The Praying Mantis

The Praying Mantis

Berend Van der Poll

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Berend Van der Poll

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Unlimited thanks and love to

my wife, Melanie, and a special thank you to Jackie, without whom this book would have not been possible.

Thanks to Vanessa Finaughty for editing this novel.

You pushed and pushed, and I am happy you did!

Author’s Note

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Some of the locations in this book are real and others are my own creations. I have changed some of the descriptions and names of the real locations to fit the story.

NOTE! Under no circumstances should any person act in accordance to the characters in this book.

For all the pain you have to live with,

this is for you

In a perfect world,

I will live for who you are.

In a perfect world,

I will strive for who you are.

In a perfect world,

I will weigh for who you are.

In a perfect world,

i will stay for who you are.

In a broken world,

i will cry for who you are.

In a broken world,

i will sigh for who you are.

In a broken world,

i won’t lie for what you’ve become.

In this broken world,

you will pay for what you’ve done.

PREFACE

Year – March 1995

Alisha’s sobbing continued.

She found it extremely hard to stop her body’s spasmodic jerks. Clutching her pillow, she pushed herself back against the wall. Looking into the old, full-length mirror against the wall, she could see how dishevelled her appearance was. Her face flushed and her eyes puffy and swollen from her constant crying. Her sobbing was uncontrollable and she looked fragile, but, at the same time, wild, as if somebody had released the animal inside her.

Alisha’s convulsions, for her ten-year-old body size, were frightening. As she sat there staring into the darkness, she started looking for movement around the room. She just needed some confirmation that she was alone. The terror and dread she sensed before her father had left the room was something she had experienced many nights before and it was nothing new anymore.

She looked at the bedroom door and clutched her pillow even more tightly in her arms. The silence in the room terrified her. Her silence terrified her. Each time she looked at the door, she scrambled away from it, fearing what would return to her bedside. Her whimpering scared her and made her close her eyes.

As a little girl, she had often been cast into darkness and loneliness, and after a while she had learnt to repress the anger and tears by turning the fear for her father into a burning hatred; hatred for her mother, who didn’t help her when she knew that Alisha was being raped, and hatred for her parents for being her parents.

She thought that it had all stopped, but for the first time after a long time her father walked into the room again and touched her between her legs and told her to say that she enjoyed it. She thought it was going to end and everything would go back to normal. But what was ‘go back to normal’ for a ten-year-old girl whose body was being violated and disrespected by her own father?

For that time when everything stopped, Alisha had reached a point where she hardly ever cried, where she found nothing threatening in the night. Now it had all changed. Once again, the fear of her father returning to her bedside had taken hold of her, and she had not yet found a way to overcome it.

With the curtains pulled open in front of the enormous windows, and the full moon so bright, Alisha was able to see through the darkness. The moonlight lighted up the wall and the bedroom door like a stage. When she looked at the window, she could not see anything but the leaves of the old oak tree behind the house. She looked to the far side of the room and watched her little cousin, Karen Dial, sleeping peacefully. She was only eight years old and there wasn’t a time when Alisha, like the older sister, thanked God repeatedly for her not waking up to the sounds of her uncle raping her cousin.

Alisha slowly climbed off the bed, still clutching her pillow. She stood by the window and stared into the darkness. The tree’s shadow blended into one another and then parted into long, twisted claws as the cool wind swayed the branches hypnotically. She raised her eyes and looked into the black infinite sky.

She had been left alone so often in her life that she had come to believe there was always something there beside her. It protected her only as long as she did what she knew in her heart was right. Now Alisha felt as though she had lost it. She had once said to herself that her father was committing one of the worst sins of all by violating and disrespecting her body, and destroying her future. At the time, she had hoped she was wrong, but she was no longer sure.

It was the fear of her father walking into her bedroom most nights that woke her, forcing her to the window to stand and search the darkness for that little shimmer of hope. For that protection. It wasn’t over. At times, Alisha would wake up staring at the bedroom door, waiting for it to open, as if she had heard a creak in the floors.

