Chapter 10

Terri AWOKE SHORTLY AFTER DAWN ON SATURDAY morning. And lying on the davenport, naked beneath the sheet Jarecki had thrown over her, her limbs numb from the ropes, her jaw on fire from the gag, she had more than enough time to think about the things that happened to her during that night-marish night. She had time, finally, to reevaluate her shallow philosophy, see it for the shabby thing it really was.

Her body ached in every bone, muscle and fibre. Not just from the ropes sawing her flesh, but from the sadisms the pervert psycho had inflicted upon her. Her breasts felt like they were raw, her legs were bruised, and stung and burned.

She knew conclusively that there was no escape. That when Jarecki had bestialized her beyond the bounds of human decency, he'd take her somewhere, kill her.

She'd be erased like an insignificant insect, her passing unmarked, unsung. She'd have counted for nothing; it would be as if she'd never been born in the first place.

In a way it wouldn't matter. After the things the fiend had done to her, had forced her to do, it seemed that death would be far, far preferable to continuing through life with those indelible scars branded upon her conscience.

But conversely, the thought of dying unnoticed, unmourned, and unavenged, maddened her, made her want to scream with terror and frustration.

There must be an out! There has to be a second chance!

A chance to prove that self and sensation and smug ego isn't life's only meaning. I must have that chance! Let me prove to the world just how stupid, how wrong I was! Let me prove myself useful!

During the hours that passed between dawn and the time Jarecki finally awoke, Terri kept drifting in and out of a terror induced stupor. The ugly pictures kept sliding and flipping before her ravaged mind.

Pictures of what the pervert had done. How many times had he attacked her, practiced indescribable variations, had deluged her with sick, lunatic words and insults? How many times had he, even though no longer capable of the man's role, made her perform that vile ritual for him? Had he embellished heathen-ishly on the humiliation?

Until, weary and exhausted, he'd finally given her rest.

Guttural moans broke from her throat as she recalled that shameful thing he'd committed at the end, just before his ability had deserted him for good. When he'd made her kneel, her head on the floor.

It was in the midst of these vile reveries that Terri sank into a deep, recuperative sleep. Not to awaken until eight or so, when she started up, found the monster standing beside her, pinching and pulling at her all over again.

"C'mon, sleeping beauty," he gritted. "Time to get your little chasis back to work again."

Threatening her, he undid the ropes, laughed at her agony as the circulation returned to her limbs. Then he allowed her to visit the bathroom, insisted she bathe. He sat on the edge of the tub throughout watched her, ordered he to do certain ugly things, taunted her incessantly.

He abused her clean body for a time, making her stand before him, arch and turn and pose before his eyes, making her bend, allow him vile liberties, shamelessly. Then, bringing her handbag, he ordered her to, "Pretty yourself up."

They ate a skimpy breakfast, Terri still naked, finding it hard to keep food down. Especially with Jarecki sitting across from her, talking cruelly with every bite she took.

Next he twisted her arm behind her, shoved her into the living room. Where, sitting in a chair, Terri kneeling beside, him, he extorted a by-now, all-too-familiar homage from her. Giggling thickly, he didn't release her until his deliverance had been achieved.

Then, all but slathering at the mouth, he went to his print file, dragged out the glossy enlargements of his four previous victims. Which he opened one by one, spread the photographs before Terri, made her look at each picture, seethingly described how each act had been committed, detailing the outcries of each victim during each phase of her befoulment.

The account excited the man tremendously, turned him even more wild-eyed, more depraved.

It was a critique which stole every last hope from Terri, filled her with numbing despair. Her end would be just as ghastly, if not more ghastly, than that of any of her predecessors. The man was mad, absolutely mad!

It was when Jarecki opened the Kitty Milford file, shoved the pictures, one by one, at her, that Terri finally caved in.

She screamed, nearly fainted. Abruptly she was viciously fighting Jarecki. When he held her, began to describe the session in gory detail, she called, "Let me go! I'm going to be sick!"

At which the man cackled, released her, followed her to the bathroom, watched her void the meager contents of her stomach.

The contents of the last envelope proved to be so much anti-climax.. Terri, her brain dead, stared at the shots with dull-eyed gaze. The variations were very familiar now, they had lost all power to shock.

The Mara Casino envelope desposed of, the room, indolently threw the batch to the middle of the room, let them fan in wide arc on the carpet. "I've got your envelope all ready, Terri," he said, squeezing the words from between closed teeth. "When I get back from our little ... vacation ... I'll develop all these pretty shots, blow them up. And those movies, won't that be something? It's a shame I didn't think of that movie camera sooner. Baby, some of the things we did...."

