I can see the bat-shit crazy now, that’s for sure.
“Okay, okay,” I say uneasily. “I . . . get the picture. I’m not saying you raped the girl.”
For several long moments, Menders just stands there in front of his easy chair, pants around his ankles with his small, darkened penis exposed, his eyes glaring hatefully at me. And then he seems to come to his senses, bending to pull his pants back up. He spits on the floor – his own floor – before he sits back down.
“You’re not saying I raped her. Just that I killed her, huh?”
I don’t answer, unsure of what to say and still aware that our time is running out, the other killer must be here already, maybe waiting outside, wondering what to do.
Menders shrugs. “I’m sorry,” he says eventually. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I . . . get angry, I guess. But hell, I’ve been like this since I moved here nearly twenty years ago, with prison before the operation, I haven’t had sex for twenty-four years, and I still get this shit.” He sighs. “And nobody believes me about finding Christ either. But it’s true. I’ve told everyone a million times, it’s true. I found Him back in prison, and I’ve lived with Him inside me ever since. Believe me, I’d have killed myself before now if it wasn’t true. He saved me then, and he’s still saving me now. You think I’d have kept up this charade for two entire decades? They already let me out, why would I carry on pretending if it wasn’t true? I’m a reformed man, but still people blame every crime that happens around here on me.” He sniffs. “But I don’t care. Peter Chapter One, Verses Six and Seven, ‘Rejoice, though for a little while you may suffer trials, so that the testing of your faith, which is more precious than gold which is tested and purified by fire, may be found to result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus the Messiah is revealed’. You’re just fire, sent to test me. That’s all you are. But I’m already saved.”
“Good,” I say, as evenly, as calmly as I can. “Good. If that’s true, how about one more test? Another chance for you to prove your faith to God.”
Menders is immediately suspicious. “What sort of test?”
“Untie me,” I say. “If everything is as you say, you don’t need to tie me up. Trust me.”
Menders chuckles. “Trust you?” he says, mockingly. “Trust you, the person who thinks I’m a killer, some sort of sicko rapist-killer? You, the person I found outside my house, peering into my window, with a damn tire iron in your hand?”
“I know it doesn’t look good,” I try again, keeping the dialogue going, “but I’m here to help, really. You’ve got to believe me. I’ve seen your dead body, right here in this room, I’ve seen this day before.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
“It’s not bullshit,” I fire back, “it’s real, as real as it gets. At some stage between now and two o’clock, someone gets in here and smashes you over the head with the brass lamp.”
Menders looks to the side table. “This brass lamp?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
“Yes.”
“Who kills me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? I thought you saw it?”
“I saw your dead body, I didn’t see you die. That’s why I came back.”
“To see me die?”
“To find out who did it.”
Menders murmurs something under his breath, then chuckles again. “You spin a pretty interesting yarn.”
“It’s not a yarn,” I insist. “Someone’s on their way here now to kill you, they might even already be out there, waiting.”
“You trying to scare me?”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“Why do you want to do that?”
I test the ropes that bind me, shift in my chair. “I don’t know,” I say honestly, then shake my head sadly. “I really don’t know.”
I notice for the first time that there is some give in the rope, a small amount of space – tiny, infinitesimal really, but there all the same – and I immediately start to work my hands and wrists, twisting and pulling to create more space. I know Menders might pick up on this, know I need to get him engaged in conversation, but – in between the fear, the action of my hands, my anticipation of the arrival of whoever kills Menders – I find that I cannot think of anything to say.
I lock eyes with Menders instead, trying to get the image of this man’s shriveled, ruined penis out of my mind. How much anger would that create in someone already prone to violence? It’s an unhappy thought, and as the man himself watches me from his neat little chair across the room, my eyes take in the sinister forms of the crucifixes which hang on the walls, cloaked in bands of shadow and candlelight. Could such a man use an object like that on a woman? Yes, I decide sadly, of course he could. But did he? I sigh. That’s another question entirely.
