Jill Oliver Deception Thrillers (Box Set Books 1 - 2)

by Judith Price

  Fast to her feet, she rifled through her junk drawer and pulled out several zip lines. She pulled his left hand behind his back and zipped it to the other limp wrist. Then without hesitation, she cracked her boot hard to his midsection as if she were kicking a soccer ball to the end of the field. “Bastard.” She hissed.

  She was tempted to pull back the long scraggly black hair to see his face. But the smell of him stopped her. She dialed 911.

  Four

  Matthew

  She was always there. She was always telling him what to do, what to say, and how to say it. That skank psychologist at the ‘retreat’, Dr. Sabrina Swallows, PsyD, was constantly writing reports about him—continually increasing his meds. Nobody liked the doc. She was a bully to the patients—to the staff. If he had had more cognition he would’ve reported her. But why should he? Nobody cared.

  Matthew stood leaning against the side of the brown brick building out of sight of the departing staff. She was late today, but he was patient. After all, he’d been waiting a long time. He had everything planned. That blue Jag, you couldn’t miss it anyway. He had followed it every day for the last five days. It was parked in front of the reserved sign: Dr. Sabrina Swallows, PsyD. Four car lengths down was Matthew’s van. The brown panel van that looked like an old UPS van from the ‘80s was well equipped with everything he needed. Complete with a handicap lift and his toolbox, which was full of top-of-the-line gadgets to accomplish his goal.

  The fat doc left the building in haste. He watched her as she quickly waddled to her car. She was probably picked on when she was in school. The irony of being picked on made Matthew giggle. It was just a little giggle, as he jumped in his van and turned on the ignition.

  It was time. He had waited long enough and he felt it now. His face began to flush. His blood was electric, traveling fast. A wide smile stretched across his face when he thought of what he was going to do. Needed to do.

  He had known his whole life that he was better than the ‘others’. And he proved his theory all right. It was those days when he first went to the ‘retreat’, first sampled the blood of others. After all, he knew he wasn’t what other the kids had called him in grade school. He knew he wasn’t white trash. Those stupid guards never caught on. They didn’t care anyway.

  It wasn’t as if it was a crime to talk the knucklehead patients into cutting themselves. Into pricking their fingers and sucking each other. “See, I told you. Now taste mine.” The group of lost boys sat in the dark of night, only the glow of the bed lamp illuminated the room. “Mine is better isn’t it. You taste the difference. I know you do.” The dumbfounded drugged boys would nod their heads and agree. Matthew would smile gleefully. The experiment worked. It always did, until they figured out what he was doing to the ‘others’. Until they upped his meds.

  ***

  The left blinker on the blue Jag flashed. He knew where she was going. He knew she would park in the last stall on the backside of the liquor store. Matthew figured she parked there so no one would see her running her daily errand. He knew everything about his old doc: Leave the ‘retreat’. Drive to the liquor store. Bottle of Zinfandel—and twice in the last five days, a 26 of Gordon’s gin. To chase down the wine, he thought. Or maybe it was the other way around.

  After this, she would drive to a local fast food drive-thru. It was a different one every day. Matthew thought this would account for her grotesque acne problem. The thought of this made him cringe. He didn’t mind the blood of people staining his hands. That made him feel powerful. But the thought of germs from acne repulsed him. Besides, his blood was superior—he was superior. He enjoyed the thought of proving this to himself again.

  The clock on the dashboard shone 6:32 p.m. This time he had parked two car lengths away and backed into the spot. His plan was solid. Before the liquor store opened this morning, he came to this exact location and pitched a rock to the lamp post, shattering the bulb. It was almost dark now. The chloroform was already on the cloth sealed in the zip lock bag. He didn’t think she would recognize him, but he hoped she would. Waiting, Matthew absently curled a strand of hair in his finger as he rested his left elbow on the van door.

