Turtle Island (4 page)

Leroy leaned forward stretching his aching back. ‘Maybe he
thinks this is safe sex.’ He said sardonically

‘He also didn't want to leave any semen, anything which could
be used to trace him. So we can assume that maybe he might have
some sort of criminal record or may have had a D.N.A swab taken at
some time, although again this is purely speculation.
Something…some trauma which happened to him is probably what is
motivating him now.’

‘Must have really pissed him off.’ Leroy said. ‘One dead and
one missing is quite a statement.’

‘Harboured grudges fester, it's usually better to vent your
anger when you are initially aggrieved.’ O’Neil sat back in the
chair and rubbed the tension away from her neck.

‘Again, this is a sign of repression which is now coming to
the fore. He is probably quite intelligent. Research and history
shows most multiple killers have an above average Intelligence
Quota, many have no fear of God or religious belief though
conversely there are a few examples who believe that they are doing
God's work. Because all the victims are male so far, I think we can
assume that he has no grudge against women.’

‘No Oedipus complex, that makes a change. If he's not
homosexual and gets along with women, then maybe he's married?’
Rick offered.

‘That's not uncommon; in many cases spouses have no idea of
their husband’s activities. Records show that some murderers often
have a wonderful sex life. These attacks are not sexually
motivated, this is purely to do with power, it's almost
territorial. The male asserting himself.’

‘Well, I think I have to assert myself now.’ Leroy said
standing up. ‘Otherwise Lia is going to assert her foot into my
black ass.’ He cricked the knots out of his neck.

‘Early start please gentlemen. I too have a home to get to,
and the sooner we catch this guy, the sooner I get to see it. 8am
here?’ Agent O’Neil lifted the files and shuffled the papers,
tapping them on the desk, before slipping them in the folder.
‘Could I have a copy of the Polaroid’s of the victim, Detective
Montoya?’

‘I think if we're going to be working together for some time
then formalities could be dropped.’ Rick smiled and passed O’Neil
the photographs.

‘Well, you can call me Georgina.’ Georgina smiled back and
offered her hand.

‘Hello, Georgina.’

‘Hello, Rick.’

‘Before we go, I need the bathroom, could you point me in the
right direction?’

Rick opened the door and pointed to a door adjacent. ‘Go
through that door, along the corridor and it's at the end, just
before the elevator.’

‘
Thanks.’ Georgina O’Neil picked up the folder and her small
handbag and headed out toward the toilet.

‘Call me Rick.’ Leroy teased his partner.

Rick smiled. ‘We’ll, it’s an improvement on the latex
handshake.’

Narla moaned a slight protest, more of someone who was being
slightly annoyed than anything else, but she was in too much of a
slumber to wake. Charles shifted his knees around Narla’s ribs, the
mattress shifted slightly to support his weight. He called her
name, the reaction was next to nothing. Then placed his hand
against her face and stroked her cheek. She didn't flinch. He ran
his hand down her neck, encircling it briefly with the span of his
hand, his touch light, enjoying the sense of power he was holding.
He opened his hand and let his palm rest on her breast bone,
feeling the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed the breath
of someone in a deep, deep, sleep. His hand moved sideways to the
left, his fingers trailing lightly over her erect nipple, before
moving on to her right breast, cupping the small breast, enclosed
under his hand. Laughing to himself, Charles wondered what she
would make of it if she was conscious now. How she would react if
she woke and found him straddled over her. Both of them naked. The
temptation to have sex with her was unbearable. A thin trail of
semen had leaked on to Narla's stomach. Charles entered her, she
was dry but it seemed to add to his excitement, he moved inside her
gently. He moved back and forth very gently, lubricating her with
both of their juices until he came. Narla moaned as his hot semen
rushed inside her, but she did not wake. He climbed off her. The
bed rocked gently, still she did not stir. Charles slipped on his
jockey shorts and put on his white towelling robe, then picking his
Polaroid camera up from the dressing table, took a photograph of
Narla, lying naked on the bed. He pulled a thin white cotton sheet
over Narla, the semi-transparent material clinging erotically to
her. He took another picture and left the room. Charles waved the
photos in the air impatiently, prompting the images to develop
faster, a smile forming on his lips as the silver halide image
formed. As he walked down the hall, the door to Harley's bedroom
opened and a bleary eyed Harley stepped out rubbing her
eyes.

Charles slipped the Polaroid’s into his pocket and placed the
camera on an occasional table, which held one of the six telephones
house strategically around the house.

‘Hello cup cake, what's wrong?’

‘I had a nightmare.’

‘Did you darling?’

Harley nodded. ‘Can I kiss Mummy goodnight?’

Charles crouched down to her eye level. ‘She's asleep, you
wouldn't want to wake her up, would you?’

