Helen brings her arm holding the flashlight up to her face and wipes the tears from her eyes. She takes a deep breath and holds it.
She fires. This time she shoots him square in the chest. It stops him for a moment, but he doesn’t go down. He continues toward her.
Helen then remembers what her father told her, “Empty the gun into him! Don’t stop firing until the son of a bitch is dead!”
There are three more bullets in the gun. Helen fires them off in rapid succession. At such close range, she doesn’t miss; all three shots enter his chest. Kyle crashes to the ground with a thud.
After the echoes of gunshots fade away, all is silent.
Helen moves the flashlight beam over Kyle’s body. There is blood everywhere. He lies there motionless. Surely, he is dead.
“Good work,” says a voice in the darkness.
Helen is so startled she drops the flashlight.
“It didn’t matter which one of you killed who, though. I’d have to kill whoever survived. If he succeeded in killing you, he would have been mine to kill. But seeing how you were more resourceful…”
The voice is dark, gruff, and, oh, so familiar. It is him. He steps into the clearing, past the shadows, and into the moonlight. Helen can barely make out his silhouette, but even in such poor light, she sees the shape of his head covered with a black ski mask.
Helen quickly raises her arm and points the gun. She pulls the trigger again and again, only to hear a series of metal clicks.
“That’s why it’s called a six-shooter, you stupid bitch!” he says as he swings the back of his hand around, knocking the gun from her grip. The pistol goes flying off into the woods.
“I hereby call this meeting to order,” he growls. “Our first and last course of action is to disband our club with the death of each of its members…including our one and only honorary female member…Nancy!” He grabs both of her arms and pulls her into himself. “All those in favor, say ‘aye’!”
Helen feels his hot breath on her face. His hands are all over her body – not caressing, but grabbing and pulling. She desperately tries to get away, but he is too strong. She can’t back away from him enough to use her arms and hands to defend herself. In desperation, she brings her knee up fast and hard into his groin. He lets out a painful grunt and falls to the ground, landing on top of Kyle’s body. When his hold on her weakens, Helen pulls free and then starts running back down the path toward the lake.
Darkness is all around. Again and again she falls, tripping over rocks and stones and fallen trees cluttering the path. Branches on both sides of her tear and rip at her flesh. Her foot comes down on a large rock. She twists her ankle and hears the bone crack. Lying there, she hears him in close pursuit behind her. She forces herself to stand and continue; the pain is excruciating.
Her mind is racing. In her confusion, she hears a voice – a familiar voice – it is the voice of Carmen. “What’s with women and kicking guys in the balls?” Carmen’s voice is in her head. “I think they just like doing it. …It don’t work. I kicked my guy in the balls, and all it did was make him madder.”
Helen remembers Carmen’s advice.
“When he’s on top of you, act like you’re enjoying it. When his guard is down, ram both your thumbs into the outer side of his eye sockets…hard…till both his eyeballs pop out! It’s the only way!”
Slapping branches across her face brings Helen back to the present. She hears him close behind, cursing, getting closer every second. She tries to go faster, hobbling down the path, but every time she brings down her injured foot, the pain runs through her like a bolt of lightning. She dares not fall again for fear she may not get up again. She must run past the pain, no matter how intense it is.
When she comes to the end of the path and again in the open, she hears him only a few feet behind her. She is just about to turn to her left toward her car, but with a broken ankle, there is no way she can outrun him for that distance.
With only one course of action left to take, she hops onto the diving board, works her way to the end, and jumps into the water.
She immediately goes under; the water rushes up her nose and into her mouth. She feels water entering her lungs; it makes her cough, which makes her take in more water.
Finally, she begins waving her arms, desperately trying to make her way to the surface. When she hits the air, she howls as she takes in much-needed air.
She points herself toward the white platform in the middle of the lake. She begins moving her arms and legs in a motion similar to the way she has seen other people do – people who know how to swim.
When she is only a few feet from the raft, she hears a large splash in the water – he’s dived in after her. As on land, in the water she is no match for him. Seconds later, he is on her, pulling her down, trying to drown her. She struggles, but his weight pressing down on her is too much. She moves her arms and legs, frantically trying to return to the surface. By sheer luck, her elbow smashes into his neck; he begins choking.
Helen uses the time he takes to recoup to make her way to the raft. When she reaches it, she grabs the short metal ladder and starts up. But just as she scales the last wrung, he is on her. This time, he grabs her leg at the ankle – the broken ankle. He pulls hard, trying to get her back into the water. Helen screams in pain.
Finally, she pulls herself free and lands on top of the raft. She tries to stand, but the pain in her ankle makes it impossible. She falls down, helpless.
An instant later, he comes up the ladder. He is soaking wet. The water-drenched ski mask is heavy and drooping over his head; the cutout in the material for his mouth no longer lines up with his lips; and neither do the holes for the eyes.
“You bitch, I’ll make you sorry you were ever born,” he says as he comes crashing down on top of her.
With one hand he pulls at her clothes, ripping them away from her; with the other hand he works at his pants’ zipper, trying to get himself free. His entire bodyweight on her, Helen can barely move.
