As he drove down the highway that led to the beach, Bonfiglio made his move. Quick as a cat he had his handcuffs out and snapped one shackle onto her wrist. She screamed and struggled until she saw the knife pointing at her ribs.
"Shut up, and you won't get hurt," Bonfiglio growled. His steely eyes were trained on her like the twin barrels of a shotgun.
Brandie stifled a sob and trembled in silence as Bonfiglio transferred the knife to his left hand and then snapped the other cuff to her free wrist. He then, with one hand still on the steering wheel, transferred the knife back to his right hand and held it on her. "Get on the floor," he commanded. "I don't want anyone to see you."
She did as she was told, and Bonfiglio turned the car around, away from the beach and toward the mountains. He drove for over two hours without saying a word. Brandie cried off and on, but when her sobs got too loud, Bonfiglio would put a stop to them with a word.
Finally, he arrived at his special place, deep in the woods, but not far from the hiking trail. He pulled his car over from the dirt road and let Brandie out. She was shaking and stood hunched over. She was probably cramped from being huddled on the floor of the car all that time.
"What are you going to do to me?" she asked in a tiny, beaten voice. She was already resigned to being his victim. Bonfiglio told her he was only going to rape her. She believed him...or at least, she wanted to.
Bonfiglio did exactly that, enjoying the tight resistance of her warm flesh. She was fighting his entry with every muscle in her thighs and abdomen, but in Bonfiglio's twisted fantasy, she was simply a frightened virgin. But then Brandie wasn't a virgin anymore. "You slut!" he shouted as he backhanded her across her livid, tearful cheek.
She cried, sobbing lustily now, unable to stop even if she tried. Bonfiglio had to stop the sound. Her put his hands around her throat and squeezed until the sound stopped. As her life flowed out of her, Bonfiglio's sperm flowed into her.
Suddenly repulsed by the act, Bonfiglio jumped up and ran to the trunk of his car, where he kept his thermos of tepid water and liquid antibacterial soap. He washed himself thoroughly, replaced the thermos, soap and towel. He pulled his pants back up and rummaged in the trunk for the rest of his kit.
He took the medium-sized hat box out from its hiding place and approached the lifeless girl.
"Look at you," he sneered. Her legs were splayed open. "Haven't you any sense of decency?" He nudged her right knee with the toe of his shoe and her legs fell closed.
He dragged her by the arms until she was sitting with her back against a tree trunk. Her head lolled to one side, but he held her by the chin as he wiped her face with a pre-moistened towel. Then he dug into the box where he kept his makeup. He lined her eyes with blue liner, and painted her mouth a garish red. Two dark stripes of rouge on both cheeks completed the picture...almost. He placed a naked Brandie doll in her hand, then snapped the Insta-Pic. He set it aside, waiting for the emulsion to dry and the picture to emerge.
After that, he did what he really wanted to do. What he could show no one.
Cary was astounded when he finished the chapter. He skimmed back over it as though reading it for the first time. This was really sick stuff. It worried him. Why would he choose to write about an animal like that? Did he harbor secret rape fantasies? Did he hate women? He tried to tell himself he was just writing a story. It was like a reporter doing a story on war--it didn't mean the reporter was a war-monger.
He saved his document, shut the laptop down, and shoved it aside. He then stretched out, and fully clothed on top of the cheap bedspread, Cary fell asleep. The killing scenes always seemed to wear him out the most.
Chapter 3
The next morning Cary awoke and read over what he had written the night before. It scared him. Not of himself so much, but just to think that there really were people like that out in the world. Murder could happen to anyone.
Through his research he had learned that most serial killers had had horrible childhoods and when they killed, they were trying to alleviate that early pain. Many serial killers were gay, but Cary had chosen not to go with that angle. For the straight ones, most of them were killing their mothers over and over again. Cary's killer, Rudolf Bonfiglio, was the chemically imbalanced son of a prostitute who had been taking drugs and drinking while she carried her son in her womb. Bonfiglio didn't know who his father was. He was probably a trick baby, though his mother never would say for sure. Mama Bonfiglio had run off and left him when he was thirteen years old, and ever since he'd been harboring a suppressed rage against her. Since he couldn't actually pay his mother back for her cruel abandonment of him, he made an effigy of her--through other women--and killed her that way. But the relief didn't last long, and he would kill again. Cary wasn't sure how it would end yet.