But each time Alisha stood at the window at night, she remained longer and longer. There was something out there. There was protection out there, waiting for her. She was sure of it. Only endless daylight would bring her that relief and Alisha wished for it.

[][]

The next night, Alisha walked to her parents’ bedroom with a shovel. She slowly pushed the door open, making sure the old hinges didn’t squeak. She left it halfway open and stopped at the bed. She spotted a steel letter opener lying on the pedestal on her father’s side. She placed the shovel against the wall, being very careful not to wake them. She reached for the letter opener and turned to her father, who was a giant-like man.

The next moment, she just snapped and, in a blind rage, charged forward and jumped onto her father’s chest, lifting the letter opener as high as she could. Without hesitation, she brought the blade down with all her might, stabbing him in his left eye. His arms flew up by reflex. She stabbed down the second time, then again and again, bouncing wildly and frantically on his chest. She stabbed him until she was satisfied, until she was sure he’d never hurt her again. Blood streamed out of the wounds that she inflicted on his face and throat, and drawing a line down his neck, disappearing under the duvet covers.

Alisha climbed off the bed, covered in her father’s blood. She dropped the bloody blade next to her feet and looked at the shovel. With both hands, she picked it up and walked around the bed to her mother, who cried and shook uncontrollably. Her mother watched with total fear as Alisha raised the shovel over her right shoulder and swung it forward, as if hitting a home run – with all her might – ripping her mother’s neck open at the throat.

Alisha slowly walked back to her bedroom, dragging the shovel behind her. Later, when she walked out, she carried a small, brown leather suitcase. She walked down the hallway with the case in her left hand and the bloody shovel she had used to kill her mother in her right.

She was happy about what she had done. She wasn’t once sorry. All she had to do was tell herself that the dark shadow out there was nothing but a dark shadow.

Year – July 2010

Police cars were everywhere, sirens wailing.

Huge crowds of people watched as police officers rushed in and out of the huge double-storey house. On small grounds, it was built from face bricks painted white. Rose bushes were planted on either side of the path leading to the door.

A white BMW 3-series pulled up. Almost immediately, a uniformed officer was at the car as the driver’s door opened. A man in a trench coat and dark trousers climbed out. He ignored the officer and turned to the crowd.

Reeve, Detective of the SAP, was of uncertain age and wore dark glasses. He was tall and had black hair. The type of person you could pass in the street without noticing.

Get those people out of here, he told the officer and walked toward the house.

Yes, Sir. The officer jogged over the road.

At the front door, another officer approached him. Reeve stopped and looked around at the front porch. There were clusters of flowerpots to his right.

Detective, the officer greeted, with a nod.

Reeve nodded back and looked at the windows.

It doesn’t look good, Detective, said the officer.

What doesn’t look good? Reeve studied the front yard, which had a sprawling lawn.

The body, Detective, he responded.

Reeve stepped in front of him. What’s wrong with the body, Officer? he prodded him. What makes one body different from the rest?

The officer remained silent, smirking.

Maybe you should become a security guard at a woman’s store or something, remarked Reeve and walked inside.

He snaked his way through police officers standing in the foyer. He looked at the walls and ceiling. His eyes brushed over a picture of a white female in her twenties. Reeve didn’t stop to take a closer look. He looked at the lounge door that was on his left, but decided not to go inside.

A man approached him with an evidence bag in his hand.

Detective Porter Minx, Reeve’s partner, was a round, heavy man in his late thirties. He was of medium height with dark, thick hair. His dark skin camouflaged the stubble on his face and neck. He wore a white shirt and grey trousers. His weak point was the opposite sex when it came to accusations and interrogations. He always left Reeve to interrogate female suspects. He could never do it. Males were a different story.

We found her thirty minutes ago, said Porter. We also found this. He handed Reeve the plastic bag.

Incy, Wincy Spider climbed up the waterspout... Reeve read. A rhyme? he queried. Who sent it?

It came with the body, Porter remarked. It’s important.

