Every Woman's Dream (25 page)

“What's wrong?”

“Girl, one of the dudes I responded to is
so
good-looking. He's been on my mind ever since he sent me a message three days ago.”

“What race is he, and where does he live?”

“He's a brother, and he lives in San Jose.”

“Hmmm. Just a word of warning, you might want to avoid the ones who live too close. San Jose is almost within walking distance. All of mine are from other states and other countries. I think it's safer if there's some distance between the dudes and us.”

“‘Safer'? I thought you told me these men get checked out by the site people before they let them join. If that's true, why are you worried about them being safe? And distance doesn't mean a damn thing! What about that woman who came looking for you to beat you up for fooling around with her husband when we were in that old folks' lonely hearts club?”

There were times when having a conversation with Lola made me want to scream. She could be so exasperating! “Are you ever going to let me forget about that episode? For God's sake, we were
seventeen
!”

“Well, in some cultures, seventeen is practically middle age.” We both laughed. Lola continued talking. “The point is, distance didn't keep that man's wife from coming after you. So . . . what if I do get involved with a man who lives so close to me?”

“You can get involved with the man from next door, as far as I'm concerned. I personally will not date men who live within a thousand miles of me.” I shook my head and gave Lola a guarded look. “But whatever you do is your business. Oh, well,” I said with a smirk and a shrug. “So, what does this San Jose dude do for a living?”

“He's a long-haul truck driver. He drives one of those huge eighteen-wheelers we hate to be in front of on the freeway. He hauls lumber, merchandise, and all kinds of stuff from Washington and Oregon to various cities in California, mostly around San Diego and beyond. He spends a lot of time on the road. He's one of the most interesting men I've ever communicated with.”

“Dude must have really impressed you. You haven't been this giddy in years.” I stared at Lola for a few seconds. “You've already spoken to him?”

“No, we've only communicated by e-mail a few times, and once on Facebook. Not only is he fine as wine, he's a war hero. He was stationed in Afghanistan and saved a couple of men's lives.”

“Hmmm. That is interesting. But a
truck driver
?”

“Why should I care about what the man does for a living, as long as it's not something illegal? For your information, I Googled around and found out that truck drivers make a hell of a lot of money. And he likes to eat out, watch old black-and-white movies, and do a lot of other things I like. He even likes kids.”

“A regular TV sitcom kind of guy, huh?”

“What's that supposed to mean? You're the one who is all hung up on the men on this site being professional and whatnot.”

“Let me remind you, this is not eHarmony or any of those other sites for women who are looking for a serious relationship with Mr. Right. This is a straight-up fuck site, and
fucked
is all you're going to get.”

“I know what kind of site it is. But I'd still be more interested in spending time with a man I have a few things in common with. I mean, I'd like to converse with the dude, before and after the . . . uh . . . session.”

“When are you going to see him?”

Lola hunched her shoulders. “I have no idea. It'll be a while before he's even available. He told me that he has some back-to-back hauls and wouldn't be back in the area for more than a couple of days at a time for another couple of months. He just wanted to introduce himself for now.”

“Well, at least you've made it this far. I promise you, you're going to have some experiences you will never forget.”

Lola reared back in her seat and looked at me as if I'd just revealed the secrets of the world. “That's exactly what Calvin told me!”

“Calvin?”

“That's his name. Calvin Ramsey and his screen name is ‘RamRod. ' He's thirty-three, divorced, and has no kids. Check out his profile and his picture. Nice firm body, a fantastic smile with snow-white teeth, and piercing black eyes.”

“Calvin Ramsey, aka RamRod—ooh, that sounds sexy. I'll bet he can ‘ram' into a woman like nobody's business.” I got so turned on I had to cross my legs to make my crotch stop twitching. “You'd better know I'm going to check out his profile. I wonder why a man like him is not married now. So far, all of the men on this site I've heard from are married.”

