Cooked Goose (3 page)

CHAPTER TWO

7:30 P.M.

Now down South, where I’m from, we know how to cure what ails a rapist. Yep. We just chop his dadgum pecker off, string that sucker on a piece of rough brown twine and hang it around the pervert’s neck,” Savannah told her rapt audience of a dozen women who had assembled at the local library to learn the art of self-defense. “And that usually gets the creep’s attention. He’s not likely to offend again.”

Savannah laughed and her listeners echoed a few nervous giggles. “But here in California,” she continued, “y’all are a mite more civilized. You catch ’em if you can, lock ’em up for a spell, then let ’em go to do it all again. And that, ladies, is why we need classes like this one.”

The group had arrived an hour ago at the library, their clothing and hair all neat and tidy, their faces arranged in pseudo-nonchalant expressions. Unsuccessfully, they had been trying to hide the fact that they were scared to death of the latest threat to their community.

Like all Southern Californians, they took in stride the earthquakes, mudslides, occasional riots and seasonal brushfires. But the serial rapist who had been ravaging San Carmelita’s women had them afraid to run to the grocery store for a loaf of bread. Only the bravest had ventured outside after dark to attend the meeting at the library.

And after an hour of instruction by Savannah and Tammy, an hour of throwing each other around on the mats spread across the carpeted floor of the Children’s Corner, an hour of being told what to expect if they were attacked, the group was a little mussed, a bit disheveled, but in their eyes they had a bold gleam that Savannah welcomed. It told her they were less inclined to become victims than when they had first arrived.

She was moderately satisfied with her results so far. It was a much more productive way to spend the remainder of her fateful evening—having been dismissed from the mall decoy gig. After a debacle like that, she would have normally gone home to bury her sorrow in a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream.

“Walk with your head high,” she told them, “your spine straight. Walk with an attitude, girls! A rapist is looking for a victim, not a combatant. We know he’s a lily-livered chicken or he wouldn’t be attacking women.”

From the corner of her eye, Savannah saw the research librarian seated at the desk. More than once, the woman had winced at Savannah’s colorful terminology. Savannah ignored her. She had some important points to make, and she had her audience’s full attention. “He’s a predator who preys on the weak,” she said. “Don’t give him a reason to think that you’re anything other than a raging bitch. A bitch may not be the most popular member of the P.T.A., but she isn’t as likely to be attacked as a ’nice girl.’ Sad, but true.”

A teenage girl, who appeared to be about fifteen or sixteen and had introduced herself as “Margie,” raised her hand. Savannah was a little surprised; Margie hadn’t contributed a thing since the class had begun. She had sat quietly on the mat, refusing to join in the physical exercises. The girl could only be described as “bristly,” due to a dozen unconventionally located body piercings, spiked orange and green hair, and a prickly adolescent attitude.

“Yes, Margie?”

“What do you think he’s like—this Santa rapist guy?” The fear in the girl’s voice belied her bold appearance and expressed the general sentiment of the room. This was the first time anyone had mentioned the real reason they had all signed up for this class. Sure, they were interested in self-defense, but if a maniac hadn’t been terrorizing the community, they would have probably all been home watching television sitcoms.

At least the Santa Rapist had jarred them out of their suburban complacency.

“How about that, Tam?” Savannah turned to Tammy, who was sitting behind Margie and the other students on the mat. Having demonstrated her best throwing and ball-busting techniques, Tammy had reverted to being a “girlie girl” and was brushing her long blond hair. Momentarily nonplussed to be caught primping, Tammy quickly ditched the brush, shoving it into her pocket.

“What about what?” Tammy asked.

“What about our friendly neighborhood serial rapist? Can you give us a profile on him?”

Savannah watched, amused, as Tammy’s mental disk drive whirred. The young woman was living proof that looking like a blond airhead didn’t make you one.

