Chapter Text
February 2012
Ka-click.
“Don't move.”
The man froze, key poised at the lock.
Norman Bundy's head turned ever so slightly. The suburban neighborhood was bathed in evening darkness, and he dared not make sudden movements. “...wh-who are you? What do you want?”
From the shadows directly behind him, Norman heard the voice of a young woman. “Norman Bundy, you are a serial murderer. This is a fact stated for the record. It doesn't mean accusation or arrest is what's happening here.”
“Are you with the police?” Norman said, sweat rolling down his face.
“No,” she said, drawing back the hammer on her gun. “I am not with the police. I am here to administer the Good Death.”
“Y-you're going to kill me?” Norman said, mouth going dry. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” she said. “Your killing spree must come to an end. So I will end it. Sorry.”
A tension flooded out of the man's chest. “Heh...heh heh...thank god...ha ha!” Norman smiled. “...don't be sorry. I'm actually kind of glad.” He raised his hands up – holding only the ring of keys – and looked over his shoulder. “So...do we do it here?”
By the marginal light of the street lamps, he saw the young woman standing behind him. She wore a designer trench coat – maroon like old blood – and a matching crimson hat. Were the hat's brim larger around, she could pass for Carman Sandiego. She even had a head of long black hair to complete the effect. But her skin was darker – like coffee with just a dollop of cream to make it a warm brown. It made her facial features blend in with the darkness.
Except when she smiled – as she did now. Then her bone-white teeth stood out.
“We can go inside, if you want,” she said. “It is rather chilly out tonight. I'd hate for you to be uncomfortable. My name is Aradia, by the way.”
Norman placed two mugs on the coffee table.
Aradia Megido sat across from him, gun poised calmly in one hand. She smiled. Though the room itself had no light on, the glare from the kitchen illuminated her face, showing off Indian features. “Thank you, Mister Bundy,” she said.
The man smiled nervously, scratching the back of his head. He had a head of modestly long blond hair, which looked as if it had been slicked back earlier in the day, but now strayed here and there. He loosened the tie around his neck, letting it flop against his pressed green shirt. The purple-white jacket he wore was already draped on the back of the couch, which he lowered himself onto. “I'm glad you let me make it, Ms. Megido.”
“Frankly, Mr. Bundy, I don't take any pleasure in my job,” she said, “...despite what my grin may lead you to believe.” She laughed covering her mouth. “Sorry. I wanted to talk first, is all.” She glanced briefly over towards the hallway leading from the front door. “I saw the pictures on the way in. You have a lovely family.”
Norman looked sideways, smiling. “Yes...my wife, Rebecca,” he said, “and my daughter, Jessie. I'm lucky to have...had them.” He turned to face forward, looking down at the table. “I see you've already seen those pictures.”
“Mmm hmm,” Aradia said, leaning back over from the table, holding a framed photograph. It depicted a happy trio – Norman of course, as well a black woman, and a little girl with her mother's complexion and her father's strong nose. “You don't have to worry about them, Mr. Bundy. My sources told me they would be safely at your mother-in-law's. So they won't need to be involved. I chose tonight specifically for that.” She leaned over and set the frame down gently. “That...” she said, leaning back with the mug of coffee in her free hand, “and because those same sources tell me that the woman tied up in your shed is still alive. For the moment.”
The man sighed, nodding. He, too, took up his cup and took a sip. “...how did you find me? You said you had sources?”
Aradia shrugged, taking a sip. “There's no way to say this without sounding weird,” she said, “so I'll just say it. The spirits of your previous victims found me. And they've had free run of your house for quite some time.”
Norman blinked, staring at the woman. “Are...are you serious?”
“Perfectly,” Aradia said, staring back at him. A chill ran up Norman's spine when their eyes met. The woman's mouth crept from a mere smile to a toothy grin. “As an aside...” She took a sip from her cup. “...you make delicious coffee.”
