In Alice Springs
by Barry William
“Why didn’t you contact me
about this?” Martin Mitchell demanded, throwing the
newspaper angrily on Sergeant Jones’s desk. “Why did
I have to find out this way?”
Jones flushed, his ruddy face
even redder than usual. He looked away from Martin’s
angry questioning stare towards the other end of the
counter where a constable was typing up notes on the
office word-processor. She had decided, for political
and promotional reasons, that she had not heard this
angry outburst and even if she had, that it had nothing
whatever to do with her. The sergeant turned back to
face his accuser.
“I tried,” was all he said.
“Tried?” Martin’s voice
“You weren’t at the motel.”
“Why didn’t you try the
mobile? You had the number!”
“I did. I couldn’t reach
Martin thought momentarily
about the mobile’s flat battery and the fact that it
had been in the boot of the Volvo. And although there
had been no message left for them at the motel, at least
the part about the mobile phone might be true.
“Then why didn’t you keep
on trying at the motel until we came in, or at the very
least leave a message?”
“Sir,” and Bryan Jones
looked away again from Martin’s hard stare. “I have
a private life outside of the police force. I had
another engagement last night.”
Martin’s voice was now sarcastic as well as
incredulous. “Are you a policeman or what?”
Sergeant Jones flushed again,
an even deeper red this time.
Martin vaguely wondered if the
man’s face could possible get any redder without his
bursting a blood vessel or two.
Jones clenched both his fists
without lifting them from the counter top where they
rested, but when he spoke next his voice was controlled.
Only just, but controlled all the same.
“Yes. I am a policeman, and a
very good one at that. At least, I have always
considered myself to be so until now; but I am not
married to the job and nothing you can say will change
that. That’s why I’m a policeman here in The Alice
and not in one of your big cities down south where I
would be expected to be on the job twenty-four hours a
“When I couldn’t contact
you last night I assumed…”
“You assumed what?”
“I assumed that you were off…who
knew where…investigating the case in your own way; or
perhaps just sight-seeing. For all I knew you could have
been at Ayres Rock, checking out the scenery!”
Martin held the man’s stare.
Did the sergeant know where he had been? More than
likely? How did he know? Were he and his partner being
followed? It did not matter. What mattered was that he
should have been contacted as soon as he had arrived
back at the Mount Nancy Motel. However, he decided,
nothing could be done to change that now.
Sergeant Jones took Martin’s
silence as a sign of acceptance of his explanations. He
turned his large, calloused hands over on the counter
top (the same hands that had only last evening thrilled
and teased the naked body of Janice Porter) and smiled
“So you see,” he concluded;
“I did everything I could to notify you: it just wasn’t
possible, that’s all. One of those things.”
Martin smiled thinly back at
“How about you showing me the
bodies instead?” he suggested. “Maybe all the
evidence hasn’t been destroyed as yet?”
“Perhaps you’d like to look
at this first,” advised Jones, ignoring the last barb
and reaching beneath the counter that separated them. He
straightened, a large brown envelope in one huge paw. He
opened the flap at one end and tipped the container up
so that a black-and-white photograph slid out and lay,
face upwards on the bench. “What do you make of this?”
Martin leaned forward and
studied the glossy print. It was another image of the
car accident, but this time the vehicle was not the
center of attention. This time the photographer had been
intent on capturing a small area of the ground beside
one of the bodies. The picture showed the arm of one of
the victims, the girl by the look of it. It appeared as
if she had tried to write something in the dirt with her
finger as she lay dieing. Martin picked up the
photograph, took his glasses out of his shirt pocket,
and examined the image more closely.
Scrawled in the dirt were one
whole word and one part of a word. Despite the poor
lighting and the graininess of the shot, he could
clearly see that the words were: “WANDA JE…”
A trickle of excitement ran up
the middle of the special investigator’s spine and
found lodgment in the center of his brain. There it gave
birth to a number of memories and sensations that set
the whole of the nerves in his body tingling, and sped
the train of memory in a mad-cap, runaway journey that
he knew could only end in derailment. Martin took a deep
breath, kept his eyes glued to the photograph until he
had himself under control once more and then lifted his
gaze to meet that of the sergeant.
