by Amy Cross
Lost in thought, I head back through to the kitchen. The television news is still running in the background, but I can't stop thinking about Paula. I saw a new side to her tonight, and it's a side that makes her far more useful than I ever could have imagined. It's as if some dark and twisted god, grinning from ear to ear with malevolent glee, has delivered the perfect student to me, just at the moment when I need her the most. I don't have much time, but I think I can mold her fairly quickly. After all, her beliefs seem simple but deeply ingrained, which means I can use them to manipulate her. The poor little bitch won't even see what I'm doing until it's far too late, blinded instead by her rage and hate and fury. I was convinced that this little project would be a lonely, solitary affair, but now I'm going to have a little extra fun on the side. Poor Paula. She's right to be pissed off, but she's angry for all the wrong reasons. That's okay, though. By the time I'm finished with her, she'll be angry for the right reasons.
After dinner, I go through to the bathroom and stare at the corpse. Edward Hunter was a challenge, but this second victim is something else entirely. Three days to go.
Epilogue
It takes a while to work out what, exactly, Sam Gazade did to his second victim all those years ago. I want to copy his routine to the closest degree, so I spend a few hours attempting to determine the most likely order of his actions. Of course, his victim was still alive when he did all this, whereas mine has been dead for a few hours. I'm still working my way up to live subjects. It might take a while, and things would be much easier if I'd managed to get those books from the library before Paula fucking Clarke checked them out. Still, the internet's useful, but I'm wary of running any online searches that might raise red flags. I need to be careful here.
"Just a couple of hours left," says the news anchor, as the television flickers in the next room. "It's hard to say how many people we've got down here, but if I had to guess, I'd say there's close to five hundred, and the vast majority are supportive of the decision to execute Gazade. There were a few civil liberties campaigners loitering earlier, but they've mostly drifted away. I guess they sense that there's no way for the tide to be turned now."
The biggest problem I face is that Sam Gazade was originally focused on torture and mutilation. By all accounts, he thrived on his victims' attempts to fight him off, and although he bound and gagged them carefully, he seems to have always left a little wriggle-room. Maybe he liked to add a little extra thrill to proceedings; either way, it must have been a very deliberate decision, because I can't imagine a man like Gazade leaving anything to chance. He was methodical, and he always got what he wanted in the end.
"What do you think is going through Sam Gazade's mind right now?" the news anchor asks, as the camera pulls back to reveal an owlish-looking woman standing next to him. "I know it's pointless to speculate, but what do you think he's thinking about now that he's got just two hours until the big moment?"
"It's impossible to say," replies the guest a little churlishly. "Obviously he'll be visited by a priest, who'll offer him the chance to confess his sins and receive a final blessing. Whether he'll accept the priest's visit is another matter. There's certainly no indication so far that the man has any religious tendencies, but it's not entirely uncommon for men to convert in their final hours."
"You think he might be seeking forgiveness?" the anchor asks.
"I imagine it's possible," the guest replies. "It's not hard to believe that a murderer, facing his imminent death, might start to consider what comes next."
That confrontation with Paula Clarke is still annoying me, and maybe even hampering my ability to work properly. Paula had no right to come to my home and confront me, but at the same time I'm grateful that she allowed me to see another side to her personality. I'd never have guessed that she was capable of such unrestrained venom, and I can hardly believe that I've been so lucky as to have someone like her just arrive in my life when I need her. I'd been willing to complete my work alone, but the addition of Paula would be a wonderful extra, particularly since she seems to have such strong opinions about issues relating to violence and gender. I'm confident that I can manipulate her and make her see things my way, even if she tries to fight back.
"The point," says the guest on the news broadcast, "is that it's impossible for any of us to truly imagine what it must be like for any man to face his imminent execution. Does Gazade have regrets? I wouldn't have thought so. Does he feel fear? Almost certainly. I'm a firm believer that everyone believed in God eventually. Even if it's not until the very final moment of their life, as the light of their consciousness flickers and fades, every living thing ultimately will cling to the belief that somehow there's an afterlife. It's just an intrinsic part of being alive."
