Frank Marsden got his Christmas present early.
He was cruising the north side in his pewter-over-white Toyota Camry one afternoon, two weeks before Christmas, when he spotted a saucy-looking young woman bopping down McKee Avenue. It was a pert twenty-year-old named Jennifer Raymond, who was sashaying along in jeans and a pink-thigh-length down jacket. Raymond had dropped out of high school in the tenth grade because she was pregnant. She later had a child, and currently the two of them were living at home with Jennifer’s mother. They subsided on welfare payments.
Marsden let the Toyota drift to a stop beside Raymond, rolled down the window and asked her a question: “You want to see my peter?”
Raymond was offended. “I’m no prostitute,” she said angrily.
Marsden apologized and asked if she wanted a ride.
“No,” she said, still angry. “I’m only going to my girlfriend’s house.”
“Just around the corner.”
“Why don’t you get in and I’ll take you there. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Jennifer looked at the handsome car. She took another look at the driver, who had changed his tune now that she had told him she wasn’t a hooker. He didn’t look mean. There’s no danger in accepting a ride, she thought.
Marsden took her to her friend’s and said he’d wait for her. Jennifer went in, retrieved a pair of gloves she had forgotten on an earlier visit, and glanced out the window. Marsden and his Toyota were waiting at the curb.
“Look at that car,” she bragged to her friend.
Jennifer was back in a flash.
“Let’s go get something to eat,” Marsden suggested.
“All right,” Jennifer Raymond agreed.
Marsden favored Wendy’s and Jack-in-the-Box, but apparently was anxious to impress this new woman, a dark-skinned, fresh-looking teenager with a bright smile and an adventurous spirit. He took her to a Steak-N-Shake.
While she was devouring a cheeseburger and fries, Marsden asked her if she would go with him the next day to Philadelphia.
“I don’t have anything to wear,” she said.
“We can fix that,” Marsden said, reaching into a stuffed wallet and extracting a fifty dollar bill.
She looked at it suspiciously.
“It’s for some new clothes,” explained Marsden. “When you finish eating we’ll go over to Wal-Mart and you can use this to buy whatever you want.”
She bought two pairs of jeans and two tops. Then Frank Marsden asked her if he could put them on her.
She shrugged. “I guess.”
Marsden took Jennifer to South Douty Street, gave her a wine cooler, and told her to make herself comfortable. While she pulled at the drink he popped a copy of “Lady in the Water” into the DVD player.
The drink did it for Jennifer Raymond. At the restaurant she had taken an allergy pill, and it was just starting to kick in. With the wine cooler, she got so drowsy she couldn’t hold her head up. In a matter of minutes she was sound asleep, sprawled in front of the DVD player.
When she awoke sometime later, she discovered Frank Marsden had undressed her. She was completely nude. Marsden carried her over the mattress in the corner of the basement, put her on the mattress and then had sex with her.
Jennifer got up and reached for her clothes. “Will you please take me to my girlfriend’s house now?” she asked.
In reply, Frank Marsden wrapped an arm around her throat and squeezed. Jennifer began seeing stars.
“Wait a minute,” she cried. “Wait a minute. Quit choking me and I’ll do whatever you want.” He clapped a pair of cuffs on her wrists and pushed her down to the floor.
When she attempted to look up at him, he kicked her or slapped her. It was during this that Jennifer Raymond saw the other women in the basement. She also saw an empty room littered with white plastic bags.
“What’s in those, body parts?” she asked shrilly.
“Of course not!” Marsden snapped.
“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not going to kill you. Trust me. I’m not going to kill you.”
Marsden pointed to the board covering the pit in which Rosemary Spiner and Angela Quirino were cowering.
“I’m going to introduce you to my two friends down here,” he said.
“They’re dead down there, aren’t they?” Raymond screamed. “You’re going to kill us all!”
“Stop saying that,” he said. “I’m not going to kill you.”
He moved over to where the two half-naked women were chained. As Jennifer watched in total amazement, the women followed his directions quietly despite one of them being completely covered in a sickening slime. They were also nude from the waist down.
