by Amy Cross
"So I'm just checking in to see how things are going," I say as I get out of my car and walk toward the hotel. It's getting late, and I figure I should talk to the hotel owner again before calling it a night. I need to show him a photo of Dr. Huston and find out if she's the woman who came and found the diary.
"Aren't you supposed to be suspended without pay?" Dawson asks, his voice sounding a little crackly over the phone. "People who are suspended without pay don't tend to keep working, Jo."
"It's a bit late for me to start getting a hobby," I reply as I reach the door and see that the whole place seems to be dark, with only a few lights on inside.
"It's never too late."
I smile. If only he knew...
"We don't really have any new leads," he says with a sigh. "If this person sticks to the timetable, I think there's going to be a new body tomorrow, which means a new wave of media interest and a new wave of Schumacher coming down on me and demanding a break." He pauses. "I think it's gonna be another guy."
"I think so too," I reply, pushing the door open and stepping inside. The place seems strangely quiet and unwelcoming, and it's not hard to see why no-one ever stays at this damn hotel. After a moment, I hear the parakeet shuffling around in its cage, but apart from that it's as if there's no-one here. I walk over to the reception desk and ring the bell, but I'm already getting the distinct impression that I'm not going to have any luck. Something about this whole place just feels dead and undisturbed.
"What about you?" Dawson asks. "Got anything?"
"I'll let you know in the morning," I tell him, taking the university prospectus out of my pocket and opening it to the page with Dr. Huston's photo. "I'm just checking up on a few things."
"Care to share?"
"You'd think I'm crazy."
"I already think you're crazy," he replies. "Come on, Jo, I admit it. Sometimes my approach doesn't get the fastest results. If your famous leaps of inspiration have delivered and you think you're onto something, I need you to share."
"Hang on," I say, walking through the dark hotel and starting to wonder if something's wrong. After all, the place seems to be completely deserted, and I can't help thinking that if this guy is the only person who could identify the guest who found the diary, he might be in danger.
"Where are you?" Dawson asks, with a hint of concern in his voice.
"I'm at the Lark Bermuda Hotel," I reply, looking through into the dining room but finding no sign of anyone. The place smells stale and a little damp.
"That place is a total dump," he says. "You're not there with one of your boyfriends are you?"
"No," I say firmly, "I'm not fucking a man-whore tonight." As I get to the lounge area, I realize that the hotel owner seems to be missing. "Actually," I continue, "I'm at the place where Sam Gazade's diary was found. There's no-one here, though, and I'm starting to -" Before I can finish, I hear a noise in one of the nearby rooms, like a kind of faint, muffled grunt. I hurry back to the dining room, I finally spot a figure over in one of the chairs. It's pretty dark in here and the figure's slumped down, which I guess explain why I didn't see him before.
"Jo?" Dawson says. "What's happening? Is something wrong?"
"Hang on," I say, hurrying over to the chair and finally seeing that the hotel owner is fast asleep, with an empty bottle of whiskey on the floor next to him. "Nothing's wrong," I say with a sigh. "No wonder this place is a dump. The guy's just some old alcoholic. How's that for word of mouth?" Nudging the guy's shoulder, I realize I can smell the alcohol from here. "He's not gonna wake up," I say eventually, "and even if he does, he's not gonna be any use."
"So a drunk guy in a chair is your lead, huh."
"He's drunk right now," I reply, "but eventually he'll be sober. It's better than nothing."
"It doesn't sound like you're much further ahead than me."
I pause for a moment, before turning and heading for the door. "I guess this can wait until tomorrow."
"What can wait?" Dawson asks.
"You around?" I ask as I step outside into the cool night air. My stomach's feeling a little queasy, and although I know I should go home and get some rest, and although I'm quite certain that Dr. Gibbs would be furious if he knew I was still getting wasted on a regular basis, I can't face the thought of going back to my dark, empty apartment. The truth is, sometimes, I'm scared of falling asleep, in case I don't wake up. "I could use a drink."
"I'm at home with Elaine," he replies. "She's already pissed at me for doing paperwork all evening. I'm pretty sure she'd kill me if I said I was going to a bar."
