Culture Shock.

By Ginger Simpson.

Prologue.

He sat alone in his dim apartment and thought about what he'd done. The tattered draperies blocked out society and created the perfect ambiance for his dark mood. His curtains were never open; instead he kept the floor lamp in the corner turned down low.

In his mind, he tightened the electrical cord over and over, choking the last breath from each of his victims. Momentarily, he warmed at the thought. In a flash of sanity he supposed he should feel bad-but he didn't. His lips curled in the feral smile he'd seen so often in the mirror, and a feeling of power swept over him. For now, his hunger for death was sated.

His memory replayed the crimes. His victims all had it coming-every one of them.

They shouldn't have fought. He only wanted to show them love, but they wouldn't let him. He scowled. Filthy women-playing with a man's emotions and eventually destroying his ego and breaking his heart--and for what? He snorted. To move on and do the same to someone else?

His fist tightened, reveling in his quest to end man's suffering. Each of his victims had begged for mercy, but he had none to spare.

The red tip of his cigarette glowed brighter as he inhaled. Safe in his comfort zone, he relaxed. No one would ever suspect him.

He pa.s.sed potential victims every day-coming and going as he pleased. Whether they lived or died all depended on how he felt at the moment. He emptied his lungs, filling the air with acrid smoke.

Meeting women had always been problematic. He either wasn't tall enough, rich enough or didn't have the good looks they preferred. But, things seemed right when he had first met her. She acted unlike the others, or so he'd thought. Memories caused his calloused fingers to ache, wanting to splay through her soft, blonde hair as he had when they'd made love in the past. His lips still hungered for her kisses. She'd been very convincing-accepting him, welcoming his attentions, and sharing his bed. But, her actions had all been a farce.

The ancient wood beneath the chair's upholstered arm splintered beneath the pounding of his fist.

Some days, he put the memories behind him, forcing the hurt and anger from his mind and trying to live a normal life. He didn't really want to hurt anyone, but there were days; dark haunting days when her mocking laughter taunted him, and visions of her cold, blue eyes burned a hole in his heart. Her downfall had been hurting him.

If he couldn't have her, no man would. He started to rise, but his simmering anger boiled. His fingernails painfully embedded themselves in his palms and he dropped back into the seat.

Didn't she know he had feelings? Wasn't his heart supposed to ache when she told him she had no further need of him? She had discarded him like yesterday's garbage. Her words still resounded in his head. "I don't want to be with you anymore, and I certainly don't want to bear your children. You turn my stomach."

A loud whoosh of air rumbled past his lips. He'd willingly planned to devote his life to her, and she dashed his dreams. How could she vow to love him 'til death parted them, and then change her mind?

Death parted them all right. He saw to that.

He curved his mouth into a smile when he remembered how she had pleaded for another chance and vowed to love him again. But it had been far too late for that. She'd already proven she was a liar and a cheat. He made sure she never hurt anyone again.

Her last gasping breath numbed his pain for a little while, but now doing away with her wasn't enough! The others who looked like her, reminded him of her, called out to him. They were the same; never giving him the time of day unless they wanted or needed something. Users, all of them. He was making sure to get rid of as many as possible.

With the help of the media, people would soon recognize his calling card as the mark of someone doing the world a huge favor. It might take time, but folks would know him as the hero he was.

The already dim room went totally dark for a moment as the lamp across the way flickered, died then came back to light. Unfazed, he pondered what had just happened. Another electrical surge. Living in such an old building, he'd grown rather used to them.

Chapter One.

"Women Still Missing-No Leads." Cynthia Freitas straddled the complementary copy of the daily newspaper lying in the hallway in front of her apartment and gulped. The thought of a kidnapper loose in her neighborhood sent a shiver up her spine.

With two grocery bags balanced in one arm, she strained to see around them to find the keyhole. Just as she unlocked the door and stepped inside, the bottom of one sack gave way, sending her carefully-selected apples skittering across the warped floorboards. An a.s.sortment of vegetables landed in a premature salad at her feet.

She clenched her teeth. "d.a.m.n! d.a.m.n! Double d.a.m.n!"

Not in the habit of cursing, she winced and turned to see if anyone was in the hallway and had overheard. Seeing no one, she took a deep breath, removed the dangling key, and closed the door. "You've picked up some bad habits, Cynthia Ann."

She stepped over the spillage, still grasping the torn bag, and placed it and the intact one on the stained kitchen counter. With a deep sigh, she dropped to her knees and crawled from apple to apple until she had recaptured all the escapees, but not before crinkling her nose in disgust at the recent rodent droppings next to the stove. She made a mental note to buy a mousetrap on her return visit to the store.

