"He forced domestic life on you?" Tim chuckled, shook his head. "What, he knocked you up or something?"
"Yes. I bore that sonofabitch three stinking kids." Mabel's tone of voice had taken on a tinge of disgust at the mention of childbirth."I never did adapt to motherhood."
"You ever whip your kids?"
"No" Her fingers closed over the clasps of her purse. "For a while there, I… I tried to be a good wife to Marlon. Even though he was a whipped dog"
"So what happened?"
"When the kids were in school and Marlon was at work, I started entertaining clients again," Mabel resumed. "It started innocently enough at first. I had a couple of affairs with people in the neighborhood. I got involved with a man who liked to be beaten. He introduced me to the scene in New York. There wasn't much of a scene in the town we were living in at the time." "
"Where was that?"
"Lititz, Pennsylvania"
"Where the fuck is that?"
"Lancaster County TWo hours west of Philly"
Tim nodded for her to continue.
"My husband didn't suspect a thing for three years. I never left Lancaster County; my lover brought people from New York with him, submissives who were into whippings. We played out scenes in my basement, or in his. I started to make some money." She paused. 'Men it happened"
*What happened?"
"I accidentally killed a client" Mabel looked at him, her features calm, serene. "A salesman had paid me to whip him and then mutilate him. He was overweight and… well, he had a heart attack. Jerry, my lover, freaked out. The guy's eyes were bugging out of their sockets and I was still wrapped up in the scene. I plopped one of his eyes out and ate it!
"You fucking ate the guy's eyeball?"
*Yes."
Jesus, luck me! Tim gripped the steering wheel tighter as they reached the outskirts of the city. "So that's how you got the taste for it." "
Mabel nodded."A few months later, I almost got caught. I lured a high school girl to my house for a scene. I'd seduced her a month or so earlier. She was sweet. And her eyes were beautiful. I… I couldn't help myself."
*You ate hers, too?"
"Yes." Mabel's fingers were clasped over her purse protectively She looked out the window, reflective. "I couldn't control myself and I just gave in to my urgings. Jerry had to come over the next day to help me get rid of the body. He was scared. He was afraid I was…"
A lucking psycho?Tim thought. "So what he do? He talk some sense into you, or what?"
"Jerry made a deal with some of the NewYork people," Mabel said. "He emphasized that I was… special. That I wasn't like other dominatrices. He made it clear that I could play out extreme hardcore scenes, that I had the stomach for them. Believe it or not, there were just as many hardcore freaks back then as there are now. They were just harder to find in those days. The ones we did find… well, they paid handsomely."
Tim nodded. "You do snuff films back then?"
"No. The technology wasn't available. We didn't even think of snuff films back then. What we had were live shows.*
"Live shows?"
"Yes" Mabel looked at him, an elderly grandmother instructing the young. 'If you wanted to watch, you paid two thousand dollars. We'd get around ten people, maybe twenty tops. And they would sit around and watch while I tortured some kid until they died. We'd do a show like that maybe once ayear."
"Fuck! Your husband know?"
"No. He never knew about the live shows. He did find out about the lighter S&M, though. At first he was furious. Then I showed him the money I made and he had a change of heart."
"How much you make?"
Mabel looked at him, grinning. "For the regular S&M? In one year I'd made ten thousand dollars."
Tim nodded. Ten grand in the fifties would be like sixty now "What was the scene like then?"
"Same as it is now," Mabel said. "Rich businessmen wanting to explore the forbidden. Pain freaks that got off on having pins being inserted in their scrotums or having their penises split in half and pierced. Same sick fucks."
Tim chuckled. "Aren't you a sick fuck?"
Mabel snorted. "And you aren't?"
Tim shrugged. "1 just do this shit for the money."
"You don't enjoy it?"
"No"
Pause. Mabel turned back to the passing scenery. They were on the outskirts of the city now. "Waste of time if you don't enjoy it. You don't know what you're missing."
"What am I missing?"