“So what do you think this
means?” he asked, his voice level now that it had lost
its cutting edge, now that he had shut the door to the
Jones was eyeing him warily.
There was something going on behind those pale blue
eyes, but did it have anything to do with the case, or
was it simply something else that the man was hiding?
“I don’t know what it’s
supposed to mean,” the policeman finally ventured. “Unless
the writer was trying to ask us to contact someone for
her.” He kept his gaze leveled at Martin, but his face
was now as pale as a corpse. “Anyway, how many ’Wandas’
are there in the country? Why, I know of one right here
in Alice Springs.” His eyes shifted from Martin’s
face to the photograph and back again.
He’s lying! thought Martin.
He knows something, but he’s either afraid to tell me
It was time to change tack
again, time to let the sergeant think that he was as
confused by this case as was everyone else. Maybe he
could catch the policeman off-guard by changing the
subject for a time.
“Do you know who took this
photo?” he asked, picking up the discarded envelope
and returning the black-and-white print to it. He did
not offer it back to Jones.
“Why, I did, of course,”
lied the other, with conviction. “Whenever there’s
an accident or a murder I am the one that usually
prepares the photographic evidence for the files.” He
smiled. “I even moonlight for the local paper whenever
I get the chance. That was my picture on the front page
today. I even had one of my photographs published in the
Melbourne ’Herald-Sun’ a few years back.”
Now that he thinks I’m not
after his hide, we’re allies again! thought Martin.
Very strange indeed!
“Did you take the photographs
of the first victim, of Eric Stephenson?” he asked.
“Yes. They’re on file in
the back room.”
“May I see them? The
originals, I mean.”
“Of course. Shall I get them
for you now?”
“No. I need to study them at
my leisure. Have the constable collect them and bring
them to the motel. You do remember which motel, don’t
you? It’s room number twenty-one.”
If Jones noted the barbed
reference, he did not acknowledge it.
“Certainly. Only too glad to
help.” He turned towards the woman working on the
word-processor. “Did you hear that, Constable?” he
“Yes, Sergeant,” she
responded, still pretending to be totally immersed in
He can’t do enough for me now
that he thinks I’m off his case, thought Martin while
the sergeant was turned towards the woman.
Jones looked back towards
“Anything else?” he asked
“Yes.” Martin saw the wary
expression return momentarily to Jones’s eyes. “Were
there other photos that went with this one and the one
in the paper? Other photos of the accident?”
Bryan Jones breathed a sigh of
relief and smiled once more.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” he
said. “I took a whole roll. Would you like the
constable to bring those ones with the others to your
“That would be most helpful,
thank you. Now, shall we go and have a look at those
bodies? I suspect the eminent Mr. Porter might be just
about in the middle of his autopsy, don’t you.” And
with that Martin turned on his heel and headed out the
front door, leaving the exceedingly obliging policeman
to follow in his wake as fast as he could.
As predicted, Peter Porter had
the autopsies well under way when Martin and Sergeant
Jones entered the cool room at the rear of the funeral
parlor. In fact, he was just finishing stitching up the
second of the two cadavers, that of the young woman,
when the two emerged from the corridor. He looked
briefly up as the door opened and they entered.
“Come in,” he instructed,
not allowing the arrival of the newcomers to interfere
with his work. “I’ll be with you both in just a few
Martin surveyed the room.
Little had changed since he had been there yesterday,
except that Stephenson’s body was no longer on the
hospital trolley by the far wall. Where was it? he asked
himself. Safely ensconced within one of the drawers,
most likely! The young man’s body was lying in the
spot where the first victim had been yesterday, while
that of the young woman was on the examining table.