The man blinked, then looked away, taking his own sip. “I don't know,” he said, shaking his head and frowning. “...eh, probably just stress.”
The two sat in silence for a minute, nursing their drinks.
Norman eyed the cup in the woman's hand, then looked down at the gun. “...so, when do we do this?” he said.
“That depends on you,” Aradia said, crossing her legs. The woman held her gun – a polished revolver – with absolute control. It wavered not, nor did Aradia falter in her movements. A practiced hand, not a stranger to killing, despite looking barely legal. “I had a few questions. Like...how all of this got started. When did you decide to become a killer, Mr. Bundy?”
He inhaled. Exhaled. Shut his eyes. “It was eight years ago, when Jessie was on the way.” Norman swirled his cup around nervously. “I was feeling...frustrated, on account of Rebecca being pregnant. Sexaully frustrated, I mean.”
“I gathered,” Aradia said, nodding.
“It was also the stress from work,” Norman said, “putting in extra hours in anticipation for the baby. I needed...time away. Release. Fuck, it sounds awful when I say it like that...”
“I've heard worse,” Aradia said. “I wish I hadn't, but them's the breaks.”
Norman nodded. Was this woman a professional serial killer killer? Heavy. He shook his head. “Anyway, I got myself a hooker,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Things went wrong, then escalated. I picked up a lamp and...took out my frustrations. Took the body out in the car and dumped it in the river.” He looked the woman across from him in the eyes.
It felt like Aradia stared into him. Into his soul.
He swallowed, looking away. “...no...no, that's a lie,” Norman said. “It wasn't just a spur of the moment thing. I'd been feeling like killing someone for years. It started little...a niggling urge. The thoughts stuck with me all throughout me dating Rebecca...the wedding, honeymoon...it's only when I was caving in that woman's skull that I hit the nail on the head. Figured out what it was I really wanted.” Norman looked up, staring hard at the woman. “I lost count of my kills after fourteen.”
Aradia whistled. “Even I wasn't estimating that many,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “I was sure it was eight. Ten at best. You've been busy. And thorough, in ditching the bodies.” She looked around the room. “...why do it? Just the urge, or is there some deeper meaning?”
Norman snorted, laughing softly, and sadly, to himself. “I could try to go off on some rant,” he said, “claiming that all the whores must die, and cleanse the world of filth...or something. Or try to connect them to my mother, or unresolved marital issues. But...none of that is true.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I have no agenda. I know that no amount of dead prostitutes will make the world better. I had a great relationship with my mother. And Rebecca and I have only had minor arguments over the years.
“No...no, there is no better reason,” Norman said, “no deeper meaning. No just cause I've got in my head. It's the only thing I can hold up as why I'm better than all those other psychos: I'm not delusional.” He sighed. “But...that's not really very impressive, now is it? That I'm self-aware of how much of an awful person I am?”
“Not really,” Aradia said, frowning. She looked sideways and scowled. “It definitely doesn't impress those women.” Her face softened. “Have you considered stopping?”
“I actually did stop,” the man said, nodding. “For about eight months, I didn't kill anyone. I spent time with my family...watched the game with the guys at work. Spent the summer gardening. I was ready to go clean.”
He shook his head. “I broke around Christmas,” Norman said. “I couldn't take it anymore. The urge just kept building and building. I wanted to change, I really did. But I didn't have the willpower to see it through. So I took another victim...and then another. I've been forcing myself to go a few months between each victim, simply to keep myself from falling any further. But it's been hard.”
“Addiction is a powerful thing,” Aradia said, nodding. “That's why you were thankful I came, isn't it? You can't stop yourself anymore, so you need someone else to do it for you?”
The man's face fell into his shaking hand, and he sobbed into his fingers. “Y-yeah...” He looked up, fiddling with his tie. “I kept wanting to stop, but didn't have the will. Then I tried making my murders...sloppier. But I didn't have the nerve. I feared the police catching me as much as I hated myself. Plus...what would happen to my family if I went to prison?”
