(2011) The Gift of Death

by Sam Ripley

  ‘I can’t go into it now. But just to warn you I’m going to call a friend who’s a cop.’

  ‘Really, I don’t think it’s necessary at –‘

  ‘It’s not an argument.’ She heard her voice rise. ‘Sorry to sound brusque. But I’ve got to go. Thanks.’

  She cut the connection and quickly dialled Josh’s number. As she tried to explain the situation – Cassie’s no show for supper, the cab, no contact with the driver - her words came tumbling out.

  ‘Hey – Kate. Slow – slow down,’ he said.

  ‘I’m scared for her, Josh. I know Walsh is locked up, but I don’t like this.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll get in touch with the cab company now and see what I can find. I’ll call you back.’

  Kate tried to think about normal, banal things and do normal, banal things. She took the chicken out of the oven; they could always eat it cold, she thought. But there was no hope of salvaging the sweet potatoes, which she tipped into the trash. What could they eat with cold chicken? She started to make a salad with lamb’s lettuce, cherry tomatoes, celery, avocado and carrot. But as she grated the carrot her hand slipped. The grater took off a thin slice of her wedding finger. Fuck. She ran it under the tap and watched as the drops of blood disappeared in a spiral down the plug. She dressed it with a Band-Aid and sat down to watch some TV, conscious of the stinging pain in her right hand. Every time she experienced physical discomfort she always reminded herself of the kind of pain some people had been forced to endure. Allie, for instance, the girl who had been stabbed sixty-six times by a stranger, who had still not been caught. She remembered she had been thinking about her that day when she had been taking photographs of the waves. The day she had found the dead baby. The day the nightmare started.

  Her phone rang.

  ‘Kate, it’s Josh.’ His voice was breathy, infused with panic.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The body of a man has just been discovered in the underpass near the Los Angeles river, the connection of the Golden State freeway and the Glendale Freeway. There was an ID card in his wallet.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘His name was Jan Kaplinski. He was a driver employed by Courtesy Cars.’

  40

  She lay on the floor, eaten up by pain. She tried to ease herself forwards in the direction of the closing door, but it was useless. She felt something wet and slimy on her face. Car oil. Then she heard his footsteps. Soft and slow. Deliberate. She knew that he could see her now. And she could sense his enjoyment. He had successfully caught his prey and he was going to savour every moment.

  ‘Well, now, what have we got here?’ he said, standing over her. ‘You put up quite a fight for a blind girl.’

  As he reached out to touch her hair she started to tremble all over, as if her body had gone into spasm. She was powerless now.

  He started to stroke the soft skin at the back of her neck. Then he caressed her cheek.

  ‘You’ve gotten yourself all dirty. Time we cleaned you up.’

  He seized hold of her hands and pulled her up. There was no point in fighting. Not now. He guided her across the workshop until she came to what felt like some kind of wooden bench.

  ‘Here’s a chair,’ he said. He placed one of her hands on the arms and then pressed on her shoulder. The pain shot through her again.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘About the chain, I mean. But I couldn’t allow you to escape. Not after everything. Now sit.’

  She fell into the chair – a low lying chair, with what felt like a canvas seat – and then she heard him moving things around on the worktop. He pulled something out of a box and then moved back closer towards her. She felt something soft and slightly perfumed touch her cheek. A tissue. Gently, he ran the tissue over her skin in a circular movement. He was cleaning her, she realised. But then she thought – for what? What was he going to do to her?

  She tried to keep her breath steady, but the more she tried to calm herself the more she felt like her chest was going to explode. Her fear felt like a nest of insects trapped deep inside her.

  ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ he said, as he pulled another tissue out of the box. ‘We don’t want anything to spoil your beauty, do we?’

  She felt his eyes on her. Studying her. Assessing her. Looking at her as if she were not a person, but some kind of object. Something that he had control over. Something he could keep. Something he could kill.

  She had to try and speak. Maybe if she could talk to him she could find a way out of this. She tried to clear her throat, but her windpipe felt dry. She moved her tongue about in her mouth, and tasted the bitterness of bile. She coughed, but she swallowed her first words. She forced herself to try again.

  ‘W – what’s your n- name?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘No – no.’

  ‘But you felt my face, right?’

  ‘Yes – but.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘It can’t be possible. It’s –‘

  ‘It’s true.’ His voice took on a sharp edge. ‘Now shut up.’

