Cooked Goose (6 page)

“Because you’re a woman. And women always want us guys to suck up. They expect us to kiss their lily white butts and admit what a jerk we’ve been.”

Savannah pictured it for a moment: Dirk on his knees, looking oh-so-humble, her skirt lowered just enough on one side to accommodate the penitent kiss. His lips warm and soft as—

She shuddered.

“Naw. That’s all right. We’ll skip the butt kissing part. Just admit you were a jerk, do some sincere groveling for the rest of the evening, and we’ll call it even.”

* * *

10:05 p.m.

Angie Perez searched the car’s glove box for the box of mints she had stashed there for just this occasion—when her boyfriend, Brett, was bringing her home drunk. Her mom would probably be in bed. But just in case, she’d better not walk through the door reeking of tequila, thanks to the four margarita grandes she’d downed at Brett’s brother’s house.

Brett had drunk at least five. And he was driving.

Angie had tried to be responsible. She had asked him if they could take a cab or call one of their friends to give them a lift home. But Brett had been royally pissed at the very idea that she thought he couldn’t handle his booze. He was touchy about subjects like how fast he drove, how much he drank, and whether he was the best she’d ever had in bed.

He wasn’t. And she was tired of trying to convince him he was.

All in all, Angie had just about had it with Brett; she was seriously considering dumping him. After the Christmas and New Year’s Eve parties, of course. Angie knew she was cute. And she was pretty sure that if she gave him the boot on January 2nd, she’d be able to fill the vacancy before Valentine’s Day.

“Hey, you’re weaving all over the place,” she told him when he missed a particularly tight turn on Forest Hill Road. There weren’t any forests—just smoldering brush, compliments of the afternoon’s fire—and not much of a hill, but Forest Hill Road was the best route for getting across town if you’d had a few too many.
 

It was poorly lit and fairly curvaceous, winding its way between lemon, avocado and orange ranches. A challenge to drive. But for the most part, cops didn’t patrol this stretch after nine in the evening, so it was the choice of the inebriated.

“Slow down, Brett,” she said, gouging him in the ribs. “Remember what happened to those sophomores last semester.”

“They were idiots. They deserved to die.”

Brett had a real way with words, she decided, not to mention his sensitivity.

Yes, he was definitely going to get dumped come January. Being a blond, blue-eyed varsity team quarterback only got you so far.

They rounded a curve and at the edge of the headlight’s beams, just ahead on the left side of the road, Angie thought she saw something move. Something white. An animal maybe? A big animal.

It was crawling. Slowly. As though it were hurt.

“Brett. Look at that. Over there.”

Brett looked, but he seemed to be having trouble focusing. “What? I don’t see nothin’. What are you talking about?”

“There. At the edge of the grove. I think it’s a dog that’s been hit.”

They drew nearer. Another twenty feet and she could tell what it was.

“Oh, my god, Brett. It’s a person. A woman. And she’s naked!”

Ordinarily, she would have expected Brett to exhibit an acute interest in a nude female. But instead of stopping, he stomped on the accelerator and his father’s ancient Oldsmobile shot forward.

In half a second they had left the naked, crawling woman behind.

“What are you doing? Couldn’t you tell she’s hurt?” Angie turned in her seat and craned her neck, but she couldn’t see much in the red afterglow of the taillights. “Brett, go back! We have to help her!”

“No way. I’m not getting involved in anything like that. Who knows what happened to her? It could have been anything, any kind of trouble.”

“That’s right. That’s why we have to help her. She looks hurt. She may need to go to the hospital!”

Angie punched him in the biceps and tried to grab at the wheel, but Brett shoved her hand away. “I’m not stopping; do you hear me? We’ve both had too much to drink and I’m driving. If I get another ticket, the judge said he’d suspend my license.”

“But—”

“No buts. If that woman got herself in trouble, it’s her problem. It’s not going to be mine.”

At a fork in the road, he slowed a bit and Angie yanked her door open.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted. “Close the damned door before you fall out!”

“Stop the car! I’m going to go back and help her, even if you won’t!”

He slammed on the brakes, throwing her against the dash. “So, go ahead and get out. I want you out of my car!”

She jumped out before he could change his mind.

“You’re stupid, you know that?” he yelled. “You’re really, really stupid!”

“Yeah, and you’re a jerk!”

It was only after she had closed the door behind her that Angie realized her predicament, standing there on a dark road in the middle of nowhere.

Her purse was still in Brett’s car. And her cell phone was in her purse.

“At least call the cops!” she shouted as he pulled away. “Brett, please! At least make a phone call! One lousy call, please!”

But he had already peeled out and amid the squeal of his tires and the roar of the Oldsmobile’s eight-cylinder engine, Angie wasn’t sure if he had heard her or not.

On legs weak from drink and adrenalin, Angie ran back to the spot where she had seen the figure. She was still there, lying beside the road. She was curled into a fetal position.

Even in the dark, with only the light of a half moon, Angie could tell that the woman was badly beaten. Her face was horribly swollen and smeared with something black which Angie assumed was blood.

“It’s okay,” the teenager told her, assuming the role of mother/comforter. “You’re going to be okay now.”

Angie wasn’t wearing a coat, only a thin sweater with her new pusher-upper bra underneath. But she quickly determined that this poor woman needed the garment more than she did. She peeled it off and tried to put it on the shivering woman, but she thrashed her arms and hit Angie in the mouth.

Even though the blow smarted and Angie could taste blood from a cut inside her lip, she knew the woman was too traumatized to know what she was doing.

“That’s all right,” Angie said. “You don’t have to wear it. But let me wrap it around you. You’re freezing.”

