Cary was further jolted by the blaring of car horns behind him. The light had turned green. He pealed out, driving like a man on fire. Diana's apartment was just around the corner.
The street was practically deserted, so Cary was able to park right in front of her building. He jumped out of the car without locking it, but activated the alarm as he ran into the lobby, overnight bag firmly in hand.
Diana's building had a security gate, but no live guard. Cary was glad no one was there to see him. As usual, the security gate was ajar and the elevator was broken, so Cary walked straight up the stairs to the fourth floor. The physical exertion took some of the edge off his mental state, and he was almost fully composed by the time he reached her door. He gasped for breath for a few moments, then rang the bell.
There was no answer. He didn't call out, for it was late and he didn't want to disturb Diana's neighbors. He tried the doorknob, but it was locked. Could she not have gone home? Cary fished in his trousers for his key ring and went through the units one by one until he located the key that unlocked her door. She had given him the key almost a year ago, but he'd never used it because they spent most of their time at his place. He had never really felt comfortable sleeping in what had once been Dick and Diana's marriage bed, anyway.
Cary inserted the key into the lock and turned it. "Diana?" he called softly as he opened the door and stepped inside. The place was dark. Could she be in bed, crying? He shut the door behind him and listened. He heard nothing. Maybe she hadn't gone home, after all. Maybe she'd gone to the Book Nook instead. He decided he would wait for her. He flipped on the light and immediately his eye was drawn to the body that lay sprawled on the hardwood floor.
Diana Moon was dead.
Murdered.
She lay on her back, her arms and legs spread wide. There were long, jagged marks gouged into the wood where her fingernails had clawed the floor in her desperate attempt to escape her attacker. She had changed from the widow's weeds when she got home, obviously. It was almost as if she'd planned on going out. She now wore her green underwear and her long, Irish plaid skirt. Her white peasant-style shirt was ripped partially open, but her satiny green brassier had remained undisturbed. Around her swollen throat, tied in an impossibly tight double-knot, was one of her thigh-high self-supporting stockings. The other one was cast aside along with her tiny emerald green pumps. Cary looked at them for a moment; they reminded him of little doll shoes. Brandie shoes.
Why am I noticing her shoes? He asked himself. This is my love, my Diana! He was in a dumbfounded state of shock, not truly believing what he was seeing. This had to be another one of his hallucinations. Had to be. Had to...
He walked to the center of the room and knelt beside Diana. He touched her, and she was real. Her head listed to one side, and her short hair covered one eye and most of her stiff cheek. He brushed it aside gently. Her face was no longer serene or pretty. Her once-twinkling eyes bulged from their sockets, and the sclera was a shockingly bright red due to the blood vessels that ruptured as they were deprived of oxygen. Her lips were drawn back, her teeth clenched tightly closed. Her sweet, pert little nose had been broken by a savage blow. Blood had trickled from her left nostril until her death had stopped the flow.
"Oh, Diana. What happened?"
He cradled her head in his lap and cried. Suddenly, with a freight train rush, the emotion came and when it did it nearly knocked him beyond oblivion. "Not you, not you, Diana," he wept over and over. A floodgate of death opened, pouring bodiless souls through his fragile mind: Mommie, Dad, Mr. Ryan, murdered girls, Marlisa, Tweetie bird, and now the love of his life.
He couldn't bear to just sit there, looking at her ruined face. He got up, gently easing her head back onto the hardwood. Her brushed her tangled hair back with his fingers, then stood and walked to the kitchen sink. He wet a hand towel under the tap, then selected a long knife from the dish-drain. He took his implements back into the living room and knelt beside Diana's body. His tears dried, he went to work.
First, he cut the ligature from her throat. It was so tight that it had bitten into her flesh. She was still warm. He had met no one on the stairs--what if the killer was still in the apartment? Lurking. Watching him. He stood, holding the knife out, and turned all the way around. He stared into the darkness of her bedroom. He felt no presence. Satisfied, he knelt back down beside Diana and continued with his ministrations.
