The Serial Killers Club Part 25

"You took it from me. s.n.a.t.c.hed it clean away."

"Please-"

"They were my friends!"

I get a heavy-handed cuff round the back of my head, and my nose smashes against the steering wheel as I jerk forward, the horn sounding briefly.

"KK ain't comin'. He ain't even in town, is he? That was just you smoke-screening everything."

"Betty is in-"

I get another clump around the head, smash into the steering wheel, and sound the horn again.

"There ain't much of you, but you'll do for a between meal snack."

I get another smack round the head, and the horn beeps once more. I'm attracting the attention of several people, most of whom think I'm some sort of pal of theirs. They smile and wave in case I'm someone they know.

"Tony, you've got it all wrong, you've-"

I feel this sharp, piercing jab in my shoulder, and I wince in agony only to find that three seconds later I can't feel a thing. My body starts to numb up so bad that I can't even move my eyes. I stare straight ahead as Tony gets out of the back of the car, opens the driver's door, and shoves me over to the pa.s.senger seat. I don't feel any of it as Tony props me up against the pa.s.senger door, drags a seat belt around me, clips it in, and starts driving. He opens the glove compartment and stuffs an empty hypodermic needle in among the ma.s.ses of lemon-scented hand wipes. When he sees the hand wipes, he shakes his great ugly head.

"Really livin' the part, weren'tcha?"

I really wish I'd had my eyes closed when Tony injected me with his paralyzing drug because I'm not sure I want to see what is going to happen to me.

Tony starts whistling to himself-"You Are My Suns.h.i.+ne," it sounds like. He whistles for a good half hour, and by the time we pull up round the back of a large diner in an industrial site, I am humming along to the tune. Well, in my head I am. He had driven round and round, looking for the perfect place to do whatever he is going to do, and I hoped for a moment that he was going to give up altogether when he remembered this diner on the east side.

Tony leaves me in the car while he locates the rear door to the diner, and after selecting from a set of police regulation skeleton keys, he opens the padlock on the door, unlocks the diner door itself, and walks in.

I try to move, G.o.d knows I do, but I can't even get my eyes to blink.

Tony appears again, checks around him that no one's watching, and opens the pa.s.senger door, looking at me with absolute distaste.

"I loved that Club."

He slaps me across the face-or at least I think he does because I don't actually feel him make contact or anything, I just see his big arm lash out and jerk across my view.

"Loved it more than life itself."

Okay, okay-you've made your point.

He takes a handful of my hair and drags me from the car. I land in the dust, which clouds up around me, and am dragged by the hair all the way toward the diner. I can see my feet trailing out behind me, leaving two gouged tracks-perhaps the last sign that I was ever here on earth.

The drug I've been injected with hasn't deadened my sense of smell, and I catch the distinctive aroma of boiling cooking oil. The floor of the diner is pristine clean, and the steel tiles s.h.i.+ne, throwing my own reflection back at me. I am dragged past industrial-size freezers, steel cabinets filled with utensils and food supplies, ovens and dishwashers that stand tall and spectacularly germ-free. Tony stops at the source of the hot oil, and I can just about see that I'm now lying at the foot of a huge deep-fat fryer. Trust Tony to like greasy food.

Tony turns the switch of the deep fryer to high, and after a few seconds the fat starts to sizzle and spark.

"This place don't open till twelve on weekdays. Gives us nearly two hours."

From my ground view I see a mouse peek out from under a steel container, raise its nose in the air, and twitch it, taking in the smell of the boiling hot oil. It disappears with a start when it hears Tony slit open a huge bag of frozen French fries and dump them into the flaring oil.

"Mustn't forget the side portion."

I am trying hard to be scared, but I think the drug inside me is numbing my emotions. In fact, I have never felt this calm and rational at any time in my life. There is no panic, no gut-churning terror, only a serenely relaxed state. I guess I'm high in some way, which suits me just fine. Okay, I'm not going to walk out into the sea and let Neptune claim me, but really this isn't such a bad way to go. Dipped in boiling hot oil and then eaten. That's not so bad.

Boy, I must be close to an overdose.

Tony bends, his huge knees cracking loudly, and starts tugging at my pants. He should have removed my loafers first because the pants get caught in the shoes, and no matter how hard he tugs he now can't get either off. Shoes or pants.

"Freakin' dumb-a.s.s."

Tony pulls my pants back on and slips my shoes off. He whips off my pants, pauses to hold them up against his legs, and cackles. "Where'd you shop? The toy store?"

He tosses the pants across the kitchen and reaches for my black velvet jacket. He gets my right arm trapped and nearly twists it off trying to remove the jacket. I know he does this because I can just about feel my tendons straining in protest.

Tony wrestles with the jacket some more until he gives up, grabs a kitchen knife, and hacks it free of me. My beloved jacket lies in shreds in front of me.

I blink.

Tony stands up straight, panting hard, and decides to have a cigarette to help him get his breath back.

I blink again.

My arm hurts where he twisted it.

I think I can feel my toes.