“I didn't ask him why he's no longer married, but he included that information in one of his e-mails, anyway. He said his ex-wife got involved with another man while he was in the Middle East. She wasted no time divorcing him after he got discharged and returned to the States.”

A sad feeling came over me. I felt sorry for a man I'd never met, and probably never would. I couldn't think of too many things more disgusting than a woman cheating on her husband while he was risking his life in that damn war in Afghanistan. Even I wouldn't have stooped that low!

“I'm surprised he's still interested in women after all that.”

“Calvin said it took him a while to get over it. He's only been dating casually since. He says he'd love to get married again eventually. In the meantime, he's more interested in just having some fun.”

“You can tell him for me that he's come to the right place.” I winked at Lola and beckoned for the waiter to bring another round of drinks. “And if you don't mind, I just might check him out myself after you're done with him.”

Chapter 40

Calvin

A
S A TRUCK DRIVER
, I
DIDN'T MIND GETTING MY HANDS SOILED
. When I went out on the road, I always carried my own soap because that crap in truck stop restrooms didn't do the job the way I liked it. I didn't mind washing my hands several times a day and scraping the greasy dirt and other grime from underneath my fingernails, but I did mind when it included blood. Blood on my hands, or any other part of my body, annoyed me—especially when it was somebody else's blood.

The last hitchhiker who had been stupid enough to accept a ride from me had left so much blood, it had taken me a whole hour and two bottles of bleach to restore the cab of my big rig to the pristine condition I kept it in. She had been too much trouble, period. That husky, corn-fed heifer from Montana had put up a hell of a fight before I got her under control. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had to use my fists, the pocketknife I'd won during a Boy Scout event more than twenty years ago, and a rope to get someone under control. Hitchhikers and women in bars had become too risky. I realized that if I wanted to continue my mission, I had to change my method of hunting. Being a smart dude, I picked one where horny women were screaming for trouble: the Internet.

I never thought I'd resort to the Internet to find potential victims and some casual sex. There was a lot of both up for grabs. One night last month, I spent three hours browsing various dating sites. I had no interest in the namby-pamby Christian-related sites, even though I was in the Church myself. But a woman with a Christian background was usually too conservative and had too many meddlesome associates. I didn't want to spend weeks, if not months, wooing a bitch just to figure out a way for her to become one of my projects. By the time I would get a piece of ass—if I did—I'd probably be so frustrated by then, I'd get careless and get caught. I'd maybe even end up on death row!

Just as I was about to give up for the night and browse some more in a day or so, I stumbled upon a site that sounded like a predator's playground, compared to some of the others. The club's corny name drew me in like a Venus flytrap, Friends With Benefits: Discreet Encounters. Below the name, in smaller bold italic letters, was
No Attachments, No Commitments
. I was impressed because this site did not beat around the bush. They got right to the point on the home page.

I checked out the site's history, read some of the sample reviews posted by club members, and the bios and vision of the husband-and-wife team located in Memphis, Tennessee, who had created this fuckfest. I was thrilled to learn that there were people outside of the porn industry who were not shy about expressing their sexuality. I wanted to know more, but I'd read everything that a nonmember had access to. I'd already made up my mind. I immediately completed the online application for membership and gave them permission to do a background check on me. My record was flawless, so I wasn't worried about them denying me membership.

While I awaited a response, I checked out craigslist and a few other sites. The first woman I contacted was pregnant. She was looking for a man to pose as her fiancé just long enough to fool her rich parents so she could collect part of the fortune her grandfather left behind when he died a couple of months ago. She offered me five hundred bucks to do so. I declined her offer.

Another woman had the nerve to tell me she'd only sleep with me if her husband could watch. “We might even make a tape of it,” she'd told me. I was not interested in participating in a peep show and having it put on a tape.

