The Murderers' Club

by P. D. Martin

  I recork the bottle, using a wine pump so it won’t spoil, and move to the couch. I break the silence by turning on the TV, flicking through the channels to try to find something that will hold my interest and distract me from more sinister thoughts like rape statistics. I fly through the stations, pausing on each one only for a couple of seconds. Nothing captivates me, but maybe that’s more reflective of my mood than the programming. I settle on the news and finish my glass of wine before washing the dishes.

  Finally I call home.

  “Hi, Mum.”

  “Hi, sweetie.” I can hear the excitement in her voice. “Great to hear from you. How’s life in the good old US of A?”

  “Great, everything’s great.” I never did tell Mum and Dad about what happened. It would totally freak them out. Then they’d spend all their time trying to convince me to give up the Bureau. At first I didn’t tell them because I couldn’t deal with reliving those few weeks. Then I realized it would open up a can of worms, with lots of “we told you so” and pressure to quit. And now…well, now it seems too late.

  “And work?” Her tone changes. She’s asking because she knows it’s the right thing to do, because she knows it’s important to me, not because she’s really interested. They never wanted me in this line of work.

  “Love it.” I keep it simple. “So, what’s news in Melbourne?” I lean back against the couch.

  “Mmm.” She pauses. “Your dad’s still going stir-crazy.”

  I laugh. “That’s old news, Mum.” Dad retired six months ago and he’s still readjusting to life on the outside. I think life as a retiree is as foreign to him as life on the outside of a prison for a career criminal.

  I hear the unmistakable click of another phone being picked up.

  “How’s my little girl?” Dad’s American accent has softened over the years, but you can still hear the unmistakable twang of his roots.

  “I’m good, Dad.”

  “Hope you’re not working on any dangerous cases.” His voice is serious now, concerned.

  I draw out my words in a singsong voice. “No, Dad.” It’s not a lie. I’m not working on any dangerous cases right now.

  “We do worry about you.” Mum follows this with a sigh.

  “I’m fine.” Silence. “Really, I am.” I chew on my bottom lip, catching it and releasing it a few times with my two front teeth.

  “Are you looking forward to your holiday?” Dad moves the conversation to a less controversial subject.

  I let my head sink back further into the couch and release my lip. “You bet. It’s only a week but it will be nice to get away.”

  We spend the next twenty minutes engaged in our usual chitchat. By the time I hang up, I feel comforted. But within minutes the silence engulfs me again. I look at my watch. Too early for bed. I try channel surfing again, but in the end I opt for reading. I grab my latest Kathryn Deans novel and curl up on the couch, with the heater on low. I fly through the book, turning pages and only occasionally looking over my shoulder.

  I wake up with a start and immediately look around the room to make sure I’m alone. I’m still on the couch and my book lies on the floor. A small drop of saliva sits on the corner of my mouth and I notice that the cushion I’d propped underneath my head and shoulders is slightly damp. Nice. Drooling in my sleep.

  I change into my gym gear, like I do most nights when I can’t sleep, and throw my gun, a bottle of water, a towel and my gloves into a small bag. Up on the fifteenth-floor gym I do a few stretches before jumping on the treadmill. For the first five minutes I gradually increase my pace and then up the speed until I’m pushing myself—hard. An hour and ten miles later I slow the treadmill to a walking pace and guzzle some water. My legs are shaky, and I’m barely able to stand. I ride the slight nausea with more water before slipping into my protective gloves and moving over to the punching bag. I go through my kung fu punches on the bag, starting with straight punches and moving on to hooks, tiger punches—which use the heel of your palm as the impact point—uppercuts, back fists, and leopard punches with bent fingers so you’re striking with your knuckles. I finish up with my favorite, scratching face—a tiger strike followed by a sharp drag. In practice you’d strike the person’s cheekbone or temple with the palm of your hand, then drag your hand down their face, digging your nails in. Nice.