It's a good job I didn't go down to the prison tonight, because I'd definitely have beaten some sense into that dumb bitch. It's amazing how keenly these idiots line up to display their stupidity to the masses, when there are plenty of intelligent, erudite critics whose opinions are never sought. As I prepare to remove my victim's clothing, I can't help but imagine what I'd say if I was invited onto such a broadcast. I guess I'd try to educate the viewers, and I'd avoid coming up with dumb, thoughtless lines about purely speculative ideas. The last thing I'd do is spout the usual rubbish that gets recycled endlessly between the broadcasters.
"As we begin the final countdown," the news anchor continues, "we must of course take a moment to reflect that a man is going to lose his life here tonight, and no matter our thoughts about Mr. Gazade in particular, it would perhaps be wrong of us to celebrate death too openly. This is not a night for parties or jubilation. Rather, it's a night for sober contemplation of those thankfully rare instances when -"
As the screen goes silent, I place the remote control on the table. I've listened to enough of that damn anchor's rubbish over the past few days. It's not as if he's managed to add anything to the situation. He's just filling up dead air, and I've got better things to do. I've allowed myself to get distracted, but it's time to get on with the work at hand. There's a dead man in my bathroom, and I need to get on with the business of fixing his corpse. It's not that I'm dreading the job; it's more that there are other things I'd rather be doing. Still, this shouldn't take too long. I learned a lot when I mutilated the first body, so this one should definitely go a little faster. Heading back through to the bathroom, I crouch by the corpse and -
The hand twitches.
I stare, waiting to see it moves again.
Nothing.
Finally, I reach down and press two fingers against the body's neck. At first, I don't feel anything, but finally I'm able to detect the faintest pulse. I thought my second victim had been dead on the bathroom floor for a few hours, but the poor miserable bastard is still clinging to life. Sure, he's unconscious, but there's definitely a flicker of life left in him. My first instinct is to panic, but slowly a faint smile crosses my lips. Working on a corpse would just be repetitive; this time, I'm going to copy Sam Gazade much more closely. I'm going to torture a living person.
The Doll part I
Joanna Mason
"Are you sure about this?" Dawson asks as we wait in the governor's office. It's way past eleven, and Sam Gazade is due to be executed at midnight. Although he's been mostly quiet since we arrived, Dawson has been constantly watching me, as if he expects me to suddenly break down in tears.
"Why wouldn't I be sure?" I ask, grabbing a magazine from the coffee table and flicking through page after page of advice about interior design. Everything in the magazine looks so dull and pastel-colored, but I guess there must be people out there who like this kind of thing. Whenever I look at images from normal people's home - which isn't often, I have to admit - I feel as if I'm looking at pictures of a different species.
"I can go in if you like," he continues, his voice filled with concern. "If it's too much for you to see him, I can be the one who actually goes in and -"
"Why would it be too much?" I ask
, carefully keeping my gaze focused on the magazine.
"I mean -"
"It's been a while," I point out, turning to him. "I can handle it."
"Sure," he says, before pausing for a moment. "If you change your mind, though, you don't have to come in with me."
"Who said you're coming in with me?" I ask. "I'm the one who has a connection to Gazade. I'm the one who should go in there. Alone."
Dawson stares at me for a moment. "You're kidding, right?"
"Why would I be kidding?" I ask. "If you think about it straight for a moment, you'll see that it's the best option. The chances of Gazade opening up are already slim, so we might as well do our best to see if we can make him talk."
"And you can handle seeing him again?"
"Jesus," I mutter, putting the magazine down. "Gazade's not gonna open up with you in the room, is he? He doesn't know you. The guy only talks to people who make him feel comfortable, or whatever the hell it is that goes on in his sick mind. The point is, he responds to people he's met before, and he responds to women. He never talks to men, and if you're in the room -"
"I can stop him manipulating you," he says, interrupting me.
