Disappear (3 page)

He wore a blue tracksuit lined with a single white stripe. He had matching gloves and sports shoes with thick rubber soles. His sports cap, with rounded peak, was pulled down low on his forehead and with his head tilted downwards as he ran, his face was mostly obscured.

The thin, pliable piece of wire was looped round and round itself, wound into a compact ball, and stuffed into his pocket.

It was a cool, clear morning, one of the last days of winter. Six- fifteen. The jogger had been here for a run on two previous occasions that week, to get his bearings. This wide, leafy reserve in a semi-rural district north west of Sydney was ideal. A narrow path ran along the perimeter of the reserve, amidst hedges and trees that looked as though they’d been there forever.

The jogger had noticed the young woman on both of those previous visits. Fair-haired, plump, wearing a tee shirt and slacks. He noticed her running had improved. She had an easier, more natural pace, a rhythm she’d lacked before.

He’d passed her and now she was several metres behind him on the track. After a while he slowed his pace, allowing her to gain on him again.

He thought back to the previous kill, two weeks before, picturing the quiet street in the nearby suburb. An attractive, middle-aged woman had arrived home in the middle of the day. She carried her bags of groceries into the house. There was no one else on the street.

Plenty of trees in the front yard for cover.

He simply walked, unseen, into the open side door of the house, twenty seconds or so behind her.

He had stood behind the open door between the kitchen and the lounge room, the thin stretch of wire at the ready in his hands. He felt the flood of excitement. Blood coursed through his veins, pounding in his temples. Not too soon, he thought. Control it. Concentrate on the task at hand.

He’d always been this way. Feeling pleasure while inflicting pain on others, though it was getting out of control and he was aware of the need to be careful. The time lapse between each of the past few kills had been less and less and he felt he should taper back.

After this one, he decided.

The third time the woman passed through the doorway, the jogger pounced. His method was always the same. He struck suddenly and swiftly from behind, snapping the looped wire around the neck of the victim, and then pulling tight. The deceptively smooth, thin wire cut into the flesh of the woman, an ugly red welt at first, then a pencil thin crevasse, weeping with blood as she fought for breath.

Now he felt the blood coursing through his veins like an electric current, igniting every nerve end with its voltage, as though stretching out every fibre of him with the power.

He wanted to scream out, for release, at the sheer ecstasy of it.

Strangulation by garrotte didn’t take long. Sometimes, when the jogger could regulate the flow of strength through his arms, and manipulate the struggling of his victim, he made it last longer, which lengthened his enjoyment of the act.

At the surprise of the attack, the woman’s shock gave way to an overpowering fear so strong it was like an odour in her nostrils. She could neither scream nor run though she tried desperately to find a way to do both. As the seconds ticked by her horror became an anchor in the pit of her stomach, plunging down, ripping apart the fabric of everything she had ever been. She began to weaken, her strength slipping away as the world around her darkened, her terror so great that even tears would not form in her eyes.

Afterwards the jogger left the house as he’d entered, unseen, by the side. His car was close by.

He pushed those memories, as exciting as they were to him, from his mind. Control it. Concentrate on the task at hand. The young woman was adjacent to him now on the narrow path.

She glanced in his direction and caught his eye. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

‘You’re a sucker for punishment. Third time this week, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m here every day. Determined to get in shape for summer.’

I know you’re here every day, you stupid bitch.

She moved ahead of him. He slowed his pace further, shifted his position so that he was directly behind her. He allowed the pace of his stride to match hers.

Same speed, same rhythm.

He was certain their breathing and the beats of their hearts were in tandem and the idea thrilled him. She was his.

For two weeks he’d longed for this moment. The exhilaration soared through him like a mad, demonic song. Savour it. The jogger knew he was different, he’d always known that. He simply couldn’t help himself.

The two runners approached a bend in the track, which was completely hidden from view by hedges on either side. His hand slid into his jacket pocket, removed the ball of wire, his fingers deftly allowing it to uncoil. The young woman was oblivious to him. He was close enough to hear the pant of her breath. He ached inside with the irresistible urge.

Now.