With the Granny Smiths cradled in one arm, she stood and dumped the fruit into the sink. Curiosity drew her back to the hallway to retrieve the newspaper. She tucked the daily edition beneath her chin and fiddled with the deadbolt. It still wouldn't work.

The super hadn't responded to her call, and this wasn't the best of times to have a broken lock. After placing the flimsy chain across the door, she added making another call for maintenance to her growing mental notebook.

Cynthia sat and unfolded the paper. The hair on her arms bristled when she read the startling headlines again. She quickly scanned the story beneath the bold print. The news wasn't encouraging. The kidnapper hadn't left any clues, and there hadn't been much progress on the case. Reading about the crimes made her nervous, and she was about to toss the paper aside when the word divorced, describing the victim, jumped out at her and yanked her thoughts elsewhere. Painful memories flooded over her. Her mom and dad had split, but both still lived in Ord, Nebraska-a dim spot in the road to somewhere else. She left home because of the small town scandal.

Their separation soured Cynthia on relationships. Not that she'd had any of which to speak, but, if an occasion arose, she planned to use caution and move slowly. Besides, she wasn't sure she trusted in love anymore. People always talked about how divorce affected young children. The pain in her heart reminded her of the equal effect on someone twenty-six.

She folded the paper, placed it on the coffee table and returned to the sink to rinse the apples. The pipes squealed and vibrated in protest, but finally sputtered a thin stream of liquid into the discolored basin. She shook her head in disgust, praying G.o.d spared her any more surprises in her apartment from h.e.l.l.

With the clean fruit stowed in the antique refrigerator, and the rest of the mess cleaned, she turned to her usual weekend routine. A stale, musty odor, a constant companion in the dank s.p.a.ces of The Cairns, greeted her when she opened the coat closet to retrieve the vacuum.

She removed the machine and slammed the door, trapping the smell inside, then after shoving the plug into an outlet, with a flip of a switch the old Hoover whirred to life. Was this how everyone else spent their Sat.u.r.day morning? A pang of guilt gripped her heart. The murdered or missing women would probably give anything to be able to tend to even the most boring of ch.o.r.es. Those darn headlines; she just couldn't get them out of her thoughts.

She vacuumed the threadbare carpeting in a crisscross pattern, moving the worn furniture as she went. Being thorough was a must. She never did things halfheartedly, and although she hadn't yet entertained anyone in her home, she aimed to be prepared.

She tucked a bothersome strand of hair behind her ear, stashed the vacuum back in its niche, and pulled out a dust cloth. The apartment was so old, a constant coating of dirt seemed to sift through the walls. She wrote her name in the latest layer on the coffee table and stifled a chuckle. Although dusting would be a waste of time, fortunately, on weekends, time was something she had in abundance.

Lost in the mundane task, Cynthia inspected each nick and scratch and pondered who or what caused them. Her mind wandered. How many people had lived in her apartment before her? What brought them to The Cairns...and what finally made them leave?

She grinned at her last thought. If she could afford to move, she certainly wouldn't be living here, especially with a kidnapper running loose in the neighborhood. Maybe coming to the city hadn't been such a good idea. She couldn't recall a murder ever being reported in Ord, but despite the small town atmosphere, there wasn't much of a future to be had there. Opportunity prompted her decision to leave the only place she'd ever called home. She sat on the sofa's edge and harkened back to the day she received a letter in answer to a job application. San Francisco? Was she ready for the challenge?

Cynthia's resume earned her a job working for Harris & Morgan Accounting. Completing a Bachelor's degree made her a viable candidate, and she looked forward to her boring life changing. Residing in the big city had turned out to be more frightening than exciting.

She glanced around the room, swearing the walls were closing in on her. Commuting back and forth to work and the hours spent there didn't give her much time to explore, even if she dared. Her days were spent crouched at a desk and her evenings in this crummy, run-down apartment. The rent here was all she could afford on her starting salary. Who would have guessed everything would be so expensive? But then, what did she know? In Ord, everything was a bargain...and safe.

The silence wore on her nerves. She turned the radio on and tuned to her favorite, smooth-jazz station just in time to catch the news. Just what she needed...more reports about the missing women and lurking danger. The ringing of the phone jolted her. She swallowed the lump in her throat and answered.

"Hey, Cyn, what's up?" Her brother's cheerful voice provided a welcome respite.

"Kevin! Same ol', same ol'. What's new with you?" She plopped down in the armchair, and pulled her feet up beneath her.

"Just thought I'd call and check in before I head over to Sara's. We have an office picnic today...big doins' in Ord." His voice bubbled with the great personality she missed. "Just didn't want you to think I'd forgotten about you."

