by Henry Cordes
He refastened the ropes and zip ties and secured her to the backbench of his van, making sure her mouth was covered in duct tape. He drove to the back of an empty business along Farmington Avenue and raped her two or three times. Morning came and he was getting tired. As with his other victims, he allowed himself to rest beside his captive, slipping into a kind of catnap—half awake, half asleep—but always ready to pounce. At dawn, he drove her to the parking lot of a Motel 6, removed the duct tape from her mouth and ordered her to perform oral sex so he would be stiff enough to assault her again. He raped her a few more times. Depleted of strength and sexually satisfied, he finally strangled her in the back lot of the Motel 6 later that morning.
Presently having regained his composure in the forest behind the mall, he got back to his feet to complete the task at hand. Burying the dead. The morning commute had begun. Cars and trucks sounded in the distance and a long line of cars waited at the McDonald’s drive thru. He dug a shallow grave, simultaneously crushing mosquitoes that landed on his sweaty arms. He wanted to dig deeper, but the water table was high in that swampy earth and if he went below a foot and a half, mud emerged. He dug just low enough for the body to fit. As with the others, before lowering the body into the earth, he removed the black trash bags and duct tape that bound them. He covered the grave with a loose layer of soil, leaves and sticks. As a landscaper, working with dirt was an activity that brought him a sense of satisfaction.
As he rushed out of the woods, the monster retreated to its cage, securely buried deep within his loins. In the hours that followed, life went on as usual. He ordered beef and Cheddar burgers and fries and brought them to his girlfriend Dori’s house. After dinner, they watched an episode of “Forensic Files” on TV. A scientist was talking about how they identified the charred remains of a woman trapped inside of her car. Howell’s thoughts turned to the naked corpse of Nilsa Arizmendi, concealed beneath only a modest layer of soil and twigs. Would someone eventually discover her corpse? Would he be the subject of a “Forensic Files” episode one day?
Laying on the couch, he put his head on Dori’s lap and she gave him a vigorous scalp scratch. She then removed his shirt and went about scratching his itchy skin and attacking the pimples on his back. Damn, it felt good.
He rolled over on the couch. Dori smiled when she saw the bulge in his jeans. He didn’t have to ask Dori if she was in the mood. She was always hungry for sex—the more the better. She liked him to use sex toys, too, and no position was off the table. The couple had sex at least two or three times per day. Dori had no clue that her lover was simultaneously picking up several prostitutes a week on the side and even less of a clue regarding his nefarious activities in the back of the van where he lived when he was not spending time at her house.
“You’re the best I ever had,” she once told him.
“What makes me the best?” he asked.
“You’re not a selfish lover. You please me first. You take your time.”
Well, not always. Tonight he was in a rush—too horny to wait. Fully engaged, he glanced out the window and saw a cop car drive past, the siren wailing and lights flashing. Beneath him, Dori moaned with pleasure.
It was like nothing had happened only hours before.
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