  Back in my apartment I check the place once more, gun in hand, before jumping in the shower. Finally I flop into bed and stare at the ceiling, waiting for the adrenaline to level off. Logically, exercising is not a good move for insomnia, but it seems to be the only thing that calms me, that helps me release the anger.

  If I hadn’t killed the bastard already, I’d do it now.

  NeverCaught: I thought Wednesday would never **ing come.

  DialM: Really? I think the first week has passed by quite swiftly.

  AmericanPsycho: So, nearly one week down, who do we like?

  BlackWidow: Well, you can count me out on Danny. The guy’s an asshole—worse than most.

  NeverCaught: You are some man hater.

  DialM: I personally have grown quite fond of Ling over this past week.

  BlackWidow: Is it the accent?

  DialM: I do like the Australian accent, but it’s more than that. Rare is the union of beauty and modesty.

  BlackWidow: What’s her story anyway?

  AmericanPsycho: Haven’t you checked out her bio?

  BlackWidow: I haven’t bothered with the women.

  DialM: She’s eighteen years old. She’s in the U.S. for six months before she starts studying medicine back in Sydney, Australia. She’s adopted from China—both her adoptive parents are from Italian stock.

  BlackWidow: Thanks.

  DialM: Who do you like, Psycho?

  AmericanPsycho: Brigitte.

  DialM: She is a beauty, that one.

  AmericanPsycho: Yes. It’s time.

  DialM: What if we go for Danny? I don’t like the fact he’s got army training.

  BlackWidow: Like I said, I’m out. I like to play with them first, and I couldn’t DO him.

  NeverCaught: Who cares about Danny? It’s Brigitte that I want. She’s hot.

  AmericanPsycho: I think I’m more her type.

  NeverCaught: Like she’s got a say in it.

  DialM: True.

  AmericanPsycho: I think it should be Malcolm or Danny first, just to make things more interesting.

  DialM: Not much pleasure in it. Well not for me at least.

  NeverCaught: Hey, Psycho, do we get to watch the actual deed?

  AmericanPsycho: The successful member can take video and still images of the kill, but you mustn’t show us your face. Or you can keep it private.

  NeverCaught: I like to strut my stuff.

  AmericanPsycho: Your member kits included a digital camera. There are instructions on how to post photos to the Web site via your laptops. We also have a house especially set up. Somewhere private you can take them. But there are no cameras in the house.

  BlackWidow: You have thought of everything, Psycho.

  AmericanPsycho: Of course I have.

  NeverCaught: Only a few hours until one of us has the first victim of the Murderers’ Club.

  BlackWidow: I can’t wait.

  3

  The sound of my phone ringing wakes me up and I look at my watch—8:00 a.m. How did I sleep so late? More to the point, I’m late for work! I give my alarm clock the evil eye, even though it’s probably human error, my error.

  I take a breath and answer the phone. “Hello.” I try to fake an awake, bright voice but don’t know if I pull it off or not.

  “Sophie. Sorry, did I wake you?”

  Okay, so I didn’t pull it off. “No. Of course not,” I lie.

  “How are you?”

  My sluggish mind finally comes out of its stupor and I recognize the voice. “Good thanks, Darren. And you?”

  I worked with Detective Darren Carter from Tucson Homicide on the DC Slasher case. He’s a
good cop and a nice guy. In fact, if I hadn’t already been involved with someone at the time, our relationship might have extended beyond the professional. But I was taken, full stop.

  “Pretty good,” he says. “Still planning on heading out this way for some R & R?” His voice is slightly hesitant—maybe he thought I’d cancel.

  “Of course.” I get out of bed. “Flying out Friday…God, that’s tomorrow.”

  He laughs. “Yes, it is.” A pause. “Had any of those dreams of yours recently?”

  Darren’s the only person who knows about my visions. He saw me “experience” a young girl’s murder during a particularly realistic vision. I still remember his words: My aunt had the gift and you’ve got it, too.

  “No, no dreams.”

  “That a good thing?”

  “The jury’s out.”