...Down came the rain and washed the spider out. Out came the sun and dried up all the rain, so Incy, Wincy Spider climbed up the spout again. He read it to himself and handed it back. Let someone check it for prints. Any relatives?

No. Parents died in a car accident. Grandparents on both sides of the family are dead. No cousins, aunts or uncles. She was the only child.

Who was she?

Jaime Kozar.

How did she die?

We’re not sure.

You’re not sure? Reeve paused. Run her name through the database and see what you come up with.

[][]

A camera flashed when they stepped into the bedroom on the second floor. Police officers stood around and a forensic expert dusted down the bed’s headboard.

Reeve looked around the room and then walked to the foot of the bed. He glanced at Porter. Clear the room, he told Porter.

All right, people, clear out. We need some room here, said Porter, showing everyone the door.

Reeve drew in a deep breath.

Porter continued, If you find anything, let me know.

And about the blood on the lounge door, added Reeve.

What blood? interjected Porter.

Just check it out. Reeve had his back facing him.

Check it out, Porter told the forensic team.

Within seconds, the room was cleared. Reeve drew in a quick breath.

How do you know about the blood? asked Porter.

Reeve ignored him, looking around.

The double bed stood in the middle of the room, three metres away from the heavy wardrobe. Behind the door stood an oak dressing table. Nothing seemed to be moved or misplaced. There wasn’t any sign of a struggle. A bloodstain, three times the size of her head, marred the floor next to the bed.

Jaime’s pale, naked corpse lay on the bed, her lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling and her mouth gagged. She was slender built and in her late twenties. Her clothes lay bundled up near her feet.

Did anybody move her? asked Reeve, studying the corpse.

Porter stood at the foot of the bed. Nobody touched her.

Reeve leant over the body and studied it carefully. He stood up. What does this mean?

The arrows?

Yes.

Two black arrows had been painted on her stomach, one pointing to her face and the other to her left arm.

I couldn’t think of anything but a clock, said Porter.

That’s what I thought, Reeve said and indicated. This one looks like it’s pointing to the twelve and this one to the three.

It got me too. Three o’clock. What does it mean?

Well, it could mean one of two things. First of all, he likes body painting, or he was in here and did her at three. Reeve looked at him. Who made the call?

Nobody. A unit was patrolling when some lady ran out to them.

Who, a neighbour? Reeve asked, without missing a beat.

Porter grabbed his dictation book from his shirt pocket. Yeah. A... Mrs. Jefferson, he read.

What did she say?

She heard screaming and that was it. By the time the police kicked down the door, Jaime was already dead and like that. He pointed to the body.

What time was that? Reeve inspected the corpse again.

Around five-thirty, Porter answered.

Five-thirty? Reeve queried. Then she didn’t die at three. How did she die? He turned to the bloodstain and knelt next to it. Did forensics find anything on this blood?

Not yet.

Reeve stood up and returned to the corpse. I don’t see any cuts or wounds on her body saying that this blood is hers. He walked to the front of the room and looked around, thinking. A long silence followed. Where’s that rhyme? he asked finally.

Porter handed it to him. What do you have?

He began reading. Incy, Wincy Spider climbed up the waterspout. Down came the rain and washed the spider out. Out came the sun and dried up all the rain, so Incy, Wincy Spider climbed up the spout again. Reeve smiled.

What do you have? repeated Porter.

The killer was here before, Reeve replied.

How do you know?

The rhyme. Listen. Reeve read, Incy, Wincy Spider climbed up the waterspout. Down came the rain and washed the spider out. He paused. He was here when it rained. When did it rain? Yesterday. And before that? Like two weeks ago. The killer couldn’t climb the waterspout... Well, what he’s referring to here is the downpipe, because a waterspout is a totally different thing, okay. Well, he couldn’t climb the downpipe because he kept slipping off. Now listen. He continued to read, Out came the sun and dried up all the rain, so Incy, Wincy Spider climbed up the spout again. He handed the rhyme to Porter. Spout, referring to the downpipe. When he came here today, he climbed the downpipe, made his way inside and killed Jaime.

