A QUAINTE PLACE
"Time to wake up, my dear Mary," Jay purred, slapping her cheek.
Kelly gasped and fluttered her eyes, then closed them again. She felt the sharp sting, but her eyes wouldn't stay open. I'm so tired, she thought as she drifted back to sleep.
"Oh no you don't, my lovely bitch, I've waited too long for this. Wake up!" he shouted, then looked at his watch. It was five minutes past midnight. With another stinging slap to her cheek, he growled, "I'll-not-have-you-sleep-through-this! I want you awake to feel every single cut, hear your screams. I want you to suffer for those years of my life you destroyed! Wake up!"
Kelly heard the voice coming from a distance and growing louder as her mind began to wake from its drugged state. Her mouth was dry and she tried to swallow. Her arms were heavy and she couldn't lift them. Kelly struggled to open her eyes, trying to remember what happened.
The last she remembered was driving along with Jay toward Braxton, looking at the scenery through her window. She had felt a sharp painful jab to her left arm, and as she turned to look at Jay, he became blurred in her vision before everything went black.
"Oohh" she groaned when another sharp stinging slap hit her cheek. She tried to reach up with her hand to block whatever was causing it, and her arm wouldn't move, it was obstructed by something. Forcing her eyes open, she looked at her arms. They were bound at the wrist by a strap.
Alarm cleared the remnants of the drug from her brain.
"Jay, this isn't funny!" Kelly said shakily. "Untie me. Wh . . . what happened? Where am I?"
"Why, we are preparing for your television appearance and your exclusive with the serial killer," he answered, then leaned down at the foot of the bed and turned a handle. The narrow bed began to move, raising her to a sitting position.
Kelly vaguely acknowledged that this must be a hospital bed as she felt the movement. Then, horrified, from this new position, she could see not only her wrists bound but also her ankles, and she was completely naked.
"Jay! Let me up! Give me my clothes!" she cried, struggling against the confinement of the straps.
"I can't do that," he said, walking over to the video camera braced on a tripod and adjusting the angle.
"It would spoil the effect . . . now, that's perfect," he said, stepping away from the camera.
Kelly frantically looked around her. She was in some sort of parlor in an old house. The only furniture she could see was a couch, chair, and desk across the room near a pair of French doors. When she glanced at the table next to the bed, her eyes widened in fear at the assortment of surgical instruments lined on a tray.
"Wh . . . what are you going to do?" she stammered.
"Shouldn't your first question be . . . Why? Where's your reporter's curiosity?" he smirked.
"Why? Why are you doing this?" she whispered.
"Speak up! After all, this will be your final interview, Ms. Daye. Let the audience hear your last words."
"You're doing this for television?" she cried, glancing at the camera. Kelly made a useless attempt at pushing against the straps in order to cover herself with her arms.
"Yes. After I'm safely away, Blaney will get a copy, and of course, your favorite detective. We wouldn't want to leave him with an unsolved crime, now would we?
"I would love to see his face when he gets this!" he laughed. "Looking for a killer that was right under his nose all the time."
He's enjoying this, she thought frantically. I've got to stall. Stall for time, and think what to do!
"Are you saying that you really are the serial killer? All those horrible murders, Jay? Why? How could you do it?" Kelly asked, stunned at the thought that this man she had worked with for months could possibly have committed those gruesome crimes. Then she glanced at the table again and shuddered.
"Yes, those are for you, Mary Kelly. And as for the why, I believe you know why."
"No . . . no! No, I don't know why . . . I mean, why pick me? Jay, I thought we were friends!"
"Remember when you saw that picture of the killer? Didn't he look familiar to you?" he asked.
"No. Should he? What's that got to do with you? Obviously if you're the one . . . the killer, then they are looking for the wrong man," Kelly said, frowning, trying to remember what that man looked like. The picture wasn't any good.
"Oliver Galensky . . . doesn't that name mean anything to you?" he growled.
"N..no. I'm sorry, Jay, I mean, yes, that was the man's name in the picture, but I don't think I've seen him before. Does he . . . I mean, is he a relative of yours?" she said soothingly, as she watched his eyes flash with anger. Oh Lord, please help me, help me to keep him calm and talking. Please help me out of this, she prayed.
