Author's note:

Trigger warnings for violence and child endangerment.

July 5, 1985 [18]

The night was hot. A day of baking beneath the merciless California sun had left the pavement practically glowing with heat. But Martha generated enough of a breeze – her feet stabbing against the pedals; her My Little Pony bike slicing through the air – that she didn't mind it. Besides, once you've hung atop a lava lake, your concept of heat is never the same.

A seven-year-old girl circling the block on her bike in the middle of the night might look suspicious, so Martha had settled on a figure eight with the victim's residence at its intersection. She passed the house with no sign of the man or his car so she took another right. Where is he?

She was certain he was nearby, prowling the streets for open windows and easy targets, unaware that someone was prowling for him...

The remainder of Martha's previous life in post-apocalyptic Hawaii had given her mind no peace. She'd kept to herself in the wild until the rioting died down, then in the shadows, hopping between bungalows and abandoned resort hotels and avoiding the gangs.

The mechanics had been simple; her survival, trivial. Because all she could think of was the look in Nan's eyes.

About a decade in, she slipped on a chunk of loose earth during a downpour and gashed open her leg on a rock. The wound would become infected and Martha decided against looking for a natural or pharmaceutical treatment, letting the fever take her instead. But before the end, as she lay on the beach, now in physical agony in addition to spiritual, the idea struck...

Presently, she took three more rights and was back on the block in question. Still no sign of him.

She started her loop to the left, Nan's eyes flashing in the dark with each blink. Would Martha's actions tonight atone? If she saved this girl and the fourteen victims that normally would have followed, could she find forgiveness for herself?

She'd memorized the dates and locations of his crimes in her last life while studying at Quantico. To keep him on script, she did her best to stay on hers. And she'd played her role perfectly but for a single deviation – a tour of the back of their neighborhood pharmacy. She'd begged with such innocent curiosity that the pharmacist had decided to break protocol and Martha was able to swipe what she needed. But whatever ripples of change her heist sent out, it didn't reach the Night Stalker as his victims fell on schedule.

Tonight's crime scene was the closest to her home – no more than a mile – so after slipping a sleep-aid into her father's Dr Pepper, she was able to bike the distance. Now I just need him to show!

Then Martha saw the green Pontiac Grand Prix turn slowly onto the block. She hopped off her bike and kneeled, pretending to tie her shoe. The car came to a stop next to her, its motor purring monstrously.

"You really shouldn't be out this late by yourself," came his voice, slithering out the passenger window. "It's dangerous."

Martha stood, but averted her eyes, trying to look nervous. "I know. I know and... I'm gonna get in so much trouble but I... I'm lost."

He chuckled. She raised her eyes and there he was – the man from the mugshot, the trial, and the prison interview. There was Richard Ramirez smiling at Martha hungrily. "Hop in. I'll take you home. You know your address?"

Martha nodded. "Mm-hmm. But... My daddy will be so mad if I leave my bike here. I can't leave my bike here because my daddy will be so mad."

"No problemo," he said before stepping out of the car, grabbing the bike, and tossing it in the trunk. Then he opened the passenger door. "Alright. Wanna go home?"

She smiled politely, then stepped inside. The car was disgusting – used tissue, old fast food wrappers and various other trash littered the interior. But as bad as it looked, it smelled much worse.

He circled around and sat back in the driver's seat. She set her backpack on the floor in front of her, then adjusted her dress to keep the syringe taped to her thigh from showing.

Ramirez pulled the column shifter down and drove off the block. If nothing else, Whitney Bennet will be safe.

"Gotta stop somewhere first then I'll get you home quick as a whip," he said and smiled, the visual equivalent of nails on the chalkboard.

"Okay," Martha said timidly. Good. He was taking her somewhere. Privacy would work in her favor. Of course, there was always a chance her plan would backfire. But maybe that's okay. Maybe she deserved to be devoured by a monster. Maybe such an end would be her salvation. Call it a silver lining, I guess.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" he asked as he pulled into the parking lot of a shabby motel.

"S-Sarah," she let out. She wasn't sure why she'd lied. And why with my mother's name? Because there was no reason to hide her identity from him. Only one of them was leaving this motel alive.

"Okay, Sarah," he said, turning off the car. "You're going to come in with me. And I don't want to hurt you but if you give me any trouble, I will." He put his hand on her knee and dozens of phantom spiders crawled up and down her leg. On instinct, she eyed his pressure points, in case the need arose. "If you scream, I'll hurt you. If you run away, I'll catch you and then I'll hurt you. You got it?"

She nodded and he let go of her knee, then said, as if to a dog, "Stay there. You stay there."

He stepped out of the car and circled around. Before he made it to her side, Martha slipped her backpack on again. Her door opened and his hand was in front of her face, grime trapped under its nails, stained brown from cigarettes. She took it and stepped out of the car.

They walked up the motel stairs to the second level. His hand was rough yet clammy. Martha squeezed it. Unwashed as it was, it probably had traces of his victims' blood. Would hers join the composite beneath his nails tonight?

As they reached the top of the stairs Martha rehearsed the choreography in her mind. It wasn't necessary because she'd practiced the last three nights and had the combination down pat. Still, there's nothing like opening night...

Ramirez stopped at a door, took out a set of keys, and opened it. The room was small with a double bed on her right, its blanket strewn halfway onto the floor. The walls were covered with stained, paisley wallpaper, peeling at the corners from the heat. Ahead of them were a sink and the door to the bathroom. As in the car, varied trash lay scattered throughout.

She heard the deadbolt click behind her and then, "Get on that bed."

"Okay, but I'm thirsty," she said innocently. "Can I have a glass of water first?"

"Water? Water..." His eyes were distant. Then they flared. "Water is good for you. Water will purify you. And you need to be pure. Yeah. Water will be good."

He walked toward the sink and here it was...

Martha ripped off the syringe then jumped one foot onto the edge of the bed and launched herself in the air. As she flew toward the unsuspecting six foot one monster, she pulled the cap off the needle just in time to jab it into his neck and inject 20 mg of Haldol.

"Shit! The fuck, man?!" he screamed, ripping the needle out and throwing it to the side. Martha backpedaled as he turned to her. "Fucking bitch brat!"

Ramirez lunged at her, but she jumped on the bed. He crashed into the wall, turned and lunged again. But he was slowing, and she eluded him easily, hopping backward off the opposite side of the bed.

As he continued to crawl towards her, she taunted, "That's it. Keep coming." He bared his rotten, gap filled teeth and reached his fingers inches from her face before collapsing on the bed.

Martha collapsed as well and allowed herself a moment to catch her breath before retrieving her backpack that had fallen by the door. She opened it and found zip ties, twine, three additional syringes, and various sharp objects she'd pilfered from her dad's garage. Then she got to work.

Author's note:

The Night Stalker was a pretty big deal in California, 1984-1985.  It struck me that in all her lives, Martha has to watch those news reports (and her father trying to hide his concern) with the attacks taking place only one or two towns away.

I imagine her making an anonymous tip or two to help the police catch him (which would itself create all sorts of chaotic ripples), but never taking direct action until now.

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