THE KILLING GROUND
Gerald E. Sheagren
The man lurked in the shadows of a building, the brim of an Alpine hat pulled low over his eyes, upturned collar shielding his ears from the wind-driven snow. The night was bone-chilling cold and he yearned for the warmth of his apartment, one of the current bestsellers and a snifter of his favorite cognac. But all that would come soon enough. Right now – he had an important mission to accomplish.
The man loved New York City. He loved its restaurants, its Broadway shows and museums, its ethnic diversity. But – most of all – he loved the Big Apple because it was the best killing ground in the whole world. He could choose a victim at random, strike when the time was right, and, within seconds, be lost down any number of side streets or back alleys. Los Angeles and Chicago had been good to him, but New York remained the ultimate high.
This afternoon, the voice had come to him earlier than usual, and much more urgent, even before he could turn off his computer at the stock exchange. He tried to shake it out of his head, but he knew he had little other choice than to do its bidding. “Kill!” it had commanded. “Go forth and kill another bitch!”
The man counted his victims on his fingers and came up with eight. No – that was wrong. There were nine in all, he was certain of that. On the third try, he finally remembered Elma Rodriguez. How in the world could he have ever forgotten her? Those big, chocolate-colored eyes, and the long raven hair that had fairly gleamed in the street light. That firm body and those bountiful breasts. And so innocent that it was laughable. Even when he had driven his knife into her, she had looked up at him as though he was doing it for her own good. Ah yes, dear sweet Elma. He had tacked the front page of the New York Post to the wall at the foot of his bed, so he would be able to dwell on her beautiful innocence before falling to sleep, and, again, upon awakening.
It was time to move on before he attracted any unwanted attention – especially from the police. After all, what sort of idiot would be idling about during a storm of this caliber? Choosing a southerly direction to keep the snow at his back, he remained in the shadows, the fast-mounting snow crunching beneath his boots. Why had the voice come to him during such foul weather? Perhaps it was testing his resolve as it had during that earthquake in San Francisco. But he had come through with flying colors and he would do so again.
He had covered only a block when he saw the woman coming in his direction. He couldn’t be certain, but probably a young woman by the way she moved. Her long blond hair and knee-length coat were sopping wet. What really attracted his attention was the fact that she was hobbling through the snow in a pair of high heels. Obviously she had gotten out of work late and was totally unprepared for the surprise storm. With her head lowered against the driving snow, she didn’t see him approaching. Perfecto! Reaching for the pearl-handled switchblade in his pocket, he looked around for a suitable place to drag her out of sight. But, suddenly, with no more than thirty feet separating them, she turned down a narrow side street.
The little voice in his head grew frantic. “Hurry you idiot! Don’t let her get away! The time is perfect – there’s not a soul in sight! Don’t screw this up!”
He quickened his pace – nearly running – his gloved fingers tight on the knife in his pocket. Up ahead, the woman leaned against a stoop, snatched off a shoe and emptied out a clod of snow. The man’s heart started to thump as he closed the distance between them. Then, suddenly, a door opened, casting a wedge of light onto the stoop.
“Karen? Is that you?”
“Yes, Mom – better late than never.”
“You poor dear. This storm was completely unexpected. And just look at you – soaked to the bone. Hurry, get in here, before you catch your death.”
Cursing his luck, the man passed by without paying them the least bit of attention. Oh yes, dear mommy – she very nearly had caught her death.
The storm was growing in intensity, whipping snow against the man’s face like tiny daggers. Even with a parka and heavy sweater, he was chilled clear to the bone. If he didn’t make a move, soon, he would call it a wash and head home. The throbbing headache would come, but what the hell – he would just have to deal with it. Getting his bearings the best he could, he made a number of rights and lefts, heading for a small, out-of-the-way park that he knew about. It was a gathering place for transients and runaways, and, perhaps, even on a night like this, there may be one or two in attendance. A long shot, yes, but there was little other choice.
The wind whistled down the narrow street, clicking snow off window panes. The few cars at the curb were completely buried, reminding him of sheet-draped furniture in some long-abandoned house. As he side-stepped a lump of white – probably a fire hydrant – he bumped into someone who had appeared out of no where.
“Excuse me, sorry,” offered a male voice. “I didn’t see you in all this mess.”
The man’s heart skipped a beat as he looked into the broad, ruddy face – a silver badge affixed to the front of a fur-lined hat.
“That’s okay, officer. It was me who bumped into you.”
The policeman arched a snow-whitened brow. “It’s a hell of a night to be out and about.”
“I just got out of work, officer. Two more blocks and I’ll be home.”
“You be careful.” The cop sniffled and shivered. “This night isn’t fit for man nor beast.”
Nodding, the man hurried on his way, taking a quick glance over his shoulder. Not fit for man nor beast. Now, which was he? A little bit of both, he thought with a chuckle. Ah yes, indeed – a little bit of both. He hung a left onto another snow-encrusted street. If he remembered correctly, the park couldn’t be much more than a block away.