Martin led his eyes wander to
the walls, finally coming to rest on the numerous
certificates famed and hanging there. He advanced to
where he could read the fine print and, taking his
glasses from his pocket, pretended to examine the newest
certificate closely. He spoke without turning towards
“Melbourne University?” he
“Yes,” replied Porter
glancing briefly in Martin’s direction.
“You could have been there
while I was still there then?”
“Perhaps. I didn’t
socialize very much. I didn’t get to know many people.”
Martin casually advanced to
where the mortician was working, his eyes noting
everything, missing nothing. They took in the corpse
before him, noted the absolutely flattened torso from
the neck to the groin, the untouched head and legs; and,
unbidden the final image he had had of Ayres Rock
flashed into his mind. He saw it once again as he had
then and he knew what the silhouette of the monolith had
reminded him of: it was not the actual body laid out on
the dissecting table his subconscious had been trying to
remember at all--it was something that he had noticed
across from the body, something he had seen without it
registering on his consciousness.
Bryan Jones had ambled to one
side of the room, pretending interest in the room’s
fittings and equipment, but in reality he had been
watching Martin as a cat might watch its prey.
“Now, gentlemen,” Peter
Porter interrupted the silence that had settled upon the
chamber; “I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“Not at all,” reassured
Martin. “One’s work must always come first.”
Sergeant Jones had left his
post by the far wall and had come to join them in the
center of the room.
“Peter Porter,” Jones said
by way of introduction; “this is Martin Mitchell. He
is here to investigate the murder of Eric Stephenson.”
Martin extended his hand
towards the mortician.
“Glad to make your
acquaintance,” he said.
Peter Porter removed the latex
glove he had been wearing on his right hand and extended
it towards the investigator. Despite his rather
effeminate fingers, he had a firm grip and, for a moment
as their hands made contact, so too did their eyes.
Martin found himself staring into two deep wells of the
palest gray color he had ever seen. Then the contact was
“Can I ask you a personal
question?” Martin asked, knowing he could ask it no
matter what the answer, no matter what Porter thought.
“Of course,” and the
undertaker smiled his warmest smile. Martin noted,
however, that it did not carry all the way to his eyes.
“Why is one with your
background--I see by the degrees and other certificates
on the wall that you are a fully qualified
surgeon---working here as a funeral director, sometimes
doubling as the medical examiner, when you could be
running a very lucrative medical practice in Melbourne,
Peter Porter smiled, and this
time the smile traveled all the way to his gray eyes.
“It’s a long story; but the
gist of it is that, yes I could be doing what you said,
I could be running a lucrative medical practice in
Melbourne or any other capital city, for that matter.
The simple matter of the fact is that I DID have such a
practice once. Then one day I operated on a
nine-year-old boy: I had known he and his family for
many years and it was a simple enough operation--a
run-of-the-mill appendectomy; but the boy died while I
was still inside him--his heart failed they said. I was
exonerated, of course, but I never forgave myself for
the loss of that life. I lost my nerve. The few times
that I attempted to operate following that incident my
hands shook to such an extent that I could not control
them. My skill was useless to me and to everyone else.
“I sold my practice and moved
here where the ghosts of my mortality could not haunt
me, or so I thought. I decided that my skills would be
of more use to the dead than the living; and that seems
to be the case, for when I cut into a cadaver my hands
no longer shake.
“So you find me here, doing
what I am doing; but have no fear, Sir. This may not be
as lucrative a practice as that of a Collins Street
Specialist, but it more than provides for my simple
needs and will see me through until the end of my days.”
He smiled again as he concluded his story, but there was
more than a hint of sorrow in those steel gray eyes. Was
it for some not quite forgotten image from this man’s
past, or was it for all the things that he had lost?
Martin wondered. “Now, what would you like to know
about the two latest victims?” Porter asked, removing
the second glove and disposing of both in the bin that
stood at his feet.
“I would like to know,”
Martin replied, noting that the sergeant had once again
drifted off to one side of the room; “what killed the
two people in the car accident yesterday afternoon?”
