Tabloid Trix Chapter 37

At the girls' apartment…

Honey Wheeler had closeted herself in her bedroom just for a while. Everything right now seemed so out of control, so horrible that she needed to get away for a little bit. It was selfish of her, she knew. Her boyfriend, Trixie's brother Mart, her own brother Jim and Trixie's parents all needed comforting.

She couldn't find it in herself to comfort anyone anymore when all she wanted to do was to find some corner, curl up in a little ball and weep until she fell asleep. She didn't want to wake up until she felt her sister-in-law's hands shaking her awake and saw her sunny smile and her voice urging her to get up and have a new adventure.

She never even heard the soft knock on the door. Brian poked his head in, watched her for a moment. She was so still, sitting on her bed like a marble statue; the healing tears not allowed to fall.

His heart constricted in his chest. He knew about her, about her early years, how she never had anyone to turn to so she turned inward. Trixie did so much to bring her out into the open and now there was the possibility well, he wouldn't even think about the possibilities. The only possibility he could entertain was that Trixie would come home soon. For now, he had to put aside his own grief and tend to hers.

"Honey? Is it okay if I come in and talk to you for a while?" The question was rhetorical. Even if she said no there was no way he was going to leave her alone. He settled next to her on the bed, his strong capable arm snaking around her shoulders and pulling her to him.

"Where is she, Brian? She's smart. She's brilliant. Everybody at Locard thinks so. But you and I, we know so. But she never came up against anybody like this. Never by herself. Never somebody who is out to get her, just her. We all had bodyguards," she said bitterly, "All of us rich kids. Trixie was supposed to be safe. Safe!"

"If Paul Trent wasn't already dead, I'd go over there and kill him with my bare hands. It wasn't you or me or lack of bodyguards. It was Trent. He put her in danger. We never asked for this, Honey. It was thrust upon us. You know the kinda wackos that are out there. This guy probably saw Trixie's picture on that rag and decided to stalk her. It could just have easily been you or Diana."

"She's my best friend, Brian. More than my best friend," Honey said brokenly. She leaned into his strong chest and just let go.

As he held her tightly and let her sob against his chest, he laid his head on top of hers and let his own tears fall. Trixie may be Honey's best friend, but she was his sister.

And he was terrified he'd never see her again.

Back at Jim and Trixie's…

Both Jim and Aidan was staring at Jody or Lissa or whatever the hell she was calling herself like she had two heads. It was the reaction she most feared. They thought she was crazy.

"Okay. You're standing here telling us that a man known for his philanthropic activities is a serial killer. And you're his dead sister, returned from the grave. I have one question for you. Do you know the difference between reading fan fiction and reality?" Jim was exasperated. He had really hoped whatever knowledge this woman had would help him find his wife. Instead, she was giving them a tall tale ripped straight out of the latest pot – boiler.

She began to speak very rapidly. "This is just the reaction I would've gotten from Interpol had I told them. You're talking about a man who may have killed dozens of women. How could one man do that across continents, across oceans, through years? I'll tell you how. Money. Money buys silence. Money buys little hidey holes he could stash his victims in. I can tell you this: in every city that a victim was found in, one of my brother's holding companies owned property. It may not have been the property or the area where the victim was found in, but there was some kind of real property there that was owned. Now okay one time, two times it may be coincidence. But every single time? Every single time, every single victim was dressed up to look exactly like Rebecca Jonsson and exactly like your wife." She pointed an accusing finger at Jim. "And if we don't get there, if we don't figure out where he has Trixie stashed, when she doesn't mind meld with Becky or whatever he expects, she's going to end up like the rest of them. Maybe even worse. He's cutting now. Cutting."

The color drained out of Aidan's face. "What do you mean, cutting?" This was just too much for him to wrap his brain around.

Jody sat down, placing her face in her hands and trying to compose herself. When she did begin to speak again, her voice was hoarse, tired and tight. "The last few victims have been cut open. Just like Paul Trent. While they were still alive. He's getting worse. He's not only killing the victims who can't become Becky now, he's seeking out other victims to kill for fun. Or what he considers fun."

What would his detective do? What would Trixie do? Jim stared at the woman, her face ghost white, her eyes beseeching. She'd take a leap of faith, that's what she'd do. That's what she always did, and that's what he was going to do now.

"All right, Lissa or Jody or whatever you want to call yourself. What do we have to do now?" His hands were clenched into fists of rage as he awaited her answer.

5 Beekman…

She was still weak, but she wasn't quite as dizzy as she had been before. Whatever drug he gave her was wearing off. He had taken that awful looking doll and left the room, returning to bring her tray with a bottle of water on it that was open, and some sort of sandwich.