The victim quieted down a bit, submitting to being wrapped.

“What happened to you?” Angie asked, casting a few furtive glances at the dark grove behind them. “Who did this to you? Is he still around?”

The woman tried to answer, but her teeth were chattering so hard that Angie couldn’t understand her. All she could make out was something that didn’t make any sense. Something about Santa.

Then, it did make sense.

Perfect sense.

Angie Perez began to shiver, too, and it had nothing to do with the citrus-scented, cold night air on her bare skin.

This woman was the Santa Rapist’s latest victim. And for all Angie knew, the guy was still there in those dark trees, watching, listening. For all she knew, he wasn’t finished for the night. And she was here on this lonely road, shivering in her bra, with his shattered victim at her feet.

For all Angie knew, Brett had been right, after all, and she was stupid, putting herself in a position like this.

The woman on the pavement groaned and tried to mouth some words through her swollen, bleeding lips.

Angie bent closer and stroked her hair. She could feel dirt embedded in her scalp and something wet and sticky. Probably more blood. “What is it?” she asked her. “What are you trying to say?”

“Th-thank…you.”

Tears sprang to Angie’s eyes and, although she was still fully aware of her dangerous situation, she wouldn’t have chosen be anywhere else at that moment.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “You’re very, very welcome.”

She looked right, then left, up and down the empty road and whispered a prayer of thanks that God had brought her here tonight and allowed her to help one of his children who was so badly in need. Then she quickly added a request that mean, stupid, worthless Brett had found an ounce of compassion in his heart and made that phone call.

* * *

10:14 p m.

“How about all the registered S.O.s in the area?” Savannah asked, knowing what Dirk would say. He was a good cop who knew the basics, like checking out any local sex offenders. Most rapes were committed by repeat offenders. And law enforcement figured that the average rapist attacked at least fourteen victims before getting caught.

An ugly, evil habit.

“We’ve got a couple of possibles,” Dirk said, munching the last piece of cold pizza. “But they’re both chicken hawks, and kiddy pervs don’t usually cross over to attacking full-grown women.”

“True. What have you got from the victims? Any common acquaintances?”

“Nope. No link, except that they were all snatched out of the mall parking lot.”

“That’s got to be bad for mall business. It’s probably a downtown merchant trying to divert some of the Christmas sales.”

“Hey, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I was kidding. Sorry, a bad joke.” Savannah thought about the victims and their families for whom Christmas would never be the same.

For years, the city of San Carmelita would be different. Fear changed everything.

Soberly, she said, “You’re looking for a guy who’s probably in his late teens to mid-thirties, probably attractive and—”

“Attractive?”

“Sure. Haven’t you noticed? A lot of rapists are good-looking dudes who wouldn’t have any problem picking up a woman. But I suppose having the woman’s consent would ruin the fun.”

“I never understood rape mentality.” Dirk shook his head thoughtfully. “When a woman says, ‘No! Oh, God, no!’ it’s a real turnoff for me.”

Savannah stared at him for a moment. “I’m so glad to hear that, Dirk.” She cleared her throat. “As I was saying—a decent looking, young man, with above average intelligence and a decent job. His neighbors probably think he’s a great guy.”

“Gee, that narrows it down.”

“Oh, yeah, and he likes to dress up like Santa.”

“Mm-m-m, if he got off by dressing like Mrs. Santa or the elves, then we’d have something to go on.”

* * *

10:28 P.M.

Through a haze of semi-consciousness and pain, Charlene Yardley could hear the male voice—his voice. He was back!

“Don’t move. Lie still,” he was saying.

Large hands—a man’s hands—gripped her shoulders, holding her down. She fought against him as she swam her way to the surface of full consciousness. “Do you hear me? Be still,” he told her as he pinned her to the cold wet ground.

Not again! She wouldn’t let him do it again. She would die first. “No!” she screamed, but her own voice sounded weak, barely a croak in her throat. “Get away. Away…from….me!”

The fingers tightened, pinching her flesh that was already bruised. “You’re going to hurt yourself,” he said. “Don’t move.”

Another voice in the darkness. Softer, like an angel’s. A woman. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re safe now. He’s just trying to help you.”

Charlene tried to open her eyes. But one was so swollen she couldn’t see out of it, and the other felt as though it were on fire.

But, from what little she could see, the man over her looked different from her attacker. This man wasn’t wearing a beard or red hat. He was young and clean shaven, and his hat was dark. She was dimly aware of lights flashing over him, over them—red lights, blue lights.

She was still lying on the ground, and he was kneeling over her. Behind him was the girl with the angel’s face, the girl who had come to her first. Hours ago?

“I’m a police officer, ma’am,” he was saying in a gentle, consoling tone. “My name is Officer Dunn. I’ve called an ambulance for you. It’s on its way.”

Charlene started to cry as she realized her rapist hadn’t come back to kill her after all. Help had come. The help she had prayed for.

“My arm,” she said. “I think he broke my arm.” Every word, every movement of her mouth brought stabs of new miseries.

“I’m sorry, but that’s why you need to lie still,” he said, “or you might make it worse. We’ll get you to a hospital right away, and they’ll give you something for the pain.”

The girl moved to Charlene’s other side and knelt in the dirt. Her dark hair spilled around her pretty face as she bent over and took Charlene’s hand in hers.

“Here. Hold my hand,” she said. “Everything’s going to be all right. You’ll see.” The girl’s fingers were warm and comforting, and the touch went straight to Charlene’s heart.

“He, he hurt me,” she said between sobs.

“I know. There, there. It’s okay.” The girl stroked her hair as she had before, and even though the teenager was only a few years older than her own kids, Charlene felt as vulnerable as a child.