"I'm not a child," I point out. "I can look after myself." I pause for a moment as I feel a twinge of pain in my chest. I need to take a pill, but I can't do it in front of Dawson without letting him see that something's wrong. "If there was another way, I'd say go for it," I continue, "but there's isn't, so we can't."
"But -"
Before he can finish, the door opens and Governor Hazel Lockley steps into the room. There's a pained, concerned look in her eyes, as if she wishes Dawson and I would just vanish into thin air rather than cause her any more problems. I don't blame her. The eyes of the nation are on this prison tonight, and any fuck-ups could cause serious embarrassment.
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," she says, clearly distracted.
"So I can see him, right?" I say, getting to my feet.
She opens her mouth to reply, but something seems to be holding her back.
"This is a matter of life and death," I continue. "We believe that Sam Gazade has crucial information that might -"
"I know," she says firmly, interrupting me. "The diary. I know. Believe me, Judge Wentworth was very keen to stress that point over and over again on the phone just now. You have a very persuasive advocate for your needs, Ms. Mason."
"If this new killer has found Sam Gazade's diary," I continue, "we have to know what he wrote. It's no longer an academic discussion. The diary gives the new killer an advantage over us, and if Gazade dies without telling us what we need to know -"
"You can see him," she says, clearly annoyed. "I have no legal powers to stop you, but I need you to give me an undertaking that this process won't interfere in any way with the procedure we have in place. That man is still going to be executed at midnight, and the only gap in the schedule comes when he's having his final meal, which will be..." She checks her watch. "Right about now," she adds, before pausing for a moment. "Is there no other way? Do you really need to disrupt things like this?"
"We don't have any other options right now," Dawson says. "It's a long-shot, but Sam Gazade might tell us what we need to know."
"He's never told anyone anything," Lockley points out.
"He's never been twenty minutes from death before," I reply firmly. "Maybe that kind of realization will change how he sees things. He has to see that there's no point clinging to his final secret."
"A death-bed change of heart?" she replies, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "You of all people should know that Sam Gazade is a singularly loathsome piece of work, Ms. Mason. He's a vile, psychopathic misogynist with a taste for cutting women into pieces. He's a symbol of everything that's wrong with our society, and I have no doubt that he'll very much enjoy taking this so-called secret to his grave."
"We're wasting time," I reply. "Just get me in there for five minutes and let me try talking to him."
"Are you going alone?" she asks.
"No," Dawson says.
"Yes," I add.
"Fine," Dawson replies, taking a seat. He's clearly not happy with the decision, but he knows there's no point arguing with me. Over the years, we've had plenty of 'discussions' about important matters, and I've won almost every time. Besides, I can tell he's worried about me, and he probably doesn't want to push me too far. Dawson knows what I went through twelve years ago, before I managed to get away from Gazade.
"This way," Lockley says.
As we make our way out of her office and along the dark corridor, there's a palpable sense of tension in the air. Frankly, I'm amazed we managed to persuade her, but I guess it helps that I was able to get a couple of local judges to support my case. Lockley has a reputation as a bureaucrat, and she's widely rumored to be planning to enter politics in a couple of years. All she cares about is getting Gazade executed with the minimum amount of fuss, and I was able to make her see that letting me see Gazade would create less fuss than forcing me to seek an official halt to the process. She's nervy, but I've already promised her that if this meeting delivers results, I'll be sure to give her plenty of credit in the media. She can sniff the chance of some glory, and she can't resist.
Reaching into my pocket, I take out a bottle of pills and try to open the lid as discreetly as possible. Unfortunately, as I tip a pill into my hand and then replace the lid, Lockley glances at me, and I can see the curiosity in her eyes.
"You okay?" she asks.
"Fine," I say, swallowing the pill.
"Want some water with that?"
"No."
She smiles.