Her lips were dry, really dry, and she was actually dying of thirst. As she looked at the attractive sandwich, her stomach let out a big rumble. She couldn't even remember the last time she ate, because she didn't know how long she had been held captive.

Throwing back the pretty white quilt, she slowly pushed herself into a sitting position. Thank God, the room didn't spin like before. When she sat up, she became aware of another urgent need and parted the filmy curtains that surrounded that fabulous bed.

The room actually was very pretty, although she hated to admit it. Heavy curtains hid the windows and any hope she had of determining what time of day it was. She inched over, as quietly as possible, to the edge of the mattress and placed her stocking feet on the floor. There were several doors in the room and she hoped one would lead to a bathroom.

Offering up a quick prayer, she leaned heavily against the mattress as she attempted to stand. For one sickening second, the whole room revolved around her and then everything righted itself. Keeping one hand on the edge of the mattress she slowly shuffled along the side of the bed until she reached one of the posts.

Wrapping her arms around it, winded as if she had run a mile, she held onto it for a minute and tried to get her bearings. He definitely wasn't in the room, but he was somewhere close. She could hear a sort of echo of his voice; again, there were pauses in the conversation as if he was listening to someone else speak.

Taking a deep breath, she slid on her stocking feet over to the first door. Leaning her head up against it, she could hear his voice a little more clearly here. This was obviously the exit. She grasped the doorknob and gave it a slight turn. Locked. Biting her lip in frustration, holding onto the wall, she went to try the next door.

And really, really wished she hadn't. There was a walk-in closet, obviously climate controlled as the whoosh of cold air chilled her as it made its escape. On one side of the closet was a rod with dozens of replicas of the outfit that she had on. Shoes were stacked neatly underneath.

But it was the shelving in the back that caused the bile to rise in her throat and made her shut her eyes, even if only for a moment.

There they were. More jars than she cared to count and all containing one grisly souvenir.

A pair of human eyeballs, optic nerves fluttering in the clear liquid in the jar like so many butterfly wings, sightlessly floated in each jar.

And the last one was labeled Paul Trent.

Back at the apartment building…

The two detectives were briefing the Locard folks regarding the findings in the alleyway in Alphabet City. While everyone breathed a sigh of relief that Trixie was not found in the car, it ratcheted up the anxiety level.

"I don't think he left us too much to work with, Dr. Breitling. Your cabdriver was pretty drugged out of his mind. About the only thing he could remember was picking up the fare near the Society's brownstone. He said the man wanted to go to a not so nice area of the South Bronx. Gave him a cock and bull story about his company buying the building or something there." Frustration rang through Dhannie's voice.

"Your girl was able to slip off her rings. She secreted them in the seam in the backseat of the taxi. She's good. She had no way of knowing if he was going to dump her laptop and purse. That definitively proves she was in that taxi." Levi couldn't believe it. Here he was with the most exalted members of the Locard Society, and they couldn't give them more than the most basic information.

Anna was as pale as a ghost. It was one thing to work on crimes that already occurred, and to merely assist police departments or others in collating evidence. It was quite another to have a valued friend and coworker as a possible victim. The strain was also showing in both Will's and Stephen's faces.

Will scrubbed at his tired face. He motioned for the two detectives to join them in the apartment that belonged to the men. "I've been so focused on Trixie I need to ask you a couple of questions. The man that was killed. The one that had Trixie's pictures on the wall in his apartment. How was he really killed?"

Dhannie and Lee exchanged a glance. The police had not released everything to the press, a usual practice in homicide cases. That way, they can narrow the search down to the killer that knew the details of the crime and exclude the chronic confessors and other crazies.

"You understand, Dr. Breitling, this part of the investigation has not been released." Will nodded his head in agreement. He was well-versed in police procedure. Dhannie continued, "The public believes that the vic was shot or strangled. He wasn't."

"I'll tell you," Stephen said. "He was cut open while still alive. And as a souvenir, the perpetrator expertly removed his eyeballs."

Dhannie and Lee both widened their eyes. Will went on, taking the lead from Stephen. "I believe we know who took Trixie, and why. The ironic thing was, she's the one who told us."

Jim and Trixie's apartment…

"We need to go tell the detectives and Locard about your theory," Aidan was saying to Jody.

"No. It's going to take too long. If you greeted my explanation with skepticism what do you think they're going to do?I have no doubt my next stop would be Bellevue. We need, we need to look at any acquisitions that my brother's company may have made in Manhattan in the last year to six months. It takes time to get permits for building and remodeling, especially in Manhattan with all the EPA and city statutes. I think he would take her to an empty building where he'd have no chance of being seen."

"Yup, I agree, but don't you think the police can search for that quicker than we can?" The impatience was riding Jim hard. Everything was talk talk talk talk and no action.

