“Please, let us go,” she begged, her words muffled by the bandanna tied around her mouth.
“I’m going to let you go.” My well-honed hunting knife caused more screams as I shredded her dress from the crotch to the bottom hem. She would need full motion of her legs.
I slipped off one of her shoes. They had enough heel she would twist an ankle running in them—such tiny feet. I peeled off her white lacy ankle sock. She was being naughty-sexy for this loser. Fucker had said nothing in protest to protect her. At least he didn’t beg for himself over her.
The bottom of her feet were so soft. Her toes were painted. I pinched each one. Not my fetish—a woman’s feet should be soft—but she had cute toes. She could afford weekly pedicures. I love those kinds of women. They panic so much more. She struggled against my touching her in such a private manner. Despite her detesting the touch, I could tell she wished loser boy had caressed her feet.
So would the boy. He’d wish he’d done a lot of things.
She struggled as my touch tenderly attempted to relieve her anxiety of being a kidnap victim. She chewed at the bandanna gag, screaming at her boyfriend with her eyes to save them.
I slipped off the second shoe, “You see, darling—your lover—I’m going to let him keep his boots on. He’ll run better in the snow.”
Her face melted with confusion. I spotted in her eyes she wasn’t sure I meant to release them, or where she was at. Her part of the state wasn’t calling for snow. Maybe I was taunting her as I did when I touched her feet. I stuff her socks in each shoe before placing them on the burning log in the fireplace.
Flames melted the material into wisps of black smoke.
I went through his wallet and tossed credit cards and an unused condom into the flames. I snagged his identification before adding the cheap pleather to the flames. Her purse was full of the usual female junk. I cupped her driver’s license in my hand next to his. They went in my front pocket, so I wouldn’t lose them. Her bag burned.
It signaled to them the finality of their situation.
I flung open the front door.
The cold shivered them both.
Snow blew into the cabin.
“I hate for your lovely feet to contact the burning cold. If you head south…” I used the hunting knife to cut through her bonds. “Take a right off the porch, run the two miles to the highway. If you make it to the highway.” He placed a metal object in her fingers, cupping her hand tightly, “Start your car and live.”
I dragged her to the door. She had a mild shock, confused by the major change in the weather.
She glanced back at her boyfriend.
“Don’t worry about him. I’ll cut him free. He’ll have his boots on. You’ll have the key. Does he love you enough to help you to the car?” I shoved her into the snow. The torn dress offered no protection, exposing her legs to the bite of the ice crystals.
I cut the boyfriend’s bonds, clicking back the hammer of the Glock, “Don’t be a hero. You’ll have until I reach my bow to run. If you make it to the car and drive away, you live.”
I had the bow in my hand as he reached the door. I slung the quiver over my shoulder before flipping up my hood. I hated the snow on my freshly shaved neck.
Yeah, I do clear excess hair. DNA has impaired my hunting.
Gabby must have had the willpower to ignore the stinging pain of the mid-calf deep snow. Her brawny calves tasted every bit of the cold. Fear carried her to the tree line or she didn’t love the boy. She didn’t glance back. Her athletic legs propelled her to the edge of my range to effectively hit a target where I wanted.
I notched an arrow.
The boyfriend caught up with her.
I drew my bow.
The arrow zipped between the couple.
The whistle of my warning shot caused Gabby to stumble into the snow.
The boyfriend, at least, cared enough about her or maybe he just wanted the car key. He scooped his arms under her pits, lifting her into the air. She may have been shapely, but she’s heavier than he had strength to lift easily.
The struggle slowed them.
I drew the bow. “Don’t make it so easy!” I waited. Before they left the light of the cabin, I noted her reddening feet. She wouldn’t make it to the car at full sprint.
I loosed the second arrow. It sank into the boyfriend’s shoulder. He sprawled into a snowbank. The arrow shaft sealed the hole, so little blood dribbled out.
She tugged at his arm. “Get up, motherfucker! I’m not going to die out here!”
I took a few more paces. I didn’t want to lessen the distance. Killing them then would have destroyed the challenge—the hunt.
Gabby needed a reminder her life was more important than his, and she was destroying her beautiful toes in the snow while she stood there tugging on him.
My next arrow cut open her arm. She tumbled back into the snow when the pain forced her to release the boyfriend. Blood spurted from the gash torn across her bicep.
Just a reminder.
