Chapter Twenty-One

Suzanne’s story

The worst part was being in the trunk. Suzanne feared suffocation. Paul taped her mouth and tied her hands before locking her into the small, dark place, an insecure womb smelling of gas fumes, where she curled with her knees under her chin. She wanted to gulp air, but the tape across her mouth prevented that and also screaming for help from any late night denizens of Joe’s Lounge. The trunk is not airtight, she reasoned. Breathe evenly. You will be all right. You will. You will. Doesn’t want to kill you, only do obscene things to your body. Maybe, if he weren’t the Philly Slasher, but what if he was? Not a comforting thought. You will be all right. She mentally repeated her not so calming mantra.

They drove on a country road, she could tell. Hell, the roads leaving Port Jefferson were all country roads. As the car banged across potholes, she counted the number of bruises the tire iron she lay on gave her. She tried to use the tool to work off the rope. No good. Suzanne wondered if Paul would use the tire iron later to bash in her skull. No, the Philadelphia Slasher favored knives and blood and dirty words painted in red on the walls.

She wanted air! More air! Sucking in what she could through her nostrils, she began fretting about dulling her reflexes for escape with carbon monoxide and gas fumes. Should she try to kick out the taillights? Most of the cars in the parish had at least one bad light, and no one ever stopped them for it as far as she knew. Wouldn’t a new vehicle have an inside trunk release. Yeah, but where in Hades would it be? She forced herself to be calm again and grope for it. Before she found the latch, the road surface changed to shell popping against the undercarriage of the car. The motor stopped. The trunk opened. Suzanne filled her lungs with the damp night air.

Paul jerked her out. Half pretending to be too dizzy to walk, Suzanne got her bearings quickly. They’d arrived at an old motel, the kind with little cottages in a double row running back into the darkness of the trees. The tourist huts of green stucco were roofed with red Mexican tile. The sign, so old it wasn’t even neon, proclaimed this haven to be the Wonderland Motel. Or maybe, the current clientele preferred dimly lit advertising or no lights at all. The only cabin showing some life belonged to the manager who sat dozing by his window in front of a flickering TV while the Late Show rolled on. No one looked out to see a young woman, bound and gagged, emerging from a trunk.

They didn’t enter the cabin where Paul parked. He steered her into the shadows by the pressure of the knife blade in the middle of her back. They moved toward the lodging farthest from the road. Holding his captive close all the while, Paul worked at a rusty padlock on the door with his knife tip. When the door swung open, Suzanne squeezed her eyes shut, afraid to see what might remain of Cherie Angers, or was her flashy rival already food for the gar and crawfish of Bayou Brun? And so, the smell reached her first—mouse droppings, mildew, urine, and the ripe stench of semen, but not the coppery scent of blood.

Suzanne opened her eyes as Paul shoved her forward into the room. Cherie lay bound hand and foot to the old iron bedstead. Somehow, she still looked seductive even with green eye shadow smeared across her face and her red hair pulled into wild, electric spikes as if someone, Paul, had held her by its roots. Despite the odor of decay, the single naked bulb illuminating the room, the sink in one corner with a faucet dripping rusty water in a steady rhythm, Cherie’s linens were almost tidy, tucked in with hospital corners. A cheap, yellow motel blanket covered her breasts, and the straps of her slick, green nightgown had been aligned in perfect parallels over her shoulders. Cherie Angers’ eyes were closed. Dead, Suzanne thought, arranged for burial.

Paul stripped the tape from his first victim’s swollen red lips. The green eyes snapped open, and the mouth began to work. Suzanne should have known a tough cookie like Cherie Angers would be hard to kill.

“No need to be so rough, lover. Cherie has been waiting for you like a good little girl. I’m plumb wore out from last night and this afternoon,” she drawled. Then, the former Cherry Fontaine noticed Suzanne.

“Now why did you have to bring her here, sugar? Didn’t we have enough fun all by ourselves? Oh, I sure would like to see you without that mask, tiger.”

Obligingly, Paul shed the woolen ski mask. His face burned red, his expression more petulant than psychotic. His nearly military crew cut stood up damp and darkened with sweat.

“Why, you’re a real handsome man to be wearing a mask. I thought maybe there was something wrong with you, covering up like that, sort of the Phantom of the Opera, maybe. But I know for a fact the parts of you that matter work real well.”

Suzanne couldn’t believe this. Cherie Angers worked at seducing her kidnapper—possibly a murderer, a serial killer. The gas fumes must have gotten to her. Of course! She was distracting him, giving Suzanne a chance to escape. She edged toward the door, but with one swipe, Paul yanked her back and slammed her into a scratched and cracked plastic chair ending its days in a corner of the Wonderland Motel.

“Tell her, tell her all we did last night. She thinks I’m dull, not romantic enough for her. This guy George can give her a mansion and antiques and Mardi Gras balls and all that shit. Tell her what she missed last night when she was sleeping in his room. Tell her!”

“Oh lover, let’s show her!” Cherie wiggled her shoulders just enough to displace the yellow blanket and make her nipples pout out under the sheer green nylon.

For a maniac killer, Paul seemed slightly shocked. “John was right,” he marveled. “He said he met women all the time who wanted it rough, who wouldn’t struggle when you tied them up. They liked to be threatened, he said.”

As if demonstrating for Suzanne’s benefit, he gripped Cherie’s short hair with his blunt-tipped fingers and kissed her brutally on the mouth. Another chance for escape! She stood up and was betrayed by the creak of split plastic. Paul slammed Cherie’s head back against the pillow and advanced holding the knife toward her.

“Fuck you, Suzanne. I wasted money on fancy dinners and a hell of a lot on postage. I come down here to prove I can be more exciting than some man with a mansion, and I find out you’re not worth the trouble or the vacation leave time. Now that,” he flicked the blade in Cherie’s direction, “That is a real woman, and you don’t deserve—”

The motel door burst open, splintering through the center where the termites had gnawed at it. George moved quickly on those long legs of his. He throttled her attacker with an arm across the throat and twisted Paul’s knife arm behind his back to the point of snapping. Birdie’s turkey carver dropped to the floor. Linc used the knife to free Cherie Angers from the bed and cut Suzanne’s bonds. Two uniformed deputies with their pistols drawn stood wondering what to do in the doorway. George hadn’t given them time to say “Drop you weapon” before he disarmed Paul. Sheriff Duval came in right behind them. The whole scene was very gangbusters—very exciting—very romantic.

As the deputies took charge of cuffing Paul and reading his rights, Suzanne hugged on to George, never wanting to let go despite his mysterious coating of bayou mud. He didn’t so much as glance at Cherry Fontaine in her peek-a-boo green nightie, though all the other men in the room did, only at her dressed in plain jeans and a shirt. She didn’t say a word—because George neglected to remove the tape from her mouth until he lowered his face for a kiss. Oh well, this was a good moment to do nothing but feel.

Cherie did not agree. She grew very vocal as the youngest of the deputies draped the yellow blanket over her shoulders and asked if she wanted to see a doctor. Ignoring him, Cherie staggered from the bed and followed Sheriff Duval and Paul to the squad car.

“Now don’t you hurt him. No harm done, none at all. Honey, I know a good lawyer. We’ll have you out tomorrow. Now that I’ve found you, I’m not going to lose you, tiger. You hear!”