Till Murder Do Us Part

by James Patterson

  Meanwhile, Augie stands there staring at Mark. Speechless. Uneasy.

  “Whatcha lookin’ at?” Mark asks with a smirk. “See something you like?”

  “Not funny,” Augie replies. “Just hurry up and let’s get rid of this stuff, okay?”

  When both boxes have been filled to the brim, Augie and Mark each lift one and carry them outside. Mark suggests simply leaving them at the curb to be picked up with the trash the following week. But Augie says that’s not good enough. He gets Mark to drive to a large dumpster he noticed on his way over; it’s outside a residential construction site a few blocks away. They open the lid and drop the boxes inside. They land with a heavy thud.

  “Free at last!” Mark exclaims, dusting off his hands. “Thanks again for your help, dude. Hey, want to go grab some breakfast and do some witnessing? I saw a bunch of skaters hanging around a 7-Eleven not far from here the other day. Maybe we mix it up this time, skip the beaches and try there?”

  Normally Augie would jump at the idea. But today he politely declines.

  After the stream of troubling images he’s just seen, all he wants to do is go home, hug his wife, and pray.

  Chapter 18

  Early March, 1991

  Mark rolls over with a grunt. He kicks at his covers. He pounds his pillow.

  Glancing at the digital clock radio next to his bed, he sees that it’s almost three o’clock in the morning. He’s been tossing and turning for hours, unable to fall asleep.

  It started about six weeks ago, and it’s been happening almost every night.

  Mark feels as though his mind is on fire. He can’t stop thinking about the state of his life. About how much living he’s done in his twenty-four years. About how much everything has changed, and how quickly. How much he’s gained by dedicating himself to Jesus, but how much he’s had to suffer and lose along the way. His career. His fame. His fortune. His friends.

  And of course his girlfriend.

  Even all these months after their breakup, picturing Brandi McClain still fills Mark with a deep, indescribable longing.

  And imagining her sleeping with other men triggers a vast, simmering rage.

  Just because Mark asked Brandi for forgiveness doesn’t mean that he’s forgiven her. Not by a mile. He’s still incensed when he thinks back to how closed-minded she was about his religious rebirth, especially after all they’d been through. How she refused to convert, or even entertain the idea of going to church or staying celibate. How one single, brief, minor physical scuffle one evening was all it took for her to dump him and move out.

  And then—within days, practically—she had completely moved on!

  To Mark, Brandi hopping into another man’s bed so soon after leaving his was the most painful part of all. She probably did it just to spite me! he thinks. And who knows how many other guys she’s been with since?

  Mark slams his fists against his mattress. He wants Brandi back, desperately. But he knows he can’t have her. Not now. Not ever.

  Still, how could that bitch be so cruel?!

  That’s it. Mark can’t take it anymore.

  He bolts up in bed and shoots to his feet, knowing exactly what he needs to do.

  After pacing his bedroom for a good fifteen minutes, amping himself up, he puts on some clothes, slips out of his condo, and gets in his car.

  The drive from Carlsbad to Canyon Lake would normally take around ninety minutes. But in the middle of the night, zooming along the eerily empty freeways, Mark is able to get there in under an hour. As he pulls up to the guardhouse at the entrance to Brandi’s mother and stepfather’s gated community, a portly security guard appears at the window.

  “Can I help you, son?”

  “Yeah. My name’s Mark Anthony. My friend Brandi McClain lives here. She’s got a really early flight out of Lindbergh this morning. She asked me to give her a ride?”

  The guard squints at Mark and then flips through pages on a clipboard.

  “Last name was ‘Anthony,’ you said? I don’t see you on the guest list.”

  “Seriously? Come on. I’ve been here a million times. You can check the log.”

  The guard frowns. Not buying Mark’s bluff. He picks up a phone.

  “Just one second. Let me give the McClains a quick call—”

  “Dude. Do you really want to wake the whole house up at four fifteen in the morning? Look, her flight is in, like, two hours. If she misses it, she’s gonna kill both of us. Just let me through, okay? Brandi’s waiting for me. I’ll be in and out in ten minutes, tops.”

