Iceman (20 page)

Heather Lennon was so perfect for this night. He'd wheeled out of the elevator at Town Plaza, a business deal had brought him to one of the penthouse apartments, and literally run into Heather as she carried a basketful of laundry from the basement laundry room. She lived there with a pair of stewardesses who were usually out of town, and he'd been able to either sequester her or otherwise remain anonymous by arranging her to come to his home. A pretended legal problem with a soon-to-be ex-wife was his excuse.

He sensed that if he wanted to isolate her for a future target, he must cut her out of the pack. In no time at all she was in the rented home in Mission. Its automatic garage a requisite feature. Isolation was the key. That, and silence on her part.

In that respect she filled the bill admirably. Unattractive by some standards, she had always been the fifth wheel who sat home alone on those occasions when the popular and gregarious stews partied. It was not difficult to persuade her to leave Town Plaza.

As soon as he found out the things she liked, he played to her every desire, making himself over in her favorite images wherever possible. This great-looking guy who shared all her interests, it was an irresistible package for her, and if he was a bit idiosyncratic in the area of compulsive secrecy, she could meet his needs. Heather was a somewhat secretive person herself, used to keeping her own counsel and not garrulous by nature, and his reasons for wanting to keep their relationship quiet seemed perfectly understandable.

She was not unintelligent. But neither was she particularly intuitive by nature. To him, however, she was that perfect blend of smart-stupid that he gravitated toward: not smart enough to question, but not some vapid, gum-popping idiot who would pose a threat.

He pulled up in front of the house and pressed the garage-door opener, noting that she had parked her car in the driveway as he had asked, and as the overhead door slid up, he turned off the cassette player and drove into the garage, lowering the door before he shut off the motor, removing his wig and dropping it out of sight beneath the collapsible chair. In thirty seconds, right on cue, the garage lights came on and Heather appeared, smiling, in the doorway.

“Come here,” he said, motioning with his finger.

“Hi,” she shouted, scampering around the car as he pushed the door open. The ugly bitch reminded him vaguely of his sister. It amused him to consider he could still fantasize about the cunt, even though he hadn't had her in over twenty years.

“Hello, baby. Miss me?” He pulled her head in and they kissed for a long time. He could already feel himself stiffening, growing hot. Wanting her. He could barely swallow he was so excited, and his words came out raspy “I want you so much. Heather.” And she misread his urgency for pure lust and it inflamed her, too, but there was nothing pure about his wanting. “Honey, I've got great news. The therapy worked."

“You're kidding."

“No. It's working."

“Oh! Wow! My God! That's wonderful."

“Yeah. It really is. I'm actually able to stand and walk a few steps before I get tired."

“Oh, darling, I'm so happy for you.” She gently leaned into him and hugged him. “I just can't believe it."

“I was thinking that if you don't mind supporting my weight a bit, I would try to get in there without the chair this time."

“Really? Do you think you should? Is that wise—you know, so soon?"

“I think it might be okay.” I just said so, you dumb cunt, he thought. “C'mon. Let's give it a try. I have to walk as much as I can to build my muscles back. Lean in a little,” he said, putting an arm around her and sliding out from under the wheel with a big show of effort. He loved the playacting stuff. What a turn-on. Fucking with the whores’ minds was the best part, after all.

“Honey, I'm afraid I might drop you or—"

“Don't worry,” he cut her off. “I've got a lot of my strength back.” He pulled himself erect and she laughed with pleasure as he stood in front of her for the first time.

“You're so TALL,” she said.

“I apologize for the gloves, but the salve I've been rubbing on my legs has had a little adverse reaction there—sort of a rash thing, uh—” He wasn't even watching what he said to her now. Just playing with her as he hobbled over to the steps with her, pushing on her as hard as he could without crumpling her down to the concrete. Laughing inside as he put his weight on her.

“We'll kind of have to take it slow up this step here,” he said, mashing her into the wall as he did so, hurting her as much as he could. He was getting bored with it and quickened his pace as he hobbled with her across the room and flopped down heavily into an armchair.

“Shouldn't you get crutches or something?” She rubbed her shoulder, trying to get some feeling back in it.