“So Jess,” Menders says, “before the boogeyman gets here, I’ve got a question for you.” He settles back into his chair, obviously not worried at all about the possibility of his upcoming death. He smiles, and the sight is not a pretty one. But at least he is going to engage me in conversation, it seems, which will hopefully distract him while I try and loosen my bonds. “My question is,” he continues, “how does it feel to be here? Here in my lair. Are you frightened?”
The thought seems to genuinely excite him, but I decide not to lie, to give him what he wants. “Yes,” I say.
“Did you even know I was here, before this all happened?”
I shake my head. “No, I had no idea anyone lived up here.”
“And how does it make you feel now, knowing that I’m up here?”
“As you might expect. Uneasy, I guess.”
Menders nods his head. “I guess it would. But don’t you believe me about being reformed? Do you believe that reform is even possible for people like me?”
The question gives me pause, despite the situation. To be fair, it’s a good one. What do I believe about the issue? I certainly used to believe in reform; but then years in the prosecutor’s office seeing the same criminals pass in and out of jail made me change my ideas. Can a leopard change its spots? “I don’t know,” I answer truthfully.
“I think I can believe that,” Menders says in return. “Yes, I can believe that. Eight years in the New York DA’s office has probably created some measure of cynicism in you, and that’s only to be expected. But I think you’re a fair person at heart, you want to believe the best, and so you’re conflicted. Is that about it?”
“I guess so.” I try not to show my concern about how much Menders knows about me; it’s probably nothing he hasn’t picked up from the papers.
Menders settles back deeper into the old chair, steeples his fingers and rests his chin there, eyes watching me. “The first one I did, I was just fourteen,” he says eventually, and even though the words chill me to the core, I don’t say a word. But my stomach turns immediately; it is the casual way he speaks that is the most horrifying thing, as if he is talking about walking the dog, or gardening. But I will let him speak.
“I’d seen her around the neighborhood,” he continues, “she looked good, you know. About my age, but thought she was too good for me, ignored me. Most people ignored me back then. Didn’t realize at the time how nice that could be. Didn’t feel nice at the time, believe me. Pretty little rich girl like you, probably always been noticed, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just nods his head vigorously. “Right. So there I am, cruising the neighborhood on my bike, always seeing this girl, Sally her name was, Sally Jessop I think. Great little tight ass, I used to whack off over it every night, right? Then I started following her, found out where she lived, watched her from the bushes outside and whacked off right there. There were a few close calls, but no one ever caught me. But it wasn’t enough.” He pauses, breathes deep to control himself.
“I tried talking to her,” he says, fidgeting in his chair, “I tried to get to know her, for real, right? Right. But she wouldn’t talk to me, I was the local geek, freak, whatever. She and her friends
just laughed at me. Laughed at me! Fucking bitches. So anyway, one day I waited for her outside her house, then I just dragged her into her own garage, right? Put my hand over her mouth, and I just did the bitch right there. She knew who I was, I strangled her a bit but couldn’t bring myself to kill her, it was just a warning, you know, just my little way of telling her she best not fuck with me. And then I told her straight, if she said anything to anyone I’d come back and slit her fucking throat.” Menders leans back again, a half-smile on his dark face. “Guess she got the message. She never did tell anyone. Or if she did, nobody ever spoke to me about it.” Those dark pools that should be eyes look eerily into my own. “I was just a nervous, scared fourteen-year-old boy. Nobody ever got me for that one, or for the dozen more I did before I graduated high school. Now I know you got a bee in your fucking bonnet over finding whoever killed that girl who ended up on your farm. But answer me this, pretty lady – if people didn’t find out what I’d done, just a kid, just how the fuck are you gonna have any chance finding a professional serial killer, someone who’s perfected their craft over years, maybe even decades? Huh? Answer me that, Ms. Jessica Hudson, ex-hot shot Assistant DA, current fuck-buddy of the Chief of Police?”
