Dead Even (4 page)

The last two years had been hard on Gerald. He had been so positive he would be offered the job of principal at William's Academy. It was a much sought after position, carrying with it a great deal of prestige. When the job had gone to a much less qualified man, Gerald had been shaken, his confidence eroded. It was shortly after this disappointment that she and Gerald began dating. She, alone, saw how devastated he had been by the board's decision. And now, two years later, the sudden resignation of the man who had beat him out left the position open once again. Audra had taught under Mr. Benson two of the three years she had been at William's and had found him to be an outstanding administrator. She hated to see him go, even though Gerald was in line for his job. “I regret that I have to leave, Audra,” he had said to her, “but my oldest boy can't take the climate here. His doctors tell us he would get along a lot better in Arizona, so we really have little choice but to move.”

“I'll be so sorry to lose you, Mr. Benson,” she had said, and meant it. “You have helped me a great deal over these last two years.”

“You're a fine teacher, Audra,” he had responded. “You have a feel for these underprivileged children that is so important. You have a way of drawing them out of their squalor and making them believe in themselves. Don't think I haven't noticed how even the upper grade students seek you out for guidance, or just to show you some project they have been working on. You are what William's is all about, and don't you ever forget that.”

She had been touched and pleased by his comments, and felt rather like a traitor when she found herself wondering if Gerald would have noticed those same things. That really wasn't fair of her. Gerald seemed to be a brilliant, innovative teacher, for all his strict adherence to propriety. He would not have lasted at William's six months if he approached teaching in the same manner in which he approached life. He was a good teacher, but whether or not he would do as well in administration was up for grabs. Actually, though it pained her to admit it, Gerald was just a bit of a snob. But he was good to her—and good
for
her. She had managed to ease out of her shell somewhat these last months, and join the human race.

The doorbell rang, and at the same instance she heard Bess yell, “It's me, Audra.”

It took a few seconds to unbolt the various locks she had installed on her door, then Bess was in. She hugged the thin, elderly woman to her. “Thanks for coming, Bess. You know me; I'm not the bravest soul in the world.”

“Land, child. Ain't nothin' to thank me for. Now what's all this about? What were you talkin' about on the phone?”

Audra reached down and picked up the drink she had prepared for Bess. “Here you go, Bess. Let's sit down, and I'll tell you all about it.”

When she had finished talking, Bess shook her head in astonishment. “Do you mean to say you went ahead and taught school all day, with all this on your mind?”

Audra nodded. “It was too late to get a sub, and besides, we had a field trip planned. I made it through the day, though. Then tonight, I told Gerald, and we're going to the radio station tomorrow to listen to the tape. Gerald thinks it is a waste of time, says it isn't likely that the man I heard was the man who attacked me, but I want to listen again, to be certain.”

Bess nodded her head slowly. “Well, you always did say the only thing you could remember was the man's voice. And Gerald wasn't the one who was attacked—
you
were. Don't go lettin' other people put ideas in your head. If you think this is the man, then by golly, go after him.”

“The trouble is, even if I decide it is him for sure, I don't know what can be done about it. Gerald says the police would never let a voice identification stand, certainly not after all these years.”

Bess took a long drink, then responded slowly, picking her way carefully through the thoughts flooding her mind. She wanted to say that Gerald didn't know his tight little ass from a hole in the ground, but she reckoned Audra would just have to find that out for herself. “Maybe not, Audra. But they could do some investigatin'—find out where this man was livin' ten years ago, find out what his background is, whether he has been in any trouble before, that sort of thing. And there's one other possibility you haven't explored. Once you see this man, it might all come back to you. You might remember his face, even though you've blocked it all these years.”

Audra shuddered. “You're right, of course. I never even considered that. I'm not sure how I would handle putting a face to my nightmares. I've spent ten years trying to block that night from my memory, and now I might remember more than I really want to.”

Bess reached over and patted her hand, comforting. “Child, it's the not remembering that has caused you the most trouble. You can't deal with an enemy until you meet him head on. If this
is
the man, then you'll have to gather up enough courage to face him. Bring him to justice. No tellin' how many young girls have suffered, or perhaps died, because of him. You never know—maybe you're the only one who is left alive to finger him.”

Later, Audra lay in bed staring at the small nightlight she always left burning. Her fingers reached up under the flannel nightgown she was wearing and traced the scars across her midsection. The vicious red slashes were a constant reminder of that night so long ago.
You are running away, Audra,
the psychiatrist had said to her.
You can't remember because you don't
want
to remember. Right now, you feel safe in not remembering. You are throwing up a shield for protection, but in the long run, it will destroy you.

He had been right. Bess was right. It was the not remembering that had always caused her the most trouble. And what if Bess were right? What if there had been other victims? Victims not so lucky as she had been?

Chapter THREE

He watched from his bedroom as the twilight lengthened into darkness. This was
his
time. The night belonged to him. It was as though God had created the darkness just for his pleasure.

He raised his arm to his face and brushed away the thin beads of sweat that had gathered across his forehead. He wanted to go out. It had been building for several days. It would be two weeks before another trip. Could he wait that long?

The need to kill was a boiling, churning fire in his gut. It was as important to his survival as food or sleep. The planning, the execution, and the aftermath were like heroin to an addict. An indescribable high. And just like an addict, the need for a fix was becoming stronger and more urgent.

He would have to fight against the need. It would be only two weeks. Then it would be safe.
He
would be safe. His plan had worked well all these years. He couldn't afford to get careless now.

