John Lutz - Serial

“No… ’course not. But…”

“So how about if we step inside and call out her name, look around to make sure she isn’t in there somewhere hurt and unable to get to a phone. Then we’ll leave.”

“What if the chain’s on?”

“Then we’ll call her name through the narrow door opening. If Nora doesn’t answer, and we know she’s inside because the chain lock is attached, we’ll know there might be something seriously wrong. She might be unconscious and need medical attention.” She smiled at him with perfect white teeth. “Make sense?”

“Makes sense,” Leonard admitted, and reached for the bulky key ring attached to his belt.

Michelle was surprised when there was a brief clatter and the chain lock stopped the apartment door after about four inches. She and Leonard exchanged glances. Genuine worry was gaining ground.

Michelle moved near the door and called Nora’s name three times. Then Leonard nudged her aside and put his face up to the space provided by the partly opened door. “Mizz Noon?” he boomed several times.

Silence.

“You got a bolt cutter?” Michelle asked.

Leonard nodded. “I’ll be right back, Michelle.”

He took the stairs rather than wait for the elevator, and within a few minutes returned with a long-handled bolt cutter.

The thick brass chain on Nora’s door didn’t stand a chance. It parted, and a severed link bounced noisily on the hardwood floor like a coin. The door swung open.

Leonard called Nora’s name again as Michelle let him lead the way inside.

The window air conditioner wasn’t running and the apartment was way too warm. Michelle stopped and stood still, touching Leonard’s shoulder so he’d stop, too. The two of them stood there. They both smelled the peculiar odor, like something… maybe meat… had been overdone to the point of becoming charred.

Leonard moved away toward the kitchen. Underlying that smell was a sharp, ammonia scent. Michelle, maybe because she did sense something terrible, made herself walk slowly to the bedroom she knew Nora used for sleeping and not storage.

She stood stunned in the doorway, staring at what was on the bed.

Leonard edged up behind her and looked over her shoulder.

“Oh, God!” he said, and squatted down, his head bowed.

Michelle turned to look at him. “If you’re going to puke, Leonard, try to do it out in the hall.”

Taking deep breaths, he straightened up slowly, carefully not looking again into the bedroom. His face was pale and perspiring, and his features were drawn tight as if he might cry. “I’ll be okay,” he said.

Michelle had long ago been married to a cop. He had told her about his work. Maybe too much. Too much communication could destroy a marriage. But it could also prepare a woman for what she might see at a murder scene.

She rested a hand on Leonard’s shoulder and guided him toward the door to the hall.

“We’re getting out of here and then I’ll use my cell to call nine-one-one,” she said.

“Right,” Leonard gasped, as if he were out of breath.

“Don’t touch anything,” she added.

“I don’t need reminding,” he said.

Hogart, 1991

The woods were dark, but Beth was familiar with them. She was making good time along a scarcely defined dirt path, Roy’s six-pack of beer tucked beneath her arm, when she heard a sound off to her right. She’d grown up in the country and spent time in the woods, even had camped in them as a young girl. She knew which sounds were natural and which weren’t. No animal moved in such a way, brushing low branches and taking even strides through the crisp carpet of last year’s dead leaves. No animal other than human.

Zombies, Beth thought, and she giggled. She’d watched an old zombie movie on TV last night, after Roy had fallen asleep. She hadn’t dreamed or thought about zombies since, though, until now.

Zombies on your brain, girl.

She made herself smile and continued her pace along the dirt path.

The sound she’d heard didn’t seem to move with her. The woods were silent now. More silent than they should be.

After about a dozen paces, she stopped. She knew she was approximately halfway through the stand of trees. Though there wasn’t the slightest breeze, she was aware of shadows on the periphery of her vision in slight motion.

Through the shadows, where the moonlight penetrated the canopy of leaves, she saw something shining. It was dark and metallic.

Beth got a firmer grip on the cool paper sack containing the beer and slowly moved forward.

She was relieved to see, parked off the path ahead of her, a motorcycle. A dark blue or black Harley, by the look of it. Nothing supernatural. No zombies. She heard herself breathe out her relief.

Something struck her from behind and she was on the ground. She’d landed with the sack in front of her, so that the six-pack of beer rammed into her stomach and drove the breath from her. She lay curled on her side, hearing her own half gasps, able to move only to draw her legs up after the shock of being unexpectedly knocked down.

Then, realizing what was happening, she became paralyzed with fear.

She could only occasionally glimpse her attacker in the moonlight as he ripped her shorts and panties and worked them down her legs. She tried to scream but made no sound. Her lungs wouldn’t work. He was laughing low in his throat, knowing she was breathless and helpless, without even the means to scream. Taking his time. Being methodical. Enjoying himself.

She got only a brief look at his face in profile, and not a clear look. He had long, stringy dark hair and a full beard. He was heavy, and strong, with a belly that hung over his jeans. His breath smelled like onions and gasoline, though she knew the gas smell had to be from the nearby Harley.

Her head was forced back so her mouth gaped open, and he placed his hand over her mouth in such a way that it stayed in front of her teeth and she couldn’t bite him. Struggling not to choke, she tasted oil and grit from the man’s palm and thick fingers. The edge of his palm pressed against her nostrils so she couldn’t breathe.

Then the man was on her. He weighed so much more than Roy. He was crushing her. His weight lifted momentarily and he pried her bare legs apart. She tried to kick but could only wave one calf helplessly in the air. She heard one of her rubber thongs land near her left ear.

His free hand was between her legs, his fingers oily. A later examination would reveal that oil was used as a lubricant for the rape. Valvoline thirty-weight.

He was on her again. In her! Piercing deep and hard, moving back and forth inside her. He quickly built up a desperate, driving rhythm. She knew it wasn’t going to last long, but it hurt so much. She had her teeth clenched and realized she was breathing again, slightly, through her nose. Because he was letting her.

This can’t be happening! Not to me!

She became someone else, moving off to the side, an onlooker who, thank God, couldn’t see through the darkness of the night.

She hid from what was happening. Hid in the darkness until it was finally over.

Huffing and puffing noisily, the man partially raised his weight from her. Then he patted her on her bare side, as if she’d done a good job. Was he thanking her for keeping quiet? Weren’t you supposed to scream as loud as you could if you were being raped? Beth had read that somewhere or heard it on TV, but she didn’t want to imagine what might happen to her if she did manage to scream.

He placed one hand on her head, and the other on her right thigh, using her to brace himself as he stood up. Suddenly his weight was off her entirely. She felt her shirt yanked up to cover her head.