Terri faltered, forced the words up: "Vacation? What are you talking about? Aren't you going to...?"

"Take you out in the desert? No, baby, not yet. That can wait. Sunday's soon enough. You're too special, I want more of you. There's this cabin up in Tujunga Canyon, a buddy loaned it to me for the weekend. We're going up there...."

"No, no," she moaned. "No more. Kill me, only don't...."

Jarecki didn't hear her. His face scheming, his smile blissful, he caressed Terri's breasts. "IVe always wanted to have all kinds of time, to have a place where I could let my babies scream and blubber all they want. With nobody for miles around to hear them."

Terri slumped, surrendered herself to the crushing torpor. It felt like someone was hacking at the back of her brain with a dull pick-axe. She wanted to sob, to howl her frustration. But there were no screams left now.

"There are lots of things I haven't tried yet," he continued, and gave Terri a push. "Go on! Get dressed. I wanna clear this joint in a while."

Terri struggled up, began looking for her clothes. Finding the black brassiere she'd thought would add spice to last night's "modeling" session, she put it on. Jarecki's eyes never left her.

"I'll tie you to a tree out there," he snickered.

"There's a stunt I've heard about. Honey, what a time we're gonna have...."

Terri's hands felt like they were made of blocks of concrete. She simply couldn't make the snaps close.

It was 10:20 on Sunday morning before Pam finally raised someone at Doug Jordan's Beverly Hills address. And beside herself with fear, she virtually screamed into his ear: "Damn you, Doug, where've you been? I've been trying to get you for hours."

"Down in Tijuana, Pam. Man, did we have a blast."

"We?" Pam grated. "Did Terri go with you? Is she there now?"

"Terri?" Jordan's voice was amazed. "No, she's not here. I went with some guys. Did she tell you she was going some place with me?"

"Damn! She didn't tell me anything. I can't find her. She's been gone since Friday night. I don't know here she is. Did you call here Friday?"

"Yeah, I did. Had a party going, thought she'd like to sing along. But she said no, turned me down cold."

"Did she tell you where she was going? Doug, I'm all but going out of my mind worrying about that kid."

"No, she didn't say a thing. Oh. Hey, wait! She did cut me awful short, she led me to believe she was going someplace in one helluva hurry."

"But no names, no nothing?"

"No, Pam. I'm sorry. Do you think it's serious? Is there anything I can do?"

At her wit's end, Pam took out her helplessness on the innocent man. "No! There's nothing you can do! Nothing anybody can do!" And with that she slammed down the receiver.

Then she knew the truest meaning of panic and indecision. There was only one thing left to do. The police. Then she reconsidered. What if this Jarecki was some new boy friend or something? What if she'd gone off for the weekend with him? Frantically she dialed the E. Los Angeles number again, cursed loudly when there was no answer.

And in her desperation, knowing that she must do something or go stark raving mad, she took the only out left to her. She called Matt Schaffner.

The man was aghast, badly shaken by the time Pam had finished telling him of Terri's by-now, forty hour absence. "I thought I told you to call me," he growled, "if she didn't turn up. Why didn't you? What in hell are you thinking of?"

"I'm sorry, Matt," she said, on the verge of tears, "but I just couldn't. I thought she was with some other guy, I didn't want to tell you that."

"I see," he said grimly after a significant pause. "I suppose you had to do it that way." Then bitterly: "After all, you girls do have your secrets."

Then Pam hurriedly told him about their one remaining clue. The name Kerne Jarecki inscribed on the phone pad, the Downey Road address.

There wasn't a moment's hesitation. "I'll be right over," he snapped. "We'll have to go over there. We'll find out where she is, if we have to shake heaven and hell to do it. Give me fifteen minutes."

"Hurry, Matt," Pam breathed. As she hung up, she thought how marvelous it was to have a real man to make decisions, to take things into his strong hands. Then she was scrambling to get into her clothes.

The traffic on the freeways was something fierce, and it was 11:30 that blistering hot morning before they reached the Downey Road exchange. And as they came close to the Jarecki address Pam found it hard for her to breathe. She looked at Matt, saw his tense jaw, the insane anger and determination in his eyes. She decided she wouldn't want to be the man to cross him at this moment.

The Jarecki house was a small bungalow, with a larger than average lawn, a fence and high hedges isolating it from the rest of the neighborhood.