Maybe he would go visit the blind lady. At least it would get him out of the house. The old bag prattled on and on about her German heritage, and how her grandfather had been among the group of Volga Germans who fled from southern Russia to escape service in the Czar's army and the dangers to their Catholic faith. Shit. He knew her story by heart.

Sometimes he mimicked her as she spoke, making elaborate facial expressions. Once he had opened up his fly and banged himself as she droned on and on. It gave him an immense sense of power to know the old lady couldn't see what he was up to.

And she liked him. “I just can't tell you how much I enjoy your visits, son. I get to talk with others once in awhile during the day, but you're the only one who comes to see me at night.” Her next words had pleased him even more. “Actually, I've outlived most of my friends. About the only people who come calling anymore, are the Meals on Wheels ladies and my priest.”

At one time, he had thought about killing her. He had occupied an entire week thinking up ways to do it without anyone catching on that it was murder.

He was glad he hadn't carried through his plan. One night in her mindless ramblings she had told him about the room—the secret room that no one knew about. She had proudly gone over to her curio cabinet, opened the curved glass door, and removed a large iron key.

“This is the original key, you know. My father helped build that tribute to the good Lord's bounty, and when they decided to board up the room, he kept this key.” She had handed it over for his inspection.

He had known at that very moment, what he would do.
Two
places the world knew nothing about. It was almost too good to be true.

He jumped slightly as the sound of the telephone ringing in the living room jarred him back to the present. He moved quickly through the dark house to answer it. “Yes,” he spoke into the receiver. “Of course. That will be fine. I'll see you later, then.” He smiled to himself as he replaced the phone. He wouldn't go visit the old woman. He would go to his loft instead. He needed his things around him. He needed the comfort his tiny room offered—his panacea when he couldn't have the real thing.

No lights were burning in the house, but it didn't bother him as he located his ladder and went to the closet. Even though all the windows in the house were covered with heavy drapes, he took no chances of being seen when he went to his hiding place.

He was in the attic quickly, walked a few steps, then dropped to the floor where he had scattered a few throw pillows. His hand reached out automatically for the book they were covering. He raised it to his face and breathed deep, relishing the rich smell of leather. The heavy scrapbook had been much more expensive than its cardboard counterparts, but well worth the extra money. He ran his large hands back and forth over the binding, liking the way it felt to his touch.

He was in no hurry. This was all part of the ritual—part of the enjoyment. He caressed the leather as he would a woman, feeling stirrings begin in his loins. At last he turned on the light and opened the pages, running his hands over the heavy plastic as he savored each memento he had placed there. The newsprint stared back at him.

KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI

NOVEMBER
, 1984

Police today discovered the body of eighteen-year-old Diana Johnson. She had been missing for two weeks, and was the focus of an intense search in the Kansas City area. Miss Johnson had been raped and strangled. Her nude body had been covered with branches and brush, and was discovered by nine-year-old Jeremy Calhoun, who was hunting with his father at the time.

Diana Johnson was a freshman at Park College. Police have no leads in the case.

The lovely face of Diana Johnson smiled out at him from his book. Her short, light-brown hair was worn casually, swept up and away from her face. Just the way she had worn it that night. The newspaper photograph didn't do justice to her eyes, though. He remembered her crystal blue eyes, fringed by long, dark lashes. He ran his hand over the smooth plastic covering her face, remembering how it had been that night. She had been so pretty, so desirable—so frightened. He shivered as he turned the page.

OMAHA, NEBRASKA

FEBRUARY
1984

After an exhaustive search in the Omaha area, police today discovered the body of nineteen-year-old Kimberly Asherton, of Lincoln. She had been missing for eight days from her dormitory at the University of Nebraska. Her nude, mutilated body was found by a farmer, Silas Montgomery, on his wooded property just north of the city. Miss Asherton had been brutally raped, then stabbed repeatedly. At this time police have no leads.

Kimberly's face smiled out at him from the old newspaper clipping. He remembered her well. She wouldn't stop screaming. He had begged her to talk with him—to say the words. But she wouldn't. She just screamed on and on. He had been happy to kill her.

Leaning over, he flicked his tongue back and forth over the picture. “See how nice it is when you don't scream, Kimberly? If you would have only talked to me, I might have killed you quicker. Poor Kimberly. You died so slow.”

Casually he flipped through a few more pages.

DES MOINES, IOWA

DECEMBER
1985

GRAND ISLAND, NEBRASKA

JANUARY
1985

SPRINGFIELD, MISSOURI

NOVEMBER
1986

LAWRENCE, KANSAS

JANUARY
1986

There was no picture accompanying the article this time. Worse, he didn't even have a name for the girl. His one mistake. His one
big
mistake. He hadn't believed his eyes when he picked up the newspaper that next day. She had lived. It was unthinkable, but she had lived. Slowly, he traced his finger down the short article, reading it again—remembering.

Police today are searching for clues in the rape and near-fatal stabbing of a seventeen-year-old freshman student from the University of Kansas. The victim was discovered late last night by two high school students. Doctors credit their quick action for saving the young woman's life. She had been stabbed four times, but the teenagers who discovered her crawling along the road bound her wounds tightly and rushed her to Memorial Hospital, where she is listed in critical condition.

Because of the age of the victim, her name is being withheld from publication.

Her name! The little bitch wouldn't tell him her name! But she had been so obliging in all other aspects, that he had let it go. After all, he knew he would be able to get it from the newspaper article telling about her death. When it told instead of her living, he had been horrified.

He should never have broken his own rule about keeping the deaths far removed from his home, anyway. NO KANSAS KILLINGS! He had told himself that a hundred times.

He turned the page and read the next clipping, smiling to himself. Luck. Just pure dumb luck. You couldn't beat it.