With the prized photograph still in his hand, he dreamily waltzed to the rocking chair, plopping down. “It won’t be long before you get to meet my Sweet Cheeks, Momma. She’s beautiful, just like you. Remember the last time we talked and I told you I had a couple more details to finalize? Well, they’re all but done. And that means you’re gonna meet her real soon. Maybe even this week.”
Gently rocking in the chair, he cooed to the picture of Momma before kissing the photo and lovingly replacing it on the shelf. Surveying his collection of dolls tied in various enslaved positions, he focused on his latest: a doll brutally bound in a forced kneel restraint. Pleasure blossomed on his face as he dreamed of Sweet Cheeks tethered like the doll; she would be in ecstasy, eager to have him bind her, gag her, flog her or do whatever he wanted just because it made him happy....
Before leaving his secret room he scanned the shelves one more time. Compulsively he slightly twisted the jar labeled MOMMA #4 a little toward the right to perfectly line up the labels. Satisfied that all was in order as desired, he slipped through the crack of an opening, dousing the battery-operated light as he exited. Cautiously he pushed the wall back into place with his shoulder, listening for the hidden lever to click and lock.
Peering over at naked Miz Tree-Hugger, she lay motionless. Eyes closed. Skin pasty-white. A lake of blood accumulated on the towel between her legs. The cabin reeked of cooled urine and clotting blood; the nauseating stench of a slaughterhouse, but it didn’t bother him. The smell was familiar.
Another clap of thunder rocked the cabin.
Miz Tree-Hugger’s body and head twitched with a startled jerk. A barely audible shriek sneaked out from beneath the brutal muzzle.
“Good, you’re still alive,” he said, eyeing his watch. “It’s been nearly an hour. Looks like surgery was a success.”
His mind drifted to his previous lab rats. The first was a disaster. Blood and bits of flesh everywhere. Had to keep digging and scraping. The hooker died quickly.
Lab rat number two was less of a disaster, but still a blood bath. Scooped out much more flesh than necessary. The middle-aged bartender died about fifteen minutes after surgery.
Three lived for twenty-seven minutes. Again, hacked more flesh than was necessary from the convenience store clerk.
His fourth was perfection. Just the right amount of pressure. No extra flesh. She would survive. That special alligator grin glided across his face again as he mentally congratulated himself for mastering the cleansing processing. “I can do this,” he proudly announced to the semi-conscious Miz Tree-Hugger. Walking toward her, he felt confident he had practiced enough and was now competent to successfully perform the cleansing on Sweet Cheeks.
A stark realization unexpectedly eclipsed his mental applause: If Miz Tree-Hugger was alive, she would be a witness. Obviously, a problem. Couldn’t have a witness. No, she had to die. But how? Leaning his back against the rough log wall, he crossed his arms over his chest, staring blankly at her as he played out his options.
Shoot her?
No, a gun would be too messy; a bitch to clean up.
Cut her throat?
Too bloody.
Smoother her with a pillow?
Nah, too easy; wouldn’t be gratifying enough.
Pondering his options, he flexed his arms; biceps curls with imaginary dumbbells. Then it dawned on him: Strangulation! It was the perfect solution. No mess to clean and hands-on gratifying.
Strutting to the bed, he broadcast, “Time to meet your Maker.” A grin of superiority snaked across his face as he crawled onto the mattress. Cognizant of the pooling blood and urine between her legs, he carefully positioned himself at her side to ensure her bodily fluids would not be driven by gravity to contaminate his expensive suit pants. Once comfortable with his position, he descended upon her, wrapping his strong fingers around her throat, squeezing.
Body tensing and jerking, she gasped to breathe.
Earthworm-sized veins popped on his well-developed arm muscles as he bore down. “Die! Die! Die!” he commanded through clenched teeth, using the weight of his body to apply more pressure.
Miz Tree-Hugger’s eyes flew open, ballooned. Every muscle in her body flexed in a violent convulsion, rapid blasts of air spurted from her nose, projecting snot like impotent bullets. Dreadful gurgling sounds erupted from within.
Like nitrous oxide boosts the power of an internal combustion engine, the panic pulsating through her body stoked his death grip to super human strength. Within moments, her throat tissue collapsed beneath his mighty fingers, crushed like an empty aluminum can.