  Like clockwork, the doc exited the neon lit doorway. She held the clear plastic bag with the green cloverleaf logo on it. “Your lucky day lassie,” Matthew grinned mischievously. As she came closer, anger overshadowed Matthew’s excitement. Clunking towards him and her Jag, Dr. Swallows was talking on that goddamn mobile. She’d never done that before. Who would call her anyway? It became clear that unless she hung up the phone he’d have to change his plan. The doc was actually smiling to whomever she was talking to. He had to come up with a new plan and the fact that he was beginning to feel out of control angered him even more. Who was she talking to anyway? Carol, that lazy nurse. He saw how the doc touched her, how she ran her fingers up her arm, before looking over in his direction, mocking him.

  This change in the plan rattled him. He liked everything to be in order and when it wasn’t, he couldn’t function. Soon, anxiety would grow inside him. “Not now, not now!” This was the perfect spot—he’d rehearsed it over and over. But he couldn’t risk someone hearing him take her. Her screams. Surely she’d scream.

  She opened her door and got in. His opportunity had passed. He watched her laughing into the mobile as she drove past him.

  He didn’t bother following her through the McDonald’s drive-thru, like he’d done before. Somehow it repulsed him when he overheard her give her order. The brown van idled on the shoulder of the road, just past the McDonald’s exit. As he waited he began to run through other options. Her house. No there was a problem there. She lived in an apartment—parked in the underground parking. There would be cameras.

  The blue Jag passed him fast and he swerved his van off the shoulder of the road and followed. The fingers of his right hand tapped one by one on the steering wheel when the epiphany hit.

  He jammed his foot on the accelerator breaking out of his timed pace that kept him far enough back that she wouldn’t notice him. He was gaining on her now and considered for a moment ramming the back of her car forcing that Big Mac down her throat.

  He pulled out from behind her and added more pressure to the gas. She didn’t even give him so much as a glance when his van became parallel with her Jag. He cringed when he saw the special sauce dripping down the side of her chin and he thought of his gloves.

  He was more determined now than ever to give her what she deserved. He knew now what to do and after seeing that bitch’s smug face he noticed that sensation—that heat in his groin.

  Five

  Dr. Sabrina Swallows, PsyD

  She threw the crumbled bag onto the passenger’s side floor and took a slurp of her coke. The sound of sucking filled the car as she tried to free the burger remnants from between her teeth.

  It was dark now and she flicked on her headlights. There were only a few cars on this back road that she had found a few days ago. It snaked around the old highway to avoid the backlog of traffic from the new construction site. With her hand holding her dinner, she used her knee to hold the steering wheel while she reached over and tapped the on button for the stereo. ‘Like a Virgin’ filled the car, and she heard the sound of a vehicle coming up behind her fast. By the time she figured out what was happening, a van whipped past her making her jerk to the right with surprise. She flipped him the bird as the dark van faded in the distance ahead of her. She dipped her hand into the bag of cold French fries, then stuffed several into her mouth. Fall had taken the last of the sycamore leaves from the trees that lined the dark road before it filled up with thick spruce and pine.

  As she rounded a sharp corner she let her foot off the gas just enough to slow the Jag as the pavement transformed into loose gravel. She remembered the washboards would be coming soon, but she hadn’t slowed down fast enough. Maybe it was the pace of the song … “strike a pose,” she sang off key, when suddenly the tires bounced up and down. Her car vibrate
d and she felt the roughness of the road. The ass-end of her car pulled to the left. She turned the wheel, but over-corrected and the car weaved to the right. She wrestled the steering trying to gain back control. When she saw the ninety-degree turn in the road just ahead she barked, “Shit.” She knew she had to take the sharp turn, but she was going too fast. The rear tire burped and the car twisted on the turn. She held the wheel tight and slammed on the brakes.

  The dust ball blew over the car as it stopped facing the opposite direction. Shaken, she unclasped her belt, opened the door, and pried her pumpkin-cheeked ass out of the seat, coughing as the dust descended. When it cleared, the moonlight was bright enough to illuminate an odd looking man walking in her direction. Behind him, she could see that very same van that had passed her.