Tony breathes out smoke rings. "Maybe I can start again. Maybe me and Betty can get the Club back on its feet. It's not like there's gonna be no more serial killers. There's gotta be-it's a fact of life. Gotta be someone out there thinkin' it over, debatin' it. Should I, shouldn't I? Do I really wanna be a n.o.body all my life, or do I really wanna be somebody and have books and movies made about me?"

The feeling is coming back to my fingers. My face glows from where Tony slapped me in the car.

"Yeah, we'll start again. Only with more rules. IDs are a given. No one gets in without an official ID."

Keep talking, Tony, just keep rabbiting about your pathetic little Club. My knees and elbows now throb from where I've been dragged around.

More smoke rings are blown into the air. "Swearing an allegiance ain't a bad idea. An oath of honor. 'Thou shalt not f.u.c.k my Club over.'"

I can feel blood spreading through me, energizing my limbs, pus.h.i.+ng the numbness away.

Tony's cigarette lands close to my face, and his big boot crunches out the smoking red ember. He bends toward me. "All this talk has made me hungry."

Tony raises me into a sitting position, unties my tie, and starts unb.u.t.toning my s.h.i.+rt. He looks me in the eye, and I try my d.a.m.nedest not to blink. "I'm one of those guys who live to eat. I ever tell you that, June?"

My s.h.i.+rt is slipped over my still-numb shoulders. The feeling is coming back to me, but not nearly quickly enough. In fact, it'll probably only be when I'm hoisted into the deep-fat fryer that I'll be at my sensate peak. Which just about sums up the luck I'm having today.

My boxer shorts are the last item of clothing to be removed, and Tony does this with a certain amount of awkwardness. "I'm no f.a.ggot, but this has to be done. Last thing I want is your crotch material getting stuck between my teeth."

Only the tops of my thighs, my chest, and my shoulders remain frozen as I am lifted into the air by the hugely strong Tony. The smell of boiling oil attacks my nostrils, and I know I am going to scream.

"Lobster time." Tony grunts hard as he heaves me up and tosses me toward the oil.

Only I don't let go of him. I grab on tight with my feet and hands and hang there while he registers what's happening. "Hey! What the-"

I sink my teeth into Tony's shoulder, feeling his dark, sweaty body hair entering my mouth but not caring as I grip him with everything I can think of. Tony yells out, drops my legs, and starts hammering desperately at my head.

"I do the freakin' eating!"

My feet feel the cold steel tiles underneath them, get some traction.

"Stop biting me, you freak!"

My head is spinning from Tony's pummeling, and it's now or never. I get more purchase on the cold floor. I'm at one with terra firma again and, bracing myself, I let go with my teeth, bend a little at the knees, and shove Tony as hard as I can.

"Hey!"

Tony's worn shoes slip and slide on the highly polished flooring, and he stops batting my head as he feels himself shunted backward toward the deep-fat fryer. His hands flail and grasp at anything within reach, utensils fly everywhere, cras.h.i.+ng down, my hands now coming free from gripping his back, my fingers reaching up and finding his great jowls and grasping them so tight that my fingernails break his skin.

I shove so hard, I almost go over into the deep-fat fryer with Tony. At the last moment, I let go of him and watch as his voluminous body backflips into the boiling oil; his head goes in first, and his screams are instantly muted to a gurgling, bubbling hiss.

I leave him there, the lower half of his giant body sticking out of the deep-fat fryer, his legs still shaking in violent spasm, as French fries turn black around him. I'm still heavy limbed from the paralyzing drug, and it takes all I've got left to collect my clothes and get dressed. After nearly stepping on the inquisitive mouse, I stagger out into the warm day. By the time the diner opens for business, Tony should just about be done.

JETTY MINUS BETTY.

I MAKE IT TO THE LIBRARY MAKE IT TO THE LIBRARY Betty works at in just over thirty minutes, the whole journey spent praying to G.o.d that Agent Wade hasn't got to her. I'm chancing all on the hope that Betty was planning on joining me on Burt's houseboat only after she had finished her morning s.h.i.+ft, because I think she's the diligent type who lives by strict moral codes. I still don't know how Agent Wade managed to go out last night, kill Chuck and Myrna in his gin-doused state, and make it back without my hearing a thing. The guy is frighteningly capable. I don't even want to know how he knew I was planning on getting away with Betty on Burt's boat-though knowing him, I figure he probably read my mind or some equally chilling FBI thing. Betty works at in just over thirty minutes, the whole journey spent praying to G.o.d that Agent Wade hasn't got to her. I'm chancing all on the hope that Betty was planning on joining me on Burt's houseboat only after she had finished her morning s.h.i.+ft, because I think she's the diligent type who lives by strict moral codes. I still don't know how Agent Wade managed to go out last night, kill Chuck and Myrna in his gin-doused state, and make it back without my hearing a thing. The guy is frighteningly capable. I don't even want to know how he knew I was planning on getting away with Betty on Burt's boat-though knowing him, I figure he probably read my mind or some equally chilling FBI thing.

