I had to set my trap in Iowa and set myself into that trap, as bait.

---

 
This is a response to one of Melanie Ezell's Challenges,
number 24: Build Your Own Body.

You Are The Target

3. The Perfect Couple

 

I didn't go very far when I stole the dead man's Escalade. I drove away from the bar, and took a very wide berth of it, but my large circuit brought me back toward the entrance. I parked two blocks away, in front of a much wilder and more infamous bar. I left the keys in the ignition and the rear passenger window down.

Hopefully someone else would take it for a ride and lose my trail, at least a little bit.

Then, I did something that might have been a little daring, but I figured that no one but Maria and Rita Mozzicone knew what I looked like. I clip-clopped very deliberately into the parking lot, directly in front of my bar's front door, and got into my car. My heart was pounding so hard, I could feel it in my whole body, and my knees were so wobbly I'm amazed they didn't give way.

No one stopped me. I checked my makeup in the rear-view, and touched up my lipstick, before I started the car and drove back to my apartment.

The thing was, if I'd abandoned my car, it would have served as an enormous signpost pointing directly to me. Not only for the bad guys — who'd now be looking for me — but also for the police.

When I locked my car in my garage and stood in the silent night, it hit me: I killed a man. I did it. I decided to do it, and I did it. Who knows what life that man had, what family, what friends? Yes, he was a criminal — or at least, Rita told me that he was — but he could not have been alone on Earth. I hadn't just ended *his* life. I'd damaged the lives of others, the people who'd miss him and mourn him, forever.

True, another part of me admitted, but remember what Rita told you: dead or alive. If you hadn't taken him out, you'd be at his mercy now. He could be the one killing you.

I shook myself hard and climbed the stairs to my apartment. Whatever the case, whatever the truth of it, I had to get moving. There was no way of knowing how much time I had before Maria showed up in Iowa. I had to have my trap ready. The business of what I done in that alley would follow me for the rest of my life. I didn't have time to examine it now.
 

---

 

... but I did have time later that night and into the morning.

It was a long train ride to Ames. The fact that I was alone with my heavy conscience made it longer.

Outside the window, in the moonless night, there was nothing to see, nothing to distract me. Only shadows. Boxy shadows of buildings, black silhouettes of trees, black fences... dark mirroring puddles shone like hematite, reflecting the dirty gray clouds in the monochrome sky.

Bad judgment, I admitted to myself. Bad choices.

When Dr. Veerecks handed me that key and admitted that what he asked me to do was illegal, I should have handed the key back and refused to participate.

And then, once I understood the situation, I never should have taken Maria's money. It was greed, pure and simple. I could pretend that it was the euphoric's fault, but it wasn't true. I knew right from wrong, and I chose to do wrong. If I hadn't touched the money, Maria wouldn't care at all about me. But once I took it, I painted a big red bull's eye on my back.

... and Dr. Veerecks would still be alive. If I hadn't taken the key, he wouldn't have gotten his money. He would have waited for Maria to contact him. Well, wait — that wouldn't have worked. She'd probably have killed him anyway, then come looking for me so she could use the key.

... or maybe not. She might have just called Rita and gotten the money. But Rita wouldn't have known who she was, so... the result would probably be more violence.

So, I made two crappy choices. But there were no good ones. Maria would still be coming after me, no matter what. This way, at least I had resources, and I knew she was coming.

The idea I had in the bar was a good one, I thought, and it could have resolved everything. But not any more. The death of that man complicated everything. I thought my situation was full of peril before, but now it had more than doubled. Now not only was Maria after me, but potentially her husband's criminal associates, and even the police. If I was caught, the FBI would have to assume that I was Maria Mozzicone, and I'm sure they'd be angry about having put me (I mean Maria) on Witness Protection.

My strongest impulse, while in the grip of that guilt and fear, was to give the money back to Maria. I hadn't spent that much. It was surprisingly hard to spend, especially when you don't want to attract attention. Would that solve my problem? If I gave it back, she'd still want to kill me, wouldn't she?

In the end, I had to cling to my idea. At the very least, it would take Maria out of circulation. I had to set my trap in Iowa and set myself into that trap, as bait.

I shifted in my seat, trying to get comfortable. I couldn't sleep. I fought the urge to look around the car. No one could have followed me. I had to be careful to not seem guilty or afraid. I closed my eyes and tried to calm my feelings. Beneath and all around me, containing me, the train barreled on, never stopping or slowing, rocking me rhythmically, and in spite of all my complex fears and volatile feelings, I fell sound asleep.
 