I eagerly hooked up with the third woman, who was interested in me. During one of my runs from Sacramento to Long Beach, we met up at a Best Western hotel she managed in Modesto. She had ordinary features and was a little on the heavy side, but she was a spark plug in bed. We had some great sex that night. I enjoyed her company and body so much, I even let her ride down to Long Beach when I resumed my run. I stopped counting the number of times we stopped along the way, to and from, to get busy in the cab of my rig.

After her, I spent a night with a thirty-year-old lesbian, who had never had sex with a man. She had finally decided to see what it felt like. She had been disappointed and so had I. “From now on, I'm sticking to females!” she had angrily told me. “So am I!” I'd shot back.

I was glad when I received a “Welcome Aboard” e-mail the following week from the Discreet Encounter site masters and the club's short list of rules and regulations. What a joke that list was! Explicit photos were not acceptable, nor were reviews that included obscene language, and a member was not allowed to reveal another member's real name or any other personal information. I chose a screen name that I thought was as clever as some of the others: RamRod. When I saw that another dude used “HotRod” as his screen name, I almost changed mine, but decided not to. RamRod fit Calvin Ramsey to a tee.

I checked out about a dozen of the other male club members. It was always good to know what the competition looked like. I was surprised to see so many handsome dudes. The only fly in the ointment was the picture of a good-looking brother whose screen name was “FingerLickin'Good.” He was in raggedy jeans and a dingy-looking T-shirt. That was tacky enough. But what got my goat was the
do-rag
wrapped around his head and the smirk on his face! I thought I was looking at a mug shot! Dude was in his late thirties and old enough to know better. What sophisticated woman—which was the way the site described all of the female members—would want to hook up with a man who looked like a damn thug? So what if he claimed to be a restaurant manager. It was probably a rib joint in the hood that also served fried chicken wings and catfish sandwiches. I was pleased to see that the rest of the other black men were well-groomed and dapper. My picture would fit in nicely among that batch. The only concern I had was my profession. The other males I'd checked out were professional athletes, doctors, lawyers, accountants, bankers, a few actors I'd never heard of, and so on. Oh, well, if the women ignored me because I was a truck driver, I'd move on to another site.

I got giddy when I checked out some of the females. Two claimed to be models, one was the lead singer in a band I'd never heard of, two were stockbrokers, and one said she was an actress who had once appeared on one of the daytime TV soaps. I was very impressed. I decided that until I found my next victim, I planned to enjoy myself as much as I could.

Chapter 41

Calvin

A
S STUPID AS THE COPS WERE
, I
KNEW
I
DIDN'T HAVE TO WORRY
about them. Black women disappeared all the time. But when three from the same area, who also happened to resemble one another, disappeared within the same year, a busybody reporter started making a lot of noise about it.

The day the article appeared in the
South Bay City Tribune
newspaper, I happened to be entertaining Sylvia Bruce, a woman I had chosen to use as a cover. She was a pharmacist in a downtown drugstore and five years older than me, but she didn't look it. I'd met her one Saturday afternoon three months after I'd murdered my wife. I'd gone to get a prescription filled for a minor eye infection I'd contracted.

Sylvia had been alone behind the counter that day and she'd been very friendly, so we'd chatted about a few mundane things. She'd been the one to suggest continuing our conversation over dinner. We'd been a couple ever since. She was perfect for a man in my position. She was gullible, docile, and always willing to please me. Although she was a little too thin for my tastes, she had a cute Cabbage Patch doll face and thick, medium-length brown hair, which she always wore in a conservative do. She worshipped the ground I walked on, and I played my role as the perfect boyfriend to the hilt. I gave her flowers and candy on a regular basis. I took her to boring plays and concerts—both of which I could take or leave. She knew I was not a big reader, except for the newspaper and a few crime publications, but she frequently recommended reading material to me. To show her that I was receptive, I even read some of the books she liked: crap such as romance novels, mysteries, and celebrity bios written by people who had the nerve to call themselves “authors,” when they were nothing more than “creative typists,” with savvy publishers.