  She felt him snatch hold of her right hand. Then something wet and jelly-like on her fingers. Then the feel of something soft, the sheath of a tissue running up and down each finger, cleaning each of them in turn.

  He did the same with her left hand, massaging each of her fingers with, from the smell of its strong perfume, some kind of industrial strength cleanser. Then she felt a nail brush skim across the surface of each of her fingertips, gently sloughing off every drop of oil, every last spot of grease.

  ‘There, there,’ he said. His voice was soft, tender even. Perhaps he wasn’t going to hurt her after all.

  She heard him move away from her towards the work bench. He was looking for something. He expelled his breath slightly as he lifted something off the surface and carried it over. She heard the clash of metal on metal and then the gradual turning of a screw. She felt he was concentrating on something. He wanted to get something exactly right. She heard him make various adjustments – another couple of screws were turned – and then suddenly he wrenched her right hand upwards.

  She tried to fight, but he was too quick. He gripped both of her wrists, expertly tying one to the arm of the chair and bringing the other one, her right hand, onto what felt like a flat surface of cold metal. He pushed her flesh down, and then grasped hold of her forefinger, extending it outwards. Her other fingers tried to scratch him, but he was too strong. He clamped his hand over hers with all his strength, pushing it down.

  She heard the screw turning. And a second later the feeling of cold metal either side of her forefinger. Then the pressure – the terrific pressure – that started to crush her index finger. She screamed – half from shock, half from pain. She struggled with all her strength, turning her body violently in the chair in the hope that she could somehow wrestle herself free. But what if she tipped over her chair? Then, with her hand clasped in the vice, she could easily break her wrist or arm, or worse.

  But she had to try. She thrashed about, screaming like something possessed. She thought she heard something fall, or smash, in the distance. Was someone else at home?

  ‘Help. Help me, please,’ she screamed.

  ‘There’s no-one to help you now,’ he said, laughing to himself. ‘And by the way the whole place is sound proofed.’

  No one can hear you scream. That was the line that Gleason had used. That night. When he had kidnapped her, raped her, tried to kill her.

  ‘No, you can’t do this. Help. Help me!’

  She heard him take hold of something from the work bench. Then the horrific scrape of metal. He was running the edge of some kind of blade across a sharpening device.

  ‘I’ve got to tell you this may hurt.’

  She felt the tip of something press onto her forefinger. Then the feel of his breath on her face. His voice dropped to a whisper.

  ‘Do you remember that present I sent you?’

  She nodded in silent
acknowledgment. She was too frightened to speak.

  ‘Well, it’s about to become a reality.’

  41

  ‘I think we’ve got a lead,’ shouted Lansing across the investigation room. He had been scanning 911 calls for anything that could give the team a clue to the abduction of Cassie, the murder of Kaplinski and the disappearance of the cab.

  ‘What’ve you got?’ said Josh.

  ‘A report from a guy – a Wayne Farson - over in Van Nuys. Says he was driving home from work on the 405 when a cab – emblazoned with the Courtesy Cars logo - suddenly pulled out in front of him and nearly hit him. Farson flashed his lights at which point the cab driver went crazy. Suddenly began to hit his breaks, then slowed down so he was behind Farson and started to tailgate him. Apparently did everything to intimidate him. Nearly caused a couple of really bad accidents. Farson was so pissed he followed the cab, coming off the 405 and into Van Nuys. Admits he was going to teach the guy a lesson, but when he got to the house he changed his mind.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Josh.

  ‘Heard the screams of a woman from inside. That’s when he called 911.’

  ‘Did he get the plates?’

  ‘No, didn’t think about it until after the guy parked the cab in the carport.’

  ‘Okay – let’s get someone over there. What’s the address?’

  ‘15104 Raymer Street. Zip 91405.’

  ‘Curtis?’ he shouted. ‘You’re coming with me. And Lansing? Inform any cops patrolling the area of the situation. If they arrive on the scene before us, we don’t want a bloodbath. There’s a blind woman in there.’

  42

  Kate rang as Josh’s car sped towards Van Nuys. He started to fill her in on the latest development before she had a chance to speak.

  ‘We’re on the way now,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘Kate, I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘Look – when Cassie gets out of there she’ll need someone she trusts. Not that she doesn’t trust you, but she’ll feel more comfortable with me than a trauma counsellor or whatever.’