---

 

When I got off the train, I took a hotel room. I was dying to sleep, to shower, to eat. But as funky and tired and hungry as I felt, I started calling real estate agents. Three of them didn't understand what I was asking. A fourth tried to talk me into something I didn't want. The fifth listened, asked a few questions, and told me, "I don't know any properties like that, just off the top of my head, but if you'll give me a half an hour, I'm sure I can find some possibilities."

I thanked her, and while I waited for her call, I took a shower and changed.

The two of us drove all over Ames. It took several hours to visit all the properties she'd found. None of them were close to what I was looking for. But the agent paid attention, and knowing that I had cash ready to plunk down, she promised to show me better prospects tomorrow.

In the evening, I searched the internet for safes.

The next day, the agent had a longer list, and the first few were promising, but not quite right. The sixth one was perfect. It was a one-story concrete building, sitting on the line between an industrial zone and a residential one. The building had served, at different times, as a store and a workshop. There was a lot of space, a small loading dock on the side, and a big room in the back that could serve as my bedroom. The bathroom was equipped with a shower.

I was prepared to buy, but the owner decided he didn't want to sell. I ended up signing a two-year lease, which worked out much better, because it let me move in two days later.

That same day, I had a huge safe installed. At least, it appeared huge. It was ten feet wide, with two massively heavy doors that were nearly six feet high. Inside it was only two feet deep. But that was plenty for me.

As soon as the workmen left, even before dusting or cleaning or finding a bed, I got to work. I had a trap to build.

It took 18 hours, during which I didn't sleep or bathe. I ate trail mix and energy bars. I drank water and coffee. The hard part was getting the switch right. The harder part was figuring out how to test it.

When I was finally done, I curled up on a dirty dropcloth and slept for twelve hours.

The first thing I did when I woke up was to test the trap again, to be sure I wasn't dreaming that I'd finished. It looked good. Now I could relax -- or at least, not work. Now, all I had to do was wait.

I took a shower. I had some good hot food delivered. Then I ordered up the rest of my life.

I needed to stay close to my trap. I wasn't going to leave the building until Maria came for me.

There was a good grocery store that accepted phone orders and delivered the food. I got TV, phone, and internet hookups. Then I went on an ordering spree, and soon my loading dock was filling up with deliveries and packages: packages containing a vacuum cleaner, exercise machines, bed linens, curtains, and paint; deliveries of all the ordinary household appliances, a bed, cabinets, and other furniture.

My days were spent assembling things, arranging things, fixing things. I had to order tools, nails, screws. I got so busy creating my little world that I — quite surprisingly — often forgot about Maria completely.

Often, I wanted to call Rita. My mind kept going back to our exchange in the alley behind the bar: Her astonishment that I cared about her, the way she clutched at me, and how desperate she was for affection. And, above all, the way she cried, This is the best night of my life! It was heartbreaking. Had she never known a parent's love?

Unfortunately, if I called Rita, it wouldn't just bring Maria. It would bring the whole posse of criminals who by now would want my hide whether I was Maria or not.
 

---

 

After two weeks, time began to drag. I sunbathed on the roof. I worked out with dance videos. I adopted a kitten who wandered mewing onto the loading dock. I started leaving the TV on most of the time, for company. When I wasn't watching anything in particular, I'd turn to the news stations. Might as well stay informed.

One amazingly sunny day, I was doing two things at once: searching for my kitten (she was under a cabinet) and dancing around the place, barefoot, wearing a pair of shorts and a cutoff t-shirt. I was enjoying the sun, the sensation of the newly-cleaned floors, calling to my kitty, laughing and happy.

In the midst of my sunny joyful searching dance, a photo of Maria's face filled the TV screen.

I learned that Maria hadn't come for me because Maria had been busy. Very busy. She'd was down in Florida, where she'd lived with her husband. What was she doing there? She was killing people. Specifically, she was killing her late husband's business associates.

She must have known about the price on her head; maybe she wanted to bring the fight to them. Or maybe she had old grudges. Or maybe she was just plain crazy. In any case, she was still sloppy, not hiding her tracks. She left fingerprints, spittle, hair, footprints. Above all, the style of the killings was always the same: brutal, vicious, violent. The police couldn't help but connect the new murders with Dr. Veerecks' death, and then with Maria's husband's murder.

That Maria, and only Maria, had killed her husband, was certain. But the modus operandi was identical. At the very least, it suggested a connection between this man and Maria.

