Mallory's Hunt

by Jory Strong

  Mallory let it lie.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 5

  Death restored her innocence. It stripped away what she'd become either by her own bad choices or because she'd been born into a miserable family. He didn't know which, and looking at the naked girl on the rainbow-hued sheets, he didn't care.

  For all he knew, the name he'd been calling her, Amanda, was something she'd made up to distance herself from the truth of how she survived, by selling her body to strangers. She might really be Ashley or Charlotte or Sara.

  She was dead now, months earlier than he'd anticipated, the pleasant memories of their time together banished—at least for the near term. The rage he'd carefully suppressed upon entering the room made him shake now. She'd nearly ruined everything.

  She'd nearly cost him his health, his wealth, ultimately his life. If he hadn't stopped by the house today—

  "But I did." Luck favored him. It had since he was eleven.

  He touched the medallion that was warm against his skin. With his eyes he traced the archaic script meticulously painted onto the floor and walls and ceiling, allowing him to kill anywhere in these enclosed quarters.

  It was an extravagance, an extremely costly one—and he feared, an irreplaceable one. The old woman he'd brought from Haiti to prepare this area for him had since died there in an earthquake.

  He owed his life to that old woman, though his mother had always been vague on how she'd found her in the first place. But find her she had, when increasing desperation after a long string of failed medical treatments had driven his mother to seek alternative ways to save his life.

  The old woman had succeeded where so many others had failed. She'd sent the disease slowly reducing him into a drooling blob into remission—remission only.

  Days after his eleventh birthday, she'd taught him how to craft a small circle and feed the lives of animals into it, and from there, into the medallion. Though even back then, having to slaughter animals had disgusted him.

  He'd done what was necessary, of course, likening it to taking a daily vitamin. He'd endured.

  Over time though, he'd needed more, wanted more, deserved more than that wretched cycle of constant acquisition and sacrifice and disposal of animals. He'd grown to hate the necessity of shedding his own blood and feeding it into the circle first and so he'd paid dearly, nearly a year's income, to have the old woman rework and weave her spell into the sigils and glyphs around and above and beneath him.

  And this girl, this pathetic substitute for—

  No. He did not want to think those thoughts.

  Straightening, he removed the cord from the girl's neck. He set it on the nightstand to bag and dispose of separately but left his leather gloves on. It was the second time he'd used strangulation. Not a habit he wanted to get into, using the same method of killing. Habit led to carelessness.

  In the soft stillness of death, the girl actually seemed as young as the eleven she'd pretended to be when he first met her. Of course, once he'd gotten her to the house, the illusion had been shattered at seeing the amateurishly-done flowers tattooed at the base of her spine.

  He'd have to replace her. Quickly. And not because of any magical requirement. Having this outlet was critical if he was going to prevent himself from doing something reprehensible, something so monstrous he wouldn't be able to live with the guilt.

  Reaching down, he tugged the straps that bound her hands behind her back, freeing her wrists with the distinctive sound of Velcro pulling apart. Bondage was not something he enjoyed. But experience had taught him that it was far easier and far less risky to his person to secure a sacrifice for the final act, just as it was far better to look to the future and prepare for it. She'd been with him two months, long enough that she hadn't flinched when he ordered her to retrieve the cuffs from the dresser drawer where they were hidden beneath modest, white cotton panties.

  Going to the drawer, he opened it, returning the restraints to their rightful place. He took a moment to smooth the underwear, fingers gliding over soft cotton so it lay free of lines. It was a wasted gesture because soon he would pack them up and get rid of them.

  He always provided fresh panties for the girls he brought here. There was just something…off-putting…about them sharing the same undergarments.

  He closed the drawer and went to the door, keying in the code. Early on he'd discovered the necessity of having the door lock automatically.

  He'd also seen the value in installing a hidden camera. Not to make videos of himself having sex—nor was he so foolish as to be tempted into doing it later, though he did keep small segments of footage, capturing the girls in moments of innocence.

  The camera served a far more practical purpose. It allowed him to be sure he could enter without the risk of ending up unconscious or injured, thereby allowing escape.

  He opened the door. Leaning sideways, he snagged yellow dishwashing gloves, along with a jug of bleach and a scuba diver's weight belt.

  When he'd purchased the belt, he'd been thinking of using drowning as cause of death sometime in the coming months. But when he'd turned on the camera to see what she was up to—

  His heart sped. The sight of her trying to ruin the flow of interlocking sigils still had the power to scare him.

  "It's done. It's over. It was a fluke." Not one of the other four girls had been a threat, though if he were being honest, the one hadn't been in the room for much longer than it'd taken to kill her.

  Time to clean up.

  He'd left the bleach outside the room to prevent this girl becoming alarmed despite the panic she'd engendered. Death was a frightening enough prospect to face without the added, anticipatory terror of suspecting it was imminent.

  He wasn't a monster. He took what he needed, just that and with as little upset and mess as possible.

  She'd been a clever girl. If he'd walked in with the jug, then he might as well have walked in wearing the leather gloves and holding the nylon rope instead of having them discreetly tucked away on his person.