I don’t answer right away, don’t even think about how he knows I’m seeing Ben Taylor. My mind is focused not so much on the story itself – I remind myself it might not even be true – but on why he’s told me it. What purpose does he feel is being served by the story? Perhaps he just wants to scare me; it’s an indelible part of his character, he wants women to fear him. But is that all? Did he tell me this just for his amusement, or is there something more behind it?
“So you think that a serial killer is responsible for the girl’s death?” I ask, ignoring most of what he told me and concentrating on what’s connected to the actual case at hand.
Menders snorts. “What, you don’t?”
“I think it’s open to debate at the moment,” I reply evenly, before I hone in again. My work with the rope is working, I can feel it loosening, and already I am getting mobility back into my elbows and shoulders. A little more time, and I might be able to get my hands free. I wonder about what I will do then, but decide to cross that bridge when – if – I come to it. “What makes you so sure?” I ask, continuing to take his attention away from my arms.
“It was too controlled to be a crime of passion,” Menders says thoughtfully, “or even a crime of revenge. Whoever did it – and it’s not me, I can tell you that much – has had a lot of practice. And I mean a lot. Obviously, you must have considered the link between this girl and the bodies found in the Anchorage woods, and those others found out in Chugach State Park? Of course you have. I know Ben has, which is why he’s over in Chugach today, right? Everyone was hot for me for those crimes, so they’re hot for me again for this one. Makes sense when you’ve got nothing else to go on.” He turns his head, looks towards the shuttered windows. “You know, on a good day there’s a gap in the trees out there which lets me look right down the valley. I can see all of those little farms down there, the ranches. I can see a lot.” He carries on staring at the shutter, his eyes dreamy. “I see you working in the fields with those horses of yours, your little doggy. Stroking them, feeding them, riding them. Playing with your vegetable patch, doing your best to grow them like everyone else but not knowing what the fuck you’re doing.” He turns back to me. “Right?”
A chill runs down my spine, but he doesn’t wait for me to respond, just nods his head and confirms his own suspicions. “Right. But you shouldn’t worry,” he says with a grin, “even if my cock was working, you’re not my type. Too old.” He stretches back, smile widening once more. “That girl you got living with you at the minute though, helping out with the horses? Amy Reiner?” My blood runs cold as he says her name. Menders sees my reaction and the dark pools of his eyes flicker with pleasure. “Yeah, little Amy is more my type. That little ass. If I could, I’d fuck her in half, you know that? Right? Right?” I open my mouth to speak out, to shout at the evil man in front of me, to threaten him, but he cuts me off with a shrug of the shoulders. “But I can’t,” he says with regret. “I can’t.” He points to the shutters again. “And I suggest you concentrate your search a little closer to home.”
The implication hits me immediately. “You saw something?” I ask, remembering the binoculars, the telescope, the missing journal. “You saw her? You know where she was running from? You know who did it?” The words rush out of me. What does he know? He can see the houses below, in the valley. My farm. Artie’s farm. “Was it Arthur Jenkins?” I ask frantically. “Pat Jenkins?”
Menders just shakes his head sadly. “I’ve already said too much. Me and whoever did this, we’re birds of a feather, fuck together. There’s no way I’m telling you who did it. Even if I do know, which maybe I do, and maybe I don’t.”
I look around the room, see the artwork, the crucifixes. “You’re a reformed man,” I say urgently. “Don’t you want to stop whoever’s doing this? It’s evil, can’t you see that? It’s the work of the devil, and you have to help us if you can.”
Menders smiles that eerie smile once again. “Cop whore, I don’t have to do jack shit. I know, and you don’t. That makes me happy, makes me feel like I’ve still got something left, something I’ve got control over. Right?”
“Yes,” I say instantly, “you’ve got control, you’ve got the power over life and death. Who knows how many more victims there could be? If you’ve changed like you say, why not choose life this time? Life for those poor girls?”
