Person-to-Person Collect Call from Ted Bundy…

The Telephone Rings…
"Hello."
"Is this Barbara?"
"Yes. Who's speaking?"
"This is the HellTel operator. Will you accept charges for a person-to-person, collect call from a Mr. Bundy?
"Who?"
I wasn't kidding myself. I knew who this was. Since the very beginning, I feared this.
The caller interrupted the operator, "Ted, Barbie, it's Ted."
"Ted?"
"Now, Barbie, you know who I am..."
"No, I will not accept the charges."
I hung up. I felt sick. A thousand questions. A thousand worries. How did he find me? How did he call? Did I invite the devil-incarnate into my world by merely writing on the monster? Was I playing with etereal fire and I truly got burned?
Hogwash.
Yet...how do you unring a bell?
I prayed I was dreaming, nightmaring, really, that he wouldn't call back.......
He called back.
"Hello."
"This is the operator again from HellTel, do you accept person-to-person, collect call charges from a Mr. Ted Bundy?"
Again, the smooth-as-silk male voice interrupted, "Barbie, don't hang up again. It won't help. I won't go away. Accept the charges."
I sighed. I knew there was no escape.
"Yes, operator, I accept."
"You may continue, Mr. Bundy," and the operator left the line.
The connection was bad, crackling, humming, popping, like the line was poor, distant. After less than a minute, the phone ear-piece singed my right ear, heat...searing, scorching. From then on, I kept the receiver a distance from the side of my face.
I leaned over and grabbed a chair and pulled it towards me. This would be a call begging for a seat.
More crackling and a loud clanging-bang, "May I call you Barbie? Barbara seems so formal, better suited to legal documents or on a place card at a funeral, don’t you think?"
"Your funeral, Ted?"
Ted laughed. A flip-top head laugh, then added, "Sure, Barbie, my funeral, if you wish. Do you want to know why I contacted you, above all others?"
No way in HELL did I want to know.
Yet, I knew Ted would tell me. He had to be the one with all the answers, the one who knew it all. The one seated above all other mortals.
I switched the receiver to the other side of my face, the searing heat coming from within, unbearable after mere minutes.
"I chose you, Barbie, because you chose me. You could have written on any other killer for your book, but who do you pick? Me. You're the first female who's picked me since Melanie, you know? You're not planning on abandoning me too, are you? You know what I did to save face when Melanie betrayed me."
Silence.
A deafening, screaming, catapulting cacophony of silence.
More crackle, a couple pops, the HellTel operator back on the line, "Your time is up for tonight, Mr. Bundy. You can make another call at the same time tomorrow."
"You heard the lady, Barbie, I must dash. 'Til tomorrow then. And Barbie, next time, answer the call and accept the charges. There's always a price to be paid for errant ways, and now is not the time to play games. I never play games. Goodnight, kid."
~~~
The Aerial Photograph…

The buzzing woke me.
I looked at the clock on my nightstand.
6:00 a.m.
I knew it was the fax machine in my office, the old beast, worn out by time and over-use, made a noise as if a million bumble bees were being ordered at gun-point to buzz in unison, the sound irreverent.
I stayed in bed until my curiosity forced me out and I padded down the hall and into the room. There on the rug was an aerial photograph, of legal paper size, the scene so familiar that a dozen feet away I knew the location.
Taylor Mountain, The Cascades, Washington State, circa 1974. After the King County Sheriff's Department knew of the discovery of four skulls...no bodies attached.
The top of the fax read;
Hell's Gate Prison, November 24, 2014, 5:59 a.m., Prisoner#071474: Theodore Robert Bundy.
The hand written note at the bottom of the page, in swirling cursive, read,
"They're not where you think they are. They never were. Let's chat tonight. ted"
Bundy NEVER wrote nor typed his first name using a capital T. Many a shrink and veteran cop had thoughts on the Why; yet, their assessments, I thought, didn't hit at the essence of the man. "Experts" assumed it was because Ted was inherently self-conscious, which was true, BUT I KNEW there was more to this prosaic demure. Ted wanted to see himself bigger than life. In his mind, important people don't need to force respect, it's automatically given; therefore, no need for capitals. That was Ted's grandiose thinking.