Other words, we’ll catch whoever it is before the shit hits the fan and things really get out of hand.

You have to read between the lines, partner. Well… Reeve sighed. There’s nothing else we can do here.

The two started for the bedroom door.

Let’s see what we can get from the blood downstairs.

Get the paramedics in here and tell them to clean this place up, said Reeve, and then he was gone.

[][]

Reeve and Porter walked into the lounge. The curtains were drawn. A female forensic expert looked up from examining the blood as they entered. She sighed.

Reeve asked her, What’s wrong?

The tall woman’s black hair was neatly trimmed, hanging just below her shoulders.

I can’t get a reading. Reeve could see she almost included a swearword.

Try again, pressed Reeve. Then he prodded Porter, Come with me.

At the side of the house, Reeve and Porter made their way to the gate leading to the backyard, walking as if they were trying to avoid stepping on landmines.

There was a downpipe, and right next to it was a two-metre-high wooden gate leading to the yard.

Watch where you walk, warned Reeve.

What are we looking for?

Shoeprints. Reeve scanned the ground.

They had spent five, maybe ten minutes, looking for prints. On the ground a few feet away from the gate was a patch of soil where daisies were growing.

The downpipe is right by the gate. Is there another way to the backyard?

Porter stretched his neck, looking. By the looks of it, this is it.

Reeve sank to his knees near the soil. He carefully parted the daises and removed some dried leaves and petals.

Did you find anything? asked Porter, who stood behind him.

I think I’ve found something. Reeve brushed away leaves with his fingertips, revealing a perfect shoeprint. Get a camera.

Porter left to comply.

Reeve said to himself, Size five.

Porter returned with a Polaroid camera. Here you go. He handed it to Reeve.

Reeve pulled a cigarette out of his pack and put it on the ground next to the print. He knelt inches from it and took the picture. He rose to his feet and handed the camera back to Porter after taking the print from the slot. He then picked up the cigarette and lighted it.

Only one picture?

Reeve blew out the smoke. Yeah, there’s only one print, he joked. He inhaled another puff and handed Porter the print. Tell forensics I want to know everything about that shoeprint. What sole it belongs to, what shoe the sole belongs to, who manufactures it, how many are made, who sells it, how many are sold, everything, he said, in one breath.

Porter nodded once.

Let’s check the blood inside. Reeve flicked the cigarette away and walked back to the house.

Anything? asked Reeve in a low voice when he and Porter stepped into the lounge.

The lady shook her head. It was clear she was upset.

Why? Reeve couldn’t understand. He approached the door handle and rubbed his index finger over the dried blood. He sniffed it. Shit. Forget it, he snarled.

What? The forensic expert rose to her feet.

Reeve held his finger under her nose. She sniffed and looked away disappointedly, a verb away from swearing from what Porter could judge by her expression.

What? asked Porter.

Ammonia. Reeve sighed.

Shit.

Reeve forced himself to calm down. And the blood inside? he asked in a low voice.

The lady shook her head. Nothing.

Reeve frowned. Any prints?

Only a couple. The guys took it down to the lab. The results should be ready in a few hours.

This guy’s good. Reeve told Porter.

How do you know it’s a guy?

I don’t, Reeve admitted. Well, whoever it is, they’re good. He started for the front door.

Where’re you going?

Home. Reeve said to the woman, Take the body to the lab. Let them do an autopsy. I want to know how she died, what she was doing, how she was doing it, and who she was doing it with. Do you understand?

She nodded.

I want this house airtight after you leave, partner. Nothing in and nothing out, Reeve told Porter.

Okay.

And tell these uniforms to go back to the office and catch up on some paperwork.

He exited the house.

[][]

Reeve had an average-looking single-storey house in Greenpoint, a couple of minutes away from the stadium. A small, cement path led to the dark brown front door. The walls throughout the house were white.

Janine, he called, closing the door behind him. He removed his coat and hung it in the hall closet, behind the front door. Janine, he called again. His eyes searched the lounge to his left.