He wiped the drying blood from beneath her nose with the damp cloth and smoothed her hair again. He closed her blouse as best he could and pulled her skirt down over her knees. She still didn't look right. Those dead eyes...Cary got up and went to the kitchen counter. Diana's sunglasses were there. He placed them gently over her staring red orbs, then sat on the couch, assessing his work. Much better.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there, just looking at her. He remembered the good times they'd had. Her smiles. Her laughter. Her warm lips pressed against his. The tears started again. He would never see her smile, hear her laughter, or feel her kiss ever again. She was lost to him forever.
The reality of that thought suddenly hit him like a thunderbolt. She was dead. The police in L.A. already had a file on him, and pictures of slain women found in his possession. That meant he was a suspect.
He couldn't face the police. He couldn't handle the accusations, the interrogation, the probing into his past...the question of his sanity. He'd rather die than go through that.
Without Diana there wasn't much to live for, anyway. He walked to the window and looked down. Only four stories. He'd probably end up in a body cast, lying in a hospital bed as the police placed him under arrest. He thought of that sharp knife, its gleaming blade.
No. If he killed himself, then the deaths would be written off as a murder-suicide. Case closed. He didn't want to be remembered that way. He wanted to be remembered for his accomplishments. His writing. He had to live to write The Great American Novel. He owed it to Diana...even though she would never be able to see it now. Tears once again flowed down his burning cheeks as he decided that he must live for her sake. He would write the book, and maybe then he would kill himself.
But there was still the matter of the body. He couldn't write the book in jail. He mustn't let Diana's body be discovered. He had to get rid of it. Her.
He looked down at her. Suddenly, she wasn't a person anymore. And suddenly she looked huge. How would he get her out of the apartment, down four flights of stairs and into his car? He looked at his watch. 3:00 A.M. The hour of the demon, he'd heard or perhaps read somewhere once a long time ago. He pushed the thought from his mind. At three o'clock in the morning it was unlikely he would run into anyone. Few people were out. But just one person seeing him was enough.
He got up and went into Diana's bedroom. Snapped on the lights. Looked around. She had a small armoire on castors, but it was still too big for him to handle on his own, and it would definitely not fit in his car. He opened its doors and looked inside. A heavy black garment bag hung there. He might be able to fit her inside, but her body would make bulges. If anyone saw him with that slung over his shoulder it would definitely look suspicious. He shut the armoire and moved to the closet. She had two huge powder blue hard-shell suitcases in there. Perfect.
He hauled one of them into the living room and set it down beside Diana. It didn't look so perfect anymore. He opened it up and looked at the space, then looked at her. Maybe if he cut her head off.
His stomach lurched. He couldn't possibly.
It wouldn't be so hard, he reasoned. Put her in the bathtub first, then just saw away. There would be very little blood since a corpse can't bleed. Did she have a hand saw or maybe an electric knife?
No! I can't do that to Diana. Even though it's really not her. Just a body.
Cary shook his head to clear it of the crazy thoughts. He knelt and touched her arm. It was growing tepid. He took her wrist and bent it back. Rigor mortis was just setting in. Maybe he could stuff her into the suitcase, if he wo
rked fast. He eased one arm under her back, and the other under her knees. He lifted her. He learned the true meaning of "dead weight" immediately. He groaned as he eased her onto the open suitcase. He pulled her over onto her side, then pushed at the back of her neck until her heard a faint crackling of the cartilage, and her head was wedged in. He breathed a sigh of relief. He'd been afraid he might really have to decapitate her.
Her legs were another matter. Those long, coltish legs that had given him so much pleasure in life were now the source of Cary's aggravation in death. He couldn't get them to fit. He tried pulling the knees way up to her stomach, but her legs weren't that pliable. Could he break them? Not strong enough. Maybe crush them at the knee joints with a hammer? Too much noise.
