Turtle Island (20 page)

The world had been beating Georgina up for the past year and
feeling at an all time low she sank exhausted into the comfort of
her bed vowing never to get up. The piece of paper turned up as a
reminder of the past, a time only briefly forgotten. There were
times when she had wanted the company of a friend, a companion,
someone to talk to, whinge to about her job, cry with when like
tonight things looked black. She had dialled the number only to
hang up before connection was made, or just to hear Korjca’s voice
say ‘hello’, at the last minute Georgina lost her nerve and hung
up. She hated herself for being so pathetic, why did friendships
and relationships cause her so much anxiety? Eighteen hundred
dollars of psychotherapy had failed to find a reason, the only
thing she did know was that the longer it went on the harder it was
becoming for her to form anything close to a friendship, let alone
relationship. She worked hard, always got on well with her
colleagues but remained detached, or rather, kept a detachment.
Preferring to keep work colleagues at arm’s length. She picked up
the phone and dialled the number, willing herself to say talk, just
say hello. The phone rang twice before Korjca’s voice mail system
cut in, informing Georgina that her phone was either busy or not
turned on. The tone to leave a message beeped. Georgina waited for
a couple of seconds, deciding whether or not to leave a message.
Her mouth began to form a word as her hand placed the handset back
in to its cradle.

‘Closer, closer, closer.’ He mumbled the mantra, girding
himself, steeling himself for the moment as he placed the hunting
knife in its holster, strapped to his calf. He moved stealthily
from the pool house across the grass toward the house. He had
waited for thirty minutes after the last light was turned off.
Waiting in the dark, watching for any movement, thirty long minutes
where each heartbeat thumped, where every movement he made was
physically sensual, almost sexual. The feelings inside him were
certainly close to those with which he would compare to making
love.

‘Closer.’

He reached the French doors. Opening a zip pocket in the upper
arm of his black blouson jacket, he checked the syringes lying
dormant wrapped in a small cloth. The needle tips covered with
small rubber stoppers. The Dormicium inside the syringes looking
innocuous, but he knew the drug was powerful enough to send a
rhinoceros to sleep for a fortnight when administered in the right
volumes, too much and the sleep could be permanent, not the outcome
desired tonight though. Not tonight. As expected, the French doors
were locked but they were worth a try anyway. He moved along the
outside of the house to the rear door from the integral garage. The
garage, like many, was used as a storeroom. Mainly for the boy’s
toys, it had probably never seen a car since it was built. He had
watched, from the fields behind the house, through binoculars,
watched the boy playing on his bike, shoot a few hoops, and leave
the door open, as he always did.

‘Closer.’

He pulled the knife free from its holster and entered the
house. Switching on the small torch housed on his black beanie hat,
he stepped cautiously over the scattered toys toward the door that
bordered the inner sanctum.

12-30am. Georgina couldn't sleep even though she was
exhausted. She lay awake. She wanted to speak to someone, call her
father, have someone to talk to. She looked at the clock again that
sat on her bedside table. The green luminescent glow radiated
12-33am. She had called him later than this early hour, usually to
the chagrin of his wife, Cally, her stepmother who, aged 34, was
only three years older than herself. She did not deny her father
happiness with a much younger wife, because Cally had stepped into
the picture when Georgina's father was on the brink of an abyss.
Barely managing to hold himself together after the sudden death of
his wife and her mother.

Georgina thought about her mother, she missed her as much as
anyone would miss their mother but it was always true that she was
closer to her father in many ways. They both had a joy of the
academic; Georgina had toyed with the idea of teaching or lecturing
after her degree. She never dreamed for one moment during the years
at university that she was to follow in her father’s footsteps. She
was daunted by failing or more precisely not living up to measure.
The thought of not being able to fill those footprints almost
decided an alternative career. After she had enrolled with the FBI
and passed training at Quantico, her bond with her father deepened.
She shared thoughts and ideas about cases with him, usually the
ones that had her stumped. He enjoyed the challenge and the
closeness they shared through the secrecy of the work. They thought
their dependency on each other was their little secret, thought it
was not a secret, certainly not to her mother. If anything, it was
Cally who had a hard time accepting the closeness of their
relationship; sometimes Georgina sensed Cally's jealousy over the
time Wynan O’Neil gave his daughter. As Georgina was about to dial
her father’s number, the image of Harley Fleisher appeared in her
mind, she wondered about the relationship the little girl had with
her father. There was a feeling of unfinished business that haunted
Georgina, not just her curiosity over Korjca and the piece of paper
she was holding. There was not the feeling of satisfaction with the
case that usually accompanied the successful resolution of her
work. She dialled her father’s telephone number. The phone rang
twice