Surprisingly, there was no mention of Build-A-Body. I was sure that Build-A-Body had provided the picture I'd seen on TV. I was glad for the omission, though: the Build-A-Body connection would inevitably lead investigators to believe that the murderer was Arlo Henson.

And even though there was no one left on earth who knew me as Arlo, I still wouldn't want to see my old name dragged through the mud. My old life would be dissected, analyzed under a microscope, and in the end I'd forever be labeled as a cold-blooded, vicious killer.

Luckily, it didn't happen.

I took advantage of Maria's activity to get outside for a bit. I know this sounds grisly, but she was killing at least one person a day for over a week. Each time I heard of a new murder in Florida, I'd run out of the house. I went clothes shopping, I visited the art museum and the Reiman Gardens. I went to day spas. I walked around and struck up conversations with strangers. After being cooped up, I needed people.

And then one day, there was no murder. I stayed home. The weather changed in an appropriate direction: it turned overcast and dark.

I tested my trap. It was still working fine.
 

---

 

The next morning when I woke, he was sitting in a chair next to my bed, smiling.

"I was watching you sleep," he said. "You look amazing."

I made an odd noise in response. I was paralyzed with fear.

"Let me look at you," he said. He grasped the bedclothes and whisked them to the end of the bed, leaving me uncovered. I was lying on my side, wearing a white babydoll.

He ran his hand up my leg. "Oh, how smooth!" he sighed.

The touch of his hand on my leg was electric. His skin on my skin... there was some kind of palpable chemistry there.

"You feel it too, don't you," he said. It wasn't a question, but I nodded mutely.

"I did a good job on your body," Maria said. "Just like you did a good job on mine." He punctuated the mine with an open-handed slap on his chest. It made a resounding, solid thunk. He was a big, strong man.

"Mmm, I did a real good job on you," Maria went on, taking one of my butt cheeks in her hand. She was exploring, examining, and she liked what she found.

The strange and horrible thing about it — something I never expected and absolutely did not want — was that Maria was turning me on. In a big way. That body... here, now... was hot. Really hot. I wanted him, and he obviously wanted me.

"When I broke in here," Maria told me, "I was going to slap you awake. I was going to toss you around, just for fun. And after I got my money, I was going to kill you." I blinked and tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. Very dry.

"Then I saw you," he went on, "and I couldn't believe it. You are so absolutely... delectible... edible... I just want to eat you up! And do you know why?"

"Wh-why?" I managed to croak.

"We are the perfect couple. Think about it. You are my ideal woman, and I am your ideal man."

I looked at the swelling in his pants, and I knew how long that cock was going to be. I'd ordered it, I asked for it, and now there it was, pointing directly at me.

"Did you have a hard time finding me?" I asked.

Maria scoffed. "Are you kidding? You were stupid to tell Rita where you were going. As soon as she told me, I called a PI. It took him all of two hours to get your address." He shrugged.

"Where is Rita now? Is she okay?"

He scowled. "She's in the car, the damn ungrateful bitch."

"In the car?"

"Yes, safe and warm in the trunk." When Maria saw my horrified expression, he made a dismissive gesture. "It's not the first time she's had to ride back there."

He stood, and his face turned ugly. His right arm began to tense, and I braced myself for the blow I was sure was coming. "Do you know what that idiot said?" I shook my head. "When I told her that *I* was her mother... she said..." he curled his fingers into a fist "... she told me that she wanted you as her mother."

I watched him closely, wondering if I could manage to duck that fist. It would be hard, since I was lying down.

Then Maria looked at me. Her gaze traveled up my legs, over my hips, to my breasts and finally my face, and the anger dropped from his expression. His fist opened and relaxed. He leaned forward and in a hoarse whisper told me to take my clothes off.

He devoured me with his eyes, and said, "You know what? Maybe you can be her mother. If you play your cards right. If you're a good girl and do exactly as you're told. The three of us can go..." He stopped. His chest heaved. He grunted, "I can't wait any more" and pulled his clothes off, dropping them on the floor.

The image of him standing there, naked, full of desire, is forever stamped on my memory.
 

---

 

I wish I could say I resisted, but I didn't. I wanted it bad. I wish I could say that he wasn't good, that he didn't last, and that I didn't feel a thing — but none of that was true, either.

God help me.