"Or if you told her you were meeting me."
"Elaine doesn't hate you, Jo."
"She should. I hate her."
"You don't hate her."
"I do! She's got that pointy little nose, and I don't care what you say, she's totally had plastic surgery on that thing. And her eyes are too small. Doesn't that ever bother you when you're on top of her, making sweet love. Tell me something, Dawson. Does her vagina have teeth? I always imagine it being like a small, hairy Sarlacc, you know?"
"Call me if you've got any news," he says, clearly wanting to avoid another conversation about his delightful wife. "I'm really struggling here. Goodnight, Jo."
"I'm going home," I reply, as I realize that I should just face my empty apartment. Besides, I think I've got beer in the fridge. "Maybe I'll watch the Saw films. Then again, that online porn won't masturbate to itself."
"Goodnight, Jo," he says again, more firmly this time, and the line goes dead.
"You think I'm joking," I mutter, putting my phone back in my pocket. "Everyone always thinks I'm joking." Walking down the steps and back to the sidewalk, I can't help thinking that I need to keep pushing on this case. Dawson's right when he says there's likely to be another dead soon. After all, this copycat killer seems to be sticking rigidly to Sam Gazade's original schedule, which means that somewhere, tonight, some poor asshole's probably being tortured and killed. As I walk to my car, I try not to think about the torture side of things too much, and finally I decide that my best course of action, instead of going to a bar and getting drunk, is probably to go and do some background work on that Paula Clarke girl.
And then get drunk. Hell, maybe vodka cures cancer. I might make a startling, world-changing discovery.
Stopping next to my car, I reach into my pocket for my keys. Damn it, I feel -
And that's when someone reaches around from behind and clamps a wet cloth over my mouth, before holding me tight as I struggle. I manage to push the person away after a few seconds, but it's too late and I can smell the tell-tale odor of chloroform. I drop to my knees, trying desperately to stay conscious, but I can already feel the inevitable darkness pulling me down. Finally, I slump against the side of the car, and the last thing I remember is the sound of footsteps on gravel, right next to my head.
Epilogue
Twelve years ago
She stays in bed, with her eyes closed, and she doesn't move all night.
She's not asleep, though. Instead, she's scared. Every half hour or so, she hears the door open as her mother looks in to check that she's being good. Paula knows that if she gives so much as a hint that she's still awake, she'll be in for another beating. Each time the door opens, she waits in terror, worrying that she might accidentally do something that makes her mother realize that she's being tricked. Sooner or later, she always makes a mistake.
But not tonight.
Eventually, she hears someone brushing their teeth in the bathroom, and she realizes it must be morning. She's scared, but she knows she has to check, so she allows her eyes to open just a millimeter; sure enough, her blue curtains are showing the light from outside, and Paula blinks a couple of times as she realizes that she managed to make it through the whole night. She takes a deep breath, feeling impressed by her own stamina, and she can't help but smile at the thought that she's achieved the rare feat of fooling her mother.
"Paula!" her mother's voi
ce shouts suddenly from downstairs. "Time to get up!"
She bristles as she realizes that her mother wants her to go and have breakfast. Suddenly the bed, which felt like a prison all night, transforms and becomes a place of refuge. Paula knows that breakfast will be tense, and she'd rather just stay in bed and wait the day away, but she knows better than to try refusing her mother's command. With a sigh, she sits up and tries to focus on the fact that it's a school day, which at least means she'll be out of the house until the early evening.
"I won't be home for dinner tonight," her mother says once Paula gets downstairs. "I'm going on a date. Before you say anything, I haven't had a date since your dirty stinking father left, so I'm damn well entitled to go out." She turns and stares at Paula for a moment. "Don't fucking look at me like that!"
"I wasn't looking at you!" Paula murmurs, hurrying over to the fridge and taking out a carton of milk.
"Don't use it all," her mother says, sipping from a cup of coffee as she pours cereal into a bowl.