I was on pins and needles for the rest of the day, trying, as I might, to act as if nothing was wrong, nothing imminent was about to occur, going through the motions, my daily routine; errands, chores, job appointments, cooking dinner, and while it simmered, drinking far more than my share of wine.
But the heart in me knew better.
An hour before I expected the call, I applied 60 SPF sun block to my face, this time, to defend against Hell's heat.
"Hello."
"Hey, kid, it's me, Ted."
"I know. Why the fax?"
"A girl who gets to the point. I like that. Thought it'd be easier this way. See the numbers and letters all along the top and side of that photo, well, you'll notice red dots aligning to letter/number pairs verifying I know what I'm talking about, re: the location of each skull. The bodies aren't far away, I'll give you those coordinates on the phone. Because it's been 40 years since the cargo was buried, you'll need that grid-line photo to go back and unearth the bones."
"Cargo? You call the heads of Lynda Healy, Susan Rancourt, Kathy Parks and Brenda Ball 'cargo'"?
"I loaded them in my car."
Barely able to breathe for the rage, fighting back the urge to vomit from the disgust, I coughed and barked out, "Yes, I guess you did. They were human beings, you know?"
"I learned that later."
Unreal, I thought. Bloody unreal.
"Why me? Why now? After all these decades."
"I've been given the chance at Heaven you see. One condition: offer up the bodies. I'm not doing well down here," nervously laughing, "well, to be honest, I'm doing far less than not well. I want out. This is my chance."
"Oh, and you thought I'd help, give you a chance at freedom, freedom you never deserved. Why shouldn't I let you roast in Hell for all eternity? God knows that's what the poor girls' families are doing right here, right now, on earth."
"Doesn't everyone deserve forgiveness at some point?"
"Everyone does, yes. But Adolf Hitler and you."
Ted laughed with an uproarious bent. In my mind's eye I could see him with one arm hanging off of Hell's prison wall payphone doing that trademark flip top head chortle he was known for during the Florida trials. It enraged me. I wasn't laughing.
"Go call up someone else, I'm not interested in saving your charred ass."
"Oh, but I think you are. You've been studying me, putting misplaced guilt upon yourself as you've been writing that novel based on me and my 'work'. Your fame on the back of my infamy, that's blood on your hands too. If I divulged the location of the bodies, you could inform the authorities and in turn forgive yourself."
"Forgive myself? I've done nothing wrong! I have nothing to be ashamed of!"
"Hm...that's not what I hear. The fires of Hell are laced with knowledge. I think you need me more than I need you."
I hung up.
Nothing like the truth to rip at your heart and tear your soul...
~~~
The Locations…

"Morning, Barbie. How are we doing today?"
I picked up on half a ring. My reflexes were on high alert, as were my nerves. It was obvious to me, to anyone really, who had studied this man and his "entity" — as he liked to call the monster inside — that although, on the surface, it looked like I had all the cards in this game, Ted’s genius at manipulation and exploitation had not melted down one bit in the flames of Hell.
By now, my furtive imagination had Bundy covered in T-Fal coating, this "Teflon Don Juan" serial killer seemingly immune to all heated retribution; yet, my own ears, a mere dimension away, were singed bright red positioned near the receiver.
"What's the topic of conversation today, Ted? Next, you going to blame me for all your murders?"
