Jigsaw Takes a Holiday
By Calysta Noir
I came here to forget. To Martinique, I mean; I came to Martinique to forget. The brochure said: beautiful. Serene! Inexpensive. So I booked a flight, tolerated the stewardesses (Is Prozac standard issue to Southeast Air employees?), and landed here. Roi de Mer airport. I'm hugging a blue duffel bag to my chest, looking out the window to the ocean. It's blue--living in New York it's hard to imagine. NO: no thought of New York. I came here to forget.
I suppose I'll have to get a cab now.
The cabs here are bile-green--at least those who sport a uniform color. I hold out my hand to stop one. It jerks to a halt beside me: the driver is smiling. I know he wants to fuck me but I pretend not to notice.
I toss in my bag, crawl across the seat. Looking up to tell the driver where to go, I notice him looking beyond the windshield to a man running toward us. No, no: I will not share this cab. But the driver doesn't listen; he needs a few more fares to feed his kids, best guess. I don't give a damn but he's not about to let them starve.
The man gets in, winded. He looks at me, nodding hello, and tells the driver his destination. The same hotel as me: Fucker. I spit the same at the back of the cabbie's head.
He's carrying a leather jacket (my cab-buddy, not the driver) and I wonder why: it's far too hot. His clothes are khaki: I won't have to kill him for looking touristy. I despise that. The cab moves and he turns to me. "Hello, I'm Mike Logan. And you?" drifts into my head and I look at him.
"Kelly Simms," I lie, and shake his hand. Feeling the flesh I am flooded with old instincts but I curb myself with a mental slap. No: I won't; no: I came to forget.
The man chats at me and I smile and reply and think to myself: you shoulda been an actress, baby, you're toooooooo good at this. I cringe a little when he says he's from New York but my smile never falters. I say I've never been to New York and he suggests I do just that. I imagine what his blood would look like on a linoleum floor and my grin widens measurably.
At the hotel I check in without looking at the desk clerk and head to my room. Mike is right behind me, he's staying down the hall. I wave at him as he saunters past my door. Inside, I lie on the bed and contemplate the spider on the ceiling above. I want to pull its legs off but I know I can't reach, so I giggle hysterically instead. When my fit is over I reach for the phone: ordering lunch and a New York Times. Speaking the city I dig my nails into my arm, but I need this so I don't cancel the order. I hang up and get up to wash the blood off my fingers and patch the wound.
The door is knocking at me, or rather someone is knocking at the door. (Sometimes things confuse me). I open it and expect my order but instead it is the man: Mike. I don't need this but I talk with him anyway. He's going down to the beach for some sun, do I want to come? I tell him I've got something to do now but maybe later. Briefly I wonder why I am accommodating him but soon I realize: I want him. This is new, and through my surprise I almost like it. New York is behind me already.
Mike leaves and the food and paper come. The boy who delivers them is young and naive looking: my favorite kill. But no NO NO I WON'T and I shut the door without tipping. The food looks hot and tasty; perhaps I'll get half of it down before I get nauseated again. I will not read the newspaper until I'm finished. I do not want to vomit.
I surprise myself, downing two-thirds of my meal without feeling sick or frantic. it must be the air around here: I can feel myself changing.
Now I read the paper. I'm not on the front page anymore: I've been demoted to a page-five update. Wait until they find the twelfth one. It's only a matter of time before he starts stinking up that elevator shaft.
I discard the paper, lie back, and think of Mike. He is very attractive, but not my kind of kill. Too old, too world-weary. I might just fuck him, he looks like he might be good at that. I look out the window: He is there, lying on the beach. His shirt is off, lying beside him on the milky sand. A warm sweetness spreads in my abdomen, a feeling I have few memories of. I want Mike badly and head downstairs to seduce him.
My feet push up miniature dunes in the flesh-warm sand as I pad over to Mike. I sit down, exposing a little cleavage and a lot of leg, both of which he appraises graciously. I decide to indulge in some small talk before I invite him to my room.
We float bits of conversation back and forth to each other, and suddenly he shocks me with a volt of confession: He's a cop. A New York cop. Uh-huh, I say. That must be interesting. My organs are boiling with the weight of this new information, and I'm too preoccupied even to congratulate myself on my performance. He proceeds and tells me that he's a homicide detective: I nearly combust. But this explosion is more pleasant--horror is giving way to fascination. Morbid greed and evil humors run through me as I think, smiling:
Now I have to fuck him.
This is life on the edge. I soak up his dark eyes and imagine him at his precinct: hearing the horrors of my handiwork. Calling me a sick motherfucker. Probably assuming I'm a man. And later: closing the door of my hotel room, pushing me down on the bed. Chalking up another easy score. Coming inside the most prolific serial killer in decades.
I string him along a few more minutes, relishing the thought of being ravished by the enemy. Then, playing my finest coquette, I whisper in his ear: "care to come upstairs, detective?"
He grins profusely and stands up, brushing back his thick dark hair with one hand. I am shifting, quivering inside, whimpering anticipation from deep within my gut. I have never felt this way before.
Up at my room, we don't bother with the lights. His hands are already slipping up beneath my dress, hungry and efficient. I kiss him, teasing and tasting, stabbing him with my soft red tongue. Belt, pants, panties and dress escape and rumple to the floor. Mike waltzes me backward to the bed, we fall horizontal in a simultaneous sweep. Penetration is imminent. I clamp my teeth to keep from biting.
He is inside me, and I come almost immediately in a flood of red and essence. Orgasmic rigor mortis takes my body for a moment: I go rigid, then collapse. Mike sees that he doesn't have to work any longer and comes, moaning, deep inside me. My fingernails trace his taut biceps as he collapses on top of me. It's rather obvious: he's got it good. I cannot stop smiling. Sleeping with the enemy, indeed.
