"Oooft, Jesus!" screamed Cynthia as she clapped a hand to her mouth. "What is that?"
"Oh, I'm sorry we're having some work done on the drains at the moment. It'll be fixed soon, though."
She appeared disinterested in any further explanation and strode inside, slipping on a puddle of icy water before correcting her balance and leaning against the wall.
"There's a lot of ice in here," she observed. "Is all this water safe with all these cables?"
"Oh, sure," I said although I knew it wasn't.
She was starting to look uneasy. I hadn't quite realized just how bad the smell was.
"So..."
I gestured for her to take a seat at one of my counters. She climbed up with her stubby legs swinging from the stool like a child's.
"Tell me about your collection," I said, pointing to the case.
She still looked uneasy but nevertheless, was pleased to talk about her newfound hobby.
"I have things that make people want to be sick," she giggled as though that was a tremendous achievement. "Gustav thinks I'm sick myself."
"Oh, believe me. You're not the one who’s sick."
Her eyes darted back over to the box as though she was drawn to it, unable to look away.
"What you keeping in there?" she asked.
"Champagne," I said, a little too hastily.
"Really?"
"Yep."
She searched my eyes for the truth. She knew I was lying which surprised me. I was a good liar but she seemed peculiarly perceptive.
"Anyway," she continued. "What do you want to see?"
"What have you got?"
She hurled the case up onto the counter. It landed with a thud.
"How strong is your stomach?" she asked.
"Oh, pretty strong," I laughed.
"Okay. Get a load of this."
She unzipped the case with great ceremony and lay it open in front of me. There were dozens of plastic bags labelled with post-it notes. She plucked one out with her long nails, pulled off the post-it before I could see it and ran her tongue over her top teeth.
"Close your eyes," she demanded.
I did as I was told. A second later, I could feel the plastic in my hand. It crinkled between my fingers.
"Okay, guess what it is?"
This was the weirdest party game I'd played but enjoyed the challenge. Pressing my fingers into the sides of the bags, I could feel a sharp edge, then another, then a small gap. Dragging a fingernail across it, I could feel there was a slight texture. Its coolness was evident through the bag too. Whatever it was, it was metal and it was rusty.
"Some kinda... erm... blade?" I suggested. "Can I open my eyes now?"
I looked up and saw her grinning at me.
"Fuck, you're good at this."
"Hey, that's not the first time I've been told that."
She was breathing heavily again.
"You're a little too good."
She clenched her front teeth around the zip on the bag and pulled it open, her lipstick smearing along the plastic as her lips squeaked.
"Aren't you going to tell me what it is?"
"Put your hand out."
I held up a palm and she tipped the bag over. A rusty blade fell out and landed in my hand. It was barely bigger than something you'd shave with.
"Nice, right?" she breathed.
"What is it? Or rather, who did it belong to?"
She pressed herself up close to me. I could smell the way her perfume mingled with her sweat.
"I've done a really bad thing letting you touch it but you're not like everyone else. You appreciate these things when no one else does."
"Cynthia, if you don't tell me what this is I'll-"
"It was owned by Ed Gein. It was the one used to kill Bernice Worden."
The revelation stunned me. It knocked the air outta me. Shocked, I looked down at it. It was then that I noticed the blood stains.
"You have got to be kidding me."
“Do I look like the sort of person who laughs about this sort of thing?”
She did. She really did. She looked as though she was the sort of person who could kill someone herself and do nothing but laugh, the blood on her hands the same color as her blusher. I wondered if she ever thought about killing her husband. He was a lot more obnoxious than I remembered and he also had the Tricephthial. He was reluctant to hand it over as well. Was death an option in this? Could I kill him for it?
I shook myself from the thought and handed the blade back over. Of course, I couldn’t kill him. There had been too much death already in this house. It had to stop.
“It’s wonderful,” I said as the blade slipped out my hand. “I can’t quite believe it. Where did you get it? I thought all of Ed Gein’s stuff was in an evidence locker somewhere and everything else had been burned to cinders.”
She tapped the side of her nose and winked.
“I have my sources.”
“But what sources? Don’t keep me hanging!”
Never in my life had I been interested in the belongings of serial killers before but now, with this macabre artefact in front of me, I felt a rush. I needed to own it. Needed to own everything else like it. What was wrong with me? The hairs on my arms were sticking up on end. There was a weird taste in my mouth and a lump in my throat. I pressed a hand to my chest and felt my heart beat wildly.
Serial killers. Fuck, they were the most abhorrent creatures to walk the Earth but suddenly it dawned on me like it had never done before. I was one of them. Before I could justify my killings.At least to myself anyway. I could tell people I was doing it for the greater good. I was saving children and only killing those who were dangerous to society but was it even my place? There were times when I thought of myself as a secret hero, a man who used his money to avenge the most vulnerable members of society but at the end of the day, I was a killer. A serial killer. I may not have been as twisted as Ed Gein or Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer but I was a killer nonetheless.