Again, I envisioned another flip-top head gaffe coming from the man, no doubt creasing those laugh lines Bundy was so known for, "Nah, that'd be silly, Barbie, well, quite fruitless anyhow. It's me, not you, down here; although, I must admit several people I met while I was alive deserve to be also taking in the heat. No, today's agenda will be the locations of the bodies that go with those skulls, information I dearly wanted to reveal in those final days before they executed me, but no one felt inclined to go to Governor Martinez on my behalf. Sad, really, so much could have been done, closure, as they say, for the families, studying me, my background, my inclinations --"
I interrupted, "Ted, nobody then, nobody now, gives one teenie, weenie, little turd about any of your anythings. You were human garbage then, you're Hell's garbage no--"
Ted interrupted, "You liked it, didn’t you? Secretly, I mean. You relished getting to know me. I know you like my smile. Oddly, though, you’re repulsed by my eyes. I always thought they were--"
"Bullshit!"
"Bullshit?"
"Yeah, you heard me, Ted. I call bullshit. I got sick studying you, watching your every move, listening to your every word. In the end, I wanted to vomit like Ann Rule."
"Ann vomited? When?"
"Oh, she never told you? I don't blame her. Why give you the satisfaction of enjoying another innocent being damaged by the likes of you."
"Why did she get sick, Barbie? Tell me. Tell me or I'll make those burns on both sides of your face worse. I can do that, you know."
"And I can tell you to stay in Hell and hang up."
"You could. I’d only call back again."
Living or dead, there never seemed a pathway of escape from Ted Bundy. I acquiesced.
"Once Ann had a chance to see all the evidence on the tables, from your Miami trial. The media was given access."
"Ann got sick in the courtroom?"
"No. Court House women's washroom. You made your friend physically sick once she had to admit you were the killer of so many women and children."
Silence. Only the odd crack, pop or background hum on the line. Finally, something made the monster shut the hell up. Ted always liked Ann. I was thrilled he felt the hurt, or whatever hurt feelings a predator can have. At least I managed a blow for Ann.
A clearing of his throat, then, "I’m sorry for that. I truly am. She was a good person."
"Oh, but the other 31 were not?"
"No, they were not good, Barbie, they were great! That’s why I killed them. Like beautiful, motionless china dolls, all nicely laid out and cared for by me, all secreted in the woods I loved so well. I worked for them, I collected them. They were, are, mine."
"Not after you tell me where they are, Ted. They'll be ours again and back with their families where they belong."
Another screaming quasm of silence.
The operator once more, "Mr. Bundy your time is up."
"B4, F7, L9 and S13, Barbie! You get those location pairs? Go dig!"
The phone line went dead.
I wish I were dead.
A minute later I made a long distance call to Seattle.
~~~
The Dig…

Although a cold snap had recently hit Washington State, the first freeze of the year evident by Jack Frost visiting car windshields and windows, the ground in the Cascade mountains was still warm, moist, movable.
The current King County Sherrif notified Bob Kepple and Roger Dunn, lead detectives during the Bundy murders, of the recent development, both politely declining the invitation to watch yet another excavation of the site. And who could blame them? They had both been down this road before, chasing their tails whenever Bundy chose to cough up a location morsel or two, all to no avail.
So on a rare Pacific Northwest bright and sun-shiny morn, an excavator and a back hoe were transported on flatbeds out along highway 18, heading east, cement barricades having been temporarily removed so they could get across all four lanes . Police cruisers with their lights flashing had traffic stopped both ways, the local area drivers slowly exiting their vehicles to get a real good look at the spectacle, for they KNEW the location and the significance it held. Some wore looks of concern, others hope, a few with tears welling up and perling down their cheeks.
Three days with three shifts of eight had machine operators and hand shovel diggers working around the clock, with a bevy of forensic techs sifting the dirt looking for any signs of human remains. In that time, hundreds of bones were uncovered, all the King County Coroner examined and declared animal; rodents, birds, small and large wild animal bones. None human, not even a tooth or a single strand if hair. The police were infuriated, yet again, and I was mortified.
Late that night, a call...
"So?"
"So, nothing, Ted. Not a thing. And now, thanks to you, I am a laughing stock. I could be holding an entire skeleton of one of your victims and those cops wouldn't listen now to a thing I'd have to say."
