Shoot Don't Shoot Page 2

  “Of him,” Rhonda answered. “Of Dean. He threatened me. He told me that if I went through with the divorce, he’d see me in hell before he’d pay me a single dime of alimony or give me a property settlement.”

  “Oh, hell,” Lael said. “The man’s just pissed because he got passed over for department head and then they shipped him off to that other campus, wherever that is.”

  “The ASU West campus is on Thunderbird, Mom,” Rhonda returned quietly. “But he’s not bluffing. He means it. He won’t give me a dime.”

  Lael Weaver Gastone was incensed. “If it’s the money, don’t worry about it. He’s bluffing. Jean Paul and I could always help out if it came to that, but it won’t. You’ll see. The courts will make him pay.”

  But Rhonda was no longer looking at her mother. She had dropped her gaze once more. “It’s not just the money, Mom. I don’t care about that.” She took a deep breath. “I’m afraid he’ll kill me, Mom.” She paused and bit her lip. “He hits me sometimes,” she added almost in a whisper.

  “He what?” Lael asked. “I can’t hear you if you don’t speak up.”

  “He hits me,” Rhonda repeated raggedly. “Hard.” A single tear leaked from her eye and slipped down her cheek. “And he told me the other day when I was packing that he’d kill me if I go through with it—with getting a divorce.”

  Slowly, without looking directly at her mother’s face, Rhonda Weaver Norton unbuttoned the top three buttons of her cardigan sweater; then she slipped the soft knit material down over her shoulder. Under the sweater her bare shoulder and back were discolored by a mass of green-and-purple bruises. Lael gasped when she saw them.

  “You let him do this to you?” she demanded. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  Blushing furiously, Rhonda pulled her sweater back up. “The first two times he promised he’d never do it again, so I dropped the charges. This time I haven’t…not yet.”

  Lael tossed the piece of blue pastel in the general direction of her box, then slammed the lid shut. “And you’re not going to, either. Come on. We’ll go talk to Jean Paul. He’ll know what to do.”

  He waited until midnight. Not that midnight had any special significance, other than the fact that it was the time of day he liked best—the time when he felt most at home.

  He thought about what he was doing as a bridge—a ritual bridge—between the past and the future, between the women who had already died and the ones who soon would. Although he didn’t think of himself as particularly superstitious, he always performed the midnight ceremony in exactly the same way, starting with closing all the blinds. Only when they were all safely closed did he light the candle.

  Once upon a time, he had used incense, but his damn fool of a landlady in Sacramento had reported him to the cops. She had turned him in because she thought he was smoking dope in her precious downstairs apartment. That was right after Lois Hart, and he was nervous as hell. When the young cop showed up on the doorstep and knocked on his door, he’d been so scared that he almost peed his pants. He’d managed to talk his way out of that one—barely—but he’d also learned his lesson. No more incense. From that day on, he’d used only candles.

  As the wick of the scented candle caught fire, he breathed in the sweet, cinnamon scent. He preferred cinnamon over all the others because they always reminded him of his grandmother’s freshly baked pumpkin pies. Cinnamon candles were easy to come by during the holidays, and he usually stocked up so he wouldn’t run out during the rest of the year.

  After setting the burning candle in the center of his kitchen table, he went around the whole house and switched off all the other lights. Turning off the lights slowly, one by one, always added to his sense of anticipation. He liked finishing his preparations in darkened rooms with the only light coming from the flickering glow of a single candle. Everybody always said candlelight made things more romantic. No argument there.

  Next came the music. That was always the same, too—Mantovani. In her later years, his mother had kept only one Mantovani album, and she had played it over and over until he thought he would lose his mind. The record had worn out eventually, thank God. So had the record player, for that matter, but when he had wanted to play the familiar music once again, he’d had no trouble finding it.

  Now he used a cassette player and cheap cassettes that he picked up for a buck or two apiece at used-record stores. He himself didn’t care all that much for Mantovani, certainly not enough to pay full retail.