Looking over at the box of ice where I knew Etta lay, I had to admit that my deviant behavior was beginning to fit the profile of a crazed killer. Maybe I was just like one of them. But no one would ever know.
“Are you okay?” asked Cynthia.
“I.. I don’t know.”
There were no words to describe how I was feeling. Part of me was exhilarated by Gein’s blade. It was a piece of history. It was gory and disgusting but it was also arousing some latent part of me. Yet at the same time I was repulsed by this feeling. I didn’t want to be like Gein or the others.
“Holding these things can make you feel weird sometimes,” said Cynthia. “Ever heard of psychometry?”
“That new age nonsense about sensing the past by holding an object?”
“Yuh. It’s not nonsense.”
“Of course it is.”
“Oh, Linx. Considering you’re such a genius you’re really quite close minded. Anyway, I feel things when I hold these objects. Like really feel things.”
She closed her eyes and flung her head back. I was waiting for her to start speaking in tongues or channeling spirits but instead, she held the blade to her chest and let out an anguished sigh.
“It’s like I can feel their pain. The victims. They speak to me through these things. They make sure they’re not forgotten.”
With perfect, dramatic timing, she shed a single tear. It carved its way through the powder on her cheek and sank itself into her smudged lipstick.
“I don’t feel anything like that,” I said. “You must be more sensitive than me.”
Does Schiele know about all this shit? I thought. He didn’t strike me as the sort of person who entertained their wife’s psychic whimsies.
“I’m a very sensitive person,” said Cynthia as she opened her eyes and dropped the blade back in its protective wrapping. “I’ve always sensed things.”
All that I could sense was that she was lapping up my attention and that she was waiting for me to ask the
magic question and she’d be off telling me a thousand ghost stories from her childhood. But I wasn’t interested in any of that. I wanted to talk more about the blade.
“I’ll give you a million dollar for it,” I said.
“What?”
“I’ll wire you the money tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, erm.. This is already reserved for a client but… but.. Oh, my God. A million? Are you serious?”
“I’m completely serious. I need it. It’s beautiful.”
She began to shake.
“Holy shit,” she squeaked. “A million dollars. That’s quite a lot for just a tiny razor blade.”
“But it’s not any old tiny razor blade. It’s probably the most horrendous one in existence and I need it.”
She knew she had to accept the offer. Who else would give her that much money for it?
“Okay,” she said. “You have a deal. And of course Gustav will be delighted.”
The smile on her face was so wide I was a bit worried it might dislocate her jaw.
“Cynthia I could kiss you.”
She managed to smile even wider.
“I wouldn’t stop you,” she said. “But first, do you want to see what else is in this case?”
Chapter Seven
Berger
“Marcia, you bitch. Why did you have to ruin me like this?”
I was lying on the rock looking up at the stars. Now, after surviving the sweltering heat, it was unbearably cold. Shivering, I wrapped my arms around my sides and watched the stars.
“Why did I ever leave Miranda? Why did I ever get involved with that psycho Bosworth?”
I’d never paid much attention to the stars before. You didn’t see them much in the city anyway but now they were all I had. At last I was starting to see the beauty of them. They were so far away and shone down on us with the promise of a distant place no one would ever reach.
They made me feel so small, like I was nothing but a cockroach waiting to die, just another fading organism out here in the desert.
A shrieking sound came from the distance. It could have been a coyote or a wolf or even a vulture. I wasn’t clued up on my animals. Besides, I didn’t know what was out here. I just hoped that whatever it was it would hurry up and take me to a quick death. Tear me apart, I thought. I’m ready.
But the shrieking drifted off into the distance along with the sound of sand being kicked up by quick feet. I wasn’t going to be so lucky.
My mouth had never been dryer. I tried to swallow but struggled against the pain, my tonsils feeling as though they were being assaulted by a blowtorch.
“Marcia! You fucking bitch!”
I kicked at the rock.
“You’ve finally ended me. You’ve killed me!”
“Hey, shut up over there!”
At first I assumed I had finally lost my mind. The voice must have been in my head because there was nothing and nobody out here.
“You shut up!” I shouted back.
There was silence. Obviously, I’d threatened the voice into submission.
“Who the fuck are you?” it roared back. “Don’t make me come over there.”
I soon realized the voice was real and it was approaching along with the sound of boots crunching on the ground. Sitting up, I spun round and saw a bobbing flashlight.
“Why are you on my farm?” came the voice.
I couldn’t quite figure out the accent but placed it as one of the northern states.
“Are you American?” I asked the flashlight.
The orb was growing as it approached and was now starting to illuminate the top of a pair of boots and some leather pants.
“Flint,” came the voice.
“What are the chances?” I replied. “Normont born and raised.”
I still assumed I had to be dreaming. After all, what could be so pure and reassuring out here than a familiar voice even if it was angry? Rolling off the rock, I climbed to my feet and raised my arms.
“I’m sorry. I’m not any trouble. I’ve been robbed and dumped out here.”
Something hit the ground. It was then then I saw whoever held the flashlight also held a shotgun. It now lay in the sand.
“Another one,” he sighed.