Harley shook her head. Charles picked her up and threw her
over his shoulder, a squeal of delight emitting from her tiny lips.
Charles carried her to her bedroom and plopped her onto the bed,
before tickling her unmercifully. Laughter and shouts of delight
filled the air until Harley pleaded for mercy. Her legs and arms
thrashed trying to push her Father’s fingers away from her. Charles
pulled the quilt up over his daughter. ‘Ssh, you’ll wake mommy.’ He
put his finger to his lips bent forward and kissed Harley's
forehead, she responded by kissing his lips. Her lips were cold and
over wet, her arms clung around his neck and she hugged him
tightly.

‘I love you, cup cake.’ He kissed her lips gently and almost
immediately she closed her eyes to go to sleep.

To Stephen England it was just a voice in the dark. He did not
know who his kidnapper was; he did not know the man who had
inflicted terrible pain on his body. He had never met the man whose
incessant ramblings he had to endure for hours, between bouts of
physical and sexual assault. It had just been his misfortune to be
in the wrong place at the wrong time. Oh, what he would do now not
to have worked late that night, what he would give to have left
with Lorraine, his secretary. What he would do now to live his life
to the full, as if every day were his last. But he didn't leave. He
carried on working. Stuck at the computer, transferring and
swapping files with other collectors. Now all he wanted was to
die.

‘He’ hadn't been there for ages. Maybe, Stephen thought. ‘This
is to be my fate, left to die alone in the dark.’

Infections were beginning to set in to Stephen's wounds in his
mouth, buttocks and internally. His own faeces an enticement to the
flies. His wounds an invitation to the nest of maggots laid there.
He pulled at the ropes using what little strength he could muster.
The knots cut in tighter re-opening the raw skin. The pain was of
little consequence. England screamed and pulled and screamed and
pulled and screamed. He didn't know if it was his imagination, but
the rope around his right wrist seemed to have gained a little
slack. He stopped moving and concentrated all his effort, energy
and thought on the one loose rope. If he could have seen the damage
to his wrist, he would have stopped. The skin has ragged away,
leaving the tip of his wrist bone exposed. He let his arm rest
against the mattress; then gave an almighty jerk, followed by
another, and another. Pain was replaced with hope. The canvas hood
over his head started to restrict his breathing. His actions grew
more laboured. The oxygen content in the hood dropped and was
replaced with carbon dioxide. Images flashed through his head. The
beginning of pain induced, oxygen deprived, hallucinations. He
tried one last tug at the rope and to his surprise his arm came
free, then he passed out.

Rick dropped Georgina back at her motel and finalised the next
day’s agenda before setting off to take Leroy home. Leroy and Rick
talked on the short drive. Rain started to splatter on to the
windscreen and the low rumble of shifting clouds above warned of a
turbulent night ahead. Rick shifted the gear stick in to fifth, and
turned on the wipers, the rain smeared like grease, temporarily
obscuring his vision. Leroy now in the front passenger seat sat
back and closed his eyes, confident of his partners driving
ability.

‘So what do you make of Miss Frosty Pants?’

Rick glanced at Leroy briefly, before returning his attention
to the straight road ahead. ‘I think you’re pissed because she
hasn't given you the green light.’ They both laughed, knowing it to
be true.

‘You know something really bothers me about this case, we’ll
be able to ID the body real easy so why does he give remove the
teeth and lips?’

Leroy stared ahead unfocused. ‘Not only does this guy not
expect to get caught, he's so sure of himself that he gives us
enough information to build a case that he must know would involve
The F.B.I. It don’t make sense?’

‘
D'you think he has a grief against the Feds?’ Rick slowed the
car down and turned right in to a small road, which housed two
tiered wooden structured houses.

‘I don't know... killers seem to operate to their own agenda.
Maybe he wants to spice things up by adding a chase element. Who
knows?’

The car pulled to a halt outside a large wooden house, the
main structure painted white with a small lawn that led slightly
uphill to the porch. A light was burning in the main room. Leroy
smiled. ‘Lia's waiting.’

Rick watched a bolt of lightning light the sky in the
distance. ‘Storm’s coming.’

The car wipers swished away the rain, which was now pounding
tympani of sound on the metal roof.

Lia was curled up asleep on the sofa, tired of waiting for
Leroy to come home.