Mabel looked at him. "If you knew, you wouldn't be asking me."
Tim glanced at her, turned his attention back to the road. He had asked Animal the same question once. The sadist had remarked: "l like the feel of brains on my dick when I'm skull-fucking 'em." That had been his answer. He wondered what Mabel's answer was. "I'm asking you now," he said. 'You ain't got a dick, so I know it's not a sexual thing the way it is with Animal.'
"What makes you think it isn't? Women climax just the same as men do."
"So you get off on it?*
"Yes"
'You get off on torturing and killing people?*
"I wouldn't do it if I didn't like it."
"And you really like eatin' people?"
"Yes. I do." Mabel Schneiders eyes gleamed. She licked her wrinkled lips. "You really don't know what you're missing."
They were in the desert now, cruising the last remaining suburbs of Las Vegas. "How long you been doing this shit, then?"
"Over forty years!
'And you never been caught?' He realized it was a dumb question the minute it slipped out of his mouth.
"Na" She grinned. "Things were the same then as they are now. The people I was allowed to… to wallow in… they're the same kind of people we use now. Nobody wants them. They're throwaways. Homeless people, runaways, vagrants. Rejects of society. Nobody missed them then, nobody misses them now'
Tim thought about it as he drove. It was hard to believe that the hardcore scene had been around for so long, but then he supposed that, in a way, it always had been. The Romans used to have stadiums erected for the singular purpose of torturing and killing people in front of an audience. Man may be more civilized in social aspects, but he hadn't really changed in two thousand years. F ople still lived for blood sports. Look at boxing. And they called that a sport. Watch two men pound the crap out of each other for the sole purpose of trying to knock the other unconscious. And audiences cheered for the winner. The more mayhem, the more blood, the better.
Tim nodded. "Do your kids know you do it?"
"No." Her knuckles were bone white as she gripped the clasps of her purse.
"They never suspected?"
Mabel Schneider looked at him. "I never once let them even think I was involved in the scene. It's… it's my private thing. Do you understand? It's my private pleasure. It's something nobody can take away from me."
Tim nodded. That was the excuse patrons to the hardcore scene always gave. They participated in this in the privacy of their own homes. They didn't hurt anybody. They just liked to watch other people be tortured, raped, and murdered in the privacy of their own homes, where they weren't hurting anybody. Yeah, right.
They were ten miles from the secondary road he needed to take to get to the location. From there it was another thirty miles. They would be there in about forty minutes. "So back in the forties and fifties there was a thriving S&M scene, right? And as far as underground hardcore, there were no snuff films."
'There were no snuff films. At least as far as I know"
"You ever been in one?"
"A snuff film?"
"Yeah."
She nodded. "A few. The first one back in sixty-nine, maybe 1970."
"You wear a mask?"
"Yes" Mabel pulled herself up a bit. "I was playing the role of the madam dominatrix. I was in my late fifties then, and I still had my looks. I had quite a body back then. You would have wanted to fuck me."
"I'm sure I would've," Tim said, prodding her to go on.
"So what happened?"
"1 played the role of a madam dominatrix. The film was commissioned by a rich businessman. A homosexual sadist. He wanted to watch a young man get raped and tortured by a woman. Strange, don't you think? Usually queers like to watch men get done by other men. Not this guy. He wanted a woman. An older woman. He had a thing for older women, even though he was queer. It was probably a mommy complex. What do they call that?'
'Oedipus complex." "
"Right. This guy, this client, obviously had one. The slave we used was some kid from New York. A hustler. He'd been kicked out of his home a few years before when his father, who was a minister, found out he was queer. He was into light S&M… nothing too daring. He started appearing in B&D loops that Rick Shectman's father produced as a bottom."
So Rick's dad was into all this then? That's how Rick knows you?"
Mabel Schneider nodded. "Yes. I've done a lot of work for Boris Shectman"
'What kind of work?"
"The usual. Hardcore S&M stuff. Fetish stuff.'
"He used you even when you were, you know…"
"So old?'