The small lounge had a beautiful fireplace constructed from face bricks painted grey. Janine wasn’t there.

I’m in here, Janine called.

Reeve went to the kitchen hung forward on the marble finish counter.

Janine Lloyd was in her early thirties. She was tall and her short, dark hair hung just below her ears. She wore blue jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of sandals. In six months, she was to be married to Reeve.

How are you? he asked.

Janine drank a glass of water. I’m fine, she replied without enthusiasm.

He watched as she put the glass on the sink.

What? she asked.

Nothing. Nothing, he said after a pause.

How was your day?

He expected exactly this. He expected her not to kiss him when he walked in. And he expected her not to sound very happy to see him.

It was okay.

She frowned.

She repeated. What?

Nothing, he replied immediately, bowing his head and sighing.

So it was just okay?

Reeve looked up and sighed again.

This is why I want to leave you, she snapped. You leave here in the morning and come home this time of the day. This is not the kind of life I want, Reeve.

Reeve moved in front of the counter.

You can’t talk to me about your job. Why not? How come, Reeve?

What do you want to know? he asked in a slightly raised voice.

Oh, now you want to tell me?

What do you want to know? he shouted.

Don’t shout at me! she rapped back.

How’s this? A young girl was murdered today. She was found lying on her bed with her mouth gagged and two arrows on her stomach. It looked like a clock, one pointing to the twelve and the other to the three. There was a huge bloodstain on the floor next to the bed. Whoever did it left the rhyme – Incy, Wincy bloody Spider. We don’t know whose blood it is because there’s no sign she suffered any blood loss. But that doesn’t matter because the killer diluted it with ammonia. So there’s no reason to take DNA samples because it will lead us to a dead end. So that doesn’t matter. We found a shoeprint outside. A size five! It might be the killer’s. I took the picture and they’re taking it to the lab to get a description of the sole and find out anything about the shoe: how many are manufactured and how many are sold. We found fingerprints, and they are going to run it and see what they can come up with. My guess is that the prints belong to Jaime. Is there anything else you need to know? He fumed.

Janine’s eyes welled up with tears. Reeve approached her and grasped her right shoulder. Janine twitched, backing up against the sink.

Those are not the things you want to hear! He punched the sink. That’s not what you want to hear when I come home! That’s not what you need to know! That’s not the shit you want me to tell you, he roared.

Janine covered her face and broke down.

CHAPTER ONE

Alisha made her way through the foyer of Easy Go Easy Come – a small building in Sea Point, in the outstanding and marvellous city of Cape Town.

The white-tiled floors throughout the building went perfectly with the light green walls. Flowers and small trees in flowerpots gave the office a clean, fresh smell. Six offices, in a thirty-metre-long passage, stood opposite each other. Each office looked the same: walls painted green, floor tiles were white and the desks solid blocks of mahogany, standing in front of enormous curtainless windows.

Alisha, a woman’s voice called from one of the offices.

Alisha Bach was a young woman of twenty-five. Her dark, neatly trimmed hair was tied back in a bun. She had a sharp nose between two dark eyes that missed nothing and pencil-thin eyebrows, all above a small round mouth with a fleshy lower lip. She was tall and her short red dress exposed her long, well-formed and well-tanned legs. The type of person who could make your jaw drop if you passed her in the street. Her seductive smile could win anybody over.

She was perfect.

I’m here, she said as the voice called out again.

None of the other girls had arrived at work yet. If Alisha’s previous day was a splendid one, she was always the second to arrive the next morning and the last to leave at night. Well, most of the time her work wasn’t in the office. She and the other girls ran an escort agency together. Clients would visit their website – PerfectGirls – looking for a date. Unlike most agencies that have managers who employ girls to do the work, Alisha and her three friends ran the business and did the work themselves.

In the past, there were five girls who ran the company together. The fifth girl had left after she was convinced that Alisha and the others were not just running a business, but also had something else going. She didn’t know what, and couldn’t understand where all the money was coming from. She was the only one out of the five girls who had kept the business strictly sexual, and nothing else. Alisha had forced her to write out her resignation and told her that she had to go find work elsewhere. She was sure they had something going after Alisha forbade her to mention Easy Go Easy Come to anyone.