"Jim, even if they did believe me, they need to get search warrants and all of that stuff. We need to act and we need to act now." The adrenaline was rushing through Jody's body, had nowhere to go except in the frantic pacing she was doing.

"I think that property purchases are public record." Aidan thought back to when his parents purchased the house in Sleepyside. He remembered being a little embarrassed that their names and the purchase price were published in the Sleepyside Sun. He almost felt a little violated by it.

"Yeah, and you know how current the city is with postings. We'll be lucky if he gets posted by next century." Jim ran a restless hand through his red hair.

"I have an idea," Aidan said. "It's a long shot but I think we should try it." He took a deep breath, expelled it and closed his eyes. "I can try hacking into the mainframe of your brother's company." His cheeks reddened. "I'm majoring in computer science. I do a little hacking on the side for fun. Nothing malicious," he hastened to add. "But I am pretty good at it."

Jim grabbed the Locard computer that Will had left behind. "Here. Put your fingers where your mouth is." He handed it to Aidan. "We're gonna need privacy here." He stepped over to the open door to their apartment and shut it.

No one in the hallway or the other two apartments noticed or heard the snick as Jim locked them in and Aidan's swift fingers began dancing over the keyboard.

5 Beekman…

Trixie stumbled out of the closet, sick to her stomach. He killed Paul Trent. He killed Paul Trent and removed his eyeballs. Why? How did Paul Trent and Hunter Lavigne know each other? Her body reminded her of her other urgent need, and she made her slow way to the third and last door.

It was the bathroom. It was obvious it was in some sort of remodeling stage, but there was a functioning toilet and a small pedestal sink. Trixie gratefully used the facilities, silently thanking whoever invented the toilet. Now her only prayer was that the sink actually functioned also.

For once, the fates were on her side. The sink sputtered and spit, rusty water running out of the battered chrome faucet. She let it run until it came out fairly clear and washed her hands. She let it run a bit more, cupped her hands underneath and drank enough to slake her immediate thirst. She didn't want to drink too much, because she had no idea what he drugged her with, and if eating or drinking would cause her to vomit.

She searched the bathroom looking for a possible weapon, but there was nothing. Nothing unless she wanted to beat him to death with a roll of Angel Soft. She gave a slightly hysterical giggle and realized she had to keep her wits about her. Now was not the time to lose it. There'd be plenty of time for that afterwards.

Trixie felt stronger, and made her way to one of the windows. Pulling back the heavy velvet curtain, she glanced outside. The sun was high in the sky. It should be either morning or midmorning. It was obvious she was too high up to climb down safely. There was that and the fact that each of the windows that she checked had heavy iron bars to prevent her escape.

A quick search of the rest of the room did not reveal any other implements she might be able to fashion into a crude weapon. Listening carefully, hoping he didn't return soon, she took the bottle of water and dumped it into the sink. She rinsed it out several times and hoped she washed out whatever drug he had poured in there. She took the sandwich, tore it into tiny pieces, and placed it in the toilet. She placed a layer of the toilet tissue on top to ensure everything flushed and pulled the handle.

She exited the bathroom and leaned against the outside door, hearing his steps echoing in the empty hallway outside. She ran to the bed, situating herself back on the pillows and placing the half empty bottle of water and empty foam tray that the sandwich was in on the nightstand.

Her heart began a slow, painful thud against her ribs. She was going to be locked in a room with an obviously insane killer who thought some freaky doll talked to him. She had no other weapon to use against him other than her wits.

Now wasn't that a pisser?

Rebecca Jonsson Lavigne was not very happy. This one, this current almost-Becky that he brought to her was the closest one yet. She needed no modifications, but it still wasn't happening like he promised her.

He gently took her from the bed when it appeared almost – Becky was sleeping, down the hall and into a room that was still in some stage of decay. She held her tongue until he settled in an old recliner that sent up a cloud of dust when he sat on it and pulled her into his lap.

"It's not happening. You promised me this time. You promised this would be the last. You promised this one would work. I sat next to her all afternoon and absolutely nothing happened. Other that her snoring." As she spoke, her voice got higher and higher into that screeching whine he hated the most.

For a single, solitary moment, he wondered just what his life would be like if he simply terminated her now.

"She's the best one yet, Becky. You have to have patience. Don't forget, she's very petite and I gave her a large dose of the drug. I'm sure the smaller doses in her food and water will make her more amenable but not so drowsy." Hunter tried to soothe her.

"Have patience! Have patience! You're always telling me to have patience. But you are not the one falling apart. You're not the one that was thrown on some fire like a sacrifice to a pagan God. You're not the one with scars. I used to be beautiful and your family did this to me."