He lunged forward. One simple, single movement. He looped the wire around her neck, pulled it tight, heard her gasp, heard the air expunged from her lungs.

At first, the jogger didn’t know what the cold, clammy sensation was on the back and side of his neck. He was pulled backwards in a swift, savage movement by what he now realised was a large, meaty pair of hands. Another arm came from the side in the same instant, delivering a karate blow to his knuckles, destroying his grip on the wire. It fell from his grasp and he became briefly aware of the young woman tearing it from her throat, coughing, then falling to her knees.

Two large men in dark, nondescript gear had attacked him. One man kept him restrained, pinning his arms to his sides. The other man stooped to pick up the wire, pocketed it and looked towards the woman.

‘You okay?’

‘I think so.’ She gulped in lungfuls of air.

‘Then go. Get away from here.’

‘But …’

‘Get out of here. Now.’

The woman stumbled to her feet, paused momentarily as she glanced wide-eyed at the three men, then ran off along the path.

The man holding the jogger released him, and with a powerful lunge pushed him off his feet. The jogger sprawled in the scrub at the edge of the path. He looked up at his two assailants. Who were they? Passers-by? Police? He didn’t expect what happened next.

The men turned and strode quickly away across the reserve towards the street.

The jogger rose to his feet and sprinted back to where he’d left his car, several blocks away. He drove cautiously, one eye fixed on the rear vision mirror to see if he was being followed. He’d broken out in a cold sweat and it stung the recently shaved area of his neck.

It didn’t take him long to regain his confidence and he cursed aloud the strangers who had foiled his plan. Inside he ached more than ever with his need. He would have to forget about that woman now and seek a new victim in a new locale. This process normally took a couple of weeks. He would cruise the outer lying areas of Sydney, choose a convenient place, and commence looking for someone - anyone - who had a routine he could get a fix on.

This time, however, he would need to fast track his selection process. He wanted to strike again, within days.

It was three days later when the jogger attacked again.

Late evening.

A middle-aged, pot bellied businessman was leaving his office late, as he had the previous two nights, walking towards a flat, open air parking lot at the back of the suburban office block. It was deserted. The businessman reached his car and placed his key in the door. As he turned the key a wire was looped violently around his neck and pulled tight.

Once again the intended victim was saved by the arrival of two large men. Once again the killer was restrained until after the shaken businessman had driven away, warned off by the mysterious figures.

The two men then strode off into the darkness, shadows eaten up by the night.

‘Who are you?’ the jogger screamed after them. There was no answer, just as there wasn’t the next time or the time after that.

At first, it seemed impossible to the jogger that these shadows were watching him and following him day and night. Yet that appeared the only possible way they could always be on hand to stop him whenever he undertook a murder.

Who were they? How did they know about him? Why did they always walk away and leave him free, unharmed?

None of it made any sense at all.

The jogger was in his apartment, his lean frame settled into the centre of the three-seat lounge, feet spread out on the coffee table in front. The ring of the doorbell startled him. He wasn’t expecting company. He opened the front door and surprise showed clearly in his expression.

The girl on the doorstep couldn’t have been any more than sixteen but she had a hard look that was decades beyond her years. The short, short skirt, low cut lace top and provocative stance made her profession obvious.

The jogger glared at her, confused. ‘Yes?’

A half smile, half sneer stretched across the girl’s face but there was no expression in her eyes. Just a dull, glazed look. ‘It’s party time, mate.’ She strode confidently into the apartment, pushing past him. ‘Where’s the bedroom?’

‘What the hell is going on here?’

‘I told you, lover. Party time. For you, anyway. And don’t worry. It’s all paid for. You’ve got me ‘til midnight. But that’s not the good news.’

‘Oh?’

‘The good news is you get to do whatever you like to me. With a few exceptions.’

The jogger stared at her, speechless. She was beautiful, with long auburn hair that fell below her shoulders. Her lips were of the thick, sensual kind and they were in a permanent pout, even while she spoke.

‘Well, don’t you want to know what the exceptions are?’

‘Okay.’ He decided to be cautious, watching the girl closely. He had no idea what this was about and he didn’t like being caught unawares.