  “I can understand that,” Darren says.

  A big part of me feels overwhelming relief that I’m not dreaming about murdered women, not experiencing the perverted feelings of pleasure in the mind of a killer. It freaked me out big-time, even though it helped me solve the Slasher case. And that’s where the guilt comes in. It helped me save lives, so does that mean if I was dreaming and having waking visions now, I’d be saving victims from some other sick psycho?

  “So, are you working on anything interesting at the moment?” I move the conversation away from the visions.

  “We’ve got a professional hit. That’s unusual for us.”

  “Any leads?”

  “None to speak of.”

  “I guess that’s why they call it professional.”

  He laughs. “The good news is it looks like I’ve managed to wangle a few days off. I’ll show you the sights of Tucson.”

  “Excellent.” I pause. “Well, I better get moving—I’m late for work. I presume your spare bedroom’s still on offer.”

  “You bet. See you tomorrow.”

  “Nine a.m.”

  BlackWidow has entered the room.

  DialM: Finally she returns. Was it good, BW?

  BlackWidow: Yes. He didn’t even hesitate when I started coming on to him. Who could resist him, right? Men…your egos truly are out of control.

  NeverCaught: I almost feel sorry for Malcolm. Almost!

  BlackWidow: What about what you’re going to do to Cindy, Susie, Ling, Clair and Brigitte?

  NeverCaught: I wish I could have them all.

  DialM: What’s the house like?

  BlackWidow: Beautiful. Big, modern, quiet.

  AmericanPsycho has entered the room.

  BlackWidow: Hey, Psycho.

  AmericanPsycho: Nice work, BW. He looked very content. Satisfied.

  NeverCaught: Hey, how come we didn’t get to see photos?

  AmericanPsycho: I didn’t see a photo of Malcolm.

  BlackWidow: So you dumped the body?

  AmericanPsycho: He was disposed of in the early hours of this morning in Tucson, just like we agreed.

  BlackWidow: And the scene?

  AmericanPsycho: Also like we agreed. All the bodies will be found around the same area, with the same marks.

  BlackWidow: Malcolm was a great ***. And I did enjoy that body of his. Six-foot-four and all black, rippling muscle. I can see how he got his job.

  AmericanPsycho: Nice to know you’re a satisfied customer.

  BlackWidow: I’m satisfied, all right. And definitely no links to me, right?

  AmericanPsycho: I’ve taken care of everything. Trust me.

  I walk through Tucson airport, maneuvering my bag toward the pick-up area, where Darren and I have arranged to meet. I’m annoyed by the slight butterflies I feel over seeing Darren again and I walk faster in a futile attempt to look and feel focused.

  Before I make it to the automatic doors, I see him. He catches sight of me at exactly the same moment and walks toward me. My stomach does an extra flip—damn it. Darren hasn’t changed a bit—then again, it was only six months ago. He’s five-eleven and skinny, with slightly tousled black hair and midnight-blue eyes. His eyes are spectacular and I remember having to pull myself away from them on several occasions. He smiles, and even from here I can see his dimples, which make him look younger than his thirty-odd years. I sigh, trying to work out why I find his dimples so incredibly attractive. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  Once we’re within touching distance things become awkward. A kiss on the cheek? A hug? A handshake? There should be an in-between greeting for these sorts of circumstances. I go for the hug, figuring that’s the safest option. A handshake might offend and a kiss may have other implications. Too complicated, even though I guess I’m officially single now.

  “Hey, you,” he says, his big smile still firmly planted across his face.

  “Hi.”

  His hand reaches down in an offer to pull my wheelie bag.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “It’s light.” Besides, I’m not giving up my bag when it gives me something to do with at least one of my hands.

  We both start walking.

  “You’re looking well.” He glances at me briefly then looks ahead again.

  “You too. Fully healed of course.” I resist the urge to touch his left arm, which was in a sling last time I saw him.

  “A little bullet never hurt anyone.” His tone is sarcastic macho bravado.