Cary checked out of the hotel at noon and took a cab back home. Jaime's was one of the few shows still shot in New York, and Cary was almost thankful it was the last engagement of his book tour. He enjoyed the attention and the chance to let people know there was more to him than met the reader's eye, but he was tired. And he missed Tweetie. He usually was able to spend at least two or three days a week at home, but he didn't like being separated from her at all. He'd been told by his vet she was too fragile to go with him, but she also suffered when he was away. According to his professional pet-sitter, Tweetie never sang a note when Cary was away, and ate very little.
As he jiggled his key in the lock and shoved the door with his shoulder, Cary reminded himself that it wouldn't be long before he could move into a bigger, better apartment. Once he had saved enough money to be comfortable, he would shut himself up in that fancy apartment and write The Great American Novel.
The moment she heard her master's footsteps, Tweetie began to trill with joy.
"Hi, Tweetie!" He said loudly. "How's my girl?" She chirped some more in response, jumping up and down on the floor of her cage and flapping her little yellow wings.
Cary opened the door to the cage and let Tweetie hop up onto his finger. He went to the stove and picked up the tea kettle, filled it with water, and then replacing it on the burner, set about to make himself a nice, hot cup of oolong.
Aside from his computer, printer, and a small television set, Cary had made no extravagant purchases and his apartment looked exactly the same as it did the day he quit Joshua B. Ryan Art Associates. He often wondered, with smug satisfaction, what The Old Man would have thought of his success. He already knew what his co-workers thought. Almost all of them had called, once the book hit the New York Times Best Seller List, under the guise of congratulating him. He knew they really didn't give two shits about his own personal happiness; the only reason they tried to get to him to come to their parties was to say, "This is my friend, Cary Bouchard. The best-selling author." They all wanted to show him off, and maybe one day even borrow some money from him. But Cary never let it get that far. He always cut them off dead, reminding them pointedly of their previous snubs and snide remarks.
Not only had his former co-workers tried to capitalize on Cary's success, but so had his old high school sweetheart and a few friends from school. People he had known but lost touch with. People who didn't even bother to send him a Christmas card in all the years since he'd left Illinois. He had a feeling he'd be getting lots of cards this year.
After his tea steeped and a contented Tweetie had been returned to her cage, Cary turned his attention to the mail and answering machine. There were three blinks in a row, meaning he had three messages. Cary, of course, called his machine from the road to check messages, but he hadn't done so in a few days. Only three messages...he wondered if his popularity was slipping already. He pressed PLAY and settling down with his notepad and pencil in hand, listened to the messages.
"Hello, Mr. Bouchard. My name is Susan Montgomery. I'm the editor here at Carousel Books, and we would like to talk to you about publishing your next novel. Please give us a call."
Carousel Books, thought Cary. Why, that's a
subsidiary of one of the largest publishers in the whole Western world! He jotted down the number. He would definitely be calling.
"Mr. Bouchard, this is Allison Page. I'm a real estate agent, and my number is 555-2609. If you are looking for a house or a condo, give me a call."
Cary would find his own real estate agent, thank you very much.
"Cary." The voice was like a knife in his heart. "This is Diana. Diana Moon." As if he could ever forget her. "I hope it's not inappropriate of me to call, but...I don't want you to think I'm only calling because you sold a book, okay? I just want to know how you are. Call me."
Diana. His only true love, Diana. Was she calling just to stir him up, or did she really care how he was doing? She hadn't called once in the eighteen months since she had abruptly left him to marry another man.
Before he could change his mind, he punched in the telephone number, which he had not yet forgotten.
It rang. Once, twice..."Hello?"