"Allergies," I mutter, putting the bottle back in my pocket.
"What are you allergic to?" she asks. "Prisons? Bad ideas?"
"Pretty much everything," I mutter, still feeling the pain in my chest as I try to hide my impatience at the fact that the pills don't work faster. "Oxygen. Life itself."
"Tell me this isn't personal," Lockley says suddenly, turning to me as we reached the door to Gazade's holding area. "Tell me that you really need to see him for a case, and that this isn't some bizarre, fucked-up attempt to deal with your own emotional problems, Ms. Mason. Because I swear to God, this prison is not here to serve as a forum for your scars to be battled out, no matter how deep they might be."
I smile, having anticipated some kind of outburst.
"Tell me it isn't personal," she says again.
"It isn't personal," I reply with a hint of a smile.
"Tell me it isn't a waste of time."
"It's not a waste of time."
"Tell me you're telling the truth."
I smile.
"You think I want to look into that man's eyes again?" I continue. "After what he did to me? After what he tried to do to me? I was planning to spend tonight in a bar, drinking a hell of a lot of whiskey, so coming down to your rundown prison really isn't my idea of a good time!"
"I don't give a fuck about looking into his eyes," she replies. "All I care about is a clean and ordered process that delivers that man to the table in..." She checks her watch again. "Seventeen minutes. With five to go, he'll be led through. You haven't got long, Ms. Mason, and I just hope you're not on some kind of personal crusade. Gazade can be tricky, but he's finally accepted his fate. Don't disrupt him. All that matters is that at five minutes past midnight, I've got his dead body on a slab, ready to be taken away, cremated, and tossed in the garbage."
"Does he know I'm coming?" I ask.
She shakes her head.
"Great," I say, taking a deep breath. "I guess it's gonna be a nice surprise for him." I pause for a moment, as I finally realize that I'm about to come face to face once again with the man who killed all those women and then tried to kill me. He came damn close, too, and there's not a day that goes past without my mind wandering onto thoughts of what might have happened if I hadn't been able to get free. "So when can I go in?" I ask, trying to hide my nerves. I'm not sure how I'm
going to react when I see his face again, and I want to get that initial moment of shock out of the way.
She stares at me for a moment, and finally a faint smile crosses her lips. I'm pretty sure she's seen past my bluster and she knows that I'm worried. I'm not sure whether that's because I've accidentally let the mask slip, or because she just figures it'd be impossible for someone in my situation not to be scared.
"What are you waiting for?" she asks, taking a step back. "You have fifteen minutes, Detective Mason. Use them wisely, because once they're over, Sam Gazade is going to be unavailable for questioning. Permanently."
Reaching down, I turn the handle and pull the door open. Glancing into the room, it takes a moment for the shadows to become recognizable shapes, and finally I see him, and he slowly turns to me. There's a moment, just a moment, where it seems as if his blank eyes don't recognize me at all; finally, however, his gaze comes alive and I realize that he knows exactly who I am. With a shiver, I realize that he seems pleased to see me.
Paula Clarke
The crowd is huge tonight. There must be close to a thousand people on the grass opposite the gates of the prison, waiting for the news that Sam Gazade has finally been executed for his crimes. The atmosphere is a strange combination of anticipation and fear, as if some of these people don't even know why they're here. I guess some are just tourists, coming so they can feel that they're part of something; others, maybe, are victims or friends of victims, people who actually have a stake in Gazade's death.
And then there's me.
I have no business being here, of course. I'm not kidding myself. Sam Gazade never touched me, never hurt me, never even came anywhere near me. I know of him only through articles, interviews and news reports, plus a few essays I've written for college where I've touched upon his case. There's a part of me that worries I've allowed myself to get too close to the whole thing, like all the other vultures who've flocked here tonight for a shot of adrenalin. Then again, my interest is purely academic. I'm not like all these breathless, panting idiots who want to share in the moment of Gazade's death.