  The security guard hesitates. Then he hangs up the phone. A few seconds later, the metal gate lifts and Mark cruises on through.

  Mark soon pulls up, slowly, quietly, in front of Brandi’s house. The last time he was here—to pick her up for their aborted dinner date a few weeks ago—she was waiting for him out on the steps. Now she’s probably in her bedroom, fast asleep.

  And she has no idea he’s coming for her.

  Mark gets out and approaches the side of the house.

  Gazing up at her window now, he visualizes Brandi lying in her bed. Curled up beneath her comforter. Naked, of course. So peaceful. So vulnerable.

  Mark shuts his eyes and imagines creeping up next to her.

  Reaching out his hands.

  Wrapping them around her neck.

  Mark savors the twisted fantasy of Brandi choking, writhing, and gagging as he squeezes, harder and harder. He pictures himself wringing the last drops of life from his bitch of an ex-girlfriend. When it’s all over, Mark finally feels a sense of calm. Peace. Freedom.

  Mark opens his eyes, resolving to do it now for real.

  But when he tries to take a step toward the house, his feet won’t budge.

  It’s as if some kind of strong yet invisible spiritual force is stopping him.

  Mark tries again. He wills his body to move. To obey his command.

  But he remains motionless.

  All at once, Mark is overcome by a profound sense of guilt and shame. Tears spring from his eyes. He shuts them again—and this time says a silent prayer, thanking God for holding him back from committing such a horrible, unforgivable act.

  Almost miraculously, Mark regains control of his muscles.

  He spins on a dime, gets back into his car, and speeds away into the night.

  Chapter 19

  March 20, 1991

  Twenty-one-year-old Jessica Bergsten hangs her last dress in the closet and zips shut her now-empty suitcase. She can’t wait to unpack the rest of her clothes and belongings, but they’ll have to stay in boxes and other suitcases until she has a chance to buy furniture.

  Looking around the small, sunny apartment she’s just moved into, Jessica tries to envision how she’s going to decorate—which quickly turns into fantasizing about the exciting new life that lies ahead.

  After contemplating the decision for what felt like forever, she’s finally made the leap from Arizona to Southern California!

  Jessica knows she has so much to do. Jobs to apply for, modeling agents to submit to, new friends to make. But then something dawns on her. She might be able to jump-start all of that with a single phone call.

  After rummaging through some cardboard boxes, she digs out her leather-bound address book and makes a call.

  On the fifth ring, a man groggily picks up. “Hello?”

  “Hi, is this, um…Gator Rogowski?”

  “I haven’t gone by either of those names in a long time. Who’s asking?”

  “Oh. It’s Jessica. Jessica Bergsten. I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m a good friend of Brandi McClain’s. We met at a skate party in Phoenix, like, four years ago?”

  After a solid six-second pause, Mark Rogowski exclaims, “Jess! Yeah, of course I remember you. Brandi used to talk about you all the time. How’s it going?”

  “Really great, Mark, thanks! So, the reason I’m calling is…I know this is a little out of the blue…but I actually just moved to San Diego! I
don’t really know anybody here, though—besides Brandi, of course. But we haven’t talked in, like, forever. I don’t even have her number anymore.”

  “Yeah. Me neither.”

  “Anyway…I know it’s been a while, but I was hoping maybe you and I could grab a bite or something? I’m sure you’re super busy, but maybe you could show me around the city, point out some fun places to hang out and party? You always seemed to know all the coolest underground spots.”

  There’s another pause on the line. An even longer one this time.

  Then Mark replies, “I’d love to.”

  Jessica thrusts the cordless phone she’s holding into the air and does a short victory dance. After moving to town less than a week ago, she’s already hanging out with one of the raddest San Diegans she’s ever met!

  Mark says he happens to be free that afternoon and suggests they grab lunch. He even offers to pick Jessica up from her new place in Pacific Beach. Jessica says she couldn’t be more excited—or grateful.