Figuring that she'd rather not risk making a mistake, Paula puts the milk carton away untouched and instead prepares herself a serving a dry cereal. Carrying the bowl over to the table, she sits down and starts to eat, before realizing that her mother is staring at her with an amused, surprised look on her face.
"What the fuck are you doing, Paula?"
"You said not to use too much milk."
"I didn't say not to use any milk," she replies with a smile. "Fucking hell, kid, you're really dumb sometimes, do you realize that? Really fucking dumb."
"Sorry," Paula says, taking another mouthful of dry cereal.
"Whatever," her mother says, finishing her cup of coffee. "I can't wait for you to grow up, you know. Not only 'cause you'll be able to look after yourself, but also 'cause it's gonna be fucking hilarious watching you trying to do normal things. Fucking hell, kid, it's gonna be a like a comedy movie. You're so awkward. Why don't you try loosening up a bit?"
"Sorry," Paula says quietly.
"Smile at me."
Paula turns to her.
"Smile, Paula."
Slowly, tentatively, Paula tries to smile.
"Christ," her mother says, starting to laugh, "you can't do it to save your fucking life, can you? Go on, try harder. Make it look like you're genuinely happy."
Paula pauses for a moment, and then she tries a different smile, one that she desperately hopes will be closer to the mark.
"Fuck," her mother says with a smile, "what the hell kind of kid have I raised? I swear to God, I have no idea how you turned out so..." She pauses. "You've gotta stop being weird, kid. You got that? You've gotta loosen up a little and try to look more relaxed. Honestly, you're putting people off with that weird mug of yours. Come on, try one more time. I wanna see a proper, happy smile. You're not acting like you've got no reason to smile, are you? Go on, kid, do your best."
Paula takes a deep breath. Even though she knows there's no chance of ever pleasing her mother, she feels that she has to do her best. She thinks about it for a moment, imagining what other people look like when they smile, and finally she widens her lips as far as possible.
"Jesus fucking Christ," her mother says, lighting a cigarette. "I don't know what to say, kid. I just don't know what to say. Go on, get off to school. Maybe you can take a look at the other kids and see how they do it, huh?"
Glad to be getting out of the house, Paula leaves her half-eaten bowl of dry cereal, grabs her backpack and heads to the door.
"Hey!" her mother shouts.
Paula stops dead in her tracks.
"You not gonna give me a kiss before you go?"
Steeling herself, Paula turns and runs back to her mother, who leans down and presents the left side of her face for a kiss. After a brief kiss on the cheek, Paula turns and hurries out the door. Once she's outside, she makes her way to the bus-stop, where a bunch of other kids are already waiting. Rather than joining in, Paula loiters by the trash can, watching the others and trying to work out how they manage to talk and act so naturally. As she continues to stare at them, she decides that she's going to prove her mother wrong: she's going to learn to look and act like everyone else, even if it takes the rest of her life.
Into Darkness part I
(Male / Female 1.7)
Prologue
Twelve years ago
"Calm down!" he shouts. "Jesus Christ, woman, can't you just calm the fuck down?"
Ignoring him, I continue to struggle with the ropes that are tying my arms and legs to the table. So far, I haven't been able to get them to budge, but I don't have any other options. With Sam Gazade looming over me, holding the bone-saw in one of his grubby, blood-stained hands, I'm trying to hold back the panic that threatens to overwhelm my body. I can't face this; not again. It's only been a few hours since the last time he cut me, and the pain was unbearable; this time, there's a look in his eyes that makes me realize he's ready to move on to the next stage. I've seen the corpses of his previous victims, and I've seen what he did to those women before they died: he cracked their bones and burned them and tortured them with imaginative, sadistic glee. The thought of going through the same thing, of being tortured by this maniac, fills my mind with a kind of shocked panic.
"I did a little research," he says, staring deep into my eyes. "You're actually something of a shooting star on the force, aren't you? As it turns out, Joanna Mason is one of those hot young things aiming for the top. You caught the Maxendale Ripper single-handedly, and you've come closer than anyone to catching that John Dark guy. Some people even think you've got what it takes to go all the way, maybe even into politics." He runs a hand across my belly. "So much potential. Such a shame you fucked up and let yourself end up here. It's gonna make quite a splash in the papers when people find out what happened to you. A rising star of the police force, tortured and killed by the man she was supposed to catch. That's quite a crash and burn kinda story right there, isn't it?"