"No, not a relative, Mary Kelly, and my name is not Jay. It's Oliver Galensky."
"You? That man in that picture is you?" Kelly exclaimed.
"Yes, me. I've changed . . . after years of hard work . . . thanks to you," he snarled.
"I..I don't understand," she stammered.
"You don't remember telling your high school about seeing those porno pictures at the photographer's studio? You don't remember causing my arrest? Ruining my reputation? Sending me to prison!" His voice rose with each sentence until the last came out in a shout.
"I remember telling the school, and . . . and there was a woman, a city official, came to talk to me, but, after . . . I didn't know the rest of what happened," she whispered, shaking her head, the tears rolled down her cheeks.
"You didn't know?" he exclaimed, in disbelief.
"My . . . my grandmother had died, and we left town, within days after I went to that studio. I was gone all summer, then in the fall I started college in another state. If my parents knew, they didn't tell me. I...I guess they thought I was too young to get involved. There was never anything said to me about it," Kelly said quietly.
There was a deadly silence, then he began to laugh hysterically.
"I spent eight years, eight-goddamn-years hating you for destroying my life, and you go nonchalantly about your own life without a thought at the damage you caused.
"How ironic! I've spent all this time planning my revenge, and you had no idea why," he said shaking his head.
"Wha . . . what kind of revenge?" she asked, and immediately regretted the question, thinking of the other victims.
"I'm glad you asked, Mary Kelly, because that's part of my revenge. The pleasure of describing what's in store for you," he grinned, then crossed the room to retrieve a folder lying on the desk.
While his attention was focused on the folder, Kelly worked at loosening the straps at her wrists. She tossed her head back and forth, bringing her hair forward to fall over her shoulders and arms.
He walked back to her, then held a photocopy of an old 19th century news clipping in front of her face.
"This will give you an idea. Amazing is it not? That you should have the perfect name."
She squinted to read the print. It was about Jack the Ripper in London. Kelly vaguely remembered reading about the infamous killer, and skimmed the text until she noted that his last victim was named Mary Kelly. Then she quickly scanned the other names and realized they were all the same as the recent victims.
"They're the same! All of them!" she said astonished.
"Wasn't that clever of me? I arranged a perfect revenge for you and the others, leaving the police in total confusion," he chuckled, dropping the clipping on her lap.
"The others? They were part of your revenge on me?" Kelly asked, slipping one of her wrists under the paper, then leaning over, pretending to read the article again, while her hair helped cover her slow maneuvering of the strap.
"That bitching prosecutor, and my girlfriend who ratted on me. They were two of the victims. The other two were part of the deception," he said, turning to the table and fingering one of the knives.
"Did they have the same names too? The names of the original Jack the Ripper victims?"
"No, I faked their I.D.'s, but the other two really had the same names. Remarkable, isn't it? It took some effort, but I managed to have them all come to me in Quainte," he boasted.
"And now you," he smiled. "It was actually your name that inspired me, along with a remark from my fellow cellmate."
"Did you do exactly as he had to the others?" she whispered, her fear rising as she read what had happened to that Mary Kelly. The article stated: The body of his last victim, Mary Kelly, an attractive blue-eyed young woman of twenty-five, was stripped, carved up, with parts of her body (breasts, heart, and kidneys) arranged in a symmetrical pattern on a table by the bed.
"Close enough, but for you . . . I will meticulously follow his example. To . . . the . . . very . . . last . . . grisly . . . detail!" he said, holding the surgical knife up, admiring the sharpness as it reflected the prism of light on the steel.
"Oh please, please don't do this," she begged. "You can't possibly get away with it . . . someone will be looking for me when we didn't show up for the meeting," she said, frantically thinking of a way to delay him.
"There was no meeting," he laughed. "That was the only way to get you out of your house."
"You won't get away with this, they know I went with you!" Kelly said desperately. Her hand beneath the paper struggled against the strap. Feeling it ease a little, she worked harder to pull her hand free.
