My Pretties

by Jeff Strand

  "It's not a designated area. I just go around where other victims were last seen."

  "Okay, the whole impulsive vs. non-impulsive thing doesn't matter," said Charlene. "What does matter is that you should not be wandering the streets at night trying to draw the attention of somebody who could be a serial killer."

  "I disagree."

  "I get that we just met tonight, and that our primary interaction was you watching me make a poor decision at work. I'm not a good source of advice. I'm actually a terrible source of advice. But I don't have to be a genius to say 'Don't do shit like that.' Have you told anybody else? Your parents? Your cousin's husband?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because."

  "Because they'd tell you not to do shit like that."

  "Right."

  "It's top-notch advice."

  "I know it is," Charlene admitted. "But what am I supposed to do? Put up signs? Post on social media? Ask for thoughts and prayers?"

  "Yes. All of those things. Except the thoughts and prayers."

  "Well, I didn't expect you to understand. I was just making conversation. You're right—it's not impulsive. But it's also not stupid or suicidal. Yeah, it's dangerous, but I know how to defend myself, and I won't hesitate to put myself in danger to try to rescue somebody I love. Kimberly has a family. If it's too late to get her back, at least I can try to make sure it doesn't happen to anybody else."

  Charlene suddenly felt like kind of a jerk for calling her insane. Not that she thought she was wrong—she just felt bad for saying it. Who knew what she would do if somebody she cared about went missing?

  "That makes sense," Charlene said. "Are you going over there tonight?"

  "Not after two booze shakes, no. I try to stay sober when I prowl the streets hunting for a serial kidnapper."

  "I'm glad to hear that."

  "Tomorrow night, though."

  The way Gertie looked at Charlene made her uncomfortable, like she was hinting at a favor.

  "I'm not coming with you," said Charlene.

  "I didn't ask you to."

  "I know, but I got that vibe."

  Gertie shook her head. "I literally am not asking you to come with me. The women were alone when they went missing. If I walk the streets with somebody, he won't come after me. You'd ruin the whole plan. And we'd have to buy another wig. Those aren't cheap. We couldn't get it over your spiky hair, and brown hair doesn't really go with your complexion, so that could spoil the ruse."

  "My hair wouldn't be an issue," said Charlene. "Everything else makes sense."

  "Sorry. I've gotta go solo."

  "I wasn't offering to join you."

  "You sounded like you wanted to come."

  "I specifically said no. I was even rude about it."

  "Well, you can't come."

  "I know. We've established this."

  Gertie peered at her glass. "I think they put more Bailey's in my milkshake than usual."

  "That's very possible. I still say you're out of your mind, but I'll also say that you're a good, caring person. And brave."

  "Are you hitting on me?"

  "Nope. Not into sloppy drunks."

  "I'm buzzed, not drunk. And I haven't spilt anything. You're the sloppy one, Dr. Lasagna."

  "That was done on your behalf."

  Gertie smiled. "Uh-huh."

  "Are you questioning that?"

  "Maybe a little."

  "She made you cry. You were crying in the back room because of the way a customer treated you. Actual tears."

  "Did you see her treat me badly?"

  "No. Holy crap, did you set me up?"

  "Oh, no, no, no, no. She was horrible to me. I'm just saying that you didn't see the interaction and you didn't know me. Maybe all she did was get a little snippy. Maybe I was a crybaby. Maybe this was the third time I'd forgotten to bring her the butter she asked for and she'd reached a breaking point. Maybe I was crying because I'd broken up with my boyfriend and I lied to you because I was a pathological liar. All I'm saying is that on some level, you were happy to have an excuse to dump pasta on a customer."

  "You know what, I completely agree with your psychoanalysis," said Charlene.

  "Really? Because while I was saying it I thought it made me sound ungrateful."

  "Oh, you definitely sounded ungrateful. But I agree with your assessment. I'm a crazy bitch who'll dump pasta on a customer who might be wrongfully accused, and you're a crazy bitch who'll walk the streets searching for a dangerous psychopath."