Finally, he decided he would have to cut off her feet. But with what? Diana didn't keep very much in her apartment.
Cary looked around, feeling the seconds tick away into minutes. He didn't have much time. Diana was a terrible cook, so she wouldn't have any bone-cutting cutlery. Diana didn't have a fireplace, she wouldn't have an ax handy. Then he remembered: on her terrace, he had once seen a pair of old, rusty hedge shears. He'd asked her about them, because she didn't have any plants or trees on her terrace. He couldn't remember what she'd said at the time, but what did it matter now?
Cary dashed out to the terrace, his heart in his throat. He ducked into the shadows, ensuring that no one would see him there, and searched the corners until he saw the wood-handled choppers. He picked them up and carried them hastily inside. They were filthy with dust and rust, but Cary doubted Diana would care whether or not the instruments of her dismemberment were clean or dirty.
Even after the distasteful deed was done, Cary still had a hard time getting Diana to fit into the baggage. Feeling like a Samsonite ape, he redoubled his efforts and with the suitcase butted up against the wall, he just barely managed it. He slammed the lid of the suitcase down and quickly zipped it, fearing she might start to come undone and he would have to start all over again.
He wiped the droplets of sweat from his forehead and took hold of the suitcase's handle and heaved it to an upright position. He thanked his lucky stars that the suitcase was on wheels. Cary took a final look around the apartment. He got Diana's shoes and stockings and stuffed them into his jacket. He picked up her purse on the way and carefully locked the door behind him.
Cary dragged the suitcase down the stairwell and cringed each time it bounced roughly. He muttered a silent apology to Diana and kept on. He saw no one. As he exited the building he thanked his lucky stars once again that there had been a parking space right in front. He searched his trouser pocket for his keys, hit the alarm, then popped the trunk. He placed Diana's purse and shoes and stockings inside, then heaved the suitcase up against the bumper. He knew he couldn't possibly lift it without the support of the car, but he winced as he heard the metal buckle against the weight and heard hard edges of the suitcase scraping that beautiful, glossy paintjob. He upended the suitcase and it fell into the voluminous space with a thud.
Cary breathed a sigh of relief and slammed the trunk closed. He was almost home free, now.
There was no question as to where to take Diana's body--he would bury the suitcase in Marlisa's rose garden. Diana would have liked that.
Cary opened his car door and slid onto the cool leather seat. He put the key in the ignition and pulled out into the street without looking. As if on autopilot, he numbly drove the route that led back to Sherwood Heights. The route he had driven with the living Diana only hours before.
The highway was nearly deserted in those misty, gray predawn hours. The fog made Cary nervous. Not only because he wasn't used to driving in such conditions, but it was just plain eerie. At least the car radio has decided to stop its serenade. Although there was little traffic, Cary stuck to the speed limit. He certainly didn't want to attract the attention of highway patrol.
As he drove in the misty, eerie silence, Cary wondered who could have done such a terrible thing to his beloved Diana. It didn't matter, though. The end result was the same. And now he would have to take care of it. As if he didn't have enough troubles already. His sadness at the loss of Diana was replaced by self-pity.
I'm the kiss of death, he thought. What is wrong with me? Do I inspire murderous rages? Am I the murderer? It's not like I've never blacked out before...like when I wrote Vengeful Ghost and The Brandie Killer. I know I have problems. Maybe I'm even insane. That's just "not sane," after all. Not everyone is one hundred percent sane one hundred percent of the time.
His reverie was broken by the insistent flashing of headlights by a driver behind him. "Go around," he grumbled, not speeding up one iota. He was in the slow lane, after all, what did the bozo want--an engraved invitation? The lights continued to flash like staccato bursts of lightning. Cary rolled his window down and stuck his left arm out the window, motioning the other driver to go past.
This gesture only elicited honks from the impatient motorist. Who could that be? Someone I know? The car looked large and white, but Cary couldn't be certain in all of the haze. Cary leaned forward and peered into his rearview mirror, to see if could glimpse the person behind the wheel. He did not see the other driver's face. All he saw was his own right eye.