The sound of thunder rumbling seemed distant and remote to
Stephen England as he lay in the dark. He had no idea how long he
had been unconscious and barely any idea how long he had been
conscious. His mind had snapped into sharp clarity like the click
of a switch. He moved his arm and began to remember. He was able to
wriggle his fingers, lift his arm; move his hand. He fumbled for
the edge of the canvas hood and started to pull it up, the coarse
roughness of the material rubbed painfully against Stephen's
swollen lips and mouth. He tugged it over his mouth, the effort
sending sharp sensations of pain to his wrist. All the time he
tried to remain focused, keep his concentration. One last tug
and…darkness. The room was black. Despondent, Stephen lay there,
hoping his eyes would soon adjust, but there was no light for them
to adjust to. He began pulling at the rope, trying to get some
slack so that he could pull his other hand free. Time in this void
was meaningless but it took Stephen a further exhausting hour of
pulling, tugging, and manipulating until quite suddenly and without
warning his other hand slipped from its restraint. Stephen England
sat crying tears of joy for ten minutes hoping he was only minutes
from freedom. He shuffled backwards, trying to sit up and free his
ankles; excruciating pain ran through him. Raw and open festering
wounds protested against the sudden movement. The knot appeared to
be some sort of slipknot, the more that he pulled against it, the
tighter it constricted, much like a noose. England fumbled with the
rope, his fingers slow and painful, but the ropes eventually
slackened and he was able to pull one foot free and then the other.
Again, the sheer effort exhausted him. Closing his legs together
caused him to cry out, agonising pain mixed with the lack of use,
bringing further unwelcome sensations. Still laying on his front
Stephen England pulled himself forward to the edge of the mattress
and he tried to stand. He crawled forward, waving one arm ahead of
him, trying to feel out any unwanted obstacles, until his palm
jarred off a wall. He pulled himself up using the wall for support
and leaned awkwardly using his shoulders. His fingers searched for
a door or light switch as he rolled against the walls. The relief
felt when his thin bony fingers felt the square plastic mount with
its oblong rocker switch was as great as when earlier he freed his
hand. The light blasted in his eyes, sending him reeling, falling
to his knees. The hard floor jarring through his frail body,
England's hands automatically shielded his face trying to block out
the light that he was so anxious to see. Slowly he peered through
tiny slats in his hands made by his fingers. He could see the
mattress, he tried not to focus on the indignity of the excreta but
tried to take in as much information as his disorientated mind
could absorb. There was a hammer, the one -he guessed- used on his
mouth.

Over in the far corner was a wooden workbench, with an
electric drill and a jigsaw. There was a roll of rope, still
wrapped around its central core and many other tools. In the centre
of the floor was what looked like a trap door. A set of dumb bells
and weight's were lying against the far wall. To his right, a
flight of stairs rose upwards. Stephen tried to stand; he hobbled
back to the mattress and picked up the hammer. The weight dragging
his arm. The fatigue-sapping effort of lifting it almost
overwhelming. The stairs beckoned, sirens of freedom, hypnotising
him. His foot stepped on the first runner and using the handrail he
dragged his body up, ready for the second step. The door at the top
grew closer and closer. His heart quickened, releasing endorphins
blanking out his pain and giving him fresh impetus. He stood at the
top and pulled down on the handle, now breathing hard, the air
passed through his battered mouth, the sharp sensation of pain
increasing his awareness. The door was locked. Rage quickly
dispelled disappointment as he swung the hammer at the metal
handle. The hammer sank in to the soft aluminium. He hit it again
and again, until the handle folded to pulp. He crashed down on it
one final time as the handle clattered to the floor. He pushed
against the door; still it would not budge. His renewed energy
began to drain and along with it any hope of escaping, he threw the
hammer with frustration at the door making a small indent to the
metal surface. Stephen trudged down the stairs, on the verge of
giving up. He glanced at the workbench and spotted the array of
power tools. The drill or the jigsaw would surely make easy work of
the door, but he needed a long extension lead to reach it. He
pulled open one of the drawers inset in the workbench. Twenty or so
Polaroid photographs slid forward. Violent, graphic images of
terrible deprivation. A variety of young men tied naked to the
mattress, suffering obscene degradation. Implements of suffering
and torture inserted into them. Close-ups of their bloodied
toothless mouths. The reality that he was not the only victim began
to dawn to Stephen, that he was only one of many unfortunate young
men, started to sink in. The one fact that he was certain of was
that if he didn't escape he was dead. The next set of photos
confirmed this to him. The blank staring lifeless eyes, the pale
bodies, some missing hands or feet, one with entire limbs cut away,
lying in a pool of his own blood. Panic and revulsion now began to
motivate him, fearful that at any moment he could return. England
threw the pictures, scattering them through the air, across the
floor and opened the next drawer. Tin boxes housing nails and
screws and various oddments but no extension lead. Stephen slammed
the drawer shut, instantly regretting his action as the vibration
jarred through his right wrist, he grabbed it with his left hand
trying to sooth the pain and block out the image of the porcelain
white bone exposed through the raw skin. One more drawer to go, the
bottom one. Deeper than the other two; this offered hope. England
opened it, closing his eyes through fear of disappointment. The
fear confirmed; the drawer was empty. Despair swept through him. He
looked around for the lead but there was no sign. With the door no
longer an option for escape, Stephen's eyes fell upon the trap door
in the centre of the floor. The door looked as if it opened into
something below. He wandered around the room, bouncing off the
walls looking for a control panel or lever to open the hatch. His
eyes darted around the room. Hanging on the wall opposite was a
bright orange, nylon rope, and just behind in a recess was a lever
mounted on a panel. England grabbed the rope with renewed energy
and headed for the lever. He pulled down with all of his strength
using his left hand. The effort nearly lifting him off his feet.
The lever protested mildly and then eased downwards. Stephen looked
at the trap door. It was open....