  Josh thought about it for a second. ‘Okay. It’s 15104 Raymer Street, Van Nuys.

  ‘I’m in Beverly Hills. I’ll be there in twenty.’

  There was silence on the line.

  ‘Josh – do you think Cassie’s okay?’

  He didn’t say anything. Kate knew from past experience what that meant.

  ‘If she’s alive, we’ll get her out.’

  Kate didn’t like the sound of that. If she’s alive.

  ‘I promise,’ he said.

  43

  Cassie felt the sharp edge of the knife play around the tip of her forefinger. She couldn’t bear this long drawn out form of torture any more.

  ‘Just do it, you fuck,’ she said. ‘Get it over with.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ he said, tracing a ring of blood around the top of the digit. ‘I’m kinda enjoying myself here.’

  ‘No shit,’ she said, choking back her sobs.

  He moved the knife onto the base of her nail and slowly started to push back the rim of skin into the nail bed. Then he used the blade to trace a pattern into the surface of her nail.

  ‘You know you shouldn’t bite your nails, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Did your momma never teach you that?’

  She couldn’t speak now.

  ‘You know I never really knew my momma.’ His voice was wistful, faraway. ‘She died when I was just a little boy.’

  She felt him readjust the knife in his hand. Then she felt a greater pressure on her skin as he began to push the tip of the blade into the first joint of her forefinger.

  ‘Perhaps all this would have turned out differently if she had still been around.’ He sighed and then coughed. ‘But there’s no point living in the past, is there. It’s the here and now that counts. Isn’t that right?’

  She heard him inhale just before he punctured her skin. The pain took her breath away. She thought she was going to be sick.

  ‘They say the ends of the fingers are one of the most sensitive parts of the body. Do you think that’s so?’

  He pushed harder now. The tip of the knife dug deeper into her skin. Then he started to move it sideways.

  ‘The first one is bound to be the worst,’ he said, his voice taking on the tone of a concerned doctor. ‘By the time we get to the ninth I don’t think it will be so bad.’

  As he started to slice into her skin she passed out. Her head dropped forwards, limp as an old rag doll. The next thing she was conscious of – besides the pain that seemed to consume her – was a noise in another room.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he said. It was the voice of her torturer. He sounded confused, afraid even.

  ‘Drop the knife,’ said the other voice. A man’s voice. Authoritative and firm. Trustworthy. It was the police. They had come to rescue her.

  ‘I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off, you know I will,’ he said. ‘Drop the knife. Now. And hands up against the wall.’

  She heard the knife fall onto the floor. Then she felt herself melting, floating away to another, darker place without any pain.

  44

  Josh stood back as he kicked the flimsy wooden door. A moment later he was inside the house. He took out his gun and moved silently through the living room. Nobody. A half-eaten bucket of takeaway chicken. Some beer bottles. Then he moved to the kitchen. Nothing but dirty dishes and the smell of meat fat that hung in the air. From one of the rooms he could hear the sound of rock music.

  He moved towards the noise. He was quiet as he walked. Stealthy. But he was ready to blast someone’s brains out at a moment’s notice. He’d just about had enough of this psycho. Playing his fucking games. Thinking he was so damn clever. Well, the sick fuck wouldn’t feel so clever when he had a gun pointed at his head. He just hoped he was in time.

  Quickly he moved towards the bedroom. He kicked the door inwards and, as he entered, adjusted his eyes to the gloom.

  ‘Police. LAPD!’ he shouted.

  He could see two figures on the bed. A man and a woman. Naked. They quickly covered themselves with the bed sheet.

  ‘What the fuck?’ It was a man’s voice, confused, spaced out.

  ‘Hands in the air. Now.’

  His back up team surrounded the bed, guns aimed at the figure of the man. One of the officers pointed a torch at the bed. A beam of light illuminated the scene. The smell of sex hung in the air.

  A couple – wide-eyed like frightened rabbits on a busy highway – stared at the officers with fear and disbelief. He had long straggly, blond hair, a little goatee. She was a brunette, with hooded eyes and red lipstick smeared across her face.

  Josh felt sick to his stomach.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said to himself. He had to think of something. ‘Okay, get some clothes on,’ he said to the man in the bed. ‘We have reason to believe you were driving under the influence of alcohol or drugs.’ He turned to a fellow officer. ‘Search the place. Tell me if this guy’s just a user or a supplier.’