"Nothing? I mean --"
"Ted, you’re a liar. A deranged, demented, patholigical liar. You think putting us through all this will get you your Get Out Of Hell Free Card, because I don’t. What’s the Big Red Guy carrying the pitch fork going to think of you now?
"But Barbie, I didn’t lie. I remember every kill, every second of every moment of every kill. Other serial killers claim they blank out their acts. Not me. I remember everything. They have to be there. You dug at that rock outcropping, right, for Kathy Parks? And 25 feet to the north of the power lines, heading due north for the Rancourt girl? One of them, it was Lynda, I even laid a head stone of sorts, marking the body with rocks, no head, of course. And Brenda Ball would have been the easiest to find, as she was laid out at the western edge of the forest, 1500 feet in or so from the parking area, on the leeward side of a downed tree, a big douglas fir, you couldn’t miss it."
"1974 to 2014, Ted, forty bloody years? Frost heaves, ground swelling from rain, snow and ice movement, water run off. Your "there" there could be way off by hundreds of feet now. That’s four long decades, Ted, 160 seasons. Hunters, scavenger animals, hikers. I’ve been up that power line road hundreds of times looking for your victims and each time that land looks different, even to me. I’m afraid you waited too long to confess. It’s as simple as that. God is no longer allowing you the satisfaction. Even the Great Ted Bundy is his own victim now."
Dial tone.
Maybe, once and for all, he was gone.
~~~
My Dig…

I had to return.
I left my hotel before daybreak and was on the Interstate by 6 o' clock, parking the rental car at the base of the power line road, as a swath of moisture laden clouds parted and gave off a sliver of daylight.
Today was a typical autumn day in Washington, gloomy, glowery, the air awash in mist and cold drizzle. I had come kitted out in waterproof hiking boots, a windbreaker with a napsack on my back with snacks and a thermos of hot coffee and a newly purchased shovel and soil sifter box from Home Depot. I was determined to spend the entire day on that slope, over-turning every leaf and upending every boulder near the spots Bundy had indicated until I was secure in the fact that all had been done to find the remains of those women, the All-In effort allowing me then to board the plane flight home, my mind at rest.
Trudging up that power line road, my mind was anything but at rest. A niggling, gut-wrenching feeling, that this time Ted was telling the truth; finally, there was more in it for him to do so.
From my inside jacket pocket I pulled out the map and walked to each location to see what ground had been excavated. The heavy machine operators were not told to cover over their fruitless digs so I could see in an instant what had been unearthed.
At the rocky outcropping where Ted said Kathy Parks remains should be, I could see the extreme right edge had not been disturbed, possibly because the lay of the land was so extreme, it was simply too much of a degree slope for the earth movers to safely work.
I climbed up the slope, at first losing more ground than I gained, the wet ground foliage acting like a sheet of ice to my hiking books. Finally after some glove grappling and heavy breathing I reached the ledge, and without hesitation, began to dig. One, two, three shovels full of water-soaked earth, the soil smelling dank and musky, the result: nothing. Only squirming worms and the odd centipede or black beetle rather irate that I had disturbed their abode.
Minutes ticked by and gathered into an ethereal bucket of a good hour, shovel-full after shovel-full, the result: a whole heap of nothing.
I momentarily stopped the toil to catch my breath, half wondering why the hell I was up there. Regardless, I was determined to uncover the impossible. I berated myself for the doubt, grabbed at the spade and dug in once more. This time, a soft "puck" sound, like you would hear when metal strikes a tree root or maybe plastic pipe. Another shovel jab, another "puck". I dropped the shovel and knelt down to dig by hand. Seconds later, my hands unearthed a bone, circular, flat on both sides, then another and another. I knew I had found an entire row of back vertebrae. I was no coroner, but unless I had just dug up a decomposed baby Big Foot, these were human back bones.
I sat back on my haunches and gazed at the grouping, my emotions desperately trying to catch up to reason.
As a quantum time leap in one's fertile imagination, I felt the horror those bones experienced and I was emotionally drowning in a nightmare.
I stopped breathing.
