Mommy, May I? (15 page)

He laid her down on the sofa, fanning her long hair out across a silk pillow. He placed a strip of duct tape across her mouth, in case she woke up before he was ready. He flipped on the stereo, and
The Moonlight Sonata
flowed out into the room. He took out the chilled Dom Perignon, uncorked it, and poured the expensive potion into two fine crystal flutes.

Richard then picked up Edgar Allan Poe’s book of short stories. Tonight he would read to the lovely Bridgett, helping her to expand that ignorant mind of hers. After all, she’d said that she’d wished she’d gone to school. This was her chance to gain a little culture.

Richard lit dozens of candles in the cabin’s main room and put a log on the fireplace. His victim slept soundly as he made everything perfect. Now the evening could begin!

He walked back into his room and turned down the crushed velvet duvet and the silk sheets. The dark walnut vanity held all his tools, including his favorite shade of red lipstick—like his mother’s. He’d changed his mind about the lipstick he’d use on Bridgett, deciding that the innocent gloss wouldn’t work on such an elegant evening. In the bathroom, he put paraffin wax in a crock-pot. It would melt slowly and be the perfect temperature when he was ready.

With the champagne poured, the sonata playing, the candles lit, tools ready, and the wax melting, everything came together. Last but not least, he went to the medicine cabinet and took out a syringe and medication. Ready at last! So excited, Richard could barely contain himself staring at the blonde beauty lying across his sofa, her features lit up by the fire. The scene was really very romantic.

He opened the book. Walking around to his companion’s side, he inserted the IV. He placed the bag on a metal push stand and watched its contents slowly drip into her system. Round one. The first drug, Narcan, roused her and eased any effects of the sedative he’d injected as well as with the drugs she’d used earlier at her home.

“Hello, sleepyhead,” Richard said softly. He removed the duct tape from across her mouth.

Bridgett looked around, eyes blinking. Then she saw the needle in her arm. “What the hell?” She began to struggle immediately. “Look, I’m not into weird games. I just like to party a little, you know,” she said, her voice quivering.

“Shh, shh, hush.” He held a finger up to his lips. “This isn’t a game. I don’t like games. I like real fun. You’ll see, and enjoy. I’ve been watching you. I’ve come to realize what a true whore you are. I can’t believe I foolishly thought that maybe you liked me. But you like to fuck and get fucked. And I don’t really approve of that. My mother, although a little indecent herself, wouldn’t approve of that either. Not for me, anyway. But since you like to fuck so much, later, after the real festivities are over, I’ll fuck you myself.”

Tears of fear welled in her eyes. “Oh, God,” she sobbed. “Who are you?”

Richard had no sympathy for her. He laughed, taking one more step into his fantasy. “Me? Hmmm. Why don’t you call me Poe? Yes. That’s good.” The name suited him. He relished becoming the fine author of gothic horror.

He sat in a chair across from her and crossed his feet on the ottoman. He opened his favorite book and announced the title: “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.”

Bridgett screamed. Richard dropped the book, and brought his hands to his ears, covering them. “No, no, no! That’s no way to act in my home. You are a chosen one. You should feel privileged that I’ve allowed you here. And you are the
first.
That’s right. You are the first one who has come here to be eternalized. There have been others, but they weren’t as lucky.” He clucked his tongue thinking about the others he’d tortured and killed, but he couldn’t remember them all. What a shame. He wouldn’t forget again.

Richard studied her as she sobbed harder, her entire body shaking, and her eyes wide. She continued to struggle, but to no avail.

Shaking his head he gently told her, “Please don’t. You’ll only tire quickly, and we have an enjoyable time ahead. No one can hear you, so don’t bother screaming or struggling. It will only make it worse. Okay?” She nodded. “Good. Now, ask me to read to you.”

She looked up at him. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I don’t under . . .” she shook her head.

“Ask me!”

“Will you read to me?” she muttered.