“Generally speaking,” Tammy said, “a rapist is an emotionally immature individual, socially inept, with a deep inferiority complex. There are basically two types of rapists,” she continued in a practiced, scholarly monotone, “psychiatric offenders and criminal offenders. If he is a psychiatric rapist, he will have an I.Q. that is higher than average, a good education, and may have achieved a high level of success. He lives in a fantasy world, his escape from the normal world where he feels inadequate. He probably knows he’s a sicko and may even feel guilty about it. He may worry about his victims and be ashamed of what he does to them.”

“Yeah, right,” Margie muttered, shaking her psychedelic-colored head.

“Do you have something to add, Margie?” Savannah asked.

The girl shrugged. “From what I read in the paper, he sounds pretty mean, like he enjoys what he’s doing.”

“I agree,” Tammy said. “From what I’ve read and heard about this rapist, I would classify him as the second kind of rapist, a criminal offender, a sociopath who doesn’t care who he hurts as long as he satisfies his own twisted needs. He thinks everyone else is stupid or crazy. Everyone but him. He’s the smart one. At least in his own not-so-humble opinion.”

“That’s true,” Savannah added. “From the victim’s reports, we can assume this guy is motivated by his hatred toward women. He’s dangerous, ladies. I don’t want to scare you any more than you already are, but you need to know as much as possible about the enemy, to be fully prepared.”

“What are you saying?” One of the softer, sweeter, Sunday school teacher types asked, her eyes bright with fear.

“Exactly what you think I’m saying.” Savannah drew a deep breath and decided to be honest with her students. She knew the librarian was listening. The San Carmelita Recreation Department had wanted a much lighter, more upbeat, fun class than the one she was teaching. She would catch hell when the class broke up, but this wasn’t the time to chocolate dip the bitter truth.

“His attacks are becoming more and more violent,” she told them. “We have to arm ourselves with self-defense skills, criminal knowledge and a generous dose of plain ol' street smarts against this dangerous predator. And then we have to hope to God we don’t run into him. Because he’s on a frighteningly predictable path. Unless he’s caught soon, it’s just a matter of time until he kills one of his victims.”

* * *

8:17 P.M.

Christmas is a pain
, Charlene Yardley thought as she watched one of Santa’s overgrown, slightly disgruntled elves lift a chubby-cheeked cherub onto the big guy’s lap. The two-year-old shrieked. The toddler’s mom yelled, “Hurry up and take the picture, stupid!” to a weary Mrs. Claus behind the camera.

Mrs. Claus snapped the picture, capturing the precious memory for all time. And for the nominal price of $29.95.

Charlene fought back tears as she turned away from the mall’s center with its twenty-foot tree, cotton batting snow, plywood sleigh and gilded Santa’s throne. This year
he
would be taking the children—her children—to see Santa Claus. And even though no one had said so, Charlene knew that
she
would be going along, too. Just one big happy family.

Home-wrecking whore
, Charlene silently added.
May she be impaled on a reindeer’s horn or choke on a plum pit in her Christmas pudding
.

As Charlene passed the Victoria’s Secret window she tried not to notice the red velvet and emerald-green lace corset and stocking set in the window, tried not to remember. What was it he had said that day? Something like, “If you hadn’t turned into a fat slob after you had the kids, if you’d worn something sexy for me once in a while—like she does—I wouldn’t have had to go elsewhere for it.”

Okay, he hadn’t said something like that; he had said
exactly
that. Now Charlene, who had once enjoyed wearing such things herself, couldn’t see a lingerie ad or watch a diet commercial without considering suicide. Or homicide, depending on the depth of her depression at that given moment.

Well, Miss Corset and Garters was welcome to him. It would only be a matter of time until he fooled around on her, too.

They deserved each other.

But the kids….

It was Christmas, and Charlene couldn’t believe how much her heart hurt to have to share the children with her soon-to-be-ex and his new honey. Her shoulders ached with the burden of packages she carried under each arm, far heavier than her credit card balance could support. The price of guilt. Guilt for not maintaining a traditional, two-parent home for her son and daughter. The price of not “meeting her man’s basic needs” and “making it work.”