  By the time he turned on the music, his eyes had adjusted to the dim light. With the soft strains of violins playing soothingly in the background, and with his whole body burning with anticipation, he would finally allow himself to go to the bottom right-hand corner of his closet to retrieve his precious faux alabaster jewelry box.

  The box wasn’t inherently valuable. What gave it worth was where it came from, what it meant. Like that single scratched Mantovani album, the jewelry box had been one of his mother’s prized possessions. When he was twelve, he had bought it for her as a Mother’s Day present. He had paid for it with money he earned delivering newspapers.

  His mother had loved the box, treasured it. When she died, though, the gift had reverted to the giver. He remembered how, on the day she unwrapped it, his mother had run her finger over the smooth, cool stonelike stuff, how she had admired the figure of the young Grecian woman whose delicate image had been carved in translucent relief on the hinged top.

  He looked down now at the graceful young woman in the revealing, loosely flowing gown. His mother had thought her very beautiful. As a matter of fact, so did he. In a lifetime of quarreling with his mother, the Greek maiden’s virginal beauty was one of the few things the two of them had ever agreed upon. The girl’s obvious innocence was one of the reasons he used the box as an integral part of his midnight ritual. He liked the symbolism. The other reason for using it was equally satisfying in the same way Mantovani was—the box had belonged to his mother. Had she known the use he made of it, the knowledge would have made her crazy, if she hadn’t been already. That aspect of the ceremony always added a whole other dimension to his amusement. He had never loved his mother, never even liked her.

  As he carried the box to the kitchen table, his hands shook with anticipation. His whole body quivered. But he held back. Instead of giving in to his growing physical need, he forced himself to sit down and wait. He calmed himself by staring into the flickering glow of the lighted candle, by watching its muted, soothing light reflected in the satiny finish of the jewelry box.

  He liked knowing that he could control the urge, that he could turn it off and on at will. He prided himself on being able to go all the way to the edge and then pull himself back if he had to, although sometimes, like tonight, waiting was almost more than he could bear. It reminded him of the game he used to play with his mother’s old dog, Prudence. He’d dish up the food and put it on the floor, but instead of letting the dog eat it, he’d put her on a down stay and make her wait for it, sometimes for hours. And if she tried to sneak over to it without permission, he’d beat the crap out of her. It had been great training for Prudence. It had taught her the meaning of self-control. It had taught him the same valuable lesson.

  So he sat at the table, in front of the flickering candle, and waited for however long it took for his breathing to slow, for his heart to stop pounding, and for the painful bulge in his pants to disappear. Only after he was totally under control did he allow himself to lift the hinged lid and look inside at the folded treasures waiting there—six pairs of panties.

  Each pair had its own size, shape, and color. He could have sorted through the box blindfolded and still known which was which because he knew them intimately, more by feel than looks.

  Except for the beige ones, which he quickly laid aside, he always stored the underwear according to a LIFO (last in/first out) style of inventory—a system he had learned about way back in college. That was when he was so naive that he had wanted to be
an accountant just like his daddy, when he was still growing up and all gung ho on following in his father’s footsteps. Screw that!

  Even though the box was open, still he delayed, postponing for a few minutes longer the moment of gratification. It struck him as interesting that each pair was so different from all the others. But then, since the women were so different, that was only to be expected. Every time he sorted through his collection, he felt like a decorated veteran examining his medals. Each trophy brought to mind a name, a place, and a time. The sounds, the feelings, replayed themselves as vividly as if it were happening all over again. He was sure his memory did a better job at replaying the details than any of that virtual reality stuff he kept reading about in the newspaper.

  Finally, satisfied that he had waited long enough, he picked up the first pair—white cotton briefs so worn that the material was see-through thin. Holding it to his face, he closed his eyes and breathed in and out through the soft folds of material. With each breath he remembered everything about that Mexican girl with long, dark hair and big tits. Serena was her name. She had been anything but serene out there on the mountain. He smiled again remembering her good looks and those soft, voluptuous breasts.