  Gertie lifted her milkshake glass. "Here's to being two crazy bitches."

  They clinked their glasses together.

  "Can you imagine the sex we'd have?" asked Charlene.

  Gertie laughed. "Crazy bitch sex? Is that safe? Shouldn't one partner be the sane one? I feel like you need a voice of reason or else you end up, I don't know, like, using habanero peppers as sex toys."

  "I draw the line at candle wax."

  "I draw the line at 'ouch.'"

  "Yeah, we definitely wouldn't be compatible."

  "At least we can be friends, though."

  "We can definitely be friends," said Charlene.

  "I don't think I should drive right now. So I was going to just sit on this stool for a while and talk to whomever is sitting next to me. Do you want to be that person?"

  "Sure, why not?"

  CHAPTER THREE

  The other woman wasn't dead yet. Olivia could hear her breathing.

  None of the other women in the cages had made any sounds since Olivia first woke up and found herself here. With no windows and no way to calculate the passage of time, Olivia couldn't be sure how long she'd been locked up, but she didn't think it had been a full day yet.

  Since she barely had any room in the cage to move, her body had begun to ache, which turned to excruciating pain, which eventually gave way to numbness. Now she couldn't feel anything. This meant that if she did get loose, she'd just collapse onto the floor, unable to move. Not that it mattered. It had been several hours since she'd believed there was a way to escape the cage.

  A sound behind her. A doorknob turning? She tried to turn her head to look behind her but her muscles weren't cooperating.

  She heard a door open, then close. Followed by a fingernails-against-a-chalkboard screech. The sound got closer and closer until she finally saw Greg, either clean shaven or no longer wearing a fake beard, dragging the wooden chair across the concrete floor. The bandage on his neck was gone, revealing no cut. He had a brown paper bag in his free hand. He placed the chair a few feet in front of her cage, then sat down in it. He looked up at her. He stood up, adjusted the position of the chair, and sat down again.

  "Please—" Olivia said.

  "No," said Greg. "No begging. No pleading." He gestured to the other cages. "It didn't work for the other girls, and it's not going to work for you. Don't ask me what I want. Don't ask me why I'm doing this. Don't offer me anything. If I wanted to rape you, I would've done it before I locked you up there."

  "I have to pee."

  "I'm not going to let you out to pee. You know that. I can see from the floor that you weren't able to hold it before I got here. Don't worry about me having to clean up. Do what you need to do."

  "Please. People will be looking for me."

  Greg shrugged. "So? I didn't snatch some crack whore from behind a Dumpster. Of course people will be looking for you. I enjoy that part. I get to watch their sad faces on television. Who will be the most heartbroken that you're gone? Your mother? Father? Boyfriend? Children?"

  "I left clues."

  "No, you didn't. I'm not sure you even knew what planet you were on. Like I said, these other girls tried every trick in the book, and having you just regurgitate what they did is kind of pissing me off." He scooted the chair a bit to the left. "Not that it matters. Your fate is the same no matter what you do. Nothing you can do will change it. Imagine that you've leapt off the top of a hundred-story skyscraper and you
're plummeting toward the pavement. The only possible ending in that scenario is you splattered on the ground. The only possible ending here is with you starving to death in that cage. Like the rest of them."

  He stood up and walked over to the cage next to Olivia's. He gave it a gentle shove. The woman opened her eyes.

  "Oh, good, you're still alive. Maybe I'll get lucky and you'll succumb before I have to leave."

  The woman said nothing.

  Greg returned his attention to Olivia. "Want to hear something that's going to really upset you? I almost had to let you go. Seriously. You kept watching your drink. If that lady hadn't stumbled over to the table and distracted you, I wouldn't have taken the chance. You may have thought that she was my accomplice, but nope, it was just terrible luck on your part. One drunken fan praising your set and now you're up there. Life is pretty strange."

  Olivia had no reaction to that revelation. At this point, she didn't care about irony.