Sylvia had so many good qualities. In addition to being an adequate piece of tail, she was always well-groomed. I couldn't count the number of times somebody said something to me like, “Man, you and Sylvia make such a good-looking couple—and both of you in the Church makes your relationship a double blessing.” Whenever I heard comments like that, I always grinned sheepishly and agreed.

Leading a double life was hard, even for a clever dude like myself. I had to keep people believing that I was as normal as the boy next door. And what a laugh! Every serial killer in the world had been “the boy next door” to someone at some point in his life.

Anyway, Sylvia had come to my house a few hours earlier so she could do my laundry and cook our dinner. As if she didn't have enough going for her, she was also a good cook. I often teased her by saying to her, “It took your face powder to get my attention and your baking powder to keep my attention.” In addition to all my other great qualities, I had a sense of humor. Several times a week, she spoiled me with some of the best home cooking I'd eaten since my grandmother died. Sylvia had just turned thirty-eight a month ago and had an amazing metabolism. I had to work hard to stay in shape. She could eat just about anything and not gain an ounce—at least not yet. I shuddered when I thought about what she'd probably look like after she had a few babies when Father Time caught up to her.

“This reporter is convinced that these three missing-women cases are linked,” she said with the newspaper in her hand. We had just finished the pot roast she had prepared and had moved to my living room with our wineglasses. Sylvia crossed her legs and cringed, her eyes still on the newspaper article.

“What three missing women?” I asked with a yawn, sounding as casual as I could. The last thing I wanted anybody to think was that I had a special interest in missing women.

“That nurse from South Bay City who disappeared one evening after work last year. She had told some coworkers that she was going to stop off at a bar on her way home and have a drink. The police think she might have met up with somebody she didn't know at the bar and . . . well, we both know what can happen to a woman who is stupid enough to trust a stranger she met in a bar. The police found her car parked on the street across from a bar two days after her fiancé reported her missing. One of the women was a stripper, so
anything
could have happened to her. Don't you remember me telling you about this a couple of months ago? The other woman was a secretary.”

“I do remember us talking about that a while back,” I said with a shrug. “Maybe they all disappeared on purpose. There was a TV news report a few weeks ago and they said the stripper had been having some stalking problems with an obsessed customer. This dude had done some hard time in the joint for assaulting a few other women. The managers had to ban him from coming back to the club when he threatened the stripper. I could see why a woman in her predicament would pack up and take off.”

“True. I saw that same news program. The nurse didn't take any of her clothes, her car, or anything else. Her credit cards have not been used and none of the money she had in a savings account has been withdrawn since her disappearance. She had a little boy that she doted on. Her mother said that no matter where the woman was, or what she was doing, she always called or came to visit her child on his birthday, which was two days after she disappeared.”

“Here, let me pour you some more wine.” I refilled Sylvia's wineglass and then my own, hoping she'd change the subject. She didn't.

“And the nurse had just moved into a new house with her fiancé. I don't think she'd up and run off. None of her credit cards have been used either. She didn't even cash the paycheck she'd received the same day she disappeared.” Sylvia took a sip from her wineglass and dropped the newspaper onto the coffee table. “Why would these women run off and not use a credit card or cash a paycheck? I'm sure they didn't all take off on a lark. Especially the secretary, who'd just gotten married and promoted at work.”

“Sweetheart, marriage can be overwhelming. That and a promotion is a heavy load for a young woman in her twenties to handle. Maybe she realized that and wanted out of the marriage, and the husband didn't go along with it. I think the cops should be taking a long, hard look at him. . . .”

“Uh-uh,” Sylvia said, vigorously shaking her head. “He passed a lie detector test and they have no evidence that he had anything to do with his wife's disappearance. He didn't have life insurance on her, or any other reason to want to get rid of her. Three women have vanished and nobody knows why.”