  She’s just about finished getting ready—brushing her shoulder-length blond hair, applying mascara to highlight her bright blue eyes—when she hears the friendly toot of a car horn outside.

  Mark, who’s even more handsome now than Jessica remembers, drives them about ten minutes to a cozy Italian bistro along the waterfront in La Jolla. Snagging a parking spot right out front, Mark carefully locks his steering wheel with the Club and then insists on walking around to the passenger side and opening Jessica’s door for her. She giggles, enjoying the gentlemanly act.

  Over eggplant Parmesan and caprese salad, the two near strangers catch up. By the meal’s end, they’ve practically become old pals. Their conversation flows as easily as the bottle of wine they share.

  Jessica is dazzled by Mark’s tales of his former pro-skater glory. She’s saddened that he and Brandi have broken up and lost touch, but deeply moved by his story of finding religion after his accident in Germany. Her past few years in Arizona, Jessica tells him, haven’t been nearly as eventful. She’s mostly spent them working a string of part-time jobs and partying. That’s a big reason she decided to move to San Diego in the first place: to break out of her routine; to jump-start a new life; and to pursue her dream of modeling, as Brandi did.

  “Well, if she can do it, you can, too!” Mark says. “You look just like her. Always have.”

  Their lunch stretches on for almost two hours, but their day together is just getting started. Mark drives Jessica all over the city, showing her his favorite beaches, bars, parks, hangouts, and of course Calvary Chapel, his beloved church.

  At around dusk, Mark invites Jessica to come over and hang at his Carlsbad condo. She’s having such a good time with this attractive, charming guy, she couldn’t possibly say no.

  They stop to rent some movies and buy a few bottles of wine. Back at his place, Mark pops a cork and then pops in a film. Jessica sits next to him on the sofa—and by the movie’s end, she has snuggled up close.

  “This has been such a fun day, Mark,” Jessica says, yawning and reaching for her purse. “It’s getting late…but I really hope we can do it again sometime.”

  “Me, too, Jess. Me, too.”

  “Do you think you could give me a ride home?”

  For a moment, Mark doesn’t answer. He simply stares at Jessica, his expression cloudy and intense. Then, just as suddenly, he brightens.

  “Sure. Happy to. But, shit, you know what?” Mark pats the pockets of his jeans. “I think I left my wallet in the car, with my license in it. Why don’t you gather up your stuff, and I’ll go check and be right back?”

  Jessica does so as Mark exits his condo. A few minutes later, she’s wandered over to the mantel in his living room to examine some old framed photographs.

  “This picture of you skydiving is so awesome, Mark!” she calls to him when she hears the front door open. “I’ve always wanted to try, but I’m way too—”

  Jessica turns to see Mark striding ominously toward her.

  He’s holding the Club, its red steel glinting under the room’s light.

  “Mark…?! What are you—oh, my God, no!”

  Mark raises the Club and swings with all his might.

  He makes contact with the back of Jessica’s skull.

  Mark swings again. Then a third time.

  Jessica crumples to the living room floor.

  Chapter 20

  Mark tosses the Club aside and glares down at Jessica’s body, curled up on the floor in a limp, twisted heap.

  A stream of blood is flowing from the massive gash on the back of her head, already seeping into the beige living room carpet.

  Mark stands there, breathing heavily, his heart rate at a gallop.

  Slowly he begins to process the sheer horror of what he’s just done—and why.

  He can’t quite explain it, but it was as if something just came over him. Some kind of force. Blindingly vengeful. Ineffably evil.

  Looking at Jessica just a few minutes ago, he felt completely overwhelmed by it.

  And in that moment, Mark saw a brief but vivid flash of Brandi.

  Not surprisingly, since the two women resemble each other in so many ways. Both are tall and thin. Both are blond and beautiful.

  And both, Mark thinks, are sneakily seductive. Sinful. Wicked. Sacrilegious.

  Jessica…Brandi…Jessica…Brandi… In Mark’s twisted mind, in that split second, the two women became one and the same.

  All his pent-up jealousy, rage, and pain exploded.