  Greg opened the brown bag and took out a bottle of water and a straw. "I know that accepting a drink from me didn't work out for you last time," he said, "but I promise you, this is just water." He set the bottle on the chair then walked out of sight.

  More screeching across the floor. He was strong enough to just pick up a stepladder, so Olivia assumed he was making the ghastly noise on purpose. He set the ladder next to the other woman's cage, then picked up the bottle and climbed up to her cage. "I'm watering her first because she's closer to death," he explained.

  He held the bottle out to the woman. She leaned her head forward and began to suck through the straw.

  "Slow down," Greg told her. "You don't want to make yourself sick."

  The woman didn't slow down. Then she coughed and threw up the water, which splashed all over the floor.

  "Slower this time," he said.

  She waved him away. Greg climbed down the ladder and moved it next to Olivia's cage. He took a second bottle of water out of the bag, unscrewed the cap, and put in the same straw he'd used in the other woman's bottle. He placed his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, then looked up at Olivia.

  "I can't stop you from trying something stupid," he said. "Just know that it means you won't get any water."

  "I won't try anything," said Olivia.

  "Good." Greg climbed up the ladder and extended the bottle to Olivia. She forced herself to drink slowly. Greg waited patiently as she finished off the entire bottle of cold water. "Want the rest of Regina's?" he asked.

  Olivia shook her head. The odds of successfully kicking him off the ladder, causing him to shatter his skull against the floor, were extremely low. She still would've tried—she just couldn't get her legs to move.

  Greg climbed back down. He dragged the ladder out of the way, then sat down in his chair. He took out a cell phone, quickly glanced at the display, then shoved it back into his pocket.

  "I'd like you to do me a favor and be quiet for a while," he said. "If you want to cry or whimper, that's okay, but don't talk, all right?"

  Olivia didn't respond.

  Greg just sat there, silently staring at the women in cages. Every once in a while there'd be a hint of a smile, but mostly his expression was blank.

  It felt like about half an hour before he did anything else. He took his cell phone out again, tapped the screen as if sending a text message, then pocketed it, looking annoyed.

  He glanced back up at Olivia. "When I told you I enjoyed your music, I was lying, but it wasn't complete bullshit. You've got some talent. You were never going to be a superstar, but if I was a real manager I probably could've gotten you into a bigger club. If it will make you feel better to sing, go ahead and sing a couple of songs. Entertain me."

  No way was Olivia going to sing for him. She'd let him rip out her vocal cords with his teeth first.

  She wanted to tell him to go to hell. She settled for gently shaking her head.

  Greg pointed to the cage next to hers. "Do it for your neighbor, then. She hasn't had any entertainment for the past few days except watching me put you up there. Sing her a song. Upbeat, depressing, I don't care. Sing something."

  "No."

  "What's wrong? Don't like the acoustics in this venue?" Greg laughed far too hard at his own joke. "C'mon, sing for us. Before too long you won't have the energy. Give the world one last song."

  "Go to hell."

  Greg stood up. "I bet if I broke one of your fingers you'd sing. Your pitch would go up a couple of octaves but you'd sing." He glanced over at Regina. "Hey, is she dead?"

  He walked over and poked Regina's leg. She didn't respond. He jabbed at her with his index finger a few more times, until finally she opened her eyes.

  "Ah, okay, still around. Couldn't see you breathing."

  Regina closed her eyes again. Greg sat back down.

  "I'm not going to break one of your fingers," he told Olivia. "I'm better than that now. I'm just going to watch. If you want to sing, sing. If you don't, don't. Your choice."

  He leaned back, stretched out his legs, and stared at her.

  Olivia wanted to close her eyes so she wouldn't have to look at him, but she was too frightened. She didn't want to open her eyes and discover him standing right next to her cage, reaching for her foot. And she didn't want to fall asleep. Falling asleep with him in the room should've been impossible, but her energy level was extremely low and she felt like she could indeed lose consciousness if she kept her eyes closed for too long.

  So they watched each other.

  For hours.

  He shifted positions every once in a while and took stretch breaks, but for the most part he just sat there, motionless, watching.