To his surprise, she stops her struggle. This takes him off guard. He stops what he’s doing, trying to make sense of what is happening.
Helen brings both her hands to his face and begins caressing him through the ski mask. She moves under him in a sensual manner. She coos with delight. He looks down at her.
“You bitch, you like this, don’t you?” he says triumphantly.
“Oh baby…you’re so gooood,” she purrs.
He is just about to resume, when he senses her movement. He quickly grabs her left arm at the wrist and pulls her hand from his face. But, he reacts too late; Helen gouges the thumb of her right hand into the outer side of his eye socket. Her thumbnail acts like a knife, cutting through the moist flesh around his eye. She doesn’t stop pressing hard and forward until her entire thumb is deep into the socket. She feels her knuckle pressing against his eyeball. With one last motion forward, the eye pops out and hangs along the side of his face by a thin strand of flesh – blood gushes from the opening. He grabs her wrist and pulls her hand out and away, and then jumps to his feet.
He stands there holding his hands over his eye socket. He tries for a moment to place the eye back in; but in his hysteria, only causes the frail skin attached to the eye to break. The eye falls to his feet – more blood flows.
“You bitch! You bitch!” he howls. “I’m going to kill you with my bare hands!”
Suddenly, there is a flash of light. A loud gunshot echoes like thunder. A burst of blood shoots from his chest. Again, another shot, another echo, another burst of blood. Three more bullets ring out, two more into his chest and the third square in the middle of his forehead. He hits the wooden surface with a loud thud. He lies motionless and dead. All is silent. Then a voice calls to Helen from the shoreline.
“Everything is all right. …Stay there. …Don’t move. …I’ll come out to get you!”
She is in no condition to respond and much too afraid to believe a strange voice from faraway sayin
g “everything is all right.” She rolls to the edge of the platform, and with one swift effort falls off.
In the water, Helen realizes she is unable to swim. She feels herself sinking deeper and deeper into dark waters. At that moment, nothing matters. She no longer cares if she lives or dies. She is about to give up, open her mouth, and swallow as much water as she can, fast as she can, and end it all, when her will to live grows and she starts to flap her arms. She works her way to the surface. The need for air overcomes her and she fears she won’t make it. Suddenly, a hand grabs her by the wrist and pulls her up.
She feels strong hands lifting her out of the water and into a small boat. She fills her needy lungs with sweet, precious air. She strains her eyes to see who her savior is, but her eyes will not focus.
A spinning sensation comes over her, and she feels herself falling into a faint. She fights against it, but something tells her she is out of danger, so she allows the feeling to overtake her. Her eyes close as she slips into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Face behind the Flash
Helen wakes to find herself in bed – a hospital bed. It takes her a moment to focus. She turns to see Angela sitting in a chair at her bedside. Angela jumps to her feet and takes hold of Helen’s hand.
“We’ve got to stop meeting this way,” Angela jokes, smiling at her friend. But lighthearted sentiment is lost on Helen who busts into tears. Angela leans over and takes her in her arms.
“Cry if you need to. …Cry all you want…but it’s over. …It’s really over this time.”
Helen tries to compose herself. She looks around the room – Goebel and Benson are standing at the foot of her bed.
“If this is a bad time, we can come back tomorrow?” Benson says to Angela as well as Helen.
“No, don’t go, I need to know what happened!” Helen says.
“She doesn’t know?” Goebel directs his question to Angela.
“Of course not. How could she?”
An outward show of awkwardness comes over the two officers.
“You see, Mrs. Haywood, It seems you had a guardian angel watching over you all the while,” Benson says. “Don Hastings, Carol Hastings’ husband, has been following and watching you from afar for months. After his wife’s murder, he swore revenge. When he learned your assailant was still in contact with you, he bided his time, watching from a safe distance. …His hunting rifle always close by in his car.
“He followed you out to the lake last night. He waited onshore, aiming his rifle toward the raft, waiting for the assailant to stand so he could get a clear shot at him. When he did, he let the bastard have it.
“It was he who fished you out of the water and drove you here,” concludes Benson.
“But who was…he?” Helen asks.
Before anyone can say another word, the door flies open. Helen’s mother comes storming in. She waves her arms about, tears running down her checks. She speaks in melodramatic tones, as if addressing her own private audience.
“Sweetheart…Darling… my poor baby…don’t worry. Mother’s here!” She runs to Helen’s bedside, leans over, and kisses both her cheeks. “My poor, Helen, what can Mommy do to make it better?”
Helen’s mother is in rare form, perhaps a little too overdone even for her.
“My poor child,” she continues, “what can I do? I’ve tried…God knows how I’ve tried. All your life, I’ve done everything in my power to keep you safe…and now this. I knew this was going to happen…I just knew it!”
“Mother, what are you saying?” Helen tries to interrupt, but her mother ignores her and continues to ramble on.
“I just knew something like this would happen someday. If I told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times…I warned him about those boys. I told him…”
Helen reaches out taking a hard grip on her mother’s arm and shakes her until she stops talking and pays attention to her.
“Mother, what are you talking about?”
Her mother looks at her with surprise, as if she does not understand how her daughter doesn’t understand what she is saying.