Then, I couldn't breathe.
Then, I was choking, gasping for air.
With ferocious force, I let out a scream, one I hadn't known was in me to give...
Breath found me again through the pitter-pat of dropping tears, a flow seemingly without end.
"It's alright, Barbie. Don't cry. I'm okay now."
I looked up and saw a misty vision of a girl with long straight hair, warm eyes and full lips staring down at me. By the clothing, I knew she was from the 70s. By the face, I knew it was Kathy.
I opened my mouth, maybe to scream anew, but fear for this vision wasn't there so I stayed silent and I stayed still, in awe of her appearance before me.
"Kathy, is that you?"
"Yes, Barbie, it's me. We're all here, look around."
And so I did. And sure enough, my eyes saw three other young women walking towards me, undoubtedly from the locations of their body burials. I recognized each one:

All four were rubbing their heads or their necks, as if the crow bar beating they received from Bundy four decades ago still pained them, or their long ago decapitations gave them continued unrest.
All four were dressed typical '70s style, their bodies so real I felt I could reach out and touch them. Their faces, although very recognizable, were something akin to holographic images, no doubt because their heads were no longer in these woods.
I must have looked a sight. A deer-in-headlight gaze I surely must have had, looking more ghostly than the girls, I imagine, as I felt faint, all blood vacating my face.
I knelt there gobsmacked.
What do you say to four dead women?
~~~
The Final Burial…

"We are here to help you, Barbie."
"Me?"
"Yes. We four are fine, have been fine for a very long time. We know our families have accepted our lot, and to find our bones, even now, won't change a thing. We have come to help you. You need rid of Him and we know how to do that."
Lynda, Susan and Brenda stood aside Kathy, their auras visible, calming, their expressions serene. Kathy reached for my hand to pull me into their circle and her touch sent a life force shock through my system, not harmful, not fearful, invigorating, life-giving, eliciting a joy in me I had never before experienced.
We five stood in a clearing mere feet away from the burial sites, our bodies facing one another in a circular formation, my stance quick relaxing to meet theirs. There were so many questions whirling around in my head, the Why's, the How's all begging for answers, but the calm in them overpowered the agnst in me, their sweet smiling serenity saying in silence what could never be uttered in words.
The four raised their right arms, pointing in unison their right index fingers, tip to tip, each touching the other.
"Come, Barbie, meet our touch. We have the light and the power, not Him. Complete the circle and let us kill the lingering core in Him, which stains you."
In silence, I obeyed, stepped forward and raised my arm, the tip of my index finger meeting theirs. The moment touch was achieved, a brilliant bolt of vibrating, humming white light eschewed and rose high above the trees, a swirling laser beam-exacting vortex of prism colour spewing out and up, the power so strong it elevated all five of us a few feet off the ground. Our heads fell back and warmth enveloped our souls.
All the questions fell into answers, all the worries collapsed into calm, all the fear and sorrow and yes, my personal guilt, ebbed away and was replaced with an effervescent and eternal joy.
There was no evil in this place. The evil which was, is Him, forced to vacate, mind and body. Taylor Mountain which minutes ago was drowning in gloom, now bathed in sunshine, the damp dried, the warmth so inviting. Love, the Giver of all life, enveloping, enduring, eradicating all the bad.
A scream. A set of screams. A baritone voice begging, crying, screeching, seeking aid where none would be found. Although unseen, He was there, He was felt by us all. Ted, through our life-giving power, was finally burning up in Hell. Down to the last ash. His time in Pergatory was up, his opportunity to escape and seek Heaven, forever gone. We five had proclaimed his sentence and executed his punishment, and in a wink of time for those screams to be heard, in a second wink, they were heard no more.
I opened my eyes and I found myself alone in the forest with only the drip-dropping of water off verdant leaves and the alpine air embracing my lungs. The girls were gone and my trial was over.
Ted was gone for good.
I had truly reached The End.
~~~
Back in Calgary the following day...
The telephone rang.
I let it ring.
The End
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