“Did I hurt you, baby?” he asked solicitously, rubbing her shoulder a little harder than he should, seeing her wince.

“No. I was just thinking—"

“Don't think.” He pulled her down to him. They kissed again. “Angel, you haven't been a bad little girl and mentioned me to anybody like one of your relatives or a best girlfriend, have you?"

“No, hon. Of course not."

“Think real carefully, babe. I mean, if you ever said my name to ANYBODY—like the lady when you rented this place, or when you left your apartment, anybody at work. Think real hard now. Could you have ever said my name? The ex has got her attorneys breathing hot and heavy. I want us to have some money left for when WE get married, ya know?"

“I swear. I never said your name to anybody. Deirdre and Sandra were both real curious about who I was seeing, but I did just like you said. Nobody knows anything about my, you know, seeing you."

He kissed her gratefully. “You're a good girl,” he told her, thinking. You stupid cunt, as he unzipped his fly.

“I try to be good for you,” she said coyly.

“I know how good you can be,” he said hotly, pushing her down. “Take it in your mouth, lover,” he told her as he pulled and pushed and twisted, his gloved fingers in her hair.

“You're so big,” she said, and he pushed her back down. Oh my God oh if only I could believe in Satan, he thought, if only I could speak your name, invoke your name now, praise you, Satan. But he had not believed in a heaven or a hell since he was a small child. Often he had taunted them, standing outside in thunderstorms daring the fake God to strike him down, taunting the devil when he was alone—promising him his immortal soul if His Satannic Majesty would give him what he wanted. Neither of these fictitious nothings existed. He was the higher power. He was the force of evil that came in the night to dispose of such trash. And with every blow he struck, it cleansed his spirit of the dark thing inside.

And finally he exploded in her mouth and the gloved fingers closed around her throat as he ejaculated, squeezing the foul life from this dirty, impure, undeserving slut, mashing the air out of her, cutting off her oxygen with those all-powerful fingers, wrists, forearms, biceps, neck, shoulders, pecs, back muscles that had hoisted his weight, lifeless legs dangling, twenty thousand times, hardening into steel bands of power. These muscles silenced this cunt now, choking the life out of the bitch as she fought in vain to break away, and he shuddered again, thrilled, chilled, and fulfilled, and the last thing she heard before her brain shut down was the sound of steel plunging into her skull.

E
ichord pushed rewind and nothing happened. He was all the way to the front. He pushed play. Nothing happened. He checked the remote jack and he had pulled it out as he was supposed to. He pulled the mike jack out as well and hit play again. Nothing. He let some air out and puffed his cheeks out like a fat man, decided he would try the batteries. Unplugged the squad room's glowing adapter and fished a couple of recharged Enercells out, popping them into the little machine. It started immediately. What did the world do before Radio Shack? He wondered if they ever considered manufacturing a car.

“—home for that long a time,” a woman's voice was saying off microphone. The crash-bam clutter clump of movement. A man's flat voice, “One, two, three four, five.” A pause and a click. Harry Wallace was a good ole boy over at the Moss Grove County Sheriff's Office. He had a voice like a mower with the blades set a little low.

“Would you state your full name?"

“Bonnie Louise Johnson."

“Address."

“1622 East Magnolia.” Harry Wallace asked her other questions that appeared on the report be was looking at. Buckhead County, like Moss Grove County, had no Missing Persons. He listened to the woman talk about her friend, Diane Taluvera, the thirty-year-old white female working for the Moss Grove Bank, who'd suddenly decided one day she'd run away from home.

Bonnie Louise had moved to Moss Grove from Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, four years ago when her ex-husband—they'd been married at the time—had transferred. She'd been lucky, she had worked for the Lauderdale Phone Company ever since she'd graduated high school, at seventeen, and they'd made her a supervisor. They found a spot for her in the Buckhead office on the four-to-midnight. Her first week in town she'd met Diane Taluvera, who was in HER first week on the job at the bank, and they liked each other immediately and shared a lunch in the park, Bonnie crying about the IBM DASCs and Diane bitching about the fact she'd spit on her MA, and both of them laughing about it and becoming very close.