  He didn’t usually target women he knew. He often had no idea what any of the women looked like when he first chose them. At the time he selected them, they were only names on paper. Due to the luck of the draw, some of them turned out to be a whole lot better looking than others. In fact, one had been a real dog. In Serena’s case he had created the opportunity rather than waiting for it to present itself. It had worked like a charm. Not only that, other than Rochelle, Serena Grijalva had been the best looking of the bunch.

  Laying Serena’s underwear aside, he picked up the next pair. Jockey, the label said. Whoever heard of Jockey for women? What a queer idea! And then he giggled because the thought itself was so funny. It figured. These had belonged to Constance Fredricks, and she was queer all right—as a three-dollar bill. He had suspected her of being a lesbian just from the paperwork, and of course she was. When he followed her to ground down in Miami, Florida, she and her partying friends had verified all his worst suspicions. It didn’t bother him that Constance liked women. What she liked or didn’t like had no bearing on him. As a matter of fact, he had enjoyed watching the way Constance and the others carried on. They did things to one another that, up to that time, he’d only read about in books, things that his uptight mother never would have believed possible.

  He put down the Jockeys and picked up the next pair. Black lace. Control top. These had belonged to Maddy Piper, an aging showgirl-turned-stripper from Las Vegas whose figure was starting to go to seed. She would have been far better off if she hadn’t ended up getting into a big fight with her agent, an ex-middleweight boxer.

  Next came the pink satin bikini briefs with the Frederick’s of Hollywood label. They had belonged to Lois Hart, a barmaid at the Lucky Strike bowling alley in Stockton, California. Lois had sold drinks during the day and dealt in other kinds of chemical mood enhancers by night. When she was found bludgeoned to death and tied to a snag on the banks of the Sacramento River, nobody had gone out of their way looking for her killer. The cops had written Lois off as a drug deal gone bad and let it go at that.

  That brought him to the bright red pair at the very bottom of the box, the ones that had once belonged to Rochelle Newton. Lovely, tall, and slender Rochelle from Tacoma, Washington. Years earlier, when he was up in Seattle, training to be an eager-beaver CPA, Rochelle had been the not-too-savvy hooker who had laughed at him when he couldn’t perform. She had been his very first victim—an accident almost. He hadn’t really intended to kill her. It had just happened. But once he started hitting her, he had found he couldn’t stop himself. Afterward, when he knew she was dead and after he had carefully disposed of her body, he took the key to her apartment on Pacific Highway South, let himself in, and helped himself to a single pair of panties from her dresser drawer.

  At that point, all he had wanted was a token—something that belonged to her, something to remember her by. The moment he had found the red panties in a drawer, a tradition was born.

  Over the years, he had figured out how stupid he had been. It was a miracle nobody had seen him going to or coming from Rochelle’s apartment. Now he either took the panties at the time of the killing—if he thought he could take them without investigators seeing it as a signature M.O.—or he did without.

  For years after killing Rochelle, he had lived in terror—waiting for the knock on the door that would mean the cops had finally caught up with him. The knock never came. And then one day Rochelle’s name had turned up on the list of missing persons who were thought to be possible victims of one of the Northwest’s most notorious serial killers. The very night Rochelle’s killer read her name in the paper, he went to bed and slept like a baby, safe in the knowledge that the cops were no longer looking for him. They were looking for someone else, someone they called a serial killer.

  He had quit his father’s firm the next day and gone off on his own, working at two-bit jobs, but savoring the freedom. And knowing that his mother would always slip him a little something if he got caught short.

  Once on the road, he realized there was a world of difference between serial killers and recreational ones. The first kind kill because some evil compulsion forces them to. The second ones do it for the fun of it—because they want to.

  Breathing deeply, he fondled the swatch of bright red silk. Rochelle. She was the one who had shown him the rules and taught him how to play the game. Once he knew how simple it was to fake the cops out and trick them into looking the other way, everything else was easy.