  The crunch of his boots echoed on the dark road. “Ma’am, it’s best you move your car. People can’t see past that bend in the road and more folks will be coming.” She still had a slight shake in her hands when she looked back to her car and then back in the direction of the man. He was strange, but she knew strange—she lived with strange. It was her job. The pale-faced man with the curly red hair stood three feet in front of her, smiling. His smile was wide and his eyes seemed to sparkle with excitement. She looked down at the white cloth in his hand then back to his face. A glimmer of recognition tapped her intuition. But before she could react, the man’s boots crunched on cold gravel and he walked past her.

  “You can never be too careful with those washboards on these roads.” He said as he reached into the car and turned off the ignition.

  “Stop, don’t touch my car.” she shouted marching towards him. “Give me my key,” she demanded and held out her hand palm up. She didn’t see it coming. He right-hooked her hard on the cheek, shattering the bone. She bent over howling in pain. He grabbed her by the hair yanking her backwards and smothered her with the chloroform cloth. She only struggled a bit as he lowered her down onto the gravel. And before she was fully unconscious, she thought she heard:

  “Now now, Doc, you remember me don’t you? Matthew McGregor.” Her eyes popped open. Her body stiffened. Silence.

  Six

  Matthew

  There was a still silence on the dark road. In the distance he thought he heard a lone coyote wail. The wind chilled Matthew, cooling his nervously sweaty skin. He wished she had stopped a bit closer to the van. He was strong and determined, but she was at least a body size bigger than him. He grunted, struggling to get Dr. Swallows closer to the van. He wasn’t delicate when he released her shoulders. Her head hit the gravel road hard. Matthew huffed over to the side door of his van and lowered the wheelchair ramp. It descended slowly before resting onto the gravel. He began to pull her body onto it. “Fat whale bitch,” he snapped as he slammed the door of his van and looked back at the car. Four minutes had passed already. He needed to move faster. There was no place to hide the car. So he did what any good Samaritan would do, if he was one, when he found a person on a dark road with car trouble. He needed to get that car off the road and now.

  He opened the door and the vile smell of days-old onions wafted past him. He gingerly sat in the drivers seat, started the car, turned it around, and pulled it off to the side of the road before punching the hazard lights button. He reached over, grabbed her purse, and rifled through it. He pulled out the hot pink mobile phone. It clunked as it hit the console. He didn’t want any smart-ass cop attempting to trace its signal.

  He then slung her purse over his shoulder, released the hood lock, and got out of the car. He went around to the front of the vehicle and lifted the hood. It only took him thirty seconds to jimmy the battery cable loose, just enough to disengage it.

  His boots crunched on the loose gravel as he hurried to his van.

  It was close to 7:00 p.m. when he pulled into the parking lot and passed the red Luray Caves sign that swung in the night breeze. And as he had done before, after hours, he pulled around the large base of the cave system, down a sloped dirt road to the staff entrance. They had all gone home by now. Matthew backed up his van and got out. He unlocked the large oversized doors and pulled out a dark green bin on rollers, and pushed it close to where the ramp would open. The ramp descended just low enough for the end of it to rest on the edge of the bin. Her right arm flung over her face as he dragged her by the feet. Just before he plunged her torso into the large rubber bin, he stopped and looked around. The cameras were off—he made sure of that—and his van was the only vehicle in the parking lot. Matthew giggled when her fat body thudded down.

  Before moving the bin, Matthew reversed the ramp, releasing the bin on wheels, and closed the van door. The night was cooler than he had expected and he could hear the moans of the caverns from the strong breeze.

  The swiveling wheels made maneuvering the heavy bin more cumbersome than he had expected. So much so, that the bin fishtailed as it bumped over the wooden planks and into the caverns. He pushed it just inside the large door. He stopped and turned around to lock them with one of the keys on his zip-line belt. He reached for an oil lamp hanging on a nearby pole, lit it, and screwed it into the makeshift holder on the corner of the bin. There was just enough light to cast a shadow outlining the human lump inside.