“That’s easy,” answered
Porter; “they were both killed by something heavy
being dropped on them and their torsos being flattened.”
“Then they weren’t killed
in the crash?”
“No. It appears that both
were thrown free of the vehicle when it struck the rocky
outcrop; both were, I believe, unconscious but alive
immediately following the car accident.”
“I see,” answered Martin
thoughtfully, eying the two men intently. Why are you
lying to me? he asked himself. What have the two of you
got to gain by this deception? Aloud he continued: “Do
you mind if I examine these two bodies to see if I can
discover anything unusual?”
“Of course not,” asserted
the funeral director. “Where would you like to start?”
“I’ll start with her, if I
may,” responded Martin, indicating the body of the
“Be my guest.” Porter
stepped back from the cadaver that had once been an
alive, young and quite beautiful woman, but which was
now little more than a pile of skin and bones. He moved
over to where Sergeant Jones was standing and the two of
them conversed in low tones all the while watching
Martin from the corners of their eyes.
Martin made a show of carefully
examining the two bodies and, after another thirty
minutes in the room, he took his leave. As he was
departing, he turned to the two men, his hand holding
open the door.
“By the way, Mr. Porter,”
“Yes.” The two men stood up
straighter, eyes vigilant, suspicious, probing.
“I didn’t see your wife
today when I came in. I hope she’s not ill or
“Oh!” murmured the
undertaker, while the policeman visibly relaxed. “She
was not feeling quite herself today. Nothing to worry
about, though. Probably just something she ate last
night. I’m sure she’ll be back on deck tomorrow.”
“That’s nice,” Martin
said, pretending that this information made him feel
relieved. “Well, gentlemen, I’ve got some unfinished
business to do out of town. I guess I’ll catch up with
you two tomorrow. Thanks for all your help.”
As he turned, letting the door
close on the other two men, he wondered, for the first
time on a conscious level, at the purpose of the steel
bracket located on the wall above where they now stood.
He walked out of the funeral parlor and into the bright
sunshine to be greeted by another blast of intense
After Claire Jennings had dropped her partner off at the
police station, she had driven immediately to the
funeral parlor, parked and gone in. The front door was
not locked and, as before, the reception area was in
semi-darkness except for the lamp burning on the
counter. Unlike the last time she had been here,
however, there was no sign of anyone behind the front
desk, no sign of Janice Porter at all.
She called out, but there was
no answer to her summons.
Glancing about her, her eyes
came to rest on the door marked PRIVATE, the door that
led to the back room that doubled as a morgue. She
walked around the end of the counter and crossed to this
door. It opened inwards on silent hinges and she stepped
into the short passageway from which several doors
In the gloomy interior, Claire
had only time to notice that all the doors beyond this
one were closed and then the main door swung shut with a
soft sigh. Unlike the previous time she had traversed
this corridor with Martin and Sergeant Jones, there was
no overhead light operating. Her hand felt for a switch
on the doorframe to either side, but failed to find
anything that even resembled a light switch. As her eyes
became more accustomed to the gloom, however, she
realized that some light was filtering from a skylight,
covered to keep out the heat of the outback sun.
Eventually her eyes adjusted and she realized that there
was sufficient light for her to continue, and this she
She tried each of the four side
doors leading off the passageway, but none budged when
she attempted to open them. All four were locked.
Finally she reached the door at the end of the corridor,
the door to the morgue. Tentatively she reached out and
touched it, tried to turn the handle, but this, too, was
locked. Puzzled she turned around and was about to leave
when a sound from behind the heavy portal caught her
attention. She stood still, listening, trying to
identify the low sound.
For several minutes she
hovered, poised halfway between staying, halfway between
flight. Eventually she realized that the sound she could
hear was that of a surgical saw muffled by the door, a
power saw cutting it sway through stubborn muscle and
Peter Porter was obviously
inside the examination room even now conducting his
post-mortem. Why then was the door to the chamber
locked? And where was his wife, Janice?