As he raised the flashlight, I finally got a glimpse of the face behind. It was far uglier than I could have imagined but obviously American. A diamond shaped jaw covered in graying stubble gave way to pockmarked cheeks. Blue eyes surrounded by deep set lines looked at me, pityingly. On top his head was a mop of dirty hair that was once lustrous but now neglected. His lips were chapped and thin, his nose broken but still proud. His life had obviously been every bit as tough as mine.
“Let me guess. Bikers left you at the border.”
“Yup.”
“Although I see you’re still alive and you’ve still got your shoes so they must have liked you for some reason.”
He coughed and ran a hand through his hair, picked up his shotgun and pointed it into the distance.
“I suppose you better come with me.”
He sounded annoyed but resigned to the unlikely past-time of bringing in wayward victims.
"Are you coming?" he asked annoyed, wondering why I was lingering.
"Where are we going?"
"Back to the farm," he said. "Don't worry it's not far."
I trailed after him but saw no sign of a ranch or a car. It was as though he'd just emerged out the darkness. I panicked for a second, worried that he could be a lost madman like me. Or maybe he was a ghost. Perhaps he was something much worse, a creation of my own mind and madness.
"I don't see a farm," I said.
I didn't mean for my voice to come out so suspicious but it did and he turned round to glance at me, shining the flashlight in my face.
"What, you don't believe me boy?"
Boy? I thought. How fucking dare he?
"Of course I believe you but... I just don't see it."
He lowered the flashlight and continued walking.
"Truth be told, I never would have known you were here if you didn't start jabbering to yourself like a lunatic. It was by chance that I drove out to the edge of my property to check for coyotes. Heard one scampering about in that direction."
He shone the light in the distance and it was only then that I could just about make out a wooden fence. Beyond it, there was a hint of white wool. As we got closer, I saw a sheep sleeping. There was less sand up here and more grass. As it turns out, the desert gave way to, maybe not the most fertile of pastures, but pastures nonetheless.
My feet welcomed the sensation of walking on soft soil and I relaxed in an instant.
"Yep, would never have known," he continued.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys.
"Truck's over this way," he said.
Just on the other side of the sheep lay a white pickup, pristine and sparkling. I also noticed it had US number plates.
"Get in."
He didn't need to tell me twice. I jumped up into the passenger seat and felt the wonderful warmth of the upholstery.
"So..." he said, twisting the key in the ignition, "Just what were you jabbering about? Cursing the stars?"
"Cursing something alright."
"Cursing those fucking bikers?"
He turned round and began driving over the bumpy terrain. Not far in the distance, a lopsided, wooden house came into view. It was like something from a fairytale, if the wicked witch had been cooking meth instead of pie.
"They're the bane of my life they are," he said. "Always doing fuck knows what around here. They get away with it too because it's on the border and well, the Guatemalan police ain't going to do shit. Anyway, you're not the first poor soul I've found out here although I gotta say, you're only the second I've found alive. The last guy, a German tourist had been robbed of everything but his boxer shorts and left right where you were. He wondered right into the farm. I found him huddled between the sheep, crying about bikers that
had taken not only his car and his money but his girlfriend too."
"Jesus! They took his girlfriend?"
The guy bit his lip and nodded solemnly.
"He tried to find her but... never did."
"Fuck..."
My situation was now in perspective. After all, I may have fucked everything up and was all alone but there was a strange kind of freedom from that. At least I hadn't hurt anyone. At least the woman I loved hadn't been snatched from me.
Once at the house, I could see the glow of a fire smoldering in a hearth through the window. There was the smell of something sweet in the air too, like alcohol mixed with something synthetic.
"Let's get you something strong," he said. "You certainly look like you need it."
Once inside the house, standing beneath the sagging roof, I looked around at all the contraptions that were stacked floor to ceiling. It looked like Bosworth's lab crossed with a scrap yard.
"I bet you're wondering what all this stuff is?" he asked, pulling a plastic bag of nuts and bolts off a torn up leather couch. "Take a seat."
"Yeah I was wondering."
"I like to tinker," he said. "Makes me feel useful."
"Nice."
It was all I could think of to say and it sounded stupid.
"Well my ex-wife didn't think it was nice. What was it she called me? Oh yeah, a hoarder.”
It wasn't hard to see where she was coming from. The guy was definitely a hoarder. There wasn't a single space of clear floor and I found myself stomping on ancient newspapers and burned up cooking pots as I navigated my way to the couch.
"Forgive me for asking but..."
"What am I doing down here?" he interjected as he handed me a glass of something putrid smelling. "Same as you I guess. Wanted to run away and got myself in trouble."
"Is that everyone's story down here?"
"Pretty much."
"I didn't realize I looked so obvious."
He sat across from me, throwing his lumbering body onto all the stuff as though it wasn't there. He burst out laughing as he landed.
"Dude, you gotta be kidding me. You've got one of those haunted looks on your face and a ragged body. What you running from? You a felon?"
Jewels And Panties: (Book 1-15) Billionaire Romance Series Page 69