Aradia shrugged. “Your wife would try to get the best attorneys in the state to defend you,” she said, “then languish for months while you waited for your day in court. Then you'd either be exonerated for lack of evidence – at which case you return home but probably lose your job anyway – or you go to prison. Either way, your wife is left without your income. All the while, she remains confident of your innocence. Convinced that her beloved husband would never do what they say you did. Your daughter would be inconsolable if you went to jail, leading to any number of outcomes, sooner or later in her life. It's not pretty.” Aradia looked into her mug, then downed the last swallow of coffee.
“Exactly,” Norman said, frowning. He looked at the woman hard. “Which is why I'm not going to prison. Or dying.”
“If you're talking about the poison in my coffee,” Aradia said, leaning forward and setting the cup down, “you're out of luck. I neutralized it the moment you handed me the cup.”
Norman Bundy blinked. “What?”
“Sorry, I kind of took the wind out of your sails, there,” she said. “But see, I've already died once.” She frowned. “It wasn't pleasant.” Aradia smiled. “But I got better. Now, I am very much alive. And I intend to stay that way.”
Norman gaped for a moment, eyes wide. Then, he scowled. “You fucking...” He dug his hand into the couch cushions, and pulled out a knife. “...whore!” He threw it point-first at the woman.
Aradia didn't even flinch, raising her free hand and catching the knife by the handle. It stopped mere centimeters from her face. “Honestly, Mr. Bundy,” she said, lowering the knife and extending the pistol towards him. “You're just making this more difficult.”
The man moved to rise, but the woman audibly drew back the hammer of the revolver. Norman, seeing the unwavering grip directed at him, deflated. His shoulders sagged, and he sank back into the couch. His head fell back, and he shut his eyes. “Fuck...dammit...” he muttered, looking up at the ceiling. “Sorry...I had to try, didn't I?”
“A valiant effort, Mr. Bundy,” she said, smiling slightly. “It was an impressive throw.”
“I never had a chance, did I?”
“If I could have been convinced you could change, you could have,” Aradia said, relaxing. Her face softened, as did her voice. “The Good Death is not given lightly. I hoped you could be changed. That you'd return to the straight and narrow. But...” She frowned. “From what I've seen...with the poisoned coffee, the hidden knife...the look in your eyes. And your story, of course...I see a man who has already resigned himself to remaining on a bloody path. You could change...but you don't want to. Even if I wracked your body with disease, inflicted curses of misfortune on you, or even beat you to within an inch of your life. You wouldn't stop. Because you can't.” She leaned forward, frowning sadly. “You are sick, Mr. Bundy. And it won't get better. Not until you are stopped.”
Norman nodded, sipped his coffee, and hunched over his knees. “...why not tell to police?” he said. “I certainly don't want to go. But why not give me to the criminal justice system? Why get personally involved?”
“Besides the fact that you may get off innocent?” Aradia said. “You've been thorough in disposing of your victims. If the police raided your home right now, at best they'd get you on kidnapping. And even that's dubious, if that woman didn't see your face. If you wore a mask when you took her.” She waved her hand, shaking her head. “But if you were convicted, you still die.”
“But that won't be for...what? Thirty years?” Norman said. “Inmates sit on death row for so long, it might just as well be a prison sentence. Might not even make it to my execution, for all I know.”
“That's just it, though,” Aradia said, sitting up. “You wouldn't. Mr. Bundy, I have reason to believe you wouldn't survive to the end of the year, if you went to prison.”
“Why?” Norman said, cocking an eyebrow.
“You haven't just been killing sex workers, Mr. Bundy,” Aradia said, tapping her knee with one finger. “One of your victims wasn't a regular street hooker. She was a woman by the name of Emily Ducott, rebellious daughter of Senator William Ducott. I know for a fact you picked her up, mistaking her for a sex worker.”
A bead of sweat formed on Norman's brow. “...what?” He blinked. “I did?”