To tell the unvarnished truth, I had the most profound, earthshaking sexual experience of my life. I never had sex like that before, and I doubt I ever will again. It reduced me to a quivering, silent, empty, spent, wordless, utterly satisfied pile of warm flesh and mussed hair. There was nothing more to wish for. He fell asleep on top of me, his weight trapping me completely. One of my legs and half my hips were pinned beneath him. I tried to push him off or wriggle my way out, but there was no room to move and nothing left in me. The series of orgasms had blown out everything I had in me.

I closed my eyes for a moment, just to gather my strength, and the next thing I knew, a fully clothed Maria was shaking me awake.

It wasn't gentle or tender, but she didn't hurt me.

"Now to business," he said. "I want my money."

"Oh, yes!" I replied, pushing myself up with my elbows. "Let me open the safe for you!"

He laughed. "Oh, no. No, no. Did you think it would be that easy? You'll pull out a gun and shoot me. No thanks. *I* will open the safe."

He grabbed my upper arm and led me, still naked, into the room with the safe. After pushing me into the corner farthest from the door, he asked me the combination, and punched the numbers one by one into the keypad. When he hit the last digit, the lock beeped three times and a green LED glowed.

Maria chuckled and grasped the handles. As soon as he pushed down on them, thousands of volts of electricity shot into him. His body vibrated in a horrible, jolting dance, until at last he fell and let go of the handles.

There was no money in the safe. There were batteries, wires and electrical equipment. The safe was effectly a huge taser, and nothing more. I ran from the room to grab a broom handle and a notecard. I used the wooden stick to reach inside the safe, hit the off button, and break some connections. Then I tucked the card inside the neck of his shirt.

"I don't know whether you can hear me," I told him, "but this is where your money is. I'm sorry I took it. I was wrong to do that. But I didn't spend much. I hope you can forgive me and leave me alone."

The sex was great, though, I added mentally, as I jumped into some clothes and fled the building.

I hesitated at Maria's car. I couldn't hear a thing, but I believed her when she told me that Rita was inside. I wanted to let her out or at least knock on the trunk and tell her things were going to be okay.

But I didn't. It had to be this way. I ran off. I called a cab and left her there.
 

---

 

That night on the TV news in my hotel room I watched the FBI take Maria into custody. An anonymous tip (mine, of course) had led the lawmen to the storage facility.

Of course, there was no money there. Just as there was none in my safe.

The television news also reported that Maria had a woman locked in the trunk of her car. The woman wasn't identified, but they said she was unhurt (at least physically).

They never reported the connection between the murderer and Build-A-Body, and the names Maria Mozzicone and Arlo Henson were never mentioned either. Thank goodness.
 

---

 

Once the story fell out of the news, I gave Rita a call. She didn't answer. I tried repeatedly. I left messages, but she never responded. So I went to Florida and looked her up.

She was miserable. She was overjoyed to see me, but she was still miserable. The lifetime of abuse from her mother, capped by the kidnapping, had broken her spirit. I could see that she was sliding into depression. If she went far enough into that abyss, she would never come out.

I moved in with her, and she liked that. She called me Mom and clung to me like a child. Sometimes she cried when I left her, even if I was only in the next room.

Normally, children don't choose their parents, and parents don't choose their children. In our case, I felt — and Rita obviously felt — that somehow I was her mother, and she was my daughter.

I don't mean I became her mother. I just was her mother. I don't know how to explain it, but something happened in that alley over that dead man's body.

Once I had that thought — or realization — it brought an idea into my head. The more I thought about it, the more compelling it became. Finally, I called Build-A-Body to ask if it was possible. After four calls and two consultations, they agreed that it was possible. It took a few more calls for them to agree to actually do it.

I very gingerly sketched the idea out to Rita, and she lit up like a Christmas tree. She was pounced on the idea, with tears of joy. She wanted it more than anything.

So we went, with a pile of Maria's money, back to Build-A-Body.

It took months of preparation. I had to get shots to prepare my body. Rita had to undergo countless psychological and legal sessions to be sure she understood the procedure, the cost, the risk.

They told her over and over, "We can't guarantee that your memory or personality will survive intact. Your current life might seem like a dream, or a previous incarnation. But the most likely result is that you won't remember it at all."

"Sounds like heaven," Rita would always reply, "sign me up."

At last they did. They prepared a tiny little body, using her DNA and mine, and transferred her consciousness, her memories, her personality, into a three-month-old embryo, which they implanted in my womb.

That was five months ago. She's been living under my heart ever since, and I can't wait for her to be born into her new life.

I'm going to name her Renata.

[ This is the conclusion of a three-part story. ]

© 2012 by Kaleigh Way