Her body wilted. Eyes glazed still. Lungs collapsed, forcing remaining air through her nostrils like a fireplace bellow. She was dead. Finally.
Euphoria consumed him. Waves of bliss surfed his innards as he straddled the dead woman’s chest. Sitting tall, he arched his back, engorging his lungs with a deep sucking in of air, basking in the victory of the kill.
ABOUT TEN MINUTES LATER. Unlocking the forceps from her flesh and the carabiners from the thigh strap, he set the instruments on the nightstand. Methodically, he liberated the dead lab rat from the restraints and gag. Shaking his head in reprimand, at the brutal ligature marks on her wrists, ankles and face, he spoke to the corpse, “You made those yourself.” A goofy grin trotted across his face. “Well, except for that near shiner,” he bragged, while admiringly eyeing his handsome and powerful fist.
Gathering her shirt, pants, bra, panties and socks from the floor, he methodically folded each one, taking extra care with the tattered pieces he had shredded to ensure they appeared tidy. In an orderly fashion—bra, shirt, panties, pants, socks—he lined up the clothing on her torso, starting just below her neck with the bra and ending with the socks flattened out at the top of her thighs. Picking up her boots, he stuffed them upside down toe to heel, the length of her lower legs. Pulling up the corners of the bloody, urine-soaked sheet from the mattress, he precisely wrapped up her body like a burrito, dragging her off the bed by her feet.
The thud of her lifeless mass hitting the wooden floor reverberated through the log cabin like the deep drone of a bass drum. Dust particles, blown in from the violent thunderstorm, shot up around her body, frolicking in the air like morbid confetti. Frowning at the sight, he immediately abandoned his lab rat to dash outside, retrieving a cordless handheld vacuum from his vehicle. Upon returning, he quickly vacuumed up the dirt crumbs from around the burrito before resuming the body disposal process.
Dragging the lab rat’s carcass behind him like a five-year-old slogging a heavy bag of garbage across the kitchen floor and toward the trash, he pulled her out of the cabin.
The air was crisp. Smelled of new rain and wet pine needles. Warm rays of dusky sunlight eerily stabbed through the dense forest. Nature’s creatures hummed in the background. Drag marks from her body marred the natural pattern of forest floor as he towed her body around to the back.
A newer pointed shovel rested against the rough exterior cabin wall. Vigorously he heaved the pointed edge into the ground, stomped his foot down on the lip, raised a shovelful of dirt and tossed the earth to the side. She would be buried along side the other three lab rats.
Digging was easier than usual due to the recent rainfall, but the added humidity made him sweat. Irritated him. After a few minutes of intense, non-stop digging, he cleared the liquid beads from his forehead with the back of his hand then wiped his sweaty hands on a corner of the soiled bedsheet. Standing tall, he callously kicked Miz Tree-Hugger’s body into the hole with a powerful thrust from the heel of his expensive oxblood shoe.
Her body landed at the bottom of the shallow grave with a muted thud that didn’t bother him. Hastily, he shoveled the dirt back into the hole. Patted the mound with the back of the shovel, then propped it against the cabin wall in nearly the exact same spot from where he had taken it. With the body disposal now complete, he vigorously brushed his hands together to dry his moist palms and examined his expensive s
hirt, flicking off a few dirt specks. “Shit,” he muttered aloud looking at the tad of mud on his footwear. Stomping back into the cabin, he immediately grabbed a roll of paper towels from one of the kitchen cabinets to wipe the mud from his shoes. Meticulous about having every speck of dirt removed, his detailing task lasted nearly ten minutes, taking priority over finalizing his lab cleanup.
Once a fire was roaring in fireplace, he rolled up the cruddy fitted sheet and tossed it in the flames. After scrubbing the rubber mattress cover with Lysol Bath Cleaner, he threw the rag in the fire, causing a flare-up that crackled and sparked. Foul-smelling smoke billowed out of the chimney, worming its way into the cabin. The odor assaulted his nose, causing his eyes to water. Sniffling, he rubbed his eye sockets with his fists, then surveyed the cabin.