Aradia slipped a hand into the flaps of her trench coat, removing a photograph. She leaned over and placed it on the glass coffee table. With a flick of her finger, it slid across, landing in front of the man.
Norman Bundy leaned down and took up the photo.
He distinctly recognized the face in the photo. Remembered where he buried her acid-cleaned bones.
“Shit...” Norman said, eyes going wide.
“The police found Emily's remains in...well, you know where,” Aradia said, shrugging. “Identified her by her dental records. Senator Ducott didn't take the news well. He still hasn't gotten over it.” She looked down at the pistol in her hand, sliding the cylinder out and counting the rounds. With a flick of her wrist, she popped the cylinder back in, pointing back at the man. “He doesn't know who you are now, Mr. Bundy. But he has a lot of grief, and a lot of rage. As well...as a lot of money and connections.
“Mr. Bundy, I have seen the future,” Aradia said, digging through her coat pocket. She removed it, holding her hand palm up. It displayed a set of dice, made from bone. “I have gazed upon the paths stretching out before you. It is not pretty. If you are brought before a judge, your fate becomes a lot more clear. You either return home exonerated, or go to prison. In either case, you have been identified as the serial killer in cases going back eight years. Regardless of whether the idea of Emily's death is connected to you during those proceedings, Senator Ducott will latch onto you as his daughter's killer.
“If you are sent home, Ducott will send men to murder you in your home. Possibly getting your family caught in the crossfire.” Aradia tossed the dice in the air, catching them. “If you are convicted...or possibly during the days when you are in court, Ducott will use his connections – some of which are in the underworld – to put a hit out on you. Huge cash rewards, and/or strings pulled within the prison system, to anyone who can kill you.” She pocketed the dice, frowning. “In which case, you will be surrounded by hardened criminals, with a vested interest in killing you.
“Like I said. If you are arrested and brought before a judge, you will not survive the end of the year.”
Norman swallowed, his heart racing. “What if I ran away?”
Aradia cocked the gun. “Yeah, that's not an acceptable answer, Mr. Bundy,” she said, grimacing. “You leave, and you can just start killing somewhere else. That's not an option for me either.” She shrugged. “Sorry, Mr. Bundy, but I'm afraid the best option for everyone is if you die, right here, right now. When I take that poor woman in the shed to safety, there will be little direct evidence pointing to your activities for your wife to discover. Ergo, your family won't even know what you've been doing. I am more than willing to extend them the kindness of ignorance, so long as the murders stop.”
The man sank deeper in her seat, sighing. “...thank you...” he said, shutting his eyes. “...but if I'm dead, my wife will still be left without a husband, and my daughter without her father.”
“Unfortunate,” Aradia said, nodding. “But in the long run, it's better this way. They'll mourn your death, but won't have to go through the emotional...and financial...turmoil of your arrest. The death will come, and go, and despite how much it hurts in the immediate term, they will heal in time. We humans always underestimate the power of Time, in that sense. Senator Ducott, as well, will either move beyond his irrational grief, or latch onto some other serial killer who gets arrested. I'm still debating sending him a notice informing him that his daughter's killer has met justice.” She shrugged again, looking away.
Feeling profoundly tired, Norman drained the last of his coffee. “Ugh...” he sighed, “...so...are you going to kill me now?” His eyelids felt so heavy.
“Huh?” Aradia said, looking at him. “Oh, don't worry about that. I killed you a couple minutes ago.”
“...what?” Norman said, blinking.
“You didn't think you were the only one who could do the poison trick, did you?” she said, smirking. She gestured to the coffee table. “I spiked your cup with an overdose of sleep pills, when you were distracted looking towards the photos by the front door.”
The man looked down at the mug hanging from his fingers. Studied the drops of brown liquid pooling at the bottom.
Oh...that was why he felt so tired.