"A picnic?" Despite br.i.m.m.i.n.g tears, she managed to tamp down her envy and homesickness. "How nice. It's been ages since I've been on one. Actually, it's been ages since I've done anything." She gulped back her self-pity.

"Sounds like life in the big city isn't all you expected."

Her thoughts turned to the missing women. The hair on her arms stood on end.

"Murder certainly wasn't on my list of things to occupy my mind. Ord never prepared me for anything like what's happening right here in my neighborhood. Women are disappearing or dead, and the police haven't caught the person responsible yet."

"Oh G.o.d, Sis, Haven't you made any new friends?" Concern tinged his voice. "I don't like you being there all alone and knowing no one."

"Don't worry. All I do is work, eat, and sleep. I haven't had time to meet anyone, except the people at work. If you count sitting at the BART station waiting for the train there and back, I'm gone twelve hours a day. When I get home, I'm too tired to do much of anything."

"And you thought San Francisco had so much more to offer." He chortled.

"It probably does, but I've yet to experience it," she confessed. "One thing is for sure, I've never seen such a different lot of people. So many strange haircuts, colors and clothing. Do you know that some men here dress like women for a living? I had to ask someone on the train about the gal...er guy across from us. Oh well, to each his own."

His laughter lifted her spirits. As her best friend, he'd kept her smiling and made life tolerable during their parents' split. She pictured his freckled face and laughing blue eyes and sighed. "I sure miss you, Kev. Your weekly phone calls are great, but I wish we weren't so far apart."

"I know, Sis. I miss you, too. If it weren't for Sara, I'd probably have left Ord right behind you."

"If you ever do decide to leave home, make sure you check the cost-of-living situation. You have no idea how expensive it is here."

"Well, then, I guess I'll find out. I've decided to see what the big attraction is for myself."

"You mean..."

"Yep, I'm coming to visit. If that's all right? Do you have room for two?"

Where in the heck would she fit two more people in such cramped quarters? She cleared her throat. *Sure, there's always room. As long as you don't mind sleeping on the floor. You did say two?"

"Sara is coming along."

Cynthia's thoughts of her dismal living situation were lost in feelings of excitement. Besides, Kevin already knew her money issues. "When? I can't wait to see you."

"In three weeks. Maybe our visit will be the opportunity you need to experience San Francisco first hand. You can be our tour guide."

"Some tour guide I'd be." She laughed. "I can only find my way to work and back. Maybe we should hire a professional, or ride around the city on one of those buses that show you where all the notable places are located."

"Or...maybe you can actually get a date and we can double like we did when you were home."

She rolled her eyes. "If you could see me right now, you wouldn't even suggest such a thing. I'm in the middle of cleaning and I look horrible. Besides, I haven't been out with anyone in ages. I haven't met anyone here, and even if I had, I don't think I'd know how to behave on a date."

"Why are you always so hard on yourself? When you're all dolled up, you're a looker, whether you want to admit it or not. Just put on your best smile and do a little flirting. You remember that old cliche, men prefer pet.i.te blondes?"

"Sure!" Her cheeks warmed at his kind words. "That's why men are beating down my door." She thought how easy it would be to pummel one's way into her apartment and almost laughed aloud.

"Yeah, yeah! I give up." Her brother sounded frustrated. "You never could take a compliment. Okay, you're ugly, and men will never give you a second look. Is that what you want to hear?"

"Not really. I liked your first description better." She chuckled, but wondered why she was always so unreceptive to positive comments. Did her behavior have anything to do with her parents divorcing? She didn't remember being so negative when she was younger. Why couldn't she take a compliment? After all, she wasn't the ugly duckling.

"So, do you have your flight number and arrival time?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Not handy. Sara made the reservations. I'll call you the week before we come and give you the info. Love ya, Sis!"

"Right back atcha." She hung up thankful for the call but wishing she hadn't missed the rest of the news. Surely, with the crime being a hot topic on all the broadcasts, she was bound to catch a report on TV later. Her thoughts wandered back to the safety of Ord and her family there. Why hadn't she stayed put?

She shook her head. "What's done is done. No use whining about bad choices."

Standing with dust cloth in hand, she recalled Kevin's suggestion about double dating and laughed. He must think single men grew on trees in California.

She hummed as she went about the rest of her Sat.u.r.day cleaning. Still, in the back of her mind, she wished she lived somewhere more presentable. How was she going to explain this rat hole without being embarra.s.sed? She stood back and a.s.sessed the drabness. Maybe if she planned lots of fun things, they wouldn't have to spend much time at The Cairns.