Claire tapped on the outside of
the heavy portal, but when there was no response
realized that her rapping knuckles would not have been
heard above the sound of the buzzing saw.
She realized that she had no
other option but to leave and seek somewhere else for
the woman she wished to interview.
With this in mind, Claire
exited the funeral parlor the way she had entered it
and, moments later, stood once more in the bright
sunshine of another very hot day in Alice Springs.
Already she could tell that it was hotter than it had
been the day before.
It was not that far to Parke
Crescent and the house where the Porters lived. She and
Martin had driven there only last evening, but there had
been no sign of life then. It was strange that Janice
Porter was not at work; but then it might be her day
off, or perhaps she had not been feeling well enough for
work today. With these thoughts in mind, Claire eased
the Volvo into the curb directly outside the two-story
She could tell immediately that
there was no one at home.
There was no scientific
explanation for what Claire felt when she stopped
outside the Parke Crescent dwelling, but it was a
feeling that she had had before, and one that she had in
the past learned to trust. Still, she turned off the car’s
ignition, undid her seat belt and opened the door. The
heat outside hit her at once--it was almost as if it had
a life-force of its own that was pressing against her,
forcing her down--and she was grateful for the fact that
the car’s air-conditioning appeared to be coping at
present. She closed the door and walked towards the low
brick fence and gate that led, via a concrete path, to
the front door of the house.
She studied the building as she
went, but there was no life in those blank, staring
windows, no animation in the sun-faded curtains that
hung limply behind the glass. She shivered. Her inner
sense told her that there was death associated with this
house: it also warned her to be careful.
No one answered her ringing of
the doorbell although she could hear the sound tolling
throughout the house. It rang hollowly, forlornly, as if
there was not a stick of furniture inside.
No one came to question her
when she strolled around to the rear of the dwelling.
She tried to peek into a back window on the ground
floor, but the dismal curtains blocked off her view. She
thought a neighbor might hail her over a side fence, but
though she walked completely around the house, no one
seemed interested enough to do so.
She saw nothing out of the
ordinary. She noted nothing out of place. Still the
feeling of death associated with the abode filled her
Claire lit a cigarette, the
more to give herself a reason to spend a few more
minutes on the footpath, but also to calm her inner
self. Finally she returned to her vehicle, ground out
the cigarette stub and climbed back inside. Even in that
short a period of time, the interior of the Volvo had
heated up dramatically, and Claire wasted no time in
starting the engine and the air-conditioning. She sat in
the car outside the house waiting for the interior to
cool down to a more comfortable level. Only when this
had been achieved did she drive off. The coolness of the
vehicle was welcoming after the blistering swelter of
the sun, but already she could tell that the
air-conditioning was losing its battle with the heat.
She drove slowly back to the
motel, deliberately not detouring past the police
station or the funeral parlor. It was important for her
partner to have as much time as he could to see if their
change of tactics would work. As for herself, she had
spent half the morning traipsing around Alice Springs
and had not made one advancement with the case.
Disappointed but not
disheartened, Claire decided to return to their room,
make a couple of phone calls (there was still the
Weather Bureau to check and another call she wished to
make, a hunch she needed to check out), and spend the
remainder of the time once more reviewing those details
of the case she so far possessed. She turned on the
radio, hoping to catch the latest weather report, and
was in time to hear Elvis Presley’s rendition of ’Your
Less than twenty minutes after Martin Mitchell had left
the examination room, Sergeant Bryan Jones took his
leave as well.
He and Peter Porter had been in
deep conversation for some time following the
investigator’s departure and then he had assisted the
funeral director in moving the two new bodies to the
remaining empty cold-storage drawers. This done, Jones
had left to return to his own office and the usual
business of the Alice Springs Police Station.