"Diana," he said quickly. "It's Cary. What's up?" His heart was hammering in his chest and his mouth suddenly felt like the Sahara Desert.
"Cary." Her voice was warm and smooth, so genuine. "I'm so glad you called. I was afraid you wouldn't." Then she giggled a little, "I was afraid you would, too. I still miss you," she said seductively.
This threw Cary for a loop. "You left me, not the other way around."
"I know," she sighed. She sounded truly regretful. "I'm not with him anymore. The marriage didn't work out."
Cary's heart leapt.
"Look," she said, "Can we get together? I don't want to talk about this over the phone."
Cary realized that he should have been at least a little hard to get, but what was the point? He wanted to at least see her, and he was above such childish games. "Okay. When?"
"Tonight?"
Well, maybe not entirely above them. "Not tonight. I'm really tired. I was just on Jaime yesterday."
"Yes, I saw it. Cary, you look so good! But you're still the Cary I knew; you haven't compromised your principles one bit, have you?"
"Of course not," he said, thinking that simply by writing in the genre he did, regardless of how well he did it, was compromising his principles. Ah well, one had to pay the rent. "No cell phone. No tablet. No social networks. I'm like the J.D. Salinger of the modern era. I did get a computer, though." He paused. "How about lunch at the Tavern tomorrow? I'll make the reservation."
She agreed, and they rang off.
Before he had a chance to change his mind about seeing Diana again, Cary then returned Susan Montgomery's call.
She was in and took the call after keeping him on hold long enough to make him squirm, but not enough to piss him off.
"Mr. Bouchard," she said warmly, but with a business-like tone, as she came on the line. "I read Vengeful Ghost, and I must say, it was gripping. I'm a fan."
"Thank you," Cary said modestly. He knew she hadn't read the book. She just liked the size of his sales figures.
"I know you're with another publisher right now but I assure you, we want you enough to back you up on any legal issues you may have with them, should you decide to come with us."
Wow, thought Cary, they must really want me bad. Legal fees, he knew, could be astronomical. He was in a good position to deal. "As I am sure you are aware," he said, "I have been offered contracts from several other publishers. I am definitely considering leaving Old Scratch." He laughed self-consciously. "I was naive when I signed with them, and of course was just happy to get published." He didn't want them to think he could still be taken advantage of, though. "I've learned a lot since then."
"I'm sure you have," Susan Montgomery agreed, her tone belying that she figured he was just as naive as ever. "Shall we set up an appointment, then?"
"Yes, we can discuss it," Cary said. Don't want to sound too eager. "I'm available, let's see..."
"How about tomorrow morning? And can you bring your agent?"
"I don't have an agent."
"Oh well, that's one hundred percent of the money for you, then!" She laughed gaily.
He laughed in return. Stupid editors, he thought, they think all we writers care about is money. "Tomorrow morning then. I know where Carousel Books is."
"Okay, say...nine o'clock? I'm in suite 402."
The next morning at 9:15 A.M., Cary checked his reflection in the mirrored window outside the monolithic office building in which Carousel Books was located. His gray suit was pressed and wrinkle-free, his crimson bow tie set at a jaunty angle, and his white pocket kerchief added a touch of class. He frowned slightly; the signs of sleeplessness in his jaundiced, bloodshot eyes seemed magnified by the lenses of his glasses. At least they match my suit, he thought ruefully, peering at his gray, red and white eyes. His wispy hair was ruffled by the slight wind. He smoothed it down and entered the building.
The elevator attendant punched the button for the fourth floor, and Cary had just a few moments more to deal with his nerves until he met with the powerful editor. He wondered if she would be young and pretty.
She was not.
In fact, Cary thought, when she enters a room the mice probably jump on chairs.
Susan Montgomery greeted him from behind a huge silver-metallic desk and did not rise as she extended her hand. Cary had to lean over her desk to reach her. Her shake was firm and hard, much more confident than his. She wore a shapeless 80s vintage Anne Klein business suit and had her graying blonde hair pulled back into a bun. Bifocals perched precariously on the precipice of her too-small surgically enhanced nose. Her lips were thin and crepey, and her lipstick had already begun to bleed despite the early hour.