“Why, your father, of course. I warned him years ago…if he didn’t stop, there would be trouble. First time I saw him with you, when you were a little girl, I told him if he ever laid his hands on you again, I’d leave him! And he stopped…for a long time. Then when I found out about that time out at the lake, with those terrible boys and that filthy brother of his, I threatened to walk out on him. I was going take the baby, I said, walk out on him and never come back. And as far as I know, he never did it again.”
Helen cries as she listens. She sees the look in her mother’s eyes, a look of madness, as if this has been the final push needed to send her over the edge.
“Oh, I let him keep those filthy pictures, but I warned him never to touch the little girl…never ever touch her again, and he never did, not until now. I didn’t know…I swear I didn’t know!”
Her mother’s words set her memory on fire. Many horrid things she kept hidden from herself now flood her mind. Images locked away now feel like yesterday.
She remembers being a frail, skinny, little girl. She remembers more clearly that day at the lake. There is a flash in front of her eyes, the flash of a camera. The camera moves away, and she sees the smiling face of her father.
“I swear I didn’t know,” her mother continues. “I’ve done all a mother could do! I told him I’d leave him! And now he’s dead. …He should have listened to me!”
Her mother sobs uncontrollably. Angela gently guides her to the door.
Goebel and Benson slip out of the room silently.
Angel turns to face Helen. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She ushers the old woman out.
“Don’t worry. …Take your time. …I’ll be all right…I’ll be all right,” Helen calls out, and something deep inside her believes it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Whatever I Want to Do
Dodson walks into Max’s Tavern and looks around. He feels relieved to see the lunch crowd long since cleared out. He walks over to the bar where Max is the lone bartender on duty.
“Hey, Maxie, how’s it hanging?” smiles Dodson.
“How’s what hanging?” Max asks, dumbfounded.
“You know…it!”
“What is…it?”
Dodson shakes it off.
“Never mind, Maxie. Tell me, where can I find Holmes and Watson?”
“If you’re referring to the Rover Boys, they’re in the back working on a second pitcher of beer.” Max points his bar rag toward the backroom.
“Thanks, Maxie,” Dodson says as he walks off.
“You want anything…a Grasshopper?” Maxie calls to him.
“Nah, I think I’ll have a Pink Lady.”
Dodson disappears into the backroom.
Max shrugs his shoulders and starts to thumb through his bartender’s guide looking for a recipe for a Pink Lady.
Dodson finds Goebel and Benson sitting in one of the booths. They have made good work of the second pitcher of beer. A head of white foam at the bottom is the only evidence left.
“Scoot over,” Dodson says as he sits down next to Benson. “I’ve heard from Vega that the Haywood case is closed. So…what happened?”
“It would take too long to explain,” Goebel says.
“Hey, I ain’t going anywhere. Besides, I busted my hump helping you two on this case. I deserve to get the lowdown.”
Just then, Max walks up with a full pitcher of beer and a tall champagne glass filled with a thick, milky pink liquid.
“I figured you guys could use a refill by now.” He places the pitcher center stage. Then he puts the drink in front of Dodson, “And a Pink Lady…for the lady.”
“Hey, I like cream drinks! So quit busting my chops,” Dodson demands.
Maxi walks off, shaking his head.
“Okay, so you want the full story. Well, here it is,” Goebel says, pouring himself and hi
s partner another glass of beer.
“It seems Mrs. Haywood’s father, Tom Russell, and his brother Jerry, were a couple of perverts. Say…I just realized something. Their names are Tom and Jerry…ain’t that a cartoon or something?”
“Yeah, it is!” laughs Benson, taking a sip of beer. It is obvious the two are getting tipsy.
“Cut the crap, you two, and finish the story,” insists Dodson.
“Well, as my partner was trying to tell you,” Benson continues the story, “The two brothers were a couple of perverts. They probably had been messed up since they were children themselves…that kind of thing can perpetuate from generation to generation. Anyway, they both had this thing for young boys.
“Both brothers dated or married weak, undemanding women – someone they could control. They didn’t like women much, but it was a good way to keep up social appearances. Besides, this gave them a continuing supply of young children, which was their victims of choice.”
“A family affair,” Goebel slurs his words, “real sick bastards.”
“As I was saying,” continues Benson, “and their victim of choice was young boys. Tom must have put a cramp in their style when he fathered a daughter. Jerry even went so far as to have an extramarital affair with Joyce Adams, particularly to have another son. That’s how Kyle came into the picture…Victor and Nicholas’ half-brother.”
“Real sick bastards,” Goebel adds.
“The Russell brothers, Tom and Jerry, went on for years molesting and terrorizing their own children, without anyone the wiser. They both held a good standing within the community. Their women, wives and mistress, turned a deaf ear and a blind eye to what was happening right under their noses, lest they be turned out in the cold without a red cent.
“When the boys began to approach their teen years, the two brothers upgraded their operation. They moved everything down into Jerry’s cellar where they started taking photos. They also made the boys recruit other young boys from school…getting them drunk and having their way with them. Surprisingly, no one ever spoke up…that’s the power of shame.
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