“I’m Rachel,” said the slimmer, light-colored one, though it was hard to tell because she was covered with an oily substance.
“I’m Angie,” said the other, who seemed a little dim.
Marsden stood by beaming. Like a happy host, he produced a package of sliced ham and some white bread and started to make sandwiches. On the contrary, before anyone could eat, there was a ritual that had to be completed.
Turning to Jennifer, Marsden gave her a quiet command, intent on establishing his authority. “Suck my cock,” he said.
She did.
“Who’s the boss?” Marsden asked.
“You are,” she replied.
He looked at her again. “Did I tell you to stop?”
She complied.
“Suck it, damn it!”
She did as she was ordered.
Then he forced her to have intercourse with him. After that they ate their sandwiches and Marsden left Jennifer Raymond alone with Angela Quirino and Rosemary Spiner.
* * * *
The morning after their trip to the local morgue Deena came down for breakfast and found Arlene waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. “Oh, thank heavens. I thought something was horribly wrong so I let myself in.”
Deena followed her to the kitchen. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“Deena—”
“Yes.”
Arlene looked at Deena. “Can’t you smell it?”
“Smell what?” Deena sniffed, but aside from a variety of candles and incense odors, Deena could smell nothing unusual.
“Come over here.” Arlene was standing at the door to the basement. “Smell it now?” There was urgency in her voice.
Deena pointed her nose upwards and sniffed around in several directions.
“I realize at first it smells, but after a while you get used to it. It is nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Arlene exclaimed. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”
“Horrible.” Deena sniffed again. “It’s only over here. You can’t smell it over the candles and incense.”
“What can I do but live with it?” Deena said as she shrugged but offered no answer to her own question.
“Smells like a something died,” Arlene went on. “You think he’s all right down there?”
“I’m sure he’s fine, Arlene,” Deena answered. She walked over to the sink and gave the spigots a full twist. The water drained freely. Next she went to the little bathroom off the kitchen and flushed the toilet. There was no back-up. Deena walked slowly back to Arlene.
“Well, it’s not the pipes of the septic tank, thank the lord.”
She was staring down at the floor, pawing it with her feet. “You’re right; it is coming from the basement.”
“What?”
“Right under my house.”
The two women looked down at the wide bare planks of the kitchen floor. They were a varnished, wormy chestnut, nailed down with studs and set in with wide spaces between them. It wasn’t the original floor, as that had been replaced along with the majority of the house after the fire, yet it was extremely handsome. Just below it, of course, was the basement.
“Oh, it’s perhaps he hasn’t had a chance to take the trash out lately,” Arlene said.
“Like what, never?” Deena shot back. “Quit being a real estate agent for a moment.”
“I can’t help it, sorry,” said Arlene sheepishly.
“No, this isn’t trash, cats, or even shit,” Deena said. “I know this smell. This is different—it’s horrendous,” she went on. “Isn’t it?”
By then she’d put the whole thing together in her mind, she knew exactly what the source of the odor was, but Deena was determined to minimize it to Arlene.
“But I’ve learned to live with it,” Deena said calmly. “It’s really not that bad.”
“Not that bad?” There was a look of disbelief on Arlene’s face. “It’s absolutely vile. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever smelled. And it’s coming from the basement of the house I rented out to you.”
“And?”
Suddenly a look of alarm crossed Arlene’s face. “You think Mr. Marsden’s all right?”
“I’m sure he’s fine. I heard him go out last night,” Deena responded.
“Well, I suppose I could send him a letter of complaint,” Arlene offered.
“A letter? I suppose that would be okay, for now,” Deena admitted.
“We must do something about this,” Arlene said. “It’s so terrible I don’t honestly know how you are putting up with it. I must apologize. The smell was not here before I showed you the house.”
“Are you saying I’m responsible for this odor?” Deena said incredulously.
“Oh, heaven’s no. I’m only saying that I would have never even shown this house if I’d known about the smell beforehand.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Deena said, yanking Arlene by the hand. “We’ll go out for breakfast this morning.”