“You’re right, I could say something, maybe save people, maybe not. But the Lord helps those who help themselves. Maybe I’m a liar. Maybe I’ve not changed. Maybe I’m happy someone’s doing what I still want to do. Maybe I think that all those stinking fucking whores should get what’s coming to them, and rot in Hell.” He says this last with fire in those black pools, and a vehemence that leaves me in no doubt about the man. He is the devil himself, his soul as black as night.
I’m still dealing with the fact that the man-beast in front of me probably knows who killed Lynette Hyams, and potentially many more victims besides, when he stands up and starts to move slowly toward me.
Panic hits me, threatens to overwhelm me; I feel sick, my stomach flies up to my chest, my heart lurches toward my gut. What is he doing? What does he want?
Where the hell is the other person?
Please let it be vigilantes, please let it be vigilantes . . .
Come on! Where are you?
“What are you doing?” I whisper as Menders approaches.
“Oh, nothing,” he says with an uncharacteristically coy smile, before bending down to the floor and retrieving the tire iron and the de-icer from where he’d dumped them earlier. “But you know,” he says softly, trying out the weight of the tire iron, “it occurs to me that nobody knows you’re here.” Another chill goes through me, and my hands work faster. “Now, to put your mind at rest, I didn’t kill that girl, and I don’t have a partner, I’m not part of some whacko, mutual-masturbation kill squad, or whatever your little fantasy might be.” He breathes out slowly as he appears to read the list of ingredients on the de-icer. “I might very well know who’s behind it all,” he says, eyes still on the can, “but I’ve not been in contact, they don’t know I know. And if I have no partner, and I’m not trying to blackmail anyone, then I guess nobody’s coming here to kill me, either.”
“Vigilantes,” I say desperately, and for a moment, I see a flicker of doubt in Menders’ eyes; but it is only a flash, before it is replaced by those twin black spots that speak only of evil.
“I don’t think so. No, Jess, I don’t think so. I don’t think anyone’s coming. And as I said before, I don’t think anyone knows you’re here. If you’d mentioned it to Ben Taylor, no way in hell he’d have let you come up here alone, no way in hell. And, let’s face it, who else is there?”
“I left a message with the ABI,” I say, my eyes nerv
ously darting between Menders, the door, the window. I don’t know who his killer is, I just know that I want them here, now. I don’t care what happens afterward, I just know I don’t want Menders getting any closer.
His eyes, they remind me of those eyes behind the woolen masks that day on the courthouse steps. Cold, merciless, evil.
“No, you didn’t,” Menders says, onion-breath once more close to my face. “You don’t want to be connected to this thing any more than I do. De Nares has a hard-on for you already, and you don’t want to make it any worse.”
“What do you want?” I say breathlessly, the words an effort, my voice shaking.
“I want to use this on you,” he says, raising the can of de-icer to my face. “See what it does to you.” He shows me the tire iron next. “Then maybe try this out. See what that does to you.”
I can see in his eyes that he is serious, that he is going to use these things on me, that he truly believes that nobody knows I am here, he has complete confidence in himself, knows that he can abuse me, kill me and bury me in the woods, somewhere I might never be found.
I watch in slow-motion as the can comes level with my face, nozzle turned toward my eyes.
No! my mind screams, terror flooding my system.
Nooo!
Without even knowing what is going on, I feel my hands come free at last, come free and make a grab for the can; he spits in anger, drops the can and swings the tire iron at my head; I move to one side, the iron whistling by my ear just before it connects with the side table, sending it crashing to the floor, and then he kicks me sharply in the leg and I collapse in agony on top of the brass lamp; I can hear him shouting obscenities above me and, without thinking, I roll to one side as the tire iron comes down toward me, grabbing the lamp as I move, jumping to my feet, heart racing, breathless, mind a blank as I see Menders stumble with the force of his blow; and then I am swinging the lamp down as hard as I can toward his head, watching in disbelief as it smashes down into his unprotected skull with a dull, wet thud that reverberates through me with a sickening chill. I carry on watching, heavy brass lamp still in my hands, as the body
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