NAKED.
I’m naked!
Makedde woke to find herself inside a bedroom in a lot of pain. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t cover herself. For a moment she wondered,
prayed
, that it was a nightmare. She’d had dreams as a child where she was walking through the halls of her high school, or walking through the busy city streets and would suddenly realise that she was exposed.
Icy air passed over her damp skin. She was freezing, covered in goose bumps. A door was open, or a window. She was spread-eagled, secured to the bed by her wrists and ankles. Some kind of gauze was looped around her head. A floor lamp was switched on, spreading a feeble light through the room. Although she couldn’t move her head, she strained her eyes and looked around her as best she could. She was alone. There were dusty shelves decorated with vases of dried flowers and framed photographs. From her position on the bed, she could see the image in one of the closer
photographs; a man in a tuxedo and his bride in a beautiful white dress.
There was no mistaking the smiling faces of Andy and Cassandra Flynn. This was the place he had told her about.
She struggled to free herself but the more she moved, the harder the twine around her wrists and ankles bit in. When she tried to move her jaw, a searing white pain shot into her temples and her ears.
Sounds came from nearby. Footsteps. Creaking wood. Metal. The red-haired man had returned. He came through the bedroom door, a garish vision in a surgeon’s gown and mask and latex gloves. He carried what looked like a mechanic’s toolbox.
He dragged a wooden table across the room and placed it beside the bed, then with a small hand brush cleaned the top. He placed a plastic sheet over the table, setting the toolbox on top of it. Makedde struggled to speak and found that she was unable to form words. Weak groans escaped her throat. The man ignored the sounds, ignored her, intent on his preparations.
He pulled the floor lamp over to the bed. The light was bright this close, and it took her eyes a while to focus. Now she was face to face with this monster, she had to know. Why Catherine? She struggled to work her mouth around the sounds but her jaw was stiff and swollen.
Suddenly, strangely, the man laughed at her. It was a hideous sound. The cackle stopped as quickly as it had started. “No talking from the whore,” he said without looking at her. He turned away and continued with his preparations. She strained her wide eyes to follow his movements. He was checking the twine that secured her to the bed and it occurred to Makedde that he was going through some sort of checklist, one by one.
When he finished he turned his face to her and for the first time looked her straight in the eyes. He spoke directly and calmly. “I have to take my time with you. You are special.” He said it proudly, as if she might be flattered by the sentiment. “Have you ever witnessed an autopsy, Makedde?” he went on in his odd altar-boy voice. “I know you’ve seen my work elsewhere. What would you like done first? I promise I will save the fatal incisions for last. I only regret that your head wounds have dulled your senses so.”
She had to try and speak. Speech was her only weapon now that she was physically helpless.
He doesn’t care about your pain
, she thought,
he enjoys it
. Say something that surprises him. Don’t let him see your fear. She took a deep breath, forced her lower jaw down and an indecipherable noise escaped her throat. Ed cocked his head to one side, clearly amused by her efforts.
“What did they do to you?” she asked in a weak, grating whisper. His expression changed slightly. “How did they force you to do this?” she slurred.
Something flickered in his eyes. Recognition? She imagined that they changed, became those of a child. A young boy, looking at Makedde with wide, curious eyes. Remorse? No. He turned away and grabbed something. Will he cut me loose? When she saw his eyes again, the look she thought she’d seen was gone; replaced with the cold, steady glare of the man who had brought her here to kill her.
He was holding what looked like a rubber ball with straps dangling from it. His latex-gloved hands forced her jaw open and he shoved the ball in her mouth. He fitted the straps over the gauze on her head and secured it.
“No more talking,” he said as he chose another item from his toolbox.
As the two detectives neared the Lane Cove house, they turned the siren off. They didn’t want to scare Ed Brown into a dangerous reaction or a quick getaway.
If
he was there.
If
. Andy prayed that he was right. Suddenly, an image jumped out of the thick, black night like a neon sign.
“Did you see that?” Andy said, hitting the brakes.
They skidded to a halt and Andy threw the car into reverse. He’d seen something near the trees.
The blue VW van was partly submerged on the edge of the river.
“Jesus, look at that,” Jimmy said, throwing open the car door.