‘Hello daddy. It’s Georgie.’

The boy was asleep in his bed.

He could have danced in front of him and would never have
woken the somnambulant child. A thought passed through his mind as
to whether he would actually need the Dormicium for the boy, or
whether he would just live with the thrill of him waking as he took
them to the secret place. The needle pierced his brown skin by the
neck, drawing a tiny prick of blood on its removal. The boy didn’t
even wake.

‘Closer, I’m getting closer’

He wondered what it would be like to draw the knife’s blade
across the boy’s throat. He would pay a fortune to see the boy’s
father react to finding his son lying in a pool of blood, with fear
etched in the darkest pools of his eyes..

‘No one is innocent.’ He whispered, before leaning down and
kissing the boy’s forehead. ‘No one.’

The room was like that of any child. The walls adorned with
posters of basketball players and pop stars, and a set of bunk
beds. The empty top bunk. Part of him hoped that when he entered
the detective's bedroom, that Rick Montoya would be awake, part of
him wanted the confrontation now. He had to suppress those urges.
Knowing that Montoya would be strong, who knows, maybe even
stronger than him, especially when he would have to fight for the
lives of his family? He left the boy’s bedroom door open and
crossed the landing. There was no light from under the door, no
intimate sounds coming from the room behind the closed door. He
turned the handle, the door opened. His heart felt as though it was
going to rip right out of his chest, such was the excitement he
felt. The waiting was nearly over.

‘Closer and closer’

He wanted Montoya to wake briefly, just long enough to see his
face, before injecting the Dormicium; it really didn’t matter if
his wife woke. She’d be no match. He put the needle to Montoya’s
neck. Perfect.

Rick’s eyes opened, unseeing in the dark, until they adjusted,
focusing on his face.

He breathed the words ‘Hello, Rick’ into Montoya’s face then
pushed the plunger.

The sound of a mobile phone ringing in the room next door woke
Jo-Lynn.

‘That girl and her phone.’ Jo-Lynn moaned through bleary,
sleep-filled eyes.

The ringing stopped. The phone answered.

He stood completely still, hovering over the drugged
detective.

‘I’m sorry to ring you so late, but it's.... I. I don't quite
know what to say. It's Agent Georgina O’Neil of the FBI. I get the
feeling that you wanted to talk to me. I know a long time has
passed but…’ Georgina hated answering services. An inherent fear of
sounding monosyllabic slowed her delivery subconsciously. Suddenly
lost for words, Georgina hovered with her finger over the
receiver.

Korjca's mind was trying to interpret the message through her
sleepy fuddled mind. Her hand automatically reached for the
handset, knocking her bedside lamp in the process. She put the
handset to her ear.

‘Hello.’

But only heard the static buzz of a disconnected
line.

‘Shit.’

Korjca slapped the phone back down in its cradle and sank into
the pillow. Her eyes open now trying to adjust to the room. The
room was lighter than usual and Korjca wondered whether it was
later than the time set on the phone. The realisation that the
curtains were open solved Korjca's mystery. She swung her legs out
of the bed and blearily wandered over to the open drapes. The
moonlight bathing the room in silvery luminance. He watched
excitedly, almost beyond restraint from the shadow fallen corner he
occupied near the door. Only the tip of the knife glinted in the
moon's radiance.

Korjca closed the curtain, turned, eye's half closed ready to
return to the sleepy world of dreams. The bed was a giant vat
waiting for her to plunge into its welcoming arms.