  Several long tunnels brimmed with golden stalactites and stalagmites, appearing like icicles growing down from the top of the caves and protruding upward almost touching their tips. The light illuminated the columns of stone as Matthew passed through shadows and bumped the bin around a last corner before he ducked down and pushed his cargo through an oddly shaped mouth of a large cave. The bin rested next to a strange looking contraption: a long wooden beam, which hovered over a large tarp made of green plastic. The tarp looked big enough to winter a boat and filled up most of the cave. Thick chains, which were welded to a large square brace made of tubular steel, secured the four-by-four beam at each end. From each corner of the brace, steel cables ran upward and threaded through a pulley system attached to a heavy metal plate drilled into the ceiling of the cave.

  Matthew stood and admired his work, giggling before glaring back at the bin. Why had he chosen her first? Matthew wondered. He had tested his system with bags of broken stone, but Dr. Swallows was heavier than he had expected. With the push from the heel of his boot, he secured the brakes on the wheels and gave the bin a hard push, attempting to tip it over. No luck. He grunted as he pushed again. No luck. He was beginning to get pissed off when he took several steps back and shoulder-checked the bin, knocking it onto its side. No sound came from the doc as he rolled her out of the bin and dragged her onto the tarp.

  He stripped her naked and tied her arms at the wrist with a rope before repeating the same at her ankles. The rail swung slightly as he cranked the pulley winch, lifting her off the ground. He was sweating now, but he could feel his elation with every turn of the winch. He could feel his arousal when she moaned. She was waking now from the drug-induced sleep. He took a step back to admire the strength of his contraption. He hadn’t planned for this amount of weight. He looked along the cables to the plate in the ceiling. The four three-quarter-inch bolts hadn’t moved. Success.

  He stood back in the shadows and admired his prey. He wanted her fully awake. Fully coherent, to understand. To feel. He was patient. His blood rushed faster through his veins. He watched her struggle awake and grinned wide at her realization of the state she was in. He knew it must be painful holding up all that weight and he thought her feet and hands might just pop off. His hand unzipped his pants and he began to stroke himself as he watched her struggle and grunt like a fat pig on a spit. It would be over soon.

  Minutes later, when he was finished taking care of his business, he moved to her and leaned over her hanging head. He grabbed her hair and yanked her awake. Her eyes popped open and she tried to stifle a scream. But he could see it. He could smell it. Fear.

  She sobbed blinking at the bright light. “What do you want from me?” She cried.

  “Shut up you fat bitch,
” he shouted, annoyed that she didn’t seem to understand the predicament she was in.

  “I have money, I can pay.” She was panting now with fright.

  “I said shut up.” He let go of her head, snapping it back. “Stop whining.” He slowly paced around one side of her head and then to the other. “Who’s the cry baby now, Doc?” The mere mention of her being a doctor made her suck air in fast. “You remember me now, don’t you?” Tears flowed down both sides of her face trickling into her ears. She blinked and tried to focus. Her eyes almost bugged out when he said, “Let me remind you.” He continued to talk while he looked at the contents of his tool kit.

  One by one, he cautiously placed each of his tools in a neat row on the plastic covered stand. When he pulled out the last tool from his box, it glistened as the light from the oil lamp hit it. An icepick. Dr. Swallows screamed and frantically tried to free her wrists, causing the rail to swing. It moved her back and forth over the large plastic tarp. The tarp crackled as he placed a stool about a foot in front of the top of her head. “It’s been a while, Doc hasn’t it?” He purred as he stepped into what looked like a makeshift bright orange hazmat suit. More screaming. Although Matthew enjoyed listening to her fearful screams, that too was beginning to grate his nerves. “Shut up.” He paused. “I said shut up!” He hissed at her. She choked out a low, throaty wail. He interlocked his fingers when he finished putting on the second glove.

  Like a dentist, he sat on the stool and looked down at her helpless expression. He reached over to his tray and lifted the first tool in the line with his right hand, holding it in front of her face. She strained to lift her head to focus on what was in his hands.