“No! Once again, you do not realize the gift you’ve been given. Okay, let’s try it again. Say: Mr. Poe, will you please read to me?”

She bowed her head and trembled. His rush had begun and he tingled all over. “Mr. Poe, will you please read to me?”

It was such a delight to hear those words. “Yes, of course.” He opened the book to his favorite story, the one he’d read to Janie Keaton so long ago. Tonight, however, he could finally achieve what he’d botched so badly with Janie.

Upon finishing the story an hour later, he looked back at Bridgett. Her eyes were closed, but he knew she wasn’t asleep. Tears continued down her face. Tears! He walked over to her and lifted her chin. She opened her eyes.

“Please, please don’t hurt me. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything you want. Let me go, please. I don’t know where we are. I won’t tell anyone. Please.”

“Bridgett, I can’t do that. I wish you could understand.” He picked up the champagne flutes and held them up. “In your honor. To the first of the collection, the first to be eternalized, and remain with me. My lovely girl, you shall never feel pain again.” He clinked the flutes together. “Ah, isn’t that a pretty sound? Crisp. I love good crystal. Now take a sip.” He held it up to her lips.

Bridgett spit the champagne back at him. “You’re fucking crazy! Why are you doing this? What the fuck did I ever do to you?”

Richard wiped the alcohol from his face. “You didn’t have to do that. Now I’m perturbed.” Richard caressed her face. It was soft and wet. She struggled to pull away from him. Standing behind her, he reached his hands down across her breasts. They were large and hard—plastic. But touching them caused him to harden.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it,” she cried. “Do you want to do it? We can, you know. I will. I’ll suck you off if you want. Anything.”

Richard sighed, bored with her pleading. He also knew that he could not finish what he started with her while she was alive. He’d discovered this before, and the women he’d tried to make it happen with had endured great torture from the anger he felt about it. No, there was only one way Richard could get himself off.

He knelt in front of her. “Do you want out?”

She nodded, her eyes begging him. “Yes, please.”

“And we can make love?”

“Yes. I’ll do anything.”

“I know you will.” He stood and walked behind her.

“Thank you.”

She obviously thought he was going to free her. In a sense he was. He took out a plastic bag from his coat pocket and placed it over her head. Bridgett struggled and writhed, muffled screams coming from her for about a minute. Richard was strong. He held tightly, but carefully, so as not to bruise her. Blood rushed to his extremities as the adrenaline charged his body. Richard focused on the music to calm himself. He didn’t want to climax, yet. If he did, the fantasy would be destroyed.

Bridgett fell silent, no more attempts to be free. In Richard’s mind she was free now—free to be his. Her body slumped over. Richard didn’t take the bag off right away or let go of the grip. He had to be sure she was gone.

When he removed the bag, there were no signs of life. First he untied her and laid her out on the couch. Mixing the wax from the crock-pot, he carefully spread it across her face with a paintbrush. He let it cool, then peeled back the wax, which was now a mask. He set it on the dining room table where he could finish it later with plaster of Paris. But first he needed to have her.

Richard carried Bridgett into his bedroom where he stripped her clothes off, further arousing him. He climbed on top of her, and as his evening’s fantasy was finally completely fulfilled he climaxed inside the corpse. Yes, he knew his mother would approve as he called out for her, “Mommy!”

Although Rachel had made it to the weekend, it was still touch and go. Helena visited as much as possible and checked in on the baby with Lindsay. Thankfully, Social Services had allowed the baby to remain in the center.

Even with the trauma, Frankie had come down for her weekend visit. Helena wanted to spend all the time she could with her daughter, but this next AA meeting was too important for her to miss. She was to receive her yearly coin, a symbol of uninterrupted sobriety despite the maelstrom of gossip about her past, and Tim insisted that she go. She’d asked Frankie to attend, but Frankie said that she was tired and didn’t want to.

Tim met Helena at the meeting and seemed to know at once how worried and distracted she was. “Okay, lovey, what are you thinking? I can see that tick-tocking in your brain and know something’s up,” Tim said.