  Finally he checked his phone once more, scowled, and carried the chair back across the room. He tried to give Regina some more water, but she wouldn't drink. Olivia drank half of another bottle. Though her bladder felt like it was ready to explode—and she would let it burst before she urinated in front of him—it seemed like he was getting ready to depart and she could relieve herself after he left the room.

  "Thank you for spending the evening with me," he said. "I'll be back soon."

  He left.

  Seconds after the door closed, Olivia peed her pants again, and then sobbed.

  * * *

  Kenneth Dove (not Greg the talent manager, not Christopher the model scout, not Jack with car trouble, or any of the others) pulled off to the side of the road before turning onto his street. He rolled down the window, then opened the glove compartment and took out a bottle of Jack Daniels. He poured some into his mouth, swished it around for a moment, then spat it out the window. He dabbed some onto his fingers and wiped them on his shirt. He'd changed into his smoke-scented shirt before getting in the car.

  He rolled his window back up, put away the bottle, and drove the rest of the way home.

  As he opened the front door, he was greeted by the scent of absolutely no dinner on the table. Vivian walked into the living room. Not surprisingly, she looked pissed.

  "Seriously?" she asked.

  Ken stepped inside. "Don't jump on my ass the second I walk through the door. I had to work late."

  "Uh-huh." Vivian gave him one of the nasty glares she'd perfected over the past seventeen years. "You're not fooling anybody. I know exactly where you were."

  "Whatever."

  "Whatever," she mimicked. "You sound like a teenager. Speaking of which, he got in trouble again at school."

  "What'd he do this time?"

  "Why don't you ask him?"

  "So I don't even get five minutes of peace after working late? I've gotta go straight to disciplinarian?"

  "You know, Ken, when you act like I'm stupid, it really hurts my feelings. It really does. It makes me feel like you don't care about me."

  "Oh, jeez, I'm sorry. I'm just tired." Ken walked over to Vivian and put his arms around her. He gave her a gentle kiss on the lips and ran his fingers through her long blonde hair. She recoiled a bit at the whiskey on his breath but
didn't say anything. "You're the smartest girl I know."

  "Then maybe start treating me that way."

  "I will, I promise." He gave her a tight hug. Then he called over her shoulder. "Jared! C'mon down here!"

  It took about thirty seconds before he heard the sound of footsteps clomping down the stairs. Jared walked into the living room. The kid was huge, and at sixteen hadn't stopped growing yet. He could've easily gotten a football scholarship, but he had no interest in sports. Or academics. Or anything besides video games and a series of slutty girlfriends. (Vivian, bless her oblivious heart, didn't know he was actually screwing them in his bedroom. About two years ago, Ken had sat Jared down for a very serious father/son talk. Good ol' Dad would pretend not to know what was going on, but if Jared was careless enough to get one of them pregnant, he was on his own.)

  "What's up?" Jared asked.

  "You tell me," said Ken, letting go of Vivian. "I hear you had an interesting day at school."

  Jared shrugged.

  "Your mom is right here. I mean, literally standing here in this very room. So pretending that you don't know what I'm talking about is disrespectful to her."

  "It was a stupid test anyway."

  "Give me more information than that."

  "I cheated on my math test."

  "Jesus Christ, Jared."

  "I don't need to know any of this stuff. It's not helping me out with life."

  "Did you get suspended?"

  "Nah," said Jared. "Just got a zero. It wasn't even a test, it was a quiz."

  "Oh, well, shit, if it was only a quiz it's no big deal, right? Surely cheating on a quiz is worth having a great big blotch on your permanent record. You don't need college, right? That's just a silly little place where people earn silly little degrees that help them get good jobs. But you're going to be one of those millionaire video game players. My God, a universe of career opportunities awaits you with that astounding hand-eye coordination of yours! Your mom and I have already picked out the mansion you're gonna buy us. It's got three swimming pools. Three! All of those colleges that reject your application because you're a cheater sure are going to feel dumb when they see what an amazing success you've made of yourself."