He ran a carefully manicured finger along the good side of her face. Her blue eye stared at him, bright and unblinking. The color of it, the shininess, it never dulled. It always saw straight through to his soul. "You're still beautiful to me, Becky. I promised you would live and you will."

He would see to it. She would live and breathe and he would take such good care of her. She would take such good care of him. Almost – Becky has such pretty, smooth skin. And once Becky made the transition, she would be much easier to handle. He was sure that she would want to join him with his little experiments on the things. He'd make sure she loved the blood as much as he did.

And he supposed in the fullness of time, almost – Becky would bear their child. Yes. A new him. Somebody to carry on the family tradition.

The very thought of it made him aroused.

Back in the boys' apartment…

"How did you know that? How did you know he took Paul Trent's eyes? How did you know the perp cut him?" Unless the dudes from Locard had some kind of pipeline into active investigations, there was no way they could know this.

Will took off his glasses, rubbed his weary eyes and carefully placed his glasses back in their proper place on his face. "There is a serial killer who was crisscrossed the United States, Canada, and I can't tell you how many foreign countries. He…he chooses his victims very carefully. They have all been petite women, all Caucasian. They are often described as being busty. His normal method of operation is to kidnap one of these women, keep her for a period of time and then dispose of her by carbon monoxide poisoning."

"How does that fit in with our perp? Our vic was a male and he certainly wasn't gassed to death. It's a completely different crime," Lee insisted. Were these guys from Locard losing it?

Stephen raised a finger. "There's more. He has several telling signatures to his crimes. His victims were all found with their heads shaved and cheap blonde wigs put on them. They were all dressed in some sort of a strange milkmaid outfit. And their eyes were removed, antemortem, and replaced with doll's eyes."

"Before we got the call that Trixie had been taken, I was up in Canada consulting on a case. It appears that our killer was spending some time in Montréal. He was using an island to dispose of his current victims. Some of the victims had their eyes replaced with doll eyes. Some of the victims were simply, shall we say sliced and diced. It appears that the UNSUB that the FBI refers to as the Dollmaker has changed his modus operandi. He's no longer giving his victims a merciful death. No, he cuts them just as your Paul Trent was. The worst part of it is that they were additional victims, ones where he took the eyes but did not replace them. He's beginning to develop a taste for blood. He is devolving and I am afraid that the bloodlust will become his paramount motivating force. He took Trixie because she looks like some doll from long ago that apparently his psychosis is centered upon. More than likely, he saw her on the cover of that stupid magazine. Once he did that, once he saw her he had to come here to get her. He had to. He had no choice in the matter." Will was tired, so tired.

The four men and one woman stood there silently. They may have had most of the pieces of the puzzle but they still didn't have the most important ones: who was the Dollmaker, and where did he take Trixie?

5 Beekman…

She kept her eyes closed as she felt the breeze when the curtains parted. The pillow next to her was fluffed, and something placed upon it. Probably that damn doll.

It was all she could do to keep still, and keep breathing shallowly. She peeked out of slitted eyes, and watched through the curtains as he walked around the bed and came to her side. The cool breeze wafted over her face again, and he bent down staring at her with those disturbing eyes.

"Sleep my dear. It's the best thing for you right now. When you awaken, the transformation will begin. You're so beautiful." He ran his fingers through her curls. "Your hair is like spun gold. You will be a fitting partner for me, almost – Becky."

His cold fingers traveled along her jaw, caressing. He whispered again, sleep, and she felt his hot breath on her cheek before his lips brushed hers.

It was only when he closed the curtain that she allowed a single tear to slide silently down the side of her face. She didn't want her last memory on Earth to be the touch of his lips on hers.

The scream was building up inside her, much as it did that horrible day so long ago in a rundown little restaurant where she had gone to exchange an ugly looking idol for money to buy a station wagon for crippled children. It was only by sheer force of will that she allowed her mind and not her mouth to cry at the same word she cried out that day. "Jim! Jim! Jim!"

Only this time he wasn't waiting to bust in the door with cops, her brother and Dan. This time, she really was out there on her own.

A/N: Many thanks to my terrific editors, Mylee, Cindy, Jo and Jenny. They catch all bad things (except for Hunter!).

In the next few weeks I am going to be switching over my website to an easier method of posting stories, which is why the Smushsisters are publishing my latest updates. Unfortunately, the links will be kind of wonky until that is complete. I beg your patience while this occurs.

Kisses and hugs to Jo and Jenny. Jo is practically designing all the pages herself and Jenny is providing valuable feedback and assistance while we plot the new look.

Bellevue is a famous facility in Manhattan where are the NYPD bring all the folks that are slightly out of touch with reality.

Reference to the ugly little idol is of course, from The Mystery of the Blinking Eye.