  All six pairs of panties were out on the table now, laying there in full view. Allowing himself to become excited again, he studied them under the glow of the candle’s flickering light, stroking each one in turn. One at a time, he held five of the six up to his face once more, trying to make up his mind.

  As he did so, his heartbeat quickened. Which would it be tonight? Which one should he choose?

  Other than Rochelle, he had never raped his victims, not at the time. He knew better than that. DNA tests were far too reliable these days, and some cops were a whole lot smarter than they looked. Besides, he didn’t want to pick up some kind of sexually transmitted disease. One way or another, all women were whores. When it came to that, he believed in the old adage, Better safe than sorry.

  At the time he was doing it, he enjoyed killing them. That was satisfying in a way, but he took his real pleasure from them later on, over and over, in the privacy of his own home. There—with the doors carefully closed and locked, with the blinds pulled, and with a scented candle burning on the table—they offered him the relief he craved. No questions asked.

  By then his breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. His pants were bulging so badly that it hurt. He breathed a sigh of relief when he finally opened the zipper and allowed the caged prisoner to roam free. A moment later his other hand settled on the newest prize in his collection—Serena Grijalva’s thin white cotton briefs.

  It didn’t take long. He grasped himself and masturbated into the soft material, groaning with pleasure when he came. Afterward, he hurried to the bathroom and washed out the panties with soap and water before hanging them on the towel bar to dry. Then he went back to the kitchen table, turned on the overhead light, and blew out the candle.

  Sitting down once more, he picked up a single piece of paper that had slipped out of sight temporarily under Maddy Piper’s black lace panties. The paper was a fragment hastily torn from the corner of a yellow legal pad. A few words had been noted on it in painstakingly careful printing.

  “Rhonda Weaver Norton,” it said. “Fourteen twenty-five Apache Boulevard, number six, Tempe, Arizona.”

  Using a strip of tape, he fastened the piece of paper to the bottom of the box and then sat there for a moment, admiring his handiwork.

  “Rhonda,” the man whispered alou
d. “Rhonda, Rhonda, Rhonda. You’d better watch out, little girl. The big bad wolf is coming to get you.”

  2

  Joanna Brady zipped the last suitcase shut and then sat down on the edge of the bed. “Off you go,” she said to her daughter, who was sprawled crosswise on the bed, thumbing through a stack of family photos.

  “I like this one best,” Jenny said, plucking one out of the stack and handing it to her mother. The picture had been taken by Joanna’s father, Big Hank Lathrop, with his Brownie Hawkeye camera. The irregularly sized, old-fashioned, black-and-white snapshot showed an eight-year-old Joanna Lathrop, dressed in her Brownie uniform. She stood at attention in front of her mother’s old Maverick. In the foreground cartons of Girl Scout cookies were stacked into a Radio Flyer wagon.

  Joanna was almost thirty years old now. Big Hank Lathrop had been dead for fifteen years, but as Joanna held the photo in her hand she missed her father more than she could have thought possible. She missed him almost as much as she missed her deputy sheriff husband, Andy, who had died, a victim of the country’s continuing war on drugs, only two months earlier.

  It took real effort for her to speak around the word-trapping lump that mysteriously filled her throat. “I always liked that one, too,” she managed.

  Joanna usually thought of Jenny as resembling Andy far more than she did her mother’s side of the family, but studying the photo closely, she could see that Jenny and the little girl in the twenty-two-year-old picture might have been sisters.

  “How come none of these are in color?” Jenny asked. “They look funny. Like pictures in a museum.”

  “Because Grandpa Lathrop developed them himself,” Joanna answered. “In that room below the stairs in Grandma Lathrop’s basement. That was his darkroom. He always said he liked working in black and white better than he did in color.”

  Carefully, Joanna began gathering the scattered photos, returning them to the familiar shoe box that had been their storage place for as many years as she could remember. “Come on now,” she urged. “It’s time to go to bed in your own room.”