John Lutz - Urge to Kill

Moved? “Everything looks the same, Mom.” Pearl slipped her shoes off her aching feet and wriggled her toes. She wished she could hang up the phone, go into the bedroom, get naked, take a shower, and scrub off the lousy day that she’d spent in the hole in the world left by violent untimely death. If people only knew, if they understood…

“Pearl,” said her mother’s voice on the phone, calling from purgatory, “have you ever looked at a mole under a microscope?”

“No.”

“They are not a pretty sight. And, I might add, it is the consensus of medical experts that you might think you’re looking at a mole and be looking at something else very much more dangerous.”

“I’m not dying of mole poisoning, Mom.”

“This is not a venue for humor, Pearl. A doctor, like Dr. Milton Kahn, who would examine you free and avoid all the expense and insurance nightmare, should be the one to make that critical interpretation.”

“Dr. Milton Kahn has pretty much examined all of me already,” Pearl said, getting angrier by the second.

“Pearl!”

“I’m only trying to make a point, Mom. If Milton Kahn thought the mole behind my ear was dangerous, he would have mentioned it to me long ago.”

“So you think he was concentrating on an out-of-the-way spot behind your right ear while you two were-”

“Mom! Damn it!” The plastic receiver was getting slippery in Pearl’s sweaty hand, as if it might slip from her grasp like a watermelon seed and go zipping across the room. She’d had about enough of this.

“So now impertinence and curse words are the answer? Let me tell you, dear, they are the answer to nothing. When your own mother calls and points out that you are in denial-”

“I don’t deny that I have a mole, Mom!”

“One you should regularly examine. If it is a mole.”

“I have to turn my head to the side and bend my ear forward even to see it. It hurts to do that.”

“Which is why you should have a doctor do the examining.”

“I have an appointment with a doctor,” Pearl lied. She’d had to call and cancel the appointment she’d made with the dermatologist who was not Milton Kahn. A murder investigation had gotten in the way.

There was surprise in Pearl’s mother’s voice. “Mrs. Kahn didn’t say her nephew, Dr. Milton-”

“He’s not the only dermatologist in New York!”

“For you, the only free one, dear. And one who cares for you already and will-”

Pearl cupped her hand over the earpiece, got up from the sofa, and placed the receiver in its cradle.

In the blessed silence she stood for a few minutes, waiting for the phone to ring. If her mother called back, as she sometimes did after such conversations, Pearl might apologize. Or she might not. Her mother was sticky and clever. She might trick Pearl into simply taking up the conversation where it had left off and getting angry all over again.

But her mother didn’t call and apparently wasn’t going to. Not this evening, anyway.

Pearl reverted to her plan to undress and shower before putting a Lean Cuisine in the microwave for dinner.

In the bathroom, while she was running the shower and waiting for the water to warm up, she stood before the medicine cabinet mirror, craned her neck painfully, and bent her right ear forward to examine the mole.

It appeared to be the same size as the last time she’d looked at it. Maybe a quarter of an inch in diameter. Maybe more.

She let her ear flop back in place and smiled. The mole wasn’t any larger. Seemed to be the same shape and color. She was sure.

Reasonably sure.

In the shower she realized she hadn’t checked to see if it had moved and had to laugh.

Briefly.

Terrible headache!

That was what woke Terri Gaddis.

Something was horribly wrong. Her head felt as if it were splitting wide open.

She attempted to swallow but couldn’t. And she was breathing with difficulty, through her nose. She explored with her tongue and found that her mouth was stuck firmly closed, as if her lips were taped.

Her consciousness was quickly returning. She became aware of another pain.

My ankles! My ankles are on fire!

Only then did she realize her eyes were still closed. They seemed dry. Stuck firm. She tried to wipe them with her hands, but couldn’t raise her arms. Couldn’t move them.

Then she realized they were taped or tied to her waist and thighs, in tight to her body.

Fear gave her strength. She forced her eyes wide open in alarm, and through her pain realized what was causing such agony in her head and ankles.

She was mystified and horrified to find that she was hanging upside down.

The hook in the ceiling!

Terri knew she was in her bathroom, dangling head down over her bathtub, hanging from the hook.

She glanced about frantically. The plastic shower curtain was closed, and though the light was on in the bathroom, she couldn’t see anything but her immediate porcelain, tile, and plastic surroundings. In a burst of panic she worked every muscle in her body, but nothing happened. Nothing!

Her struggles did cause her body to rotate slightly, and there were the stainless-steel faucet handles and spigot. The drain. Viewed so closely, she could see that the drain was starting to corrode and that a few of her hairs were caught on its cross braces from showers past.

How odd to notice something like that now.

Or is it? Is any of this real?

There was a slight sound on the other side of the plastic shower curtain, and she strained to see in that direction. Through the curtain she could make out the upside-down, shadowy shape of a man, growing larger, approaching.

Coming to help me, not to hurt me! Please!

When he was very near, the shadowy form on the curtain took on a paler, flesh-colored hue, and she realized the man was nude.

Kinky sex! That’s all this is! Kinky sex!

“Richard!”

She was aware that she’d made only a soft humming sound.

She tried again, screaming his name in her mind. Something warm was trickling along her body, tickling her armpits. She could smell it. Urine. Hers. The ammonia stench of her mindless fear.

Oh, Richard! Please!

The curtain rattled open on its rod, and all she could look at was the knife.

Cindy Sellers sat on a bench near the Seventy-second Street entrance to Central Park and had what for her was a crisis of conscience.

Certainly she’d promised Harley Renz she wouldn’t make public that the. 25-Caliber Killer’s latest victim had been shot inside his hotel and then dragged outside, to where the body was discovered. It was made clear to her that the police had settled on that detail being known only to them and the killer, so they could sort out the inevitable false confessions that were sure to interfere with the investigation.

But from Cindy’s point of view, that curious fact was what gave the story its appeal. A question posed to her readers was always good for additional circulation. In this instance the question was simple and easy for her readers to understand: why was the body of this particular victim moved?

Only the killer knew the answer, and, as of now, the police were the only ones aware of the question. So like a game, Cindy thought, and the police have an extra card in their hand.

Of course, if she revealed that card the NYPD wanted to keep close to its vest, she’d lose Renz’s trust. She had to smile. She and Renz didn’t really trust each other anyway. That was part of the game they played. Wolves on the prowl, both of them. And if she did include that inside-outside angle in her story, Renz would be angry, but he’d get over it. They were both forced to live with the fact that they were useful to each other.