His own right eye with a Sterling silver letter opener protruding from the pale gray iris. Then he felt the searing pain. Instinctively, he clutched at his face, screaming in agony.
The car behind him rammed the back of the BMW, sending it skidding across the interstate like a Hot Wheels toy. Without his hands on the steering wheel, the car veered across two lanes and went sideways, colliding with oncoming traffic. The screaming of his tires, mingled with his own screams and the horrible crashing of metal to metal, was the last thing Cary would remember from that awful night.
Chapter 12
Everything was white. So white that he couldn't bring anything into focus.
Where am I? Home? Am I home in bed? No. This is not my bed.
Cary tried to sit up, but when he moved his arms they were shot through with an excruciating, ripping pain. He turned his head slowly to the side and saw that one of his wrists was secured to the bed's iron railing with a leather strap. His other arm was encased in a heavy plaster cast. As he became more aware, the more he felt the searing ache. That which does not kill me, he thought, still hurts like a bitch.
His head was host to a herd of stampeding steers, and his vision was blurry. A small tube gently shot cold air up into his nostrils. His nose was husk dry, and he was parched beyond belief. Why was his body so wracked with agony?
The accident. He had been in a car accident... But he couldn't quite remember how it happened.
I was driving. It was night. I was afraid. Afraid of something...
His head pounded fiercely in protest at the effort to remember. He winced, but he forced his eye to focus. Then he realized: he only had use of one eye. Something about his eyes had scared him, but what? He tried to look beyond. He saw white sheets before him, a white cast lying across his chest, white walls, white blinds, a white woman wearing a white dress sitting on a white chair.
As if she felt the weight of his stare, the woman turned her head and when she saw he was conscious, she gasped and quickly left the room. Strange reaction, was all Cary had time to think before two men came into the room.
One of them looked familiar. He was a tall, lanky Swede with tired gray eyes and a hang-dog expression. He wore a rumpled brown suit with black shoes. The other man was small and dark, Italian, or maybe Mediterranean. He looked at Cary with great curiosity. Cary felt like an exotic fish in an aquarium...the way he felt in his penthouse sometimes, with all those windows.
The blonde man approached Cary's bedside. "Mr. Cary Bouchard," he said, "I am placing you under the arrest for the murders of Joshua Ryan and Diana Moon. You have the right to remain silent..."
The world seemed to drop away from beneath Cary's hospital bed. He felt his stomach lurch and his mind beg
an to spin like a top.
This can't be happening!
Suddenly he remembered how the car had crashed and what had been in the trunk. Diana. He was being accused of her murder.
He wasn't really listening as he was Mirandized, but he did manage through the haze to acknowledge that he was aware of his rights.
"We've met before, Mr. Bouchard. I'm Detective Myles Jorgensen. I investigated the Ryan murder. Never suspected it was you," he shook his head in disbelief. "But now, there's no question."
I'm innocent! Cary wanted to shout, but he didn't have the strength. He simply shook his head, then mercifully passed out.
The nurse sat a few feet away, reading a magazine.
"Water," Cary croaked.
She immediately jumped up and went to his bedside table, where a plastic pitcher filled with water and a plastic cup with a straw sat. She held the straw to his parched lips and Cary took a couple of swallows. "Thanks," he whispered, making eye contact with the nurse. She looked away with...what? Fear? She thinks I'm a murderer.
"What happened to me?" he asked.
She answered without looking at him. "Broken arm, severe lacerations to the head and one eye, punctured lung."
So that's why it hurts so much to breathe. "Where exactly am I?"
"Prison infirmary, sir."
Prison? Already? "Where is Detective Jorgensen? I'd like to speak to him. This all a mistake. A terrible mistake! I didn't kill anyone."
The nurse nodded, as if she'd heard it all before, many times. She left the room, shutting the door behind her.
The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller Page 20