“There’s a lot going on in my head. First and foremost is seeing poor Rachel in so much pain, and the fire, not to mention that detective who seems to have it in for me. And then there’s Frankie. I wish she’d have come tonight. I thought she might understand how much it meant with the horrendous week I had. I thought she’d be more supportive.” Helena shrugged, letting out small sigh.

“Goodness, Helena, she’s fifteen. Supportive is not an operative word in her vocabulary at this stage. You were once fifteen; narcissism flows through their veins. I seriously doubt that many teenagers attend AA meetings with their folks, even on an anniversary. Think about it. I’m sure it would make her uncomfortable. The poor kid has been through the media war zone. She doesn’t need any other pressures, especially from you.”

Helena dropped Tim’s hand. She was almost offended, but then, Tim’s style was pretty straightforward. “Maybe you’re right.”

“You know I am. And, as far as Rachel goes, the docs are doing their damnedest to help her, and you’ve told me how tough she is. She’s made it through nearly three days. Tonight is supposed to be a positive moment for you, girl. Look how far you’ve come. Try and turn it around and think of your own progress tonight. Live in the moment, okay? Now, let’s lighten the conversation and let me hear some dish about old Paddy Poo?”

“Patrick? That’s lightening the subject?”

“No, the Pope—yes Patrick, and yes, love always lightens things up.”

“It isn’t love. Not at all. When he brought Frankie down yesterday, we talked basically about nothing over a cup of coffee, then he left. So, I don’t know where he is, and why would I care?”

“Oh, boy, you do have it bad. Isn’t love, my ass.”

“What?”

“Helena Shea, after all these years you still hold a torch for Patrick Kiley.”

“Please.”

“Please is right, girl. It’s so obvious. You can’t tell me that having Frankie in your life hasn’t stirred up those old feelings.”

“That’s the past. I was naïve and vulnerable.”

“Sure. You’ve never been naïve, love. And as far as vulnerable goes, your shell’s as hard as a damned tortoise. Give it up, friend. He’s still got you hooked good, and now that you’ve got the kid back in your life, I have no idea what you two are waiting for. Why don’t you hurry up and screw and get it over with? Come on, let’s get back together already and have one big happy family.”

“We’re not exactly June and Ward Cleaver. Will you let it go, at least for tonight? Right now I have to focus on my sobriety, Frankie, and Rachel. Then I have to figure out how to get Shea House back on track. Since the explosion and fire have been classified as arson, I’m not sure how private backers are going to feel about throwing more money into it. And I’m running pretty low on cash. I’ve spent a good amount of my own money already.”

“Okay, I can tell you want to change the subject, talk about more depressing things, but I won’t stop until I wear you down. I want you to be happy, and I think
he
makes you happy. You’re in love, sister, ‘cause you never stopped loving him. I’ll back off for a nano-second, though. I know this is an important eve, darling.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Hmmm. So that creepy detective is still telling you it was arson over at Shea House?”

“That’s what he said the other night. He hasn’t called since, and I’m not too eager to be in touch. I’ve been talking to the arson team and the fire marshal, and they all agree that someone started the fire. The marshal told me that it’s possible it could be gang related. You’ve been down there. The area isn’t exactly prime real estate. Gang bangers don’t necessarily like the idea of someone coming in and helping the community get sober. It’s bad for business.”

“Have you thought about moving the location?”

“I have. But where it is, is where it’s needed. The women I’m trying to help have nothing, and no one’s helping them get an education, stay straight, and learn how to parent. I meet with the insurance people next week. I’m going to have to do some fast-talking. At this point we’re at least another year out from starting a new center. It’s possible I’ll have to re-apply for permits, and who knows if I’ll even get insurance. Everything is iffy right now.” Helena hung her head.

“Hey, hey, it’ll all work out. You’ll see. Relax, okay? Now let’s find somewhere to sit.”