  He'd had her position herself on her stomach before pulling them out, further sparing her from knowing until it was too late for her to do anything other than die. And in the process, he'd also avoided an unnecessary struggle that might lead to bruises or scratches he would need to explain.

  "Been there, done that." Worse, he had not enjoyed using a limb cutter to lop off fingertips so he could be sure none of his DNA had ended up under the nails. Nor had he enjoyed the smell of roasting flesh when he'd burned them, or the paranoia that had remained even after he'd dumped them into the ocean. Forensic science was a formidable foe.

  Moving to the bathtub, he set the dive weights down, then closed the drain and turned on the water. He emptied half the jug of bleach. He'd do a wipe-down later, but in the meantime a soak would eradicate and degrade any of his DNA that might be on her skin.

  Returning to the bedroom for the body, he picked her up, carrying her as if she were as treasured as his own daughter. He would give her that much, though if he were being perfectly honest with himself, the reason for his care was the change in focus the situation required.

  Everything from now on must be done meticulously, without error. The stakes were just as high when disposal was on the agenda as they were during the acquisition phase.

  Though death by drowning was no longer an option, he might as well test the concept of using the diver's belt to hold someone down. He turned her over before placing her on the belt, making himself look at her face, the blue of her eyes now sightless in a way that marked the finality of her departure.

  There. That wasn't so bad, was it? If only she'd…

  He shook his head to clear it of if onlys. They were a pointless pursuit.

  His eyes strayed downward, to small, small breasts, and the pubic mound he'd prevailed upon her to shave so that he could pretend, so that he could relive the past, so that he could avoid horrendous, damning temptation.

  His lips firmed. He'd c
ounted on an enjoyable interlude before going to watch the family pet put through his paces in doggie acting class, but she'd denied him that by forcing him to kill her today. He couldn't risk semen being found inside her, and wearing a condom would have been as much of an announcement of her pending murder as seeing the gloves and rope would have been.

  He paused to exchange leather gloves for the dishwashing gloves. His senses became heightened, attuned to each of his own movements now that he was down to the nitty gritty of cleaning up.

  Cinching the weight belt, he lifted the body and placed it in the water, careful not to splash bleach on himself or his clothing.

  She sank, her hair spreading out like dark-gold rays of sun, eyes the color of the sky staring upward at the cloud-white ceiling inscribed with sigils.

  He imagined bubbles rising to the surface, wondered if even though unconscious, someone would struggle against death.

  Looking at the dive belt, he considered that if a heart still beat, there might be bruising, something to indicate someone had been held under water, invalidating the presumption of accidental drowning.

  Frowning, he realized there were too many unknowns, and accepted that he wasn't motivated enough to do the research. He was mildly disappointed in himself. Only mildly. He wasn't a one-trick pony after all.

  Suffocation, strangulation, assisted drowning, and overdoses using different drugs for different occasions, provided a wealth of viable options.

  He laughed at himself. He spent far too much time around people pitching movies.

  The weight belt wasn't a write-off. He didn't have time to dispose of the body right now, hadn't planned on there being one to dispose of, not today anyway. She could soak while he watched his daughter and Zeus then attended a party with his wife, this one on Mulholland. Probably a waste of time, but Julia had insisted on their going.

  His gaze slipped lower, to the place between the girl's legs. His wife had been bare when they began dating. Sometimes he thought that's what had led him to marry Julia—well, that and the bedroom games they used to play—still played when she overdrew her account and needed him to contribute funds beyond what was specified in their prenuptial agreement.

  His wife was a shallow and sometimes flighty woman, but she was an excellent mother, and he loved her. Not the throw himself in front of a bullet type of love, but a genuine, steady kind of commitment.

  She didn't have to fear he would trade her in for a newer model. She was beautiful, an excellent hostess, and clever when it came to meeting the people he expressed an interest in her getting to know better. They fit well together.

  Crouching, he peeled off the elbow-length yellow gloves, putting them on the floor rather than dropping them to it. The act brought his face closer to the one now submerged in water.

  His eyes teared in proximity to the bleach. His nostrils burned as he contemplated what came next.

  Box her up and toss her into a dumpster? Or wrap her in plastic and drop her alongside the road somewhere?

  He'd figure out what was best before he returned. He always did. It was time to go watch Aubrey and Zeus.

  A weight settled on him, far heavier than the belt holding the body to the bottom of the tub. The muscles in his chest constricted, tightening to the point his heartbeat became erratic.

  He rose from his crouch. He needed to find a replacement. Quickly.

  * * * * *

  Caleb swung off the Harley, locked his helmet to the bike and double-checked the saddle bag though he knew his gun was secure. He felt naked without a weapon, not that there hadn't been times on other assignments when he'd been disarmed, but on this one, the absence made the place between his shoulder blades tense.

  From the outside, the Brass Ring looked like a hole-in-the-wall joint, something suited to a rough crowd and illegal activity. Entering it, he found what he expected thanks to the photos on the flash drive, gleaming wood and tasteful lighting, clean, nice-looking women that gave the bar a certain amount of class.