I took a deep breath and remained as nonchalant as possible. “The thing about going underground is, you have to do it in a way so that nobody can track you down. Check the Internet and you'll see. Women and men drop out of sight on their own every day in this country for various reasons. With all the bills I have, walking away from my current life crosses my mind from time to time.” A hearty laugh followed my last comment.

“I certainly feel you on that one.” Sylvia laughed, too, and rolled her eyes.

“I would not leave a paper trail by using credit cards or making a bank transaction. I'd also get new credit cards using a fake Social Security number and an alias. I'd even get a fake passport in case I wanted to leave the country.”

“I'm sure people who want to walk away from a difficult life do just what you said. Something tells me that that's not the case with these three women.”

“Well, this busybody reporter thinks the same person killed these three women. What do you think?”

With a loud gasp, Sylvia looked directly into my eyes. There was a frightened expression on her face. “
‘Killed'?
How do you know they're dead? So far, all we know is that they are just missing.”

I didn't like that look on her face, and I didn't like that I'd slipped up and said something stupid! Again I shrugged and maintained my position of indifference.

“Did I say ‘killed'? Hmmm. I just thought that after all the time they've been missing, somebody must have kidnapped and killed them. Like that young Mexican girl they found in a shallow grave in Berkeley last week. I hate to say it, but when women and young kids disappear, they usually turn up dead. Unless, of course, they're lucky like that Jaycee Dugard, the girl who went to the same school you attended when your family lived in Tahoe. She was held captive for eighteen years and had two babies by her kidnapper. And don't forget that poor little girl in Utah who was snatched right out of her own home in the middle of the night while her parents were in another room.”

“Elizabeth Smart. Thank God she and Jaycee made it back to their families. There are a few others who came home after being missing for a long time,
years
in some cases, so maybe there's hope for at least one of the three missing black women.” Sylvia took another sip of wine and blinked. I was glad she had finally gotten a buzz. She'd be even easier to control once she got good and drunk. “Calvin, we black folks have more than our share of problems, but this kind of shit is done mostly by white folks. I would hate to think that a black man is responsible for the disappearance of these three black women.”

I didn't bother to shrug this time, but I wanted to. Instead, I took another sip from my wineglass. “Maybe some white dude who prefers dark meat snatched those three black chicks. . . .”

“Yeah, that's a possibility. But whether this freaky maniac is black or white, I hope I never run into him.”

I was tempted to tell Sylvia, “You already have, honey,” but this was nothing I wanted to joke about. And like I said, I didn't want anybody to think I was too interested in this subject. “Why don't you join
this
‘freaky maniac' in the bedroom?” I said in a low voice, already tugging on her blouse. For a small woman, she had big juicy breasts and a nice meaty rump that I liked to slap and squeeze sometimes to the point of causing her great pain. She was so tiny and fragile-looking, she made me feel like the Big Bad Wolf.

“That's not a bad idea,” she purred, rising. “I'm still a little sore from that session we had just before dinner, so can you be more of a lamb this time?”

“Baaaaaa,” I said, tickling her chin. Despite my humor, I knew that once I got her into my bed, I was not going to be responsible for my actions. Women brought out the Big Bad Wolf in me. . . .

 

After I made love to Sylvia, she rolled over and promptly went to sleep. I didn't like it when she stayed over. But it was past midnight and I didn't feel like driving her home.

I lay on my back with my arms folded across my chest for the next hour or so. Thoughts rolled around in my head like tumbleweeds in a desert storm. My head began to throb like hell. I was surprised I didn't have these excruciating headaches more frequently. I had a secret that had almost consumed me, and would remain a secret until the day I died.

I often wondered what people would say or think if somebody accused me of kidnapping and killing women. I had to hold my breath to keep from laughing out loud because such a notion was not even a possibility.

I finally fell asleep. Unfortunately, sleep was not a refuge for me. What I had become was
always
on my mind. The dreams I had of women dying by my hands (some I had not even met yet), their eyes rolling back in their heads as I strangled the life out of them, haunted me almost every single night since my troubles began eight years ago....