You're no older than 25," he said. "You're in college. Nearly all good marks. You work hard, obviously, and I'm sure you hope it'll all pay off in the end."
She smiled. These were correct details, nearly spot on, but they were vauge and plain as day. She was sure anyone could figure them out.
Isn't that every young souls story?
"Not bad," she said anyway.
He dabbed his cigarette in the crystal ashtray, "You're too kind."
"It's not like you weren't right."
He leaned back in the chair with a calm as a lazy summer day expression on his face. "Maybe it'll be easier if we don't have to guess," he said.
She half smiled, "What are you doing here, alone on a rainy Tuesday night?"
"My job's close," he said. "And it's a good place for a drink that's not a rundown."
She slowly stirred her soup, "What's a normal week for you like?"
"A normal week?" he paused. "Well, it varries. But mostly I work setting up a marine parts company. And on the weekends I usually maintain and sail boats and yachts on the sound. For fat cats, mostly."
She imagined a bulging feline smoking a cigar and bit her lip, feeling like the clocks were turning back like she were younger again. More silly and joyous, but with all the nervousness as if she were on her first date.
He gave a serious look, yet he was still smiling. "Would you rather have met the fat cat tonight?" he asked.
She imagined her parents swooning over this imaginary cat and his yacht hosting the frivulous parties under the moonlight. The wads of cash to buy all her favorite designers, and the thought of not having to auditon for dance because with money you could always pay your way to the top.
But the question of weather she'd prefer a wealthy man sitting across from her struck her as a little off. It was like being desperate for some sort of acceptance.
His eyes, they were so hard to read. She had never, ever in her life seen such eyes. They were, in the strangest way, captivating.
"I don't think I would," she said finally. "Unless he was captivating, then, maybe."
He smiled.
The waiter swung back around. He set down another wide glass of Sherry for Leanne when he halted. "Wait, did you order...?"