With clean up completed to his satisfaction, he focused on preparations for Sweet Cheeks. Though he imagined her readily submitting to his restraint requests, he didn’t want to take any chances. Unlike his lab rats whom he had knocked out with a swift punch to the face before introducing them to the cabin and applying the straps to their wrists, he would not deliver a haymaker to Sweet Cheeks’ pretty face. She would be conscious and alert when he introduced her to the cabin. Therefore, just as an added precaution, the bed restraints had to be hidden, out of sight to her while readily accessible to him.
Storage of the gag was a no-brainer; he returned it to its designated spot in the nightstand along with the forceps and dissection razor. Before closing the drawer, he paused, gazing affectionately at the remaining jar. It was filled with formaldehyde and prelabeled, Sweet Cheeks. Alligator grin manifesting, “Soon,” he said, rapidly massaging his palms together in eager anticipation of adding her sex button to his collection. Pushing the drawer shut with his knee, he turned his attention to the bed restraints.
Initially he considered stashing the surgery straps under the bed, but curled up his nose at the idea, reasoning the logical place to hide them would be where he kept the other restraints and various types of bondage equipment: in the cabinets flanking the fireplace next to the bed.
With the leather bindings in hand, he padded over to the fireplace cabinet nearest to the bed and flung the door open. Two floggers dangled from hooks on the inside of the door and a metal bondage bar leg-spreader leaned against the back of the cabinet. A variety of leather restraints and harnesses were neatly stacked on the narrow shelves. Rearranging a few of the heavy duty straps to make a spot for the special bed restraints, he tucked them inside, closing the door.
Next he retrieved a set of wine-colored satin designer sheets from the shelves of treasures in his secret room. Only the best for Sweet Cheeks. Lab rats had deserved only cheap, plain white poly-cotton sheets.
After dressing the bed in the expensive sheets, he covered them with a beautiful handcrafted quilt that could be perceived as a family heirloom. Of course it wasn’t. He bought it at a local church bazaar just a few months ago, mainly because it resembled the one his mother kept on her bed.
After that, he swept the floor and vacuumed up any remaining dust particles. Lastly, he double-checked the stockpile of dry wood for the fireplace and Coleman fuel for the lanterns. Plenty of both.
Content with the cleanup and preparations, he lathered his hands and forearms in Germ-X hand sanitizer, then unrolled his sleeves, straightened his tie, climbed into his jacket, and strolled outside to watch the sun retire. It was a spectacular sight. The thunderheads had moved on, leaving a brilliant stream of color in the sky like strands of variegated yarn. The air was pristine.
How ironic, he thought. Just as he had performed a cleansing, so had Mother Nature.
Closing his eyes, once again, he dreamed of Sweet Cheeks. Imagined her as his wife. The touch of her passionate kisses on his lips. His hands fondling her full breasts. Him inside of her....
Darkness and frigid air ousted the warmth of the sun’s rays from his cheeks. His eyes opened. Once again he spawned that alligator grin. For nearly two years he had plotted, experimented, and executed elaborate plans to make her his own. Cupping his hands around his mouth like Tarzan ready to yell his jungle call, he hollered into the dense forest, “I’m ready for yoooouuuu, Sweet Cheeks.”
Chapter One
“JEWELS, THIS JUST CAME IN. Another grizzly attack,” Belinda announced breathlessly, sliding the fax over the glass covered desk top to her boss.
Belinda sank into one of the two plush wingback chairs opposite Jewels’ desk and crossed her legs. A gleam of morbid excitement danced in her eyes as she paraphrased the contents of the fax: “That killer grizzly attacked another hiker this morning. They found the guy down by MirrorLake without his legs.”
On occasion, as a throwback to the fledging days of the Press when she was the only reporter, Jewels liked to roll up her journalistic sleeves to delve into a hard-hitting or quirky story. Currently she was tracking the random terrorist attacks for which a radical domestic group, calling themselves Jefferson’s Warriors, had claimed responsibility. Apparently her secretary thought the grizzly story might capture her personal attention as well, especially since the last known grizzly in Utah was killed in 1923. However, based on the latest eyewitness accounts and even one blurry cell phone picture, the distinctive hump on the bear’s back confirmed it was, in fact, a grizzly. How and why the animal ventured into the Uintas seemed to be a mystery to everyone, including bear experts.