‘No broken bones. No cutting me. If I even think you’re going to try and kill me I’ll scream and, quicker than you think, two big bozos - I believe you’re familiar with the type - will come crashing through that door and pulverize you. Got it?’

The jogger looked towards the door.

‘Yeah,’ the girl said, ‘they’re out there.’

‘Who sent you?’ he asked. His gaze returned to the girl’s face, watching her, sizing her up. He could imagine himself doing all sorts of vicious things to her. The thought of it excited him.

‘Wrong question, mate. Can’t tell. Let’s just say it’s someone who knows you’re frustrated. Knows you need an outlet for your … uh … needs. So I’m it.’

‘They must be paying you a lot of money.’

‘That’s none of your business. Well, I’m ready when you are, big boy.’

‘Take off your clothes,’ he said.

‘Hey, original.’

He glared at her.
Smart-mouthed bitch.

The clothes seemed to slip away from her body as though cast off by magic. The jogger reached out and ran the tip of his finger down the middle of the girl’s flat belly. Her skin was smooth, like satin. She had solid thighs, a slim waistline and large, round breasts.

‘Remember the rules, sweetie?’

‘No breaking bones, no cutting or killing,’ he replied matter-of-factly. ‘Bruises are okay?’

‘Within reason. Otherwise, anything goes. Like, y’know, sex - remember that one? - is fine. Preferable, actually.’

The jogger grunted. He raised his right arm, his palm open, and swung it towards the girl, slapping her hard across the face. She reeled backwards, began to topple, and then regained her balance quickly.

His heart was beating rapidly, the thump, thump, thump, hammering in his ears. ‘Get down on the floor,’ he commanded. He felt the electrifying rush. He was going to rape her as violently as he knew how. Beat her.

What he really wanted, though, was to kill her. But he knew that was the one thing he dare not try.

Present Day

Rodney Harrison was eleven years old, a freckle-faced kid with a shock of curly, red hair. He had always wanted to have his own delivery run and today was his first day on the job, distributing leaflets to letterboxes. He was thrilled by the thought of having his own money, which he’d earned himself, to do with as he pleased. He intended to save up enough to buy an Xbox.

It was Wednesday morning, seven fifteen, and Rodney hoped to get in an hour both before and after school, five days a week, to complete delivery of his allotted number of leaflets. He rode his bicycle around the corner of Meson and Claridge in the southern Sydney suburb of Hurstville, the fifth street corner of his run, when he saw the man sprawled on the side of the road.

‘Hey mister, you okay?’ He braked, bringing the bike to a stop alongside the man. The body lay face down on the asphalt, and his coat appeared to be very damp. Rodney thought that was unusual, it hadn’t rained for weeks. ‘Mister?’

No sound or movement came from the man. Rodney was worried. Should he do something? He stepped from his bike and reached towards the man. ‘Hey mister, wake up.’ He shook the man’s shoulders. The body was heavy and didn’t budge. ‘Can you hear me?’

Rodney stooped down closer and his heart began to beat rapidly. Dead? Was the man dead? There was something eerie about the man’s stillness. Rodney walked around to the other side of the body, where the man’s face was partially visible. The eyes were open, unblinking, unseeing.

A car came along the street, driven by an elderly man. Bill Hartland was on his way home after an early morning trip to the newsagent. He pulled over to the side of the road when he saw the boy waving frantically to him. The kid was clearly in some kind of distress. It wasn’t until he eased himself out of the car that he saw the man’s body.

‘He’s dead,’ Rodney called, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. ‘His eyes are wide open, like dead people in the movies.’

Thirty minutes after the message had been radioed through, Detective Senior Sergeant Neil Lachlan arrived on the scene. At the age of thirty-nine, he was in his fourth month with the New South Wales Homicide Squad, and was working out of the Hurstville Police Local Area Command. People would have laughed, he imagined, had he told them he found the Homicide work less stressful than his previous position, so he kept the thought to himself. It wasn’t a form of black humour, however, just a simple fact considering that he’d spent the previous ten years with the Drug Squad. Ten years of traumas, late nights, undercover work, waging war against users, dealers and organized vice gangs.