As she passed through the food court, the buttery, chocolate-rich aroma of Mrs. Fields’ cookies beckoned to her, promising a temporary sugar high to lift her sagging holiday spirit.

But what about your diet
? she asked herself.
What diet
? her self promptly replied, veering toward the red and white concession
. Like those extra pounds really matter
.
Like, who’s going to see you naked any time soon?

The very thought of being intimate with a man made her feel sick deep inside.

She used to love sex—the whole breathless, sweaty, passionate act. But that had been before she’d found out how much pain it could cause.

Now, her idea of fleshly pleasure was a semi-sweet chocolate chip with macadamia nuts.

A few moments later, Charlene left the cookie stand with her choice in hand and dumped her packages onto a nearby table. Sinking onto the chair, she decided to rest her feet and savor the calories. If she were going to be wearing this cookie on her butt for the next umpteen months, she might as well enjoy the experience.

As the first bite hit her system, she thought of something one of the women had said in her support group the night before.

You’ll get it all back, kid, and more. You’ll find yourself again.

The quiet voice echoed the words from a remnant of her spirit that had survived the ravages of betrayal.

It’ll take a while, but you'll land on your feet.

Charlene Yardley popped the rest of the cookie into her mouth, hefted her children’s presents under her arms and headed for the mall exit. Yes, she’d make it through this mess and out the other side.

She might have gotten the wind knocked out of her, but she wasn’t down for the count. Not yet. No, Miss Home Wrecker and the worthless s.o.b. she had been married to hadn’t scored a KO in this fight. Not yet.

Charlene Yardley lifted her chin a couple of notches, trying her tattered garment of self-respect on for size. Okay, so it needed a little mending. But, basically, it was a good fit.

* * *

8:22 p.m.

Over an hour ago he had chosen her. She was the one tonight. Lucky lady.

Something about the way she held herself as she walked into the mall’s front entrance—head down, shoulders drooped, as though she had recently lost some important battles—told him she wouldn’t give him a hard time. And tonight he just wanted an easy, no-frills, minimal-challenge experience.

Sometimes he welcomed the fight, enjoyed the tussle, because, after all, he had the knife. He would always end up on top, so to speak. But it had been a particularly grueling day at work. He was tired. So, in making his choice, he had picked a sheep over a tigress. The only problem was: His sheep was shopping for too damned long!

Lying scrunched into a knot of tight muscles and strained nerves in the rear floorboard of her ancient Pontiac Sunbird, he was cursing the fact that he hadn’t picked somebody with a roomier car interior.

But, although the broad with the Cadillac had seemed equally droopy and dispirited, she had locked all her doors. So had the gal with the Mercedes. The Sunbird chick had left the passenger door unlocked, so she had won by default.

That’s right, you lucky contestant! Guess what’s waiting for you behind Door Number Four!

When he had crawled into the back and shut the door behind him, his excitement level had been feverishly high. But as the clock on the dash clicked off the minutes, his ardor had cooled and his temper heated. Twenty minutes ago he had decided that when the bitch finally did show up, she was going to pay. Big time.

He lifted himself above the backs of the bucket seats, shook the pins-and-needles numbness out of his right arm, and surveyed the parking lot for what seemed like the hundredth time in an hour.

She was coming!

A jolt of adrenaline coursed through him, making his limbs weak with anticipation. Then the flow of energy took a detour due south and concentrated in his groin, where it had the exact opposite effect. Suddenly, it didn’t matter how long it had taken; this was well worth waiting for. In fact, the anxiety had made the whole thing better, sharper, more acute, more real. The only real moment of his mundane, detached and unreal life.

But as he watched his chosen victim cross the parking lot, he noticed that her demeanor had changed slightly. She didn’t look quite as meek and mild as she had before, going into the mall. In fact, she was holding her head in an arrogant, haughty manner that irritated the hell out of him.