Once alone again in the
confines of the autopsy room, Peter Porter locked the
main door as he had done earlier in the day, as he had
been wont to do more and more often lately, and strode
to one of the other storage drawers. Tugging this open,
he lifted up the sheet to disclose the pallid features
of his wife, Janice. She appeared to be quite dead. With
a great deal of difficulty, he maneuvered her onto the
trolley and from there to the examination table. He
moved over to the sink and opened one of the cupboard
doors set under the bench. From there he extracted
several rolls of elasticized bandage and returned to the
center of the room.
“Well, my dear,” he
addressed his wife as he methodically commenced to bind
her wrists and ankles to the legs of the table; “how
are we feeling this bright and cheery morning?” And he
laughed as his own question.
The fact that she did not
answer him in any way did not seem to dismay him at all.
Instead he moved to one of the cabinets containing
medical equipment and supplies and extracted a phial and
a syringe. “I don’t suppose you can hear me, let
alone answer me,” he continued, filling the hypodermic
from the small bottle. “Perhaps this will make you
feel a little more communicative.”
As he spoke he approached his
wife’s body and plunged the needle into her upper
right arm, emptying the contents into that part of her
At first it appeared as if
nothing had happened; then, ever so slowly, the color
began to return to her face and her eyes began to blink.
Presently she opened them completely only to stare
directly into the powerful lights mounted above her. She
winced and squeezed her eyes shut tightly as the harsh
glare of the light seared her optic nerves; she
attempted to cry out, but her vocal chords did not seem
to want to work.
“Don’t try to speak just
yet,” he advised her, his hand caressing her cheek as
she slowly allowed her eyes to adjust to the light. “The
sedative I gave you last night will wear off shortly now
that I have administered a massive dose of Narcan.”
Her eyes opened wider and again
she attempted to articulate something, her throat
muscles squirming around like eels in a barrel; but
still no sound issued forth.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he
reassured her. “It’s nothing more than a drug to
counteract the sedative in your system.
“But it’s no use screaming
even when your voice returns,” he addressed her
gently. “Very little sound escapes these walls, and
there is no one here to hear you anyway.
“Besides,” he added,
producing a roll of gray ducting tape from somewhere out
of her sight; “you know I object strongly to too much
noise. Attempt to scream, attempt to make too much
commotion and I shall be forced to place this over your
mouth. And who knows? I might just be so careless as to
cover your nostrils as well, and then how would you
breathe, eh?” He laughed again at his own little joke.
Janice ceased in her endeavors
to speak, but her eyes remained wide, staring,
“That’s better,” he said,
smiling and patting her cheek. “Now, would you like to
know how you came to be in this mess?”
She did not attempt to answer
verbally, but here eyes clearly indicated that she was
anxious to discover what was going on.
“Excellent!” he beamed. “I
guess the best place to start is with what happened
yesterday. Anything that came before then is pretty much
old history, but I’ll fill you in where it’s
“Late yesterday afternoon
there was an accident a few kilometers out of town on
the Stuart Highway: a couple of Victorians on a
honeymoon tour of the area ran off the road and ploughed
into the only rocky outcrop near the road for…well,
let’s not worry about that for now, shall we? Both
were thrown from the car and killed instantly--their
bodies are here right now as a matter of fact--and it
was I who came upon the accident as I returned from the
airport yesterday evening.
“What has all this to do with
you, I see you ask? Everything and nothing!
“Of course I stopped and
checked to see whether I could be of any assistance; but
I was too late. Then I did that which ultimately led to
you being here in the examination room in the situation
you now find yourself in.”
He could see by the puzzled
expression in her eyes that she still had not made the
“Have patience, my dear,”
he advised her; “and all shall be revealed to you.
“You see, the first person
that I rang was our local police sergeant. Nothing
wicked or insidious about that. Just about what any
ordinary citizen would have done under the
circumstances. Anyway, when I rang the police station,
the constable on duty informed me that the estimable
Sergeant Jones had not been in all that afternoon, that
he was out investigating some case or other. Thinking
nothing unusual about this, I thanked her and then rang
for the ambulance and a tow truck.”
