Chapter 8
There were three depravity-clogged envelopes in Jarecki's print file now, all carefully labeled, the prints dog-eared by now, grease stained from constant handling.
Anita Moreno, October 14, the first one read. Then came Helen Gould, February 10. Then Kitty Milford, May 3. And after tonight, the visibly disturbed man thoughts: Mara Casino, July 17.
The unsuspecting fool was undressing in the bathroom at this very moment. While Jareck, shakily arranged his tripods, prepared for the posing session. Briefly he paused in his labors, stared into space, his smile eerie, his head twitching as he tried to concentrate. The pain was back, that damnable pain! It seemed his head buzzed all the time lately. The pressure was getting greater.
Lately all he'd been able to think about were the girls in those envelopes, the way they'd screamed and begged for mercy. Recalling the things he'd done, there were times when it was all but impossible to keep his mind on his job. Rakowski, the mason boss, had been on his back constantly of late.
She's pretty, his mind wandered, real pretty. Mara, what a nice name. Mara, what a stupid woman. To advertise like she did, to come here alone. She's green, that's certain. He stifled a chuckle. But not for long Mara, not for long.
Tomorrow's Saturday, baby. We'll go out to the desert. You'll like the desert. So much you won't want to come back.
He dropped a 36 exposure roll into his camera, clamped it shut. Mara, we're gonna have such fun together. Now Jarecki frowned as he tried to bring up an elusive thought.
This Casino girl's gonna be good, he exulted. Not like Kitty Milford. She was a bad one. All kinds of trouble.
He recreated the May murder, remembered how Kitty had changed her mind at the last minute. Something in his smile had frightened her, had betrayed him. Lucky her roomie was gone, nobody'd seen him hit her, carry her down the fire escape.
Even when he'd brought her here, had torn her pretty things off, that had been no good. Kitty was so frightened she'd only moaned, stared, she hadn't given him any struggle at all. Anything he'd wanted from her she'd done willingly. She'd acted like a robot, she'd cheated him of his fun.
But he'd got even with her in the end. His stomach twisted as he recalled that thing with the knife. She'd been dead by then, of course. But he'd got revenge. Her body had been in five pieces when he'd fin-nally buried her.
The maniac shook his head hard, tried to blot out the pictures. I don't like to think about that. Sometimes I do, but not now. Something's wrong. I get all confused sometimes. I can't think of anything else but these girls, the ropes, those pictures. It seems I can't wait. Something's wrong with me.
At that moment the woman, a pretty blonde, slight and slim, emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a cute, pink, terrycloth robe. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Jarecki," she smiled self consciously. "But I wanted to make myself pretty as possible. I'm just getting started in modeling, I want my customers to be satisfied...."
Instantly the man's pulse raced, the searing pressure was renewed in his head. He fought to be calm, but found it hard to do. "You are pretty, Mara," he said in a hushed tone, "very pretty. I'm sure we'll get along just fine. I'll recommend you to all my photographer friends."
"I'd appreciate that, Mr. Jarecki," she smiled winsomely. She glanced around. "Where would you like me to pose?"
"There, on that rug I've put down. Here, I'll take your robe."
Mara Casino hesitated slightly. Then she slowly undid the ties, handed the robe to him. Reluctantly, very much a tyro at modeling, she turned, revealed herself to him. Instantly she was sinking down onto the rug.
The fever careened through the man's veins again as his eyes roved over the woman. Her flesh was extremely milky, soft and clear. Her blondeness blended with her flesh, made her a rhapsody of muted pink and gold. Even her nipples were pale, complimented the total picture. His eyes darted, his smile broadened, became a caricature of lechery.
He shivered, swayed slightly where he stood. He could already feel the texture of her back, her breasts. He could already hear the sobs and pleadings when he began to hurt that pristine flesh.
"Mr. Jarecki?" she said, small traces of fear in her gaze. "Are you ready?"
He broke from his trance. "Oh yes, Mara. Forgive me. I was woolgathering. Here, we'll try a few full length shots. That's right. Lay on your back, straighten your legs. Now, move your right knee."
The modeling session was begun.
As the hour went on Jarecki touched Mara more and move in setting up the poses. And while she was jumpy at first, gradually she became used to it, made no protests.