  “Look what you made me do!” Mark roars at Jessica’s crumpled body. “Both of you!” Thanks to his stupid ex, this poor other girl, a person he barely knows, is…

  Wait. Is she moving?

  Incredibly, Jessica appears to still be—just barely—alive.

  Mark watches as she wheezes and whimpers, twitches and squirms.

  As she does, his eyes wander slowly up and down the aspiring model’s slender, enticing body.

  Another powerful force begins to stir inside him.

  In a second fit of fury, Mark bends down, scoops Jessica into his arms—and then hauls her across the living room, up the stairs, and into his bedroom.

  He flings her unconscious body onto his bed and then rummages around a box in the back of his closet until he finds what he’s looking for.

  A pair of metal handcuffs and a set of leather shackles.

  Mark stretches out Jessica’s limbs and binds them to the bedposts.

  Then he cuts off all her clothes with a pair of scissors.

  Mark rapes Jessica—over and over, again and again. Over the next several hours, he commits every sex act he can imagine upon her defenseless body. Sometimes he pictures images from his deviant porn collection. Sometimes he thinks it’s Brandi he’s punishing. Other times, his mind hazy and warped, Mark barely thinks about anything at all.

  For most of the horrific ordeal, Jessica is passed out, or semiconscious.

  And then she starts to wake up.

  Despite the unimaginable agony she must be in, Jessica begs Mark to stop. She implores him to uncuff her, to let her go. Please. Please.

  But Mark doesn’t want to let her go. In fact, Jessica’s cries only make him angrier. More driven. More sadistic in his desire to take out his violent revenge on this innocent stand-in.

  Soon Jessica’s pleas turn to screams—desperate and primal.

  Mark tries to muffle her mouth with one hand, but it’s no use. She continues crying out for help at the top of her lungs.

  He checks the digital clock radio by his bed. He’s been raping Jessica for nearly three full hours. It’s now the middle of the night—and if she doesn’t shut up soon, Mark is afraid the neighbors will call the cops.

  Mark gets up from his bed, returns to his closet, and grabs an oversize surfboard bag.

  He unlocks Jessica’s handcuffs and shackles, but before she can escape, he shoves her nude body off the bed and into the bag.

  Panicking, Jessica yells louder th
an ever, using every last drop of her strength to try fighting Mark off—thrashing, kicking, clawing.

  But it’s no use.

  Straddling his terrified victim, Mark places one hand over her mouth and another around her throat. He squeezes both tightly. Gradually, Jessica stops resisting.

  As her last gasp escapes, Mark removes his hands and stares down at her bloody, battered body.

  This time, he’s certain of it.

  Jessica Bergsten is dead.

  He’s killed her, just as he fantasized about murdering Brandi.

  Mark zips up the surfboard bag, gets dressed, and hauls Jessica’s body downstairs. He has to get rid of all the evidence. Fast. Making sure the coast is clear, he exits his condo and stuffs the bag and the other evidence into his car trunk.

  Mark doesn’t have a plan at this point—except to drive as fast and as far away from here as he can, in search of the perfect dumping ground.

  He spends the next two hours in a feverish haze, cruising on mental autopilot along a series of freeways. He heads south and then east, away from the sprawl of San Diego and toward the vast, craggy, punishing U.S.-Mexico borderlands.

  There’s no particular reason Mark pulls off the sleepy two-lane desert highway when he does. He doesn’t know this patch of dirt better than any other for hundreds of miles in either direction. But he does know that dawn will be breaking soon. Better to bury the body here, he thinks, under cover of darkness, than go further out in daylight.

  Mark parks, lifts the bag out of his trunk, and drags Jessica’s body along the rocky sand. Just before reaching a small ravine off a dry riverbed, he uses his bare hands to scoop out a shallow grave.

  Then he unzips the surfboard bag and dumps Jessica’s naked corpse into the grave.

  Back on the freeway now, speeding home, Mark tosses blood-splattered evidence—his clothes, the surfboard bag, and his Club—out the window at separate, random intervals.