He looked into her brown eyes,
noted the beginnings of understanding being registered
there, and continued.
“Now this is where it gets
interesting; this is where it begins to directly affect
“Thinking that you might be
concerned by my delayed return home, I rang the funeral
parlor--here in fact--on the off-chance that you might
still be at work. When you weren’t I was not
concerned, guessing that you had simply closed up early
for the day and gone home. I tried there next, but could
not raise you. Still, I suspected nothing, reasoning
that you had dropped in to see a friend or
something--you really could not have been sure at what
time I would arrive home.”
He moved out of her line of
vision for a moment and she could hear him fiddling with
something on the far side of the room; but he continued
with his discourse while he was thus engaged. She tensed
her arms and legs against the bonds binding her to the
table, but could not make them budge. She swallowed
several times to relieve the dryness of her throat and
returned her attention to his words.
“While I awaited the arrival
of the ambulance and the tow-trucks, I grabbed my camera
from the car and shot a whole roll of film of the
accident and the victims, using the headlights of my car
and others once the daylight began to fail. One of my
photographs was featured on the front page of the local
newspaper today--but I guess you haven’t had a chance
to see that yet,” and he laughed again. “It was only
after the ambos and the others had arrived that I began
to become more concerned about the whereabouts of Bryan.
Alice Springs is not such a big place that he should not
have already heard about the accident, especially if he
was in his police vehicle with its two-way radio. So
where was he? I asked myself.
“On an impulse I decided to
leave the others to the business of clearing up the
wreckage and other mess (they didn’t need me for
anything further by then, anyway) and drive into town to
attempt to discover what had happened to our
hard-working sergeant of police. Little did I suspect
what I would ultimately discover.
“I first went to the police
station where I dropped off my roll of film for the
sergeant--that was another thing that I found strange:
he was always the one who took the photographs of
accidents and its victims: prided himself on his work in
that field, he did--and was again informed that he was
out on a case. When I asked further, I was informed
about the two special agents who had arrived and who
were staying at the Mount Nancy. Perhaps the sergeant
was with them.
“After leaving the police
station and the funeral parlor, I drove out to his
house, but his neighbor said that she had not seen him
since he had left for work that morning; but that there
was nothing unusual about that. I then began to drive
around town, attempting to spot his four-wheel drive at
one of the various hangouts he is wont to frequent. I
was having no luck until I remembered the two
investigators and wondered if they had detained the
sergeant. Besides I wanted to find out for myself what
they were up to--you know how important it is for us to
know exactly what strangers are doing in our town!
“Anyway, I drove out to their
motel, figuring that they would most likely be there;
but, of course, they weren’t. You DO remember the
Mount Nancy Motel, dear; it’s on the way out of town,
along the…but, of course you do. You probably know it
quite intimately, in fact. The two investigators weren’t
there, as it turned out, but I did notice something
He turned from whatever he was
doing at the side of the room and came to stand beside
her once more.
“Do you know what I saw in
that car park, my dear? What it was that caused you to
be in this predicament?”
“Yes,” she whispered, her
voice husky, almost seductive.
“Ah, I see you have regained
control of your vocal chords. Remember, my dear, my
threat about the ducting tape. It was not an idle one.
Where was I? Ah, yes.
“What I saw was your car,
your little red Mazda 323 with the number plate that
reads SEXY69. And right beside it was, of course, the
Landcruiser with the word POLICE emblazoned along its
sides. No wonder I couldn’t get hold of him. No wonder
I couldn’t contact you. You must have thought that I
was pretty bloody stupid!” He spat these last words
out, little drops of spittle spattering her face, making
She shook her head and was
about to speak when he silenced her once again, this
time by placing his soft, slender hand firmly over her
“No,” he grunted. “Don’t
answer that or you might find yourself in even bigger
trouble…” and he giggled like a high school girl.