I take the steps leading to the library two at a time, running in past a geriatric couple, beating them to the revolving door, and pus.h.i.+ng so hard that I almost get spun out into a librarian carrying a stack of books. I glare at the librarian.

"Betty! Where's Betty?"

"Who?"

I don't bother to get into a debate with the woman and take off, looking all around the library for Betty. I glance down aisles, I push browsers out of the way, and I generally make as much noise as possible in the hope that I will attract her attention.

"Betty! Where the h.e.l.l are you? Betty-for chrissakes!!"

I get some severe looks from a group of silent readers at the study desks, but I don't acknowledge them as I charge down aisles, covering every inch of this bookworm's maze.

"Betty!! Betty!!"

Someone shushes me and points to a SILENCE SILENCE sign, and I feel like tearing down the sign and making them swallow it. sign, and I feel like tearing down the sign and making them swallow it.

I turn a corner, almost collide with a librarian who has a trolley filled with books, shove the trolley out of the way, and grab the librarian-pus.h.i.+ng him hard up against the romance section.

"Where is she? Betty! Where is she?"

The librarian stammers weakly, "Wh-who's Betty?"

"Betty's Betty."

"I don't know any Betty."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a burly security guard march past the romance aisle, stop, turn, and then start heading for me.

I glower at the librarian, suddenly realizing he can't possibly know who Betty is-he'll know her only by her real name. "The girl with the big pink-rimmed gla.s.ses. Watery blue eyes, thin lips . . . likes humorous guys. Lank hair."

"You mean the temp?"

"The who?"

"The temp. . . . Can't remember her name. I, uh, think her contract's up with us."

The burly security guard is hurrying toward me, and I know I have to get out of here. I give the librarian one last plaintive look. "She's not working today?"

He shrugs and shakes his head, and as the security guard catches up with me, I drag the book trolley across the aisle and dart into the geology section.

I thunder past readers, knocking books everywhere as the guard does his level best to catch me. Eventually I lose him by stopping at the paranormal section, grabbing hardbacks and hurling them at him. Books can be pretty deadly in the right hands, and a copy of Strange but True Strange but True winds him long enough for me to charge out the revolving doors, leap the ten or so steps to the sidewalk, climb into Agent Wade's car, and roar away. winds him long enough for me to charge out the revolving doors, leap the ten or so steps to the sidewalk, climb into Agent Wade's car, and roar away.

Betty's rented apartment is within walking distance of the library, and I get there in next to no time. I hit the stairs running, and not caring that my exhausted legs are starting to die on me, I skid out onto her landing and head for her door.

Which is swinging wide open.

No . . . please . . . no . . .

I hardly dare look as I edge along the landing and peer around the doorjamb. The apartment has a still quality to it, an almost unearthly inertia. No breeze puffs the net curtain, no draft ruffles the papers sitting on her telephone table. It's as silent as a morgue.

I have to force myself to step into the hallway. I can smell that familiar doggy odor, and I nearly start crying there and then, thinking that I'll never get that close to Betty again.

I creep past a large acetylene tank with a welder's mask hanging round the taps. On the floor beside the tank is a connection for a blowtorch, and it looks as though Betty were preparing for a kill, as she had taken the precaution of covering most of the hallway with sheets of what looks like asbestos.

I carry on into the main living room and find myself in a bright sunlit room, dust particles dancing in the rays like glitter. They are the only things that move. I check out Betty's bedroom, see that she has a double bed in there, and for a fleeting second I picture Betty and me writhing in raw, naked ecstasy. I feel so choked by this image that I back out of the bedroom and close the door as a mark of respect. Searching the rest of the apartment bears little fruit. Betty is not there, and I wonder if she is indeed anywhere other than heaven now.

A soul-searching drive back to the harbor only adds to my heartbreak. Cop cars are parked haphazardly, sailors have formed a small crowd around a police barrier, and the wheelchair-bound security guard whirrs frantically back and forth, trying to see what is going on. Burt's houseboat is crawling with police and forensics experts wearing white nylon overalls. A stretcher containing a body is manhandled off the boat, rocking so badly that someone loses his footing and Chuck's body slips off and splashes into the water. Immediately three cops dive in after him, almost as if they think he's trying to execute a daring escape. The news reporter I'd previously seen interviewing the League of Human Rights guy is now making a report direct to a camera crew. I can't hear what he is saying, but he is obviously very excited as he demonstrates, using a KFC bargain bucket, exactly how KK slips the bucket onto his victims. The reporter doesn't realize that he finishes his report with half a French fry mashed into his hair.

I turn away. The boat was my last hope.

It's nearing lunchtime, and I thought that just maybe Betty might have made it, that for just once in my lousy life something went as planned.

I can feel tears welling in my eyes, and it makes it difficult to drive as the road and approaching vehicles keep blurring. I feel like letting my eyes fill up and simultaneously putting my foot right down-a crude attempt to join Betty-but even though my despair is all-consuming, I know I still have one last job to finish.

Agent Wade Is Dead.

BETSY GRABLE.