Gregg Olsen - Fear Collector

“Baby,” she said, “I’ve been reading a lot lately.”

“Reading is good, Peggy. I’d like to read more, but the crap they have here in jail is an insult to my intelligence. Only a person dumber than a bag of hammers would want to put up with the likes of Reader’s Digest and the same four Louis L’Amour adventure novels.”

“Can I send you something?” she asked, letting go of what she’d wanted to share about her own reading.

“No,” he said. “They’d probably just steal it. Bunch of thieves in here.”

She winced at the irony. “Were you abused? You know sexually?”

“Whoa! Where did that come from?”

“My reading. Just some FBI perv thinks that a lot of people like you, you know, have been abused.”

It was his turn to let it slide. The “people like you” comment was made without judgment.

“Wish I could be with you. I’d like to take you for a drive. Maybe up in the mountains.”

“I’d love that, Ted. More than anything.”

“Guard says that I have to go now. Guy’s an asshole. A couple of the jailers aren’t so bad. Gave me access to a typewriter. I’m thinking of writing to my congressman to see if I could get a little consideration. Maybe even the president. Bet he’d like a letter from Teddy Bundy.

“I’d like a letter, Ted,” she said.

“Okay. Will do.”

And then the call was over. Peg Howell didn’t know it, but it was the last phone call for a very long time that she’d get from the guy she’d fallen in love with.

The first letter came four days later. It was stamped by a jailer that it had been opened and reviewed for content. Peg wondered what it was they were looking for in the letter. Ted was an eloquent, thoughtful writer. He wasn’t going to put anything on paper that wasn’t in keeping with his very important stature. He was also a lover, the gentlest she could imagine.

Dear Peg,

You probably have a little idea about how lonely I am. Because judging by your last letter, you are too. I sit in my cell all day-except for one fifteen-minute stretch where they let me go out into the so-called yard for exercise. It is a total joke. The “yard” is about the size of a Ping-Pong table. I walk around it about a hundred times and then my time is up. I am glad that you are in my life. I think about you all day-and all night. If you were in the yard with me, I’d bet we’d figure out real fast what we could do in fifteen minutes. Are you blushing? I bet you are.

Hey, I’m about out of cigarette money. Can you send me some? Same as last time? The food here is crap too. I wish you could fix me one of those sausage and peppers dinners you were talking about in your last letter. Sounds good.

Tomorrow I have a psych evaluation with the county-appointed shrink. I’ll ask him if I’m supposed to be a bed wetter!

Love, Ted

She answered back right away. In fact, Peg Howell never put off writing back to Ted. A man like him-refined, charming, handsome-was not the kind of man a woman should ever keep waiting. Peg always wrote in longhand and she sprinkled some Jontue on each of her love-laced missives. She was fascinated by him and so very much in love. There was no way that she could explain to anyone that she’d fallen for Ted Bundy, because no one could ever understand. Their love for each other was epic, beyond all reason. She knew it. He knew it. No one else in the world mattered.

Dear Ted,

I was thinking that when you get out we should move far, far away from Tacoma. It holds nothing but bad memories for both of us. Maybe we could go to Idaho or somewhere where no one would know who you are. That sounds dumb now that I’ve committed it to paper. I don’t think there is a person on this planet who hasn’t heard of you. I want them to know the Teddy that I know-the smartest, most handsome man that ever walked the earth. I mailed a check for $100 for your canteen. I wish that you’d quit smoking, babe. It isn’t good for you. You’ll die of cancer or something, and then where will I be? I’m letting my hair grow out like you want me to. It is getting longer and longer by the day. I’ll be ready to send you a photo in a couple of weeks. Well, that’s all for now. Have got a lot of things to do.

Love, Peggy

Peggy Howell hurried inside, the package held tightly in her arms. She spun around the kitchen looking for a knife to unzip the clear plastic tape that sealed the box shut. The outside of the box was emblazoned with the logo W IGS BY G ABOR. Her heart pounding with anticipation, she pulled the two facing pieces open. Inside, under a blanket of cellophane, was shiny swirl of hair; a wig with a style name of SUSAN. There was no saying who Susan was, but when Peggy saw the photo in the back of the National Enquirer she was sure it was styled after the actress Susan Dey, who played Laurie, the eldest daughter, in the ABC TV series The Partridge Family.

She lifted it out as if it was a treasure beyond every expectation. Gently. Respectfully. She held it on her balled-up fist and shook it carefully, letting the genuine synthetic locks fall around her upright arm.

Peggy bent forward and placed the wig over her own hair. As she hurried down the hallway to the bathroom, her heart beat faster and faster. She flicked on the light switch and nodded in approval.

“Oh Ted,” she said as her eyes ran over her face in the mirror, “you really like it? I grew it out just for you.” She tilted her head and twirled a long strand. “Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking wearing my hair so short before. This is so, so much more attractive, don’t you think?”

Peggy wasn’t sure who she’d get to take her picture. She didn’t have any real friends. There was always her mother. As much as she hated her, her mother could probably be put to use in some way. She owed her something.

That night in her dreams, Ted came to Peggy. He appeared out of the darkness next to her bed like some unbelievably handsome phantom. His eyes flashed a kind of wild sexiness that made her blush. It was as if he knew that he could do anything he wanted to her and she’d let him. She’d beg him. The window was open and Peggy reasoned that he’d come from somewhere outside. Ted was shirtless, in blue jeans and Nike running shoes. His brow, his tangle of brown hair, his chest were sticky with sweat.

“Ted?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, studying her with a grin stretched across his face.

She sat up in the bed. “Where were you?” she asked.

“I was out running,” he said. She couldn’t quite determine if his tone was dismissive or angry, as if she dared to question him. She hadn’t meant it in an accusatory manner, just a question. And yet he seemed a little on edge, so she pushed harder.

“Where?” she asked, this time with more force. She wanted to know where she stood with Ted. Was she a lover? A confidante? Or just another groupie of a man who other girls swooned over? His dangerousness. His charm. His ability to weaken them at the knees. She was sure she was more than that, but she asked anyway.

Ted stood still by the open window as the air sucked right out of the room. “Nowhere, really,” he said. “Just out. Trying to sort things out.” When he looked away, a shard of light caught his cheek and Peggy noticed three parallel scratches ran from his temple to his jawline. Pinpricks of blood oozed from each scratch.

Panic and concern replaced Peggy’s omnipresent neediness. She wanted to be strong, but she knew that she could barely manage that when it came to Ted Bundy.

“You’re hurt, Ted. What happened?” She slid toward the edge of the bed, and beckoned for him to sit next to her. “Tell me, Ted.” She patted the mattress.

He didn’t even look at her before he started back toward the open window. She wondered a second if that was how he’d made his way into her bedroom.