It's dark, I'm not sure where I am. Soft light razors through bamboo blinds and I remember. Still waking, I look for Mike. He has left. Good.
My stomach has begun to murmur at me, and I call downstairs for a snack. Despite my previous entertainment I feel restless, wired: violent. I rip out a lock of my hair but it does not help.
A knock at the door breaks my fluttered pacing and I open it to the sweet young delivery boy. His eyes drip over my scanty vestments and I feel the rush of New York hungers filter in. He is spread-eagle and bleeding in my head and I cannot I cannot I cannot stop this.
Calm but cursing I work on his cold flesh. It is still dark in the room though I know several hours have passed. With the heavy-toothed saw I had concealed in my bag I sever arms, legs, head. The innards are easy: with my bare hands I stroke them into mush. Nimble, bloodied fingers reach for the New York times that lies abbandoned by the bed. Page by page I wrap the necessary flesh into tight, clean packages. My throat burns with laughter when I grab the right page:
Tuesday, April 21st--NYC
Victim number eleven of the now-called "jigsaw killer" was
found Sunday in an abandoned tenement in the South Bronx.
Police are still without a suspect in this increasingly bizarre
string of homicides ...
That's all I need to read. Those idiots. I finish my work and stuff the delivery boy in one of the bathroom cabinets. I'll have to dispose of him later. My thoughts, now ordered and serene, return to Mike. Damn, he was good last night. I'll have to go by again when it gets light. I wonder: why is he here? The NYPD must need all the manpower it can get with someone like me running around. But, maybe the stress of tracking a serial murderer got to him, so he took a couple of vacation days. The irony is delicious. I almost want to let him in on it.
After the sun has been up a few hours I look out my window, scouring the beach for Mike. I spot him on the sand and, checking my reflection on the way out, head down again.
This time he has already started toward me when i reach the beach. As we meet, the lust in his eyes gives way to something approaching guilt and he apologizes (rather sincerely) for leaving last night. I quiet him with a kiss and we stroll upstairs without speaking.
Reaching my room, I can sense a difference in him. He undresses me slowly, staring into my eyes. This throws me off, and I look away, stomach tightening. I want sex, not affection. This is too much: the tease of irony is giving way to something heavier. I kiss him hard and he becomes frantic, nearly tearing off the rest of his clothes. I pull him by the arms over to the bed, but before I can tug him on top of me, he stops. "Condoms?" he implores, looking at me. I smirk: he had been too busy for them last night.
"Check the bathroom," I mutter, sitting up on the bed. He dashes into the bathroom; I hear drawers sliding, cabinets opening.
"Mike?" I nearly scream, "why don't we go down and get some I mean there aren't any in there I'm sure there's--"
"What the fuck is this!" he shouts.
I hear newspaper crackling. I stand as he dashes out of the bathroom, hands covered in blood. His eyes are wide, accusatory. I realize he's recognized my M.O.
"You!" he whispers harshly. I backpedal, stuttering, pushing myself backward across the bed. He lunges at me, turning me around and yanking my hands behind my back. His knee is a burning lump of pressure in my back as he hisses a slurred Miranda in my ear.
You are under arrestforthemurdersof Rick Hastings, Pablo Gerrera, John--uh--ah fuck it you have the righttoremainsilent...
I do not resist. He reaches for a scrap of clothing to bind my hands. I would have enjoyed being tied up by him under other circumstances.
Mike finishes, still wild-eyed, and glances around the room, deciding what to do. I laugh at him and he scowls, walking shakily to the phone. I turn on my side to face him, hands behind me: working, twisting. He doesn't know how strong I am.
He picks up the receiver and turns his back to me, dialing. Perfect. My hands free themselves from their makeshift handcuffs and yank the fabric taut between them. Mike is running his hand through his hair as he waits for someone to pick up and--
A flash, and the tightly twisted cotton is on his throat, pulling backwards, crushing his larynx. He gargles a broken protest and thrashes wildly, digging first at his throat and then at my arms, behind. I scream harsh laughter to the ceiling and pull harder on the cloth. The negligible pain of Mike's fight reflex means nothing to me. Gradually, his flailing ceases, and his body goes limp. I hold an another moment to be sure before letting him flop to the floor. Pulling up his eyelids, I smile appreciatively at the dark bloodspots spreading on his corneas. Dead-as-a-fucking-doornail.
Should I cut him up? He's not really my type. I like the boys: young, innocent, untainted. It's somehow sweeter that way, to mash an innocent to bits. Mike looks like he's been around. I study his body. Naked, sturdy, muscular...Hmmm. This might actually be fun.
I can't stop giggling as I mash him into packets. Jigsaw Killer, indeed: whoever coined the term obviously has no concept of my art. His flesh is tougher than I'm accustomed to, but I enjoy the challenge. I stuff him in beside the delivery boy pack my few belongings, and leave, whistling.
Back at the airport, I scan the electronic boards for a new destination. Los Angeles, Houston, Tallahassee. No. Below: Tijuana, Buenos Aires, Rio de Janero. Uh-uh.
I sigh and flick one last glance at the board. Up high, one more place to go: New York, afternoon flight. I lean against the wall, contemplating.
I came here to forget. I guess I failed, but: I sure as hell had fun anyway. Maybe it's time to get back to work. I buy a one-way ticket to JFK.
As the plane takes off, I gaze softly out the window. The ocean is so blue, a sight I won't see much back in New York. Sighing, I almost regret my decision.
But: there's much to look forward to. They should have found the new remains by now. Nineteen-, twenty-year-old boys are refusing to walk alone at night. And: remembrances of Detective Mike Logan. I adored ripping him apart. Perhaps thirty-somethings should start to watch their backs.
I snuggle back in my seat, grinning. I can't wait to get home.