  Straight ahead, Hayden Welker shot pool alone, wearing the same vest he'd been photographed in, no shirt, as if putting the brand on display. He glanced in Caleb's direction then returned to his game.

  Caleb went to the bar along the left wall. A television tuned to a ballgame was mounted in the right corner, against a wall created by the room neither the FBI nor whoever'd originated the operation had been able to get into. There was a big screen across from the bar. Most of the patrons were focused on strikes and outs rather than the bare-breasted women serving them.

  There wasn't even a hint of a security system, beyond the palm plate he knew was on the door near Welker's pool table. The lack made him itchy.

  "What can I get you?" the black bartender asked with a Jamaican lilt.

  "Budweiser in a bottle."

  "Light?"

  "You serious?"

  The bartender laughed. "You be surprised, how many come in a worryin' about calories. One Bud comin' up."

  Caleb dropped cash onto the glossy wood. The beer he got in return was cold enough to sweat the bottle.

  He lifted it, took a long swallow, swiveling enough to catch the game on the big screen and surreptitiously study the bar's occupants. Most of them he pegged as living nearby or passing by the place coming and going to work.

  The women were harder to label, but in a down economy, people did what they had to. They were all lookers, some of them classy enough to be high-end call girls.

  None of them had rolled on Welker. That didn't mean he wasn't running prostitutes. Nothing to say he couldn't make his money that way and still be a vigilante.

  Caleb's gaze settled on the brand. Probably some kind of initiation rite.

  The angle didn't let him see the door into the off-limits room. Didn't matter, he had plenty of time to get a firsthand look at it.

  Tonight was recon. Showing his face. Getting a feel for the people and the place. Getting a read on Welker and how to make the approach that would get him an intro to Mallory.

  His heart sped in anticipation of meeting her. If he'd been alone he'd have pressed the bottle to his chest to slow the beat. Fuck, he'd seen beautiful women before. Hell, he'd dated beautiful women.

  It'd be a mistake to think she was anything close to what he wanted. The warmth, the hint of humor in her eyes, the smile, none of it trumped what she was suspected of being—a murderer.

  Even if she was innocent of the charge, on the thin side of possible, and completely in the dark about what the others did, well into impossible-to-believe territory, she was still linked to killers.

  He didn't want that in his life. When this assignment was wrapped, he wanted his afterhours and weekends to be uncomplicated. His mom. Grace. Kicking back with his father and law enforcement buddies, working out or drinking beer while they watched ballgames. He wanted to be done hanging out with criminals and lowlifes 24/7.

  Leaning against the bar, he nursed the beer like a guy not committed to staying beyond the one but not in a hurry to leave either. He was nearly done with it when a looker dressed like she was on her way to a Hollywood party came into view, passing Welker at the pool table as if he were invisible.

  Her gaze found Caleb and she changed course, heading his way.

  He stayed relaxed, though a buzz of excitement rode his nerve endings. She could only have come from the locked room.

  Alabaster skin, rich mahogany hair, red, red lips. Caleb straightened away from the bar, buzz turning into the urge to bolt the closer she got.

  "You're new here," she said on a purr.

  She should have had all of him standing at attention. Instead his dick shriveled and his balls were in full retreat.

  "Checking the place out," he said, resisting the urge to step to the side, or better yet, move away from her completely.

  Hazel eyes probed his like she was trying to glimpse his soul. She placed her hand on his chest. Fingernails as red as her lips scratched lightly and it felt as though the cold sweat on the beer bot
tle transferred itself to his skin.

  His heart rate spiked the way it did when he was under fire. His mind flashed to his last undercover assignment, to the man he'd killed during a drug deal that was peripheral to the cargo theft investigation that had him working in Oakland.

  The scene reeled out, absorbing him. The second in command of the group he'd infiltrated somehow getting wind that the buyer for some stolen coke was DEA. Waiting until the three of them were doing the deal to reveal it, to pull his gun. All of it happening so fast that there was no talking Bagot down, no taking him down. There was only killing him and covering it up with a story about a deal gone bad, all the while hoping his own cover didn't get blown by someone in the DEA.

  Caleb jerked from the memories, heart pounding faster, harder, like feet beating a retreat, and this time he took the step sideways, breaking the contact.

  "Not interested," he said, nerves vibrating at the feline look of satisfaction on the woman's face.

  Her tongue darted out, licking lips whose color was the glossy red of freshly spilled blood. "It doesn't work that way," she said.

  "Maybe in your world it doesn't, but in mine it does."

  Her laugh was throaty, confident, unnerving. "You're mistaken, but I'll leave you to your…pursuits."

  Training kept him from reacting. She couldn't know who he was, what he was. He couldn't believe he'd been made. Whoever had initiated this investigation would never have been able to get their listener in if a cover could so easily be blown.

  She turned and walked away, stopped at a table to stroke those long fingers down a man's forearm, like a chef determining if the meat was ready.

  A shudder passed through Caleb. He pressed his knuckles to the place her hand had rested, ground them in as if she'd left something of herself on him that he needed to rub off.

  Jesus. He'd been on edge since the meet with Zack and it'd only gotten worse when he'd gone through the flash drive.