Andy jumped out and ran down the bank, the headlights illuminating the van like a pale ghost. He drew his gun. The van was half-submerged, the back end rising out of the water. He held his Glock high in front of him, waded over to the driver’s side door and cautiously looked inside. The cab was empty, the windshield broken. He examined the driver’s seat quickly—there appeared to be blood streaked across
the open window frame, and also across the steering wheel.
“Phone for backup!” he yelled out to Jimmy. “I need a flashlight over here. It’s hard to see into the back, but I think it’s empty. There’s blood. The bastard may be hurt. They can’t be far!”
The door was jammed. Andy squeezed through the window and slid onto the front seat. Gun poised and ready, he squinted and checked the back of the vehicle. There was no time. He struggled out the window and pushed through the water to the river’s edge. Jimmy was hurrying towards him with a flashlight. Andy snatched it from him and shone it across the gravel.
There were clearly visible drag marks.
Ed Brown was leaning over her, his breath putrid and hot against her neck. Makedde tried to spit at him, but the rubber gag caused the spittle to drip from the corners of her mouth, down her chin. She pulled at her restraints, but only felt the twine bite unforgivingly into her flesh. She could see the man’s face clearly so close to hers. The lamp light played across a deep gash on his forehead. The split was long, still oozing blood, but his eyes were alert, alive, dancing in sadistic satisfaction.
“You’re drooling, Makedde.” Her name sounded loathsome on his lips. He was holding something in his latex-gloved hand…bringing it to her throat. It was a surgical sponge, dripping with disinfectant. He was cleaning her down, removing the river’s soil and smell. His hands slipped over her naked body, over the goose bumps, pausing on her raised nipples. The cloth moved over her breasts, her navel, down her stomach. She tried to close her legs, but her ankles were held too far apart.
She tried to pretend she was somewhere else.
I’m walking on the beach, walking free, not here. Not with that stinging cloth pushed between my legs. Please…
Ed turned from her. He was reaching for something, pulling something from his toolbox with both hands. She strained her head, saw a sharp tip. He moved down her body, towards her bound ankles, caressed her bare feet with his fingertips, and slid something around her foot. Her shoes! He had fetched her stilettos from the van and was now placing them on her feet.
“Mother…” he sighed.
She felt so groggy. Her breath was shallow and laboured and she was trembling. He was walking back to the toolbox, arranging implements, laying them on the plastic sheet, then wiping them clean. Makedde made out what looked like a scalpel, a knife with a long sharp blade, pliers…
She forced her legs back and forth violently.
Break the twine!
It bit angrily into her. The pain was overwhelming, but she had to keep on. The bed posts protested with loud creaks and strains.
Ed stood over her, lips twitching. His slim, gloved hands held the disinfected scalpel elegantly and her eyes followed the progress of the sharp tip towards her naked body, towards her naked breast, her cold raised nipple.
There were few houses in the area. No neighbours close by. That’s why Cassandra had liked it. The privacy.
The drag marks led to the house. They had to be there.
Andy sprinted up the gravel road, vaguely aware of Jimmy’s presence a few feet behind him. His wet pant legs pulled against his knees, trying to slow him down, but he ran with all his might. Nearing the house now, just beyond those trees. A light—a dim light—the bedroom window. Andy raced across the grass, a flitting shadow. He ran for the front door, gun extended.
The scalpel blade pressed on her breast, ready to pierce. She wanted to scream. She wanted to fight back. She prayed it would end soon.
His eyes were so close to hers and yet they were so distant, part of another world she could not comprehend.
“Are you ready, Mother?”
Mother?
Those words, so terrible, spitting from those mean lips
. Are you ready…Mother?
Her father about to push her down the slide, those gentle hands holding her.
Are you ready?
Her mother, unveiling her sculpture, a clay figure.
She would die now…
she was ready to die
. Wait. She pulled herself back. That was it! She would pretend. It could stall him. Anything. Try anything.
She rolled her eyes back in her head and shook violently on the bed, convulsing and groaning. The scalpel pricked her as she moved, tearing her skin, but then moved away. She choked on the gag, as convincingly as she could manage. The movement
hurt, her ribs screaming out, everything immersed in pain, but the scalpel had pulled away.