'Yeah"
Mabel chuckled. "What are you, naive, boy? Don't you know there's a big market for films showing us old folks fucking? It's huger
Tim nodded. That much was true. Rick Shectman had produced a few commissions for clients that catered to this fetish. "So you been working steadily for Boris, and now you do stuff for Rick. When was the last time you did a snuff filmr
The last one I did was in seventy-eight or nine.'
'What was that ofY
"A boy. A runaway. Maybe thirteen, fourteen years old."
"You ever do girls? Women?"
"Oh yes"
"And you still like to eat people?"
"Oh yes." Mabel grinned at him. "I haven't lost that passion"
"And you haven't been caught because nobody will believe that an old fuck like you can be a sick fuck, too."
"Look who's talking, doughboy."
They were approaching the secondary road. Tim checked his rearview mirrors, made a right, and they trundled down the road. Now it was time to start watching traffic around them. He couldn't afford to be spotted by cops now. "Doughboy. That's a good one. Nobody's ever called me that before."
"Would you prefer fat ass?"
"Fuck off, granny."
Mabel laughed. "I like you, doughboy. You're just as fucked up as I am, even though you don't want to admit it. You're going to get a good thrill out of watching her die, too."
Tim grinned and nodded. Maybe Mabel Schneider was right. He knew she was correct in that last statement: He was going to have a good time watching Lisa Miller die.
It took all of Brad Miller's willpower to not bolt for the door and undertake the search for Lisa by himself. He was sitting in a chair in the office of Head of Security at the Luxor, being grilled by two FBI agents. The cops and feds were crawling all over the place. Security was tight, and the last Brad had heard they were conducting a room-to-room search of the entire hotel and casino.
He didn't want to admit to himself that they were too late. It had taken a few minutes for hotel security to free him. and forty minutes had passed since then. The feds had just arrived, but he had to beg to get them to even show up. Once Luxor security informed the feds on what was happening, the mood changed. Now everybody was racing around the Luxor like they had fire up their asses. The clock was ticking.
"Haw old do you think the woman was?' one of the agents asked. Both agents looked to be around Brad's age. One was white, the other was black.
She looked over seventy. Close to eighty. I've told you this five times already!'
"I'm sorry," the agent said. He looked flustered. "we just… I've just never heard of…"
You've never heard of an old lady psychopath slashing people like she was Jack the Ripper. Is that what you want to say? Brad dosed his eyes, trying to stave off the headache that wanted to creep up into his brainpan. "I swear to. Christ, the woman was fucking old. She looked like an old fucking grandmother, for God's sake! Now-'
One of the security team held out a telephone receiver to Brad. 'Excuse me, sir? Guy on the other end says he's Mr. Miller's attorney. A Mr. Grecko?'
Brad leaped for the phone; he hadn't even heard it ring. "I'll take it!'
"Brad?" It was Billy, all right. He sounded on the verge of losing it.
Billy, they've got her!" Brad yelled. He had called Billy twenty minutes ago and left a message, sobbing frantically into his voice mail that they had gotten Lisa again, that they had slipped past security using an old woman as their assassin. Then he'd called his parents. His mother had been shocked; she'd started to cry. His dad had gotten on the line and didn't say much. He was probably shocked, too. His dad usually clammed up when he got too emotional. Brad was the exact opposite. "They've got her, Billy, they slipped right past the fucking security and-"
"Paul told me everything," William said. His voice was even, controlled, yet with the faintest hint of strain beneath it. "We're doing everything we can, buddy."
"How the luck did this happen?" Brad shouted. He could feel that he was on the verge of crying again and he tried to hold it in.
"I've just talked to Paul, and I told him that I just found out that there's a commercial printer in the City of Industry, a guy by the name of Rick Shectman, who might be a possible suspect. They're sending a team of agents to question him right now."