Perhaps if the woman hadn't noticed the man's jittery state, commented on it, things wouldn't have happened as quickly as they did.
"Mr. Jarecki," she smiled. "Are you all right? Your hands are trembling so badly...."
It was then that the man lost touch. An animal snarl breaking from his lips, he pounced at the prone form, pinned her arms with his knee. When she screamed, when she fought, he slapped her viciously. Her cries died as quickly as they'd started. Mara looked up with great, terrified eyes. Blood ran from the corner of her mouth.
"Please, what ... if she gasped, her face chalky. "What are you going to do to me?"
"I'm going to kill you," he hissed. "Unless you do as you're told. Obey, or you'll be sorry."
He straightened, never released the pressure of his knees on her upper arms. Again he fumbled with his clothing. Her face turned to rubber, collapsed into disgust. "No, no!" she pleaded hoarsely. "I can't . ."
"You can," Jarecki taunted. "You'll like this. Once you get started. Ain't you ever tried this before? Don't put on airs for me. You know you have." He reached out, pulled her hair, raised her head. "Be a good girl. I don't want to have to hurt you."
Then the sick thing began. As the woman, addled and stunned, did everything he told her to. And as she continued to attend him, as he rocked her arms sadistically, Jarecki began to giggle and sigh.
"Faster, damn you!" he ordered. Then, screaming, he didn't hold back, he freed himself of these monstrous tensions. He chuckled shrilly as Mara sputtered.
He left her briefly, focused his camera, took several pictures of the sprawled body. Then setting the timer, he came back to her, savored her groans as his knees crushed her arms again. "Get me ready again," he ordered. He had to slap her only once before she fought herself to him again. The psychopath laughed in heathenish glee as the camera clicked, captured the perverted scene.
He went to reset the camera anew. This time he dragged the blonde to her knees, wrenched her head back ruthlessly. Almost eagerly, wanting to shortcut pain, she moved to him.
The camera clicked again.
Shortly, possessed of an intolerable lust rejuvenated by the dedicated woman's efforts, he was pulling her to her feet, dragging her to his bedroom. Where he tied a gag to her mouth, flung her face down on the bed. Before she could scramble away, he produced the omnipresent ropes, bound her wrists, her ankles to the uprights of the brass four-poster.
A moment later the camera, a single spot was moved into the bedroom, he was taking shots of his victim in this trussed condition. Then, satisfied, he killed the light, moved to her. "You ever loved like this, honey?" he snuffled. "You haven't? You should. All girls should."
Naked now, he brutally claimed her. The black evilness threatened to suffocate him as she fought her bonds, screamed through her gag. "Scream, baby," he called. "Scream your damned head off. That's what I like. Scream, Mara, scream."
The scene became even more incredible, more gruesome. As the poor female knew the full fury of his attack As he went crazy, let his hands reach under her, dig savagely at her squashed breasts.
His chuckles became unearthly, terrifying. Purposely he raised his head, turned hers, spat at her face. Then he attacked her even more ruthlessly.
They reached Anza-Borrego at noon of the next day. The temperature was easily in the high nineties, and the roads were virtually deserted. Careless and confident today, Jarecki took little pains to conceal Mara Casino's fettered condition. There was nobody to see. Minutes later he was pushing her before him, forcing her to climb the sandy, shifting, steep hills.
Mara sobbed brokenly and without stop.
Cursing the heat, but taking his time nevertheless, the fiend stopped often to take more close-ups of his victim's agony-wracked face. She was no longer pretty; she had become a hag overnight.
He let her watch him dig her grave, he taunted her throughout. And then, when it was ready, he mocked her, offered Mara her life. Under one condition. She must beg, she must grovel, and humiliate herself before him. And like the others preceding her, the foolish child believed. She begged, she committed any hedonist thing he asked.
In the end it was all the same. He forced her to strip, he raped her once more.
He took a long time with the rope, toyed with her for ten minutes, gave her breath, took it away. Gave it again. Then at last, he chuckled as she gasped her last.
He took pictures of her naked in the grave. Then throwing her clothes in, he shoveled the sand back.
For a long time afterward he stood there, trembling as if caught in the throes of a malaria attack. Finally, calming himself, he started over the hogback in the direction of his car.
A dry wind whistled through the scrub. A half hour later no trace of the newly disturbed patch remained.