"Mr. Bouchard, it's a pleasure to meet you." Her smile was forced. "Have a seat," she motioned to a small leather settee opposite her desk.
Cary did as he was instructed.
They made small talk for a moment, then Susan got down to brass tacks. Carousel was prepared to offer him a three-book deal, plus film rights, plus a percentage, plus, plus, plus...the figures spun in Cary's head. This was by far the best deal he had ever been offered, and he realized he would be an absolute fool to pass it up. With just a few minor modifications here and there, the deal was struck.
Cary then told Susan about The Brandie Killer.
"Has your former publisher seen it yet?"
"No," he replied. "But I have told them about the idea."
"Well, that shouldn't be a problem. Why don't you bring me what you have written on it so far and we'll see about it? Sounds like a good idea."
"I think it's better than Vengeful Ghost," Cary said. "I've done lots of research on sociopathic behavior and have incorporated much of those scientific findings into my novel."
"Don't forget, though, that your bloodthirsty audience wants plenty of action!" Susan smiled and shook her finger at him.
"I won't forget," Cary mumbled.
Susan took him around the office and introduced him to a few of the people he would be dealing with on a regular basis, then they went to the legal department, where a contract was drawn up while they waited. Cary signed on the dotted line and sealed his fate.
The meeting took almost three hours, and Cary was very nearly late for his date with Diana. Clutching his copy of the book contract under one arm, Cary literally shot like a bullet from the cab into Tavern on the Green. He looked around and at first, he didn't see Diana. Had she decided not come after all?
But there she was, sitting by the window. She had cut her hair. Diana was a very cute woman, with elfin features and a thin, petite frame. Her new brunette bob enhanced the Peter Pan aura Cary so loved about her.
Diana caught sight of him and smiled shyly as he approached. She got up and embraced him. Gingerly, he returned the embrace, but did not kiss her. Her Eternity perfume enveloped him like a warm, familiar blanket.
"Still wearing Eternity, I see," he remarked as they took their chairs and seated themselves across from each other.
"For eternity," Diana laughed. She w
as nervous. She hoped Cary wouldn't think she was only trying to get back together with him because of his success. Of course, that was part of it, she had to admit to herself. But she also hoped that the success would have negated his poor attitude. He was a very intelligent, interesting man, but his pessimism had gotten to her. That was why she had married Dick so suddenly. He made her laugh. But then, he'd made her cry when he left her two months later for another woman. Diana had wanted to call Cary then, but she was too ashamed. Then when she got a shipment of his books at her book store one day she was astounded. She had loved Cary, but she never really believed in him. She never thought he would make it.
"Still working at the book store?" Cary asked, trying to keep the conversation rolling on a light note. He's forgotten how pretty she was. Oh, most men probably wouldn't have given her a second glance. She was not a tall, buxom blonde, nor a willowy redhead, or a mysterious raven-haired beauty. She was just a sweet, pixyish lady with a boyish body. But she had a little rosebud mouth that was quick to laugh and smile, and she had bright, doe-like eyes that sparkled with intelligence and curiosity. That was what had attracted Cary to her in the first place when he met her at the book store. He asked her about one of the first editions, and those brown eyes shone with real interest as she spoke about the tome's history. He was impressed that she was so erudite in her knowledge of books and authors. After that first day, Cary made the Book Nook one of his regular stops at least twice a week. Then three or four times a week. He had been too shy to ask her out, and his budget was definitely suffering from his many book purchases. Finally, she had asked him.
"I co-own the book store now," she answered. "It was one of the things Dick did for me to assuage his guilt. At least he had some sense of duty."
"Really? How wonderful for you."
"Yes, it's something I always wanted, as you know." In truth, she was a frustrated writer, but she hoped Cary wouldn't remember that. She had given up the dream years before and spoke very little of it. She didn't want him to think she was now trying to ride his coat-tails to her own literary success.
The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller Page 5