"Tey've got somebody? Is this a-"
"It's a credible lead," Billy said, overriding him. "Listen, Brad, my source says that the feds have been investigating this guy for years, but they've been unable to come up with much of anything. He runs a commercial print shop in Industry that is believed to also produce child pornography. My source also told me that there's speculation he's tied into the production of other forms of illegal pornography. No hard proof, though, just speculation. But get this: His father, Boris Shectman, was convicted in 1979 of producing child pornography and bestiality publications and served six months. Boris also ran a lucrative porn business, providing loops to porn shops across the country. He also ran coin-operated booths, prostitution rings, the whole nine yards. My contacts are still trying to dig his name up in connection with their snuff-film investigation in the seventies, but he's confident Boris was partially responsible for at least one snuff film that was made in seventy-eight or seventy-nine. That's what my contact tells me. His source claims that Boris was deep into the whole hardcore industry, and that-"
"They're going to get this guy? Is that what you're telling me?" Brad was excited; he wanted to get out of here now and help!
"They're after him now." He could tell Billy was trying to sound hopeful. "I don't want to… you know… get your hopes up, but-"
"I just want her found," Brad said, trying to control the stammer in his voice. "1 just want her found."
"I'm doing everything I can, buddy. We'll find her. Now, can you pass me back off to the agents you're with?"
Brad handed the phone to the black agent, who took the phone. "Yeah? Paul Off from the field office? Okay. Thanks" The agent gave the phone back to the Luxor security man, who hung up.
Brad leaned forward, cradling his head between his hands. He still felt weak from the Taser. Weak and sick. "Mr. Miller?"
Brad looked up. The African-American agent was looking at him with soft, brown eyes. "Mr. Miller. I have something I want you to look at.*
"What?"
Another security agent had stepped into the room while Brad had been talking to Billy. He was holding a videotape. He inserted the tape into a VCR and as he got the tape ready, the head of security at the Luxor addressed him. "We questioned some of the guests and gave them your description of the woman who attacked you. We were able to verify that a woman fitting that description was seen with a man in the lobby, and that the man was pushing a luggage cart with a large box on it. Naturally, it was assumed they were guests. When I got the description of the woman from
you, I ran it through security and we checked the tapes and came up with footage of the suspects leaving the hotel. We also checked the parking lot security tapes and were able to identify their vehicle. We got a blowup of the plate and alerted the state police and the DMV. They're on it now we also gave them a description of the man seen with the woman. I'd like you to view the tape and tell me if you recognize him' He turned to the TV and VCR, pressed the Play button, and stepped aside.
Brad moved toward the TV, watching the black-andwhite images of hotel patrons in the lobby hurrying to and fro. He recognized the old woman the minute she stepped into frame. 'That's her!" he said, feeling his skin crawl.
The security agent slowed the speed of the tape down. "Take a good look at this guy," he said.
Brad watched the tape, his heart racing. When the man stepped into frame pushing a luggage cart, Brad didn't recognize him at first. The gold rungs of the luggage cart partially obscured the man's upper body, but as the tape progressed frame by frame, the man's figure moved into a more prominent view in the film. Brad felt his breath draw in as the man's face loomed closer. He wasn't wearing sunglasses and he was clean-shaven, his hair cut shorter, but there was no mistaking it. The man in the film pushing the luggage cart was the man who had had him arrested outside Ventura over two weeks ago. "That's him!" he cried, pointing at the TV. "Ibat's the guy who called himself Caleb Smith. That's the guy who had me arrested and kidnapped Lisa!"
Twenty-eight
Animal was waiting for them at the precise spot Tim Murray had told him to be.
He was also dressed and ready for action.
Tim had piloted the SUV off the secondary road over the bumpy terrain to the hilly area at the foot of the indine. He parked behind a large outcropping of rocks. A four-door Saturn with a rental-car decal affixed to the rear window was already parked there and Animal was waiting, leather bondage mask over his head, his upper torso bare. Mabel took one look at him and grinned. "I've seen two films you were in. I love your work."
Animal didn't say anything. His eyes were wide with surprise at the sight of the old lady. He looked at Tim.
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