  I laugh. “God, I wonder how many cops have said that.”

  “Too many.”

  His unmarked navy-blue Mercury Sable is parked near the arrivals gate, in a no-standing zone. He pops the trunk and I throw in my luggage before climbing into the passenger side.

  He starts the car. “It’s great to see you again.” He doesn’t look at me.

  “You, too.” I follow suit, eyes front.

  “How are you?”

  “Good. Fine.”

  He’s silent for a few seconds. “Not very convincing.” He studies my face briefly before pulling into the traffic. “How are you really?” We move forward slowly, backed up with the other cars leaving the airport.

  I lean my head back against the headrest and let out an exhausted sigh. “I don’t know, Darren…” I bring one knee up to my chest. “I’m not sleeping.”

  “Well, no wonder you’re not having any special dreams.” He smiles. “Can’t dream if you’re not asleep.”

  “Okay, so I’m sleeping a little bit. But not much.”

  “And nothing at all?” He’s asking for confirmation, perhaps concerned I might be hiding something from him. Truth is, he’s the only person I don’t have to hide from. He knows my secret and he’s not going to fire me or write something detrimental in my file.

  “No.” I move my head off the rest and look at him. “I don’t even know if I want to see anything.” I flick my eyes back to the road, scared to witness his response.

  We follow the stream of traffic onto a highway, and speed up to about sixty.

  “What cases have you been working on?” Darren asks.

  “The usual—serial killers, cold cases, abductions.”

  He nods. “But nothing in the field?”

  “No.” I look out the car window at the trees and notice the branches weighed down by plump leaves.

  “I can help you, Sophie. My aunt told me lots of things about her gift. When she first knew, how she controlled it—all that stuff.”

  I pull myself away from the alluring trees and focus on Darren. “The question is, do I want to know?” I let out another sigh, this time a sigh of relief. Honesty feels good.

  “Well, that’s up to you.”

  We’re interrupted by the very loud ringing of Darren’s cell phone.

  “Sure you can hear it?” I joke, relieved to be able to lighten the mood.

  “Ha, ha.” He flips the phone open. “Detective Carter…right…uh huh.” His voice becomes uncertain and he shoots a strange look my way. “Damn. Can’t Bolson handle it? All right, all right, I’ll see you soon.” He flips his phone shut and looks at me. “Sorry. I’m not offic
ially on leave until tomorrow.”

  I smile. “Duty calls.”

  He swings the car around in a U-turn. “Doesn’t it always?”

  4

  Darren pulls into the University of Arizona.

  “College kid?” I ask.

  “Looks that way.”

  I nod, familiar enough with the territory. I’ve seen a few cases of a dead college coed. Usually it turns out to be misadventure but there are instances of murder. College students can be high-risk victims: friendly, accessible, sometimes walking around campus by themselves at night, high alcohol intake, and mostly experiencing their first taste of freedom. That’s attractive bait for a killer. Bundy’s a prime example—he often hunted at colleges.

  From the outskirts of the college it’s obvious something’s not right, with a large crowd gathered about three hundred feet in front of us. We drive closer, until we’re about one hundred feet from the group of people, and then Darren parks the car.

  He unbuckles his seat belt. “Want to stay here?”

  “Nah. You know me—can’t resist a good meal or a dead body.”

  He manages a smile and we both get out of the car.

  Darren flips open his phone and hits a speed-dial button. “Stone, it’s Carter. I’m on Fourth…uh huh.” Darren motions to me, quick ening his pace, and I follow him. “Yup…see you in a minute.” He snaps his phone shut and turns to me. “Come on. The body’s near the stadium.” With his badge out in front of him, he leads the way through the crowd. As we get closer I can see that expressions vary from curiosity to horror. Not many of them will have actually seen anything—the area would have been cordoned off pretty soon after the discovery—but the whispers would be enough, spreading and engulfing the onlookers like a runaway wave. For all they know, it could be their best friend or roomie lying lifeless on the ground.