Aradia rose to her feet, brushing herself off. Returning the revolver to its holster inside her coat, she stretched. “Believe me, it's best this way,” Aradia said. “You'll go more peacefully now, and I won't have to get blood all over your wife's nice floor or wallpaper. Or the upholstery. Crisis averted.”
Norman collapsed back onto the couch cushions, going limp. “...shit...that's it, then?” He yawned.
“That's it,” Aradia said, walking around the table and couch. As she moved, she picked up the framed picture of Norman's family. Standing behind Norman, Aradia handed him the frame. “I'm sorry that this will have to stand in for your family. But if they were here, they'd do foolish things, like try to stop me or call the police...you know how it is.”
The man nodded, lifting the picture to his face. He blinked rapidly, his eyes bleary. The eyelids felt like lead. “Rebecca...Jessie...”
“They are both beautiful,” Aradia said softly.
“They're perfect...” Norman yawned, head lolling back. “They deserved better than me...” He glanced up, eyes half-lidded. “Will you stay with me? I...I don't want to be alone.”
“Of course, Mr. Bundy,” Aradia said, nodding. She placed her hands on Norman's shoulders. “I'll be right here.”
Norman's eyes roved around the room. In blurry vision, he could barely make out the fixtures of his family's quaint suburban home. The television with the pony stickers stuck on the side. The painting of the Italian countryside hanging on the wall. The gnome figurines sitting on the bookshelf. The fine, satin drapes. They bled together, like runny water colors.
His fingers tingled, and his heart beat fast. But...his muscles felt sluggish. A sudden wave of fear swept through him, but...he felt so tired. Visions of the women he'd taken flashed before his eyes, and he frowned. “Do they...really speak to you?” Norman said, in a breathy mutter. “The girls?”
“They do,” Aradia said, squeezing his shoulder. “I'll have a talk with them later. But don't worry about that.” She smiled down at him. “Just think of it as...going to sleep. Which is literally what you'll do, until your heart stops. Then, hopefully, you'll wake up in your next life, and you'll remember just the slightest bit of what we talked about.”
“My...next life...?” Norman said, shutting his eyes.
Aradia nodded. “You've languished in this one, Mr. Bundy,” she said, softly. “I'm giving you a chance to start over. Maybe then, you'll be stronger. For now, I shave away some of your Karma.”
The man nodded, head resting on the soft cushions. In one hand, he gripped the mug, drug-laden coffee drying at the bottom. In the other hand, he gripped the framed picture of his family.
In a moment, he muttered, “...sing me a lullaby...please...mommy...?”
The woman smiled. “Of course, Norman,” Aradia said.
And she sang. It was a thick song, a lullaby in Punjabi. It was off-key in some places, for Aradia was not an experienced singer. She chanted mantras better. But it was a genuine song, for it came from her heart. It was the lullaby she heard as a child.
Whatever its value, Norman Bundy didn't seem to mind. He slouched deeply into the couch, breathing deep.
As minutes wore on and Aradia's song ended, his breath slowed. Through the touch on his shoulders, she could feel his heartbeat wind down.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Thump. Thump.
Thump.
…
Thump.
…
…
…
Aradia released her grip on the man's body, rising to her full height. She stayed very still, watching him.
Stabbing pains of guilt struck her. A gnawing, relentless sadness. She did not suppress it, or dismiss it. Instead, she let it wash over her, breathing in and out.
She pressed her hands together and bowed her head, eyes shut. “Great Shiva,” she muttered, in Sanskrit, “I commend this soul to the Wheel, that death may heal them. Carry them swiftly to the other world, and return them to the cycle. Help them, that they do not tarry, but press onward beyond the veil of darkness. Let this death absolve them a little of their Karma, so they may return to the world less burdened. And forgive me my sin, that I do in service to the Wheel.
“Om Bhur Bhuva svah, Tat Savitur Varenyam, Bhargo Devasya Dhimahi, Ghiyo Yo Naha Prachodayat.”
Leaning down to kiss the man's forehead, Aradia opened her eyes. Her prayers complete, she set to work.