She took a deep breath. "Stop it Cynthia! Kevin and Sara know you're just starting out. They won't be expecting the Ritz!" She laughed. They also wouldn't be expecting her to talk to herself as much as she did lately.

Armed with her bottle of window cleaner, she pushed aside the tattered rags masquerading as curtains. Once her checkbook was back in the black she planned to buy some new ones. There was no use asking the super about replacements. He hadn't even fixed her lock.

She misted the gla.s.s then wiped it dry. Why she bothered she didn't know. It must have been years since the outside was cleaned. So many water spots made it look as though she hadn't touched the pane, but there wasn't much to look at in the littered alley below. The scenic view fit the rest of the motif.

She leaned in. Movement caught her eye in the form of someone seemingly pilfering through the trash bin. Maybe one of the vagrants she pa.s.sed every day on her way to the station?

She wasn't used to seeing so many b.u.ms and homeless people on the street, but this man didn't look like one of those types. At least she considered the person a "him." Something vaguely familiar niggled at her--perhaps his frame, his hair. What was it? She squinted through the blotchy gla.s.s.

He bundled something inside a blue wrapper then, glancing side-to-side, he poked around in the trash, appearing to move things about before tossing his package into the dumpster. He almost looked to be hiding something, and when he turned, she recognized the building super.

She shrugged and pulled the window coverings back in place. "You watch way too much television, Cynthia. The man is only throwing out his trash."

Alexander Carlyle slammed his apartment door so hard, the "2E" on the other side loosened, and swung back and forth several times. The paper-thin walls attached to the door shimmied like plywood in a windstorm. He had already placed two calls to the new apartment super requesting that the latch be fixed, but still no dice. Besides not responding, there was something about the guy that bugged Alex.

He couldn't put his finger on what it was, but this time he wouldn't be quite so nice when he left a message. He pulled on the k.n.o.b to make sure the door had shut securely. It hadn't.

"Friggin' thing!" He slammed it again. "Whadda ya gotta do to get service in this h.e.l.l hole?" He exploded from the stress that had built all day from dealing with the sc.u.m of society.

Alex worked for the San Francisco Police Department, and had lived in 2E in the building for two years. His fiancee had fallen for someone else and asked him to leave their shared home. The Cairns was the best he could do on short notice and matching funds.

Why had he stayed so long in this dump? The building sure held no charm and allure, but at the time he had no choice. Once he saw the inside, the vacancy sign made sense, but he didn't give a s.h.i.t about the appearance, he needed a home.

His hopes of building a family were as dead as his mother and father, and Alex, an only child, lost track of whoever else might const.i.tute family. He had no visitors to impress, and certainly wasn't eager to enter into another relationship and have his heart broken again. Besides, he spent most of his time at work and the apartment served as a place to eat and sleep, and that was all he needed.

He secured the dead bolt and snapped on the light switch, illuminating the squalor. The peeling paint and fading curtains did little to enhance the well-worn furniture that came with the apartment. The avocado-green carpeting, a throwback to an era gone by, had more bald spots than remaining s.h.a.g.

Odors of rotting leftovers wafted past his nose when he opened the fridge, but he ignored them and grabbed a beer. He dropped all six-foot-two-inches of himself into his easy chair and twisted off the bottle top. As usual, he engaged in a game of trying to bounce the cap off the wall and into the trashcan, but failed. The metal cap landed among the other missed shots that peppered the carpet around the wastebasket. He shrugged at one more missed attempt. Wasn't being a slob a perk of living alone?

He took a long, satisfying swig then placed the bottle on the coffee table, almost perfectly atop one of the many other watermarks left by previous beers. Leaning forward, he searched the debris around his beer for the remote control and found it buried under last Sunday's comics. The ancient table teetered precariously to one side, but Alex bent and pushed a folded piece of cardboard back under the uneven leg.

He moved his half-empty bottle to the end table, and despite it not being empty, rose and grabbed another from the fridge. Draping one long leg over the frayed chair arm, he drained the first Bud Light, while he selected random b.u.t.tons on the remote, channel surfing for something to occupy his mind.

Normally, he worked a regular beat with his partner, but they'd been the two uniforms a.s.signed to a.s.sist detectives on the recent kidnap/homicide. Thoughts of the crime invaded his mind on a constant basis. Another young woman had vanished-the fourth in a month. One body had been recovered so far, but there were no leads as to the perp's ident.i.ty. Alex shuddered at the thought of finding the other women dead and ran a hand through his hair. No matter how he tried to block the case from his mind, the crime connected him with memories of another that haunted him.