"My dear Mary, they're not looking for you, everyone thinks you're home nursing your injury, so we're perfectly safe. Besides if they were, they only know the cameraman that works for a television station.
"That's not me . . . , don't you remember? By tomorrow, I will be someone else entirely and you will be . . . nothing. Damn, I've waited a long time for this moment," he chuckled, and with the knife moved to the foot of the bed.
Kelly panicked and screamed.
"That's it! Scream!" he taunted. "Scream. No one will hear you. There's not a soul within miles of this place. Besides, it will add to the effect of my video."
Kelly kept her eye on the knife as she yanked and twisted her wrist until finally she felt it begin to slide loose.
"I'll begin here, with your feet, and work my way up. That will prolong your torture," he said. He touched the knife lightly to the side of her foot and dragged it upward toward her ankle. The thin slice immediately began trickling blood in its wake as he moved up her foot.
"Stop! Noooooo!" She screamed at the stinging pain as the air hit the open wound. She panicked as he leaned over dragging the knife around the ankle and up the side of her leg.
Jerking her hand free, she reached out to push his arm away. At her sudden movement he lifted his head just as her hand lashed across his face, hitting him in the eye.
"You bitch!" he growled, as he reached for his eye where his contact lens had been jarred loose.
Kelly tried to scoot out of his way as he came around the side of the bed to lunge at her with the knife, but the bound ankles hindered her movement. In desperation, she made a vain attempt to kick at him with her feet.
"No you don't!" he laughed, sidestepping her. "You want to play games. I'll show you how to play."
Kelly tensed as she watched him shift the knife back and forth in swift little movements. He lunged at her upper arm with a quick jab. She gasped at the pain and fell back on the bed.
"See my dear Mary, you cannot win. This game is for keeps," he purred, and raised the knife again for a blow to her mid-section.
Kelly closed her eyes to block out his smiling face and wait for the impact. Instead she heard the shatter of glass, a thunderous explosion and the crash of the bedside table.
Her eyes flew open and widened in surprise. He was sprawled across the table against the wall, his head a bloody mass of flesh.
Kelly looked across the room at the French doors, and breathed a sigh of relief as Sam rushed to her.
"Just take it easy, we'll get you out of here and to the hospital," he said gently, taking his handkerchief and tying it on her arm above the wound to stop the bleeding.
Sam tried to block the others from seeing her naked body, as the room quickly filled with law enforcement, not only Quainte, but Braxton's and the Sheriff's Department.
Charlie noticed her clothes on a chair. He quickly picked up the coat and handed it to Sam. Sam laid the coat over Kelly and then held her, whispering soothing words to calm her trembling while they waited for the medics.
Noticing the red light on the video camera, Sam motioned to Charlie. Nodding, Charlie turned around and casually flipped the switch. He removed the tape and slipped it into his pocket while the others were surrounding the killer on the floor.
Picking up Kelly's discarded blouse, Charlie tore it into strips and handed them to Sam. Sam used part of the strips to pad the cuts on Kelly's foot and leg, then the rest he used to replace the blood-soaked handkerchief wrapped around her arm. He was getting nervous at how ashen she looked from the lost of blood. The thought of losing her made Sam realize his true feelings for her and vowed the first chance he had he would find a way to tell her, hoping Kelly might feel the same for him. A flash of light from a camera made Sam glanced up in anger.
"Get that bastard out of here!" Sam yelled.
The reporter was quickly removed from the room, still shouting questions over his shoulder at the officers.
"At least it wasn't one from Channel 12," Charlie remarked.
"I'd like to be there when that Blaney hears about this! His own employee turns out to be the serial killer, and almost murders his star reporter," Ray answered.
"Yeah, but you can bet he'll want to make sure his station does the exclusive. I wouldn't put it past him to somehow turn this to his advantage," Carl said scornfully.
"Where in the hell is that ambulance?" Sam muttered anxiously, feeling Kelly's pulse. She had passed out from the ordeal, and every minute counted.
"I can hear the siren now," Charlie answered. "Take it easy, Sam,
she's gonna make it."
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