First, she took out the knife Norman threw at her, and cut off a lock of hair from his head. This she tied together with a short red ribbon, placed in a little plastic bag, and labeled it “Norman Bundy, Death February 8th, 2012, 9:38 pm”. She pocketed this bag, for later.
Second, Aradia muttered “Om”, opening herself up fully to the spirit world. She then promptly clapped her hands over her ears, and willed that connection closed. “I know, I know,” she muttered aloud, “this wasn't what you wanted. But Shiva dammit, this is how I operate.” She glared around the room, raising a finger. “He's dead, and I'm going to go home tonight and do a ritual that makes him stay dead. I won't let him become a Wraith, so this is all you're getting! Be happy he died, and console yourself that he's probably in hell...if you believe in that sort of thing. Alright?”
She allowed the connection to open again, and watched things invisible bolt from the room. Aradia sighed, shaking her head.
She was going to have to come back later with something to placate them. Burying ritually prepared objects would probably do it. Ghosts needed Stuff, because the ghosts of Stuff were always scarce.
Third, Aradia grabbed up her mug and carried it to the kitchen. Washing it out thoroughly, she placed it back where Norman had taken it. She also washed the knife the man threw at her, and put that in the utensil drawer. She then removed a bottle of sleeping pills from her pocket, and opened it. Aradia shook a few down on the coffee table in front of Norman, and left the bottle tipped over.
Looking around the room, Aradia nodded in satisfaction, and walked out the door.
Fourth, Aradia made her way to the backyard, hopping over a fence. She moved slow and kept low, working with the shadows around her. All the while, she muttered a prayer in Sanskrit to the goddess Lakshmi. Heading to the back of the yard, she stopped at a wooden shed the size of a sedan.
Quite luckily, the padlock on the shed door was not quite stuck in far enough, and pulled off with minimum effort. Looks like Norman just “happened” to forget to push the lock in all the way, on the exact night that Aradia most needed to access the shed. “Thank you, Lakshmi!” Aradia muttered under her breath, grinning.
Opening the door, she found what the ghosts told her she would find: the unconscious form of a woman, tried to a chair. She wore a pair of short shorts, and a tank top with exposed midriff.
Running a hand over the woman's arm told Aradia that the woman's blood was full of drugs, and a quick Om told her that the drugs had been affecting her for quite some time. Nodding to herself, Aradia pulled one of her own knives out and cut the bindings.
“Alley Oop!” Aradia whispered, hauling the woman onto her shoulders. “Let's get you back to safety, ma'am. Maybe then, this will all seem like a bad dream.” Shutting and locking the door behind her, Aradia made off with her damsel.
On the way out, Aradia allowed her body to secrete skin oils on the surface of her hands again. Leaving no fingerprints behind was worth its own reward, and she didn't really like wearing gloves all that much.
Setting foot on the sidewalk, Aradia looked either way down the street.
“Whe~ere i~s Carmen Sandiego? Carmen Sandiego! Whe~re o~n earth can she be? Tell me whe-”
She pulled a smart phone from her pocket and hit the screen. “Just in time! I'm on the street with her. Bring the car around, Peter Pan.”
“I, uh, understand,” said the voice, in a faltering tone. “Be there in, uh, not a lot of time...okay?”
A minute later, a beat-up sedan rounded a corner and drove slowly down the street. It weaved deliberately around parked cars. It rolled to a stop at the curb.
The Euthanatos opened the right rear door and carefully draped the torpid woman on the back seat. A blanket sat on the floor, which she took up and covered the woman in. Shutting the door with satisfaction, she climbed into the front passenger seat.
“All set to move, Peter Pan?” Aradia said, buckling herself in.
Tavros Nitram nodded, frowning. He struggled not to look backward. “Yeah...” he said, hands shaking. He forced a nervous smile to his face. “...uh...Carmen Sandiego...”
Aradia Megido grinned wide. “Excellent!”