“Though I doubt it,” he added softy, as an aside
that she barely caught. “…than you are now.” Again
he giggled. “I don’t care what you thought. I don’t
care how long this THING with Bryan Jones has been going
on. I don’t care to hear your petty excuses as to why
you have cheated on me the way you have done. I don’t
care how many others there have been. I don’t want to
know because ultimately it makes absolutely no
difference to either you or me.” He was fairly
shouting now, but in a high-pitched voice that matched
the tone of his giggles, a voice she had never heard him
He paused, seemingly to gather
“Last night,” he continued
in a much calmer, more natural voice; “while you slept
I drugged you and brought you here so that we could have
this little discussion, so that I could tell you what my
plans for you are.”
He paused again, collecting his
thoughts, and for a moment she hoped that he might be
going to set her free. But when he continued, she could
see that this was a false hope. Both his words and his
actions terrified her even more than she was already.
“’Snuff’ films,” he
continued while taking off his lab coat; “are very
very big in Asia. You didn’t know that, did you? I
guess I have you to thank for me discovering that little
tidbit of information.” Next he removed his tie and
unbuttoned his shirt. “So I have decided to make a lot
of money by making a ’snuff’ film of my own with you
as the star attraction. You DID tell me once that you
always wanted to be a big movie star, didn’t you?
Well, this is your big chance for a starring role; your
only chance!” He discarded his shirt and bent down.
She could guess that he was untying his shoelaces and
removing his shoes and socks. “And, of course, I stand
to make quite a considerable sum of money from the sale
of this movie overseas. Maybe, if it all turns out, I
might even make a few more; but, alas, you won’t be
able to star in them. Never mind, I’m sure I can
always find other, willing, budding young starlets.”
Now he was undoing his belt and the top of his trousers.
She watched fascinated as he
undid his zip and pushed his trousers down over his
hips. The thought crossed her mind that he might just be
angry, that he was only trying to scare her, to repay
her for cheating on him as she had done. His very next
words drove that thought totally from her mind.
“I have set up a video camera
on the far side of the room and it has one-hundred and
twenty minutes of tape in it,” he announced, tugging
off his satin boxer shorts. (They were black with the
slogan ’UMPIRES RULE OK’ emblazoned on them in white
letters.) “That should be long enough for what I
She could not see the camera as
it was out of her line of vision, but she knew he had
one. He had purchased it duty-free while in Asia.
“But before I take my
ultimate revenge on you for cheating on ME, I am going
to have some fun.” He walked around to the end of the
table until he stood naked between her spread-eagled
legs. He commenced to climb up onto the tabletop. In a
matter of moments he was on his knees between her legs
and she could see that he was sporting a huge erection.
Oh my God! she thought. The
bastard’s going to rape me!
She felt the touch of his hand
on her belly, then the mound between her legs, his
fingers trailing through her pubic hair. Then she felt
his finger probe her slit and attempt to force its way
Oh my God! she thought again. He’s going to rape me
and he’s making a video of it for all the world to
“Just as I expected,” he
grunted. “I’m primed and ready for a little bit of
action. You’re frigid and dry. Typical!” He stood up
on the table so that he towered over her, his erection
pointing at the ceiling.
She could not remember seeing
him this excited about her for a long time.
“Well, I know how to remedy
that--another little something I picked up in Kuala
Lumpur,” he boasted; and, taking his penis in his
hand, he clumsily directed a stream of urine downward
between her legs and all over the lips of her vagina.
“Ugh!” she grunted in
disgust, writhing against the constriction of her bonds
as she attempted unsuccessfully to move her body out
from under the line of the yellow stream. She
desperately wanted to scream, to order him to leave her
alone, to set her free, but his threat was still fresh
and vivid in her mind.
Having relieved himself on her,
he knelt down again and his fingers once more probed her
pussy, only this time they easily found their way inside
“Much better!” he grunted
and, positioning his erection at a point where it just
touched her lips, he rammed it home inside her.