They were best friends. She'd tried to tell Diane about this strange boyfriend she met recently, somebody she'd met in the bank. This weirdo Prince Charming who was too good to ever be seen with her in public, which of course told Bonnie that he was married. He had a wife and six kids for sure. But Al the Mystery Man was slick. He had her eating out of his hand. He and his so-called “personal secretary.” Some funny stuff going on.

He'd taken her to California. She'd had a postcard from Los Angeles a week ago and it was Diane's handwriting but Bonnie said it “looked very suspicious.” Eichord listened to the tape as he looked at the photocopy of the message on the back of the card.

“Dear Bonnie"—the dot over the I in Bonnie a heart, like a college roomie with a neat hand. “It finally happened! Prince Charming is taking me away from all this. We're running away together, Bon. I'm so excited I'm only going to throw some things in a bag and we'll leave for the Coast tonight. I'll mail this card when we get to L.A. I'm going to start a whole new life, Bonnie, so don't be surprised if I don't write for a long time!” Love, Diane, had the O and the dotted I heart-shaped. Small, neat, looping letters.

The business about Al the Mystery Man and the “so-called personal secretary” kept leaping off the tape into Eichord's ear. He played the cassette through to the end. Rewound it and played it again as he reread the small file:

—The NCIC Alert, —The “missing” report,

—The flyer with Diane Taluvera's photograph that was circulating through metro PDS from California to New York.

—The handwriting report.

—The interview/interrogation with her superior at the bank.

—The copy of the scenic card mailed to the bank from California. Her resignation in four succinct lines. Finally, in the space on the form where Harry Wallace had printed “missing by choice,” Eichord circled the words “by choice” and printed the word “INVESTIGATE."

He phoned the bank. Got the party he wanted after a few moments. Normally he would have read the suspect list first, but this was a financial institution and they were as bad as hospitals and law firms about dispensing confidential data, even to coppers. He IDd himself and told the party, “How concerned are you about Diane Taluvera being missing for this length of time?"

“We're concerned about the possibility that she's missing—sure—but we can only go by the postcard she sent us. We have to take it at face value.” He could see the shrug in her voice.

“Did you know Ms Taluvera the entire period of time she worked there at the bank?"

“No, I've only been here about a year myself. Officer. Would you prefer to speak with someone who knew Diane longer?"

“No, ma'am. In the year you knew her, which is obviously ample time to size up an employee, would you say that the manner in which she quit her job was consistent with the rest of her personality?"

“Not at all. Not in the least. But, on the other hand, she indicated she was getting married, and people tend to get a little whacko sometimes.” She chuckled. “I'm pretty sure of Di's writing and some of the others saw the postcard and I think she wrote it, all right."

“Do you know if one of the customer's of the bank was Alan Schumway, the car dealer?"

“Well, we do have a business relationship with Mr. Schumway, yes. I'm not quite sure just what banking business he does here, but you could ask Mr. Ashton,” she said, naming the president of the bank.

“Did Diane Taluvera have a personal relationship with Mr. Schumway, do you know?"

“Not to my knowledge. I just don't know too much about the employees’ personal lives. The unmarried women don't ... You know, there isn't that much talk inside the bank. So I couldn't say."

“But she did know Mr. Schumway?"

“Oh, yes. He came in the bank often. He comes in frequently. As I say, Mr. Ashton could fill you in on the nature of his dealings better than I could."

“Well, I'll certainly be speaking with him about it. Meanwhile, I don't have much more, just a couple of things. Would any of the women at the bank there, or men for that matter, have any idea who Diane was seeing?"

“No. I don't think so. We've talked about her a lot since she quit like that, you know. I think she pretty much kept her personal life to herself."

“Okay."

“She has a close friend, Bonnie Johnson, I believe her name is. Some of the girls have seen them talking here in the bank together, so you might talk with her.” It was like pulling teeth.

“If you should think of anything that might give us an idea who Miss Taluvera was going with, or if you should hear from her again, would you be sure to give me a call?” She assured him she would and he gave her his number with thanks.