Jewels’ features melted into a sour face at the gruesome vision conjured up by her mind. “Ohhhh, how awful,” she gasped, pushing the fax back across the desk to Belinda. “Thanks for bringing this to my attention, but—”“I know,” Belinda sighed, with disappointment. “That sicko militia is the big story because it has everyone on edge. Last month’s bombing of the satellite police station next to Home Depot in Las Vegas didn’t help.”
“I guess the only good news is the bomb went off early and no one was around at two in the morning.”
“Jewels, don’t you think in this day and age security cameras or satellites or something would have caught the perps in the act?”
“You’d think. But it’s like they’re invisible ... or so that’s what law enforcement is saying. No one seems to know who they are or where they might strike next. And if they do know, they’re not saying,” she said, conspiracy in her tone.
“At least with this one,” Belinda said, nodding at the fax, “you know a grizzly bear is the bad guy and his territory is the Uinta Mountains.”
“Pass it along to Howard. Have him take one of the SUVs to the Uintas to get an interview with the Forest Service and see if he can pick up a vibe on the woods in the area. Tell him pictures might be nice, too.”
“Consider it done.” Belinda sprang from the oversize burgundy chair leaving as quickly as she had arrived, closing her boss’s office door behind her.
Jewels leaned back and sighed. Pivoting the chair to face the window, she rested her elbows on the arms and steepled her fingers, thinking about the attacks.
This new victim made five dead in as many months. Five people who had been killed by what the Forest Service was describing as a true rarity: a grizzly bear that seemed to have acquired a taste for human flesh.
Gently rocking in her executive desk chair, she stared out the window, mulling over the Forest Service’s explanation. There was something about their acquired taste theory that gnawed at her innards. There had to be more to it. But what?
Then it hit her. “Men,” she blurted out, sitting straight up, eyes wide. “All of the victims have been male even though three of the five were hiking with female companions. This grizzly isn’t interested in women. After all, it is a man-eating bear. There’s the slant for the story.”
Turning to the computer, she typed feverishly to record her thoughts, then e-mailed them to Howard.
Jewels spun her chair around again to face the corner windows.
Outside two sparrows nibbled from the wooden A-framed bird feeder as it swung in the towering oak tree. A
fter watching them for a few moments, a smile blossomed as she concluded the tiny feathered pair were probably lovers.
TAP-TAP. “Excuse me, Miz Andrasy?”
Jewels swiveled the chair around. It was Howard. Her eyes bugged. Nearly fifty years old, the sharp-dressing news reporter didn’t look a day over forty and could easily be mistaken for a bigwig attorney ... or a high-priced gigolo. “Wow. Another new suit?” she quizzed, signaling him to come in.
As if on a fashion runway, he sauntered into the room. Posed. Turned. “A custom tailored Armani.”
“You always look like a million bucks.”
“You would know.”
Pressing a finger to her chin, her face serious, “Hmm. Your boss must be paying you a lot if you can afford a suit like that.”
Waving his brows, “Only because she knows I’m worth it,” he returned.
“By the way, you’ve worked here for more than two years. When are you going to start calling me Jewels?” Grinning, he shrugged. “Maybe when you agree to let me treat you to a fountain Diet Coke over at Maverick,” he teased, settling into one of the wingback chairs in front of her desk.
Jewels tossed her head back in laughter. “Oh my, a big spender. I just couldn’t accept anything that extravagant.” For whatever reason, the moment she met Howard Dyson there was an instant connection, like being reunited with a big brother she had been separated from as a child. Flipping her long hair over her shoulder with a brush of her hand, she changed the subject. “Did you get my e-mail?”
“Yes, I did, and I’m rather bothered by it.”
“Oh?”
His handsome features tightened. “You think this grizzly only attacks men, right?”
Nodding in agreement, a puzzled look swamped Jewels’ face.
“And you assigned me to this story? What’s up with that? Trying to get rid of me by sending me to cover a story about a bear you think only eats men?” He paused, glanced down at his crotch then back up at her. “I am a man,” he said, biting his lip to maintain a straight face.
Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) Page 3