The scream of madness was not heard by anyone else but Korjca
as he ran toward the sleepy nanny. Korjca felt a blow to her chest,
the attack so fast, so unexpected, she briefly wondered if she was
dreaming, or if she had somehow merely fallen in the dark, but
there was somebody standing in front of her. She could see the
whites of his eyes glowing brilliantly in the moon glow. There was
a person standing in front of her, close, so close.

Korjca felt the pain in her chest. She was confused, her
thought process's suddenly sharpening as she began to understand
what was happening.

He pulled the long, serrated knife from Korjca's chest. The
jagged edge opening flesh and snapping bone on its retrieval, blood
spread out through the print of a teddy bear on Korjca's
nightdress. She fell to her knees, her hands grabbing at her
attacker for balance, her breathing laboured. Korjca felt hands
push her backwards. The nanny slumped, falling onto her back with
her legs pinned underneath her. Her body folded back like a
collapsible chair. Unable to move, Korjca could only stare at the
ceiling and the shadowy outline of her attacker. A face appeared in
front of her. Korjca saw the glint of the knife before it was
placed under her chin. She could feel the cold tip pressing into
the soft fleshy skin of her neck, followed by a stinging sensation
as the tip of the blade sliced through skin and tissue, then a
soothing warmness flowing down her chest. The face moved closer and
closer. Korjca felt warm lips pressing on her mouth as the last
breath of air from her lungs was literally sucked away by her
attacker. She tried to breathe. An act so instinctual, now taking
every last ounce of her effort, of thought, of will power. But it
was like breathing in a vacuum. She was extremely aware of the last
few minutes of her life, aware even after the last gasp of air had
left her lungs, aware of her bladder betraying her, aware of the
silvery moonlight in the room, aware that she was dying. She wanted
to see the room, keep her eyes open until the very last moment.
Feelings of who attacked her did not enter her mind, she never
questioned why?

Coldness started to spread from her fingers moving up her arm
and down her legs; the tightness in her chest gave way to a feeling
of numbness. The remnants of oxygen in her brain began to diffuse
into carbon monoxide. Korjca closed her eyes.

He pulled the van into the garage driving over or through the
clutter that Ray left scattered. There was blood on his latex
gloves. He was charged with electric excitement, his heart pumped
so hard that he had to will his arms and legs to move. Adrenaline
coursed through his body, surging in swathes of stimulation that
was as close to pure pleasure as he had ever experienced. He was in
control now.

Rick was to be the first; bounced down the stairs, his head
striking off every step. He had grip of the detective’s ankles,
pulling him along the carpet. Rick’s naked body offered no
protection from the harsh surfaces he encountered as he was dragged
to the van. Once in the garage he bound Montoya’s arms and legs
with carpet tape, stuffing paper into his mouth and sealing it by
wrapping tape round his head three times. He rolled Rick’s
motionless body onto the lowered hydraulic ramp at the back of the
van before raising it and pulling the unconscious form into the
empty cargo area. That was the hard one; his wife would be much
lighter; easier to carry. He knew that he would be able to carry
her body with ease. As for the boy… he was small potatoes. He
ventured back into the house. Jo-Lynn lay sprawled across the bed
in the same position, where a brief struggled ended with a small
quantity of Dormicium flowing through her veins. Jo-Lynn was
hoisted onto his shoulders. She weighed no more than nine stones,
maybe eight and a half. On the way back down to the van he stopped
at the boy's bedroom and grabbed Ray roughly by his pyjama top,
carrying the small boy with one hand. He felt empowered. With every
step toward the van his strength grew. He stopped only to bind the
detective’s wife and child with carpet tape. With all three secured
in the back of the van he returned to the bedroom of the nanny for
one last look at his power. Korjca was prostrate on the floor, eyes
closed. The moonlight turned her blood black. He bent down and
dipped a gloved finger in to the inky liquid pool that was starting
to congeal around her throat and wrote the word 'CORRUPT' across
her forehead.