The police had invented many an imaginative name for serial killers: The Boston Strangler, The Night Stalker, The Green River Killer. Some of the more ambitious serials had conceived their own names, like “Son of Sam” and “Zodiac.” Feeling a bit left out, the man kicked up a flurry of snow with his boot. So far, all that he had been called was the “madman.” Well, all that would have to change and pretty darn quickly. He would have to think up some cute, yet diabolical name for himself. And, then, perhaps – a folksy letter to some editor, with his name scrawled in blood. Yes, yes, that would be perfect! Maybe he could dub himself “The Iceman” or “The Snow Stalker.” No, that wouldn’t work. His first three victims had been in the spring, four during the summer and two in the fall. Hhhmmm. How about “The Killer for all Seasons?” Nope, no go. It sounded like some damn novel.
But despite everything, there had been a bit of good news: an FBI profiler had referred to him as “a loner of above average intelligence.” A loner for sure, but “genius” would have been more like it. After all, he had been a National Honor Society member in high school and at the top of the dean’s list in college – Yale no less.
Ten minutes later, he spotted his objective in the distance, barely visible through the swirling snow. The park appeared empty, but as he drew closer, he though that he spotted someone hunched on one of the benches. Circling around, he came upon the person from the rear, the howling wind silencing his approach. Yes, yes, it was a woman! A woman wearing one of those frumpy velour hats with a fake rose attached, her red hair spiraling out like the coils of some broken box spring. A soiled fatigue jacket, an ankle-length, floral-print dress and a pair of combat boots completed one of the weirdest ensembles he had ever seen. At her feet rested a knapsack, and a Raggedy Ann doll, its hair as red and wild as her own.
The man walked past and did a double-take, feigning surprise. “Well hello there. What are you doing, sitting here, in such terrible weather?”
The woman shrugged.
“You know, miss – you can be an ice sculpture in the next hour.”
The woman shrugged again. “So? What’s it to you?”
“I didn’t mean to intrude or anything, but you just took me by surprise – sitting here during the worst storm of the winter.”
“Aaahhh. It’s nothing but a dusting.”
“Look – what about if you come home with me and I’ll give you a nice warm place to spend the night – a home-cooked meal and a hot shower – maybe some quality TV time. How’s that sound? What do you say?”
The woman’s hazel eyes flared. “Now why would you want to do something like that? You need a bed partner for the night. Huh? That’s it, isn’t it?”
The man noticed that she was kind of cute – especially when she got her hackles up. A little pug nose, spattered with freckles. Pert lips. Mile-white skin. Her body was completely hidden, but he imagined it as being firm and supple. If the Post could supply a picture, he would mount it on the wall right next to Elma Rodriquez.
“A bed partner? Heavens no – that thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.”
“I just bet.”
“I’m a Good Samaritan, is all. I feel that it’s my calling to help those less fortunate than myself.”
“Less fortunate, huh?” The woman bristled. “Is that what you think, mister high and mighty?”
“Look!” The man thought of slashing her throat right here and now, but held himself back. “Quit nitpicking over my words and come home with me before we both freeze to death. If you feel uncomfortable when you get there, you can leave at any time.”
“Well, I dunno.” The woman bit her lip in thought and stared down at her gloved hands for a moment. “Okay – I guess it’ll be all right. I hope you got some chocolate chip cookies at home.”
“I just might be able to accommodate you.”
“Great! Lead the way, Samaritan.”
They walked two blocks, pellets of snow slashing their faces. Glancing warily around, the man halted at an alleyway and motioned for her to follow.
“Why are you going down there? It looks awful dark to me.”
“It’s a short cut. Trust me.” The man grabbed hold of her arm, surprised at how spindly it felt. “I use this route all the time. It’ll bring us out a few feet from my door.”
“Hey, let go of my arm!”
“I’m sorry.”
The woman stared into the alley, blinking. “I dunno”
“For crying-out-loud! If you can’t trust me, let’s forget the whole thing.”
“Okay, okay. You go first.”
The man didn’t have the slightest idea where the alley led to, but it didn’t make any difference. It was precisely what the doctor had ordered – dark, secluded and not a soul in sight. He moved cautiously along - trying to look as though he was familiar with the place – listening to the deep breathing of the woman as she followed close behind. His own breathing was becoming more rapid, as it always did when the moment was close at hand. Pretty soon. Only a few steps further. He felt for the knife in his pocket.
“Bastard!”
The man froze, heart thudding. What in the hell had she just shouted? It sounded like — like —.
He was in the process of turning around when he felt the woman jump onto his back. Before he was able to utter a word, something hard and sharp and very cold was drawn across his throat. He tried to cry out, but there was only a gurgle. Taking a few faltering steps – with the woman still on his back – he wobbled for a moment and dropped to his knees. Red-Hair’s breath was warm against his ear and he heard her whisper “Goodbye, sweetie pie.” It didn’t seem possible, but the alley appeared to be getting even darker.