He was speaking to her now. What was he saying?
“You forget my expertise. You’re not dying until I say so. Mother’s going to be cured right. No fooling.”
She tried to speak, to demand he release her, but the sounds coming from her throat were inhuman, her jaw too swollen.
“I told you there was to be no talking. And yet you refuse to desist.” He shook his head slowly, then smiled and bent over her, placing his hands around her skull. She felt the straps around her head tighten painfully for an instant and then release. He pulled the rubber ball from her broken jaw, strings of blood and saliva hanging from her mouth. She tried to speak. He cocked his head to listen. He was playing with her now, teasing her.
He answered her chokes and moans. “No, I won’t let you go. No. But you have such beautiful toes. Lovely toes. Would you like to taste them? Suck them for me?”
She nodded, gurgling a bit as she tried to speak. She looked down to the twine biting through her ankles.
“Remove the twine? No, no. I don’t think you’re that flexible. No, I’ll bring the toes to you. Shove them in your mouth. You can bite down on those pretty polished toenails.”
The scalpel moved down her naked skin, down her legs, down to her right foot. He muttered something, “The right foot, because it’s
right
…” He slipped the shoe off and dropped it on the wooden floor.
Makedde closed her eyes, felt the scalpel sink in, the pain hot and unbearable as it sliced through. She screamed, the sound blending with everything. Noises everywhere, sounds filling her ears, colour danced before her eyes, red, green, swirling, such pain, she was falling away…
A loud blast. He’d shot her, he’d stopped cutting and he’d shot her. She opened her eyes, tears flowing down her face, everything blurry. Something wasn’t right, she was still alive. Another blast. Wait—something on her—heavy. Someone…him. The man. He was on top of her. Red in the air, floating—now falling.
Blood?
Blood everywhere.
His face was close to hers, tongue protruding, those shocked eyes staring at her. His jerking body crushed against her…a heavy sack of twitching blood and flesh lying across her.
Words…words in her ears. “It’s all over now, Makedde.” Her name sweet again, no venom in the sound. “You’ll be fine. I’m here Makedde, I’m here. Quiet. It’s all right. Don’t try to speak. You’re safe now.”
Andy. The voice was
Andy.
A weight being lifted off her, that convulsing mass taken away. The staring eyes no longer watching. She felt light. Her ankles suddenly free, the twine cut away. Her wrists now.
Softly—softly, something falling on her, cloth, a blanket covering her. She turned on her side and swept the cloth into her, tears filling her eyes, sobbing with joy and relief, pulling her arms and legs into her, holding herself, holding her pain.
Curled up in a tight ball, they carried her to the ambulance.
Andy Flynn strode down the corridor, his partner at his heels.
“After all that, she still won’t believe her son did it,” Jimmy said, shaking his head.
Andy didn’t respond. It was taking shape now. Serial killers were never made overnight. He had to figure out the Stiletto Killer. He thought about Ed’s polite and unobtrusive presence at the morgue.
“Hello…Earth to Flynn, do you read?”
“Yes, Jimmy. I hear you. That woman’s a lost cause. She’ll never come around. Eileen Brown was a prostitute, Jimmy. Different men every night, dolled up in stilettos and miniskirts with her young son looking on. Drugged out and angry, blaming her kid for being born. Little Ed snapped.”
“ To say the least…”
“The homicidal triad. You were right. The house was torched when Ed was ten. He did it, Jimmy. He tried to kill her when he was
ten
.”
“Yeah. But he didn’t kill her, he crippled her.”
“Exactly. But he’s been symbolically killing her ever since.”
“So if all these malakas are really wanting to kill their parents, why don’t they just do it?”
“You’d have to ask a psychologist about that one. Guilt? Displaced anger? Edmund Kemper killed his mum and practically gave himself up, but only after killing hoards of innocent women. And our Ed Brown took his time in the end, even though he knew we were onto him. Maybe in some way he was giving himself up, too.” Andy was rambling again. “All he had was his mum. He waited on her hand and foot for decades after the fire. Her clients would have left after she lost her legs. Her son was the only one she had to take care of her. And I guess she was the only one Ed had, too.”