Although being prostitutes, these girls weren’t those cheap whores who polluted the pavements at night. They had put together this first-class escort agency seven months ago, and ever since, business picked up so quickly that they were able to pay the rent for the building, with one month’s income, for the next three years.

They didn’t just go for any Tom, Dick or Harry. They went for the big score, and one hundred percent of the time, all four of them left their customers speechless and with much more than just a smile on their faces.

Alisha walked into the first office to her right, the one directly opposite hers. Sitting behind the desk was Raffaela Espen, a twenty-five-year-old woman with silky auburn hair that men loved to run their fingers through. Her long lashes, straight eyebrows and round nose gave her a sweet and innocent look. Her smile lighted up her face. Although she was tall, she was slim and full-bodied where it counted most. She wore a short black dress that didn’t hug her figure too tightly, a tight red sleeveless T-shirt and a pair of red sandals. She was the type who climbed two steps at a time, and checked twice to see if doors were locked at night.

Raffaela was reading a newspaper when Alisha walked in, and around the desk. Raffaela folded the paper, dropped it onto a big pile of newspapers and swivelled on the chair to face her. In doing so, she revealed her superb thighs.

Good morning, Raffaela greeted, tapping her index finger on the surface of the desk.

Good morning. Alisha hopped onto the desk. How did you sleep last night?

Fine. She switched on the laptop, at the same time grabbing the paper and giving it to her. Alisha took it and unfolded it. Her eyes immediately settled on the headline.

‘THE PRAYING MANTIS’, the headline on top of the pile read.

‘THE PRAYING MANTIS CLAIMS THREE HUNDRED AND SECOND VICTIM’.

Alisha removed it from the pile and settled her eyes on the second newspaper.

‘A MURDERESS OR BARBARIAN?’

She smiled, removed the paper and settled her eyes on the next headline.

‘THE PRAYING MANTIS COMMITS CRIME OF THE CENTURY’.

Alisha browsed over the paper that Raffaela gave her.

What do you think? asked Raffaela, pushing the keys on the laptop.

You know you don’t have to pretend that we aren’t the ones doing this, Raffaela, she reminded her and paused. Wait. Pretending is okay. It will help us a lot from spilling the beans, right. Alisha looked at Raffaela and smiled. She waited for a response, but Raffaela said nothing. Not even a smile. Now Alisha was wondering if Raffaela knew that she meant it as a joke, but she wasn’t going to ask her.

I just like to think that I am living a normal life, you know, said Raffaela coolly, looking at the screen.

It’s about time I see this four-month-old paper, Alisha admitted, You know, I didn’t believe you before when you told me that the press named us. I thought you were joking. She smiled. After three months… She read the first and last paragraph of the article. Listen to this. This is what a spokesperson for the SAP said. I quote. She read, We promise to catch The Praying Mantis and bring her to justice. We have assigned two of our best detectives for the job, and they are not going to give up until they catch the woman responsible for these barbaric acts. Alisha folded the paper and dropped it behind her on the desk. I want to see how good these detectives are. She paused. Well, first and foremost, I’m glad we get our clients over the internet. I wouldn’t want this place swarming with police and protesters. She paused again. The Praying Mantis. The name alone makes us adamant. I like it. It gives females complete domination over males. Very consistent. She smiled. How many men did we have to screw and kill in order to get it? Seventy-five, or something? She frowned. You have to kill seventy-five men to earn your stripes? Jesus.

Raffaela smiled. Yeah, and hey, it’s a good one. Have sex before killing them. Just like the praying mantis. She paused and looked at the screen again. This is what I wanted to show you.

Alisha leant towards the laptop and looked at the screen while Raffaela pushed the keys.

"In the past two days, we’ve received unlimited visits from men; well, from fifteen, to be exact, but only twelve are interested. When I opened the message box, I read