Pam's heart sank as she sat in the car, watched Matt ring the doorbell without stop, rouse no one within. Then she saw his determined stride as he came off the porch, started around to the back of the house, she was up, out of the auto, going in pursuit.

"What are you going to do, Matt?" she said, amazed and alarmed at this new decisiveness of Schaffner's. And to think that she'd regarded him as a Milquetoast all these months. It was unquestionable proof of the truism that there are some men who rise to strength only when a bona fide emergency or crisis threatens.

"I'm going to break in," he rasped. "There's something fishy going on here. Consequences be damned, I'm going to find out what it is."

Then he was charging the back porch, a trellised, vine covered thing. He was slamming his bulky shoulders against the door. With each thrust the lockplate sagged that much more, until it broke free.

They fled into the dark, murky house, fought to focus their sun-seared eyes, to distinguish features within. They saw the small kitchen, the residue of the skimpy breakfast, the two coffee cups still in place. They smelled the stale odor of whiskey and sweat.

Instantly Matt went through the kitchen, down a short corridor, to the living room. "My God!" the involuntary bark broke from his throat.

"Matt! What is it?"

"Pam...." he choked, "don't come in here!"

Which was like jarring her with a thousand watts of electricity. Wild horses couldn't have kept her out of that room.

Her face went white as she saw the photographic equipment, as she saw the chaotic mess the room was in. Then her eyes fell upon the dozens upon dozens of glossy, depraved photographs littering the floor.

"Terri," she gasped. "Dear God, what did he do to you?" She stifled a scream. Then, when she saw the photographs depicting the body of Kitty Milford, she began to moan like a wounded animal.

Matt shook her roughly, reinstalled some control in that shocked system, tried to get Pam to talk sense. "I don't understand this at all. What was going on with Terri? What was she doing with a maniac like this?"

Instantly Pam fit all the pieces together, understood perfectly why Terri had fled the apartment without leaving any word. She understood perfectly what had been going on throughout these indecisive hours since Friday night.

She tried to tell Matt about her moonlighting venture, about how Terri had been bound and determined she'd participate also. Incoherent as the account was, its import was indisputable. And his face turned gray and wan, a grimace of sick disgust twisted his lips.

Afterward Pam was unable to remember how the man had stomach enough to force himself to prowl that house, to sort through all those photographs, come to the decisions he did. Huddled in a terrified, shuddering ball, she felt him shake her, show her a leaflet he'd found somewhere in that mess of photographs and envelopes.

Anza-Borrcgo Desert State Park, the desert-vista illustrated cover read. And instantly Pam recognized that background! It was the same desert setting that predominated in so many of the photographs on the floor.

"Here," Matt rasped. And he shook open the folder, displayed the large map of the park inside. Upon which, in red ink, were drawn four, meticulous X's at various spots along the park roads. "What do you make of this?"

Pam couldn't speak. Her head spun savagely. She realized, that even at this moment, out on that same desert, this madman was blithely hacking at Terri, defiling her, choking her, burying her. "Matt, oh Matt," she wailed. "We're too late...."

The man's face ashen as it was, was still determined. There was resolution there, patient acceptance of the fact that he had unwittingly played a part in this tragedy, that he was irrevocably committed. Someone he loved, whose death would put a gaping hole in his life, was in danger. He had to help. He had to do something-anything!

Again Pam was amazed at the cold, dispassionate way Matt went to the phone, dialed the police, tersely and calmly detailed their grisly find, the fact that Jarecki was, at that moment, in the desert with his latest victim. "No," he said adamantly, "I won't wait here. I'm leaving immediately. We're going to Anza-Borrego. I'm going to find that man and kill him with my bare hands."

Impatiently he repeated the Jarecki address, gave his own name once more. Then he hung up. "Come on, Pam," he said, folding the map, putting it into his pocket. "Let's get out of this madhouse."

Coincidence and chance play a greater role in most people's lives than any of them will ever begin to admit.

Thus it was twenty minutes later, in the height of the noon hour traffic, as Matt and Pam entered the Santa Ana Freeway, heading south, that a most incredible thing took place.

They were ten miles on their way, traffic holding at a steady sixty miles per hour, Norwalk approaching on their right. When, abruptly there was a slowing in the traffic flow, heads in the cars ahead began craning to the right.

Then, simultaneously, Pam and Matt saw, instantly understood the meaning of the belief-ravaging scene.

"Oh, no!" Pam gasped, her words shattery. "It can't be. Not just like that! Not right on the side of the highway! Stop, Matt!"