I try to shout at him, to tell him to stop, but there's a gag in my mouth and, anyway, I can't shake the feeling that he likes it better when I struggle. I can shout and moan all I want, but I'll just be wasting my energy. I've always believed that no matter how bad the situation, there's a way out; no matter how bleak or hopeless things look, there's always a way to get loose. I just have to stay calm and focus, and hope that I'm smart enough to work out how to get away from this psycho. There's no situation that can't be overcome provided you keep your head. If I panic, I'm dead.
"You're different," he continues, leaning closer. "Those other women were the dumbest of the dumb and they were screaming their lungs out by now. Typical women, really. But there's a kinda light in your eyes that makes me think you've got a bit more of a brain in there. I'm not saying you're as smart as a man, but for your gender, you've certainly got a bit more going on under the hood. If it helps, I hope you realize that you've made me realize that there's still a little hope for your gender. If more women were like you, Ms. Mason, maybe it wouldn't be necessary to do this to some many of you." With that, he starts the bone-saw, its blade grinding with a high-pitched squeal as he brings it closer to my chest. "Do you hear?" he whispers. "The blade's hungry."
"Fuck you," I whisper.
"So where are we gonna start carving this turkey?" he asks, as if he's talking to himself. "I wrote a plan in my diary, but I don't have the damn thing with me. I'm pretty sure I should just try being inventive. It's always fun to mix some spontaneity in with the rigor, don't you think?" He glances at me and smiles. "One must always strive to push oneself. There's no fun in just butchering a bunch of people in the same tired old way each time. Every death should be a step forward, an advance. Every scream should be louder than the last."
Forcing myself to stay calm, I stop struggling with the ropes for a moment and try to clear my mind. There's a way out of this, and I just have to figure it out before it's too late. I'm smart enough to work this out, and I'm strong enough to keep my head together. Trying
to clear my mind, I wait for inspiration to strike. The best way to come up with an idea is always to push every other thought away and wait for something to emerge from the silence. The problem is, with this guy's blade getting closer and closer to my body, it's hard to keep my fear under control.
"Before I cut off those precious little titties," he continues, "I think I should really get into the bone, you know? Let the blade sing. I swear to God, there's no feeling in the world quite as satisfying as the jolt of the saw's handle when the blade first starts cutting into the bone. That's all I want, really... a little souvenir before I go for the kill. Just the tiniest piece of bone. Look!" He holds out his hand and shows me several small, discolored chunks of bone. "I take a piece from each girl before she dies. I'll make sure to get a nice big piece from you, as befits your status as by far my biggest catch to date. You'll have pride of place in my collection, Ms. Mason, even as your body rots on a pile."
My heart is racing as I close my eyes and try to work out what to do. I can't afford to panic; instead, I need to keep my mind together and focus on finding a way out. I've always been able to look at things differently, to see angles that no-one else can see, and I need to -
"There!" Gazade says, and I feel the bone-saw slice through the flesh on my side and start grinding into my pelvis. There's a split second of shock, as if the adrenalin is preventing the pain from reaching me and all I can feel is the serrated edge of the blade cutting through my bone; soon, however, the pain comes, smashing its way through my body and threatening to overwhelm my senses. I bite down hard on the gag, but nothing can quieten the agony.
Although I try to scream and break free, there's nothing I can do as I hear the blade cutting its way through my bone. Finally, however, as I try to get my hands loose from the ropes, I realize that although the rope is tied firmly to the table leg, the table leg itself seems to be loose. Trying to push past the pain, I focus all my strength on getting the wood away, and suddenly I feel a jolt as it breaks free from the main part of the table. Before Gazade can work out what's happening, and with the table starting to tilt, I swing the loose leg at him, catching him on the side of the head and knocking him clear down to the floor.