Adrenaline kicked in. She dashed in the direction I said her car was in. I couldn’t slow my pace any longer. If I reached the boy, I’d just end him. So much for him being a challenge. I thought he’d do anything to protect her.
He forced himself up and I let him, only to put an arrow through his calf. Now he crawled away, trailing a steady line of blood drops mushrooming as they hit the snow. I might have let him run a bit had he shown any stones to help the woman.
The next arrow severed his spine between the fifth and sixth Thoracic bone. He might live, but he’d never use his legs again.
I reach a man in tears. Snow, blood and snot covered his red face. I considered scalping him. I put my boot between his shoulder blades and reached for the arrow. I jerked the shaft from his shoulder. The wound bled. If it tore anything vital he might have bled out before I returned.
Playing with the boyfriend gave her a chance to improve her escape. She found the road, more a deer path to the cabin, cleared with mashed snow from the tires of the car. I had to drive them up here. Even barefoot the impacted snow would allow her to gain speed. I strolled from the boyfriend knowing he was minutes from death.
At the mile point, I realized she found her legs. I picked up speed. Snow boots weren’t meant to race in. She sprinted at full tilt and there was enough snow to keep her feet from the painful gravel. Fear helped her ignore the cold.
Even in the dark the moonlight reflected off the car. Whatever part of her thought I might be lying about escape now filled with hope. Even if her brain should wonder if I had sabotaged the engine.
I loosed another arrow.
I missed.
She shifted her gait into a zig-zag pattern. Something besides her lizard brain pushed her.
Gabby reached the car. I was shocked. Many never made it to their car. They just didn’t have the physical stamina. She fumbled the key into the snow drift blown against the car door. Forced to kneel, the cold finally stiffened her joints once she ceased her sprint. She raked her fingers through the drift, slinging snow, having lost sensation in her frozen fingers.
She scooped the key in her quaking palm unable to make her fingers grip the metal.
It had keyless entry like on the fancy luxury cars, but I kept the fob.
She did make it to the car, but wasn’t inside. I respected this woman. She was stronger than any other I tested. Rules are rules. I put an arrow in her thigh. Again, little blood. She must have been so cold she didn’t notice the puncture. Fear pumping adrenaline allowed her to ignore the stick as she jammed the key in the lock.
The next arrow penetrated her lower abdomen, sinking to the shaft’s halfway point. It slowed her.
She fell inside the car.
I took aim. I lowered the tip so as not to perforate her neck, instead. putting it in her shoulder. I thought she earned the privilege to escape, unlike lover boy.
VI
“YOU HUNTED THEM like that Most Dangerous Game story I ha
d to read in school,” the kid says.
“What—yesterday? You’re a dumb kid. I’m not imaginary. I kill for real. Call me Robert. But I’m better than him. I won’t get caught.”
“There are several killers named Bob,” the kid says.
“Robert. Robert Hanson. He was different than most. He’d fly people into the Alaskan wilderness and drop them off into the forest to hunt them.”
“Careful, kid, I think he means to hunt you if you insult him again,” Kenneth warns. “You let your prey live in your story. It could lead to your capture.”
“I don’t hunt in just one area. And Miss Gabby lived, unable to give a proper description of her assailant. She was too traumatized after multiple surgeries to remember much. And I kept her driver’s license. I could find her anytime I wanted, but I wouldn’t. If I did that the game had no sport.”
“The police said she didn’t identify you,” the kid points out. “It could be a ruse to draw you out.”
“I don’t agree. Cops will keep information sequestered, but not an identification. They want someone to report spotting a red truck or a man with a tattoo, even a face with a mole. She doesn’t remember what he looked like or it would have been on the news,” Al says.
“You seem to think you know a lot about how cops think, kid,” Robert says. “You’re young too—clean cut—you a cop, kid?”
“What’s your story kid?” Al demands. “You’re just old enough to be out of the academy and might jump at a chance to work undercover over traffic stops.”
“It’s your turn to share with the group if we are to build trust,” Kenneth says.
“Everyone remain calm,” the woman keeps her loving nurse voice. “The Internet security measures I enacted might be traceable, but the actual chat room conversations are not. I stole a page on how to use the deep web from ISIS.”
“After I hear the kid’s story, I think we’ll know if he’s killed or not,” Robert says.
“I’m not a cop,” the kid says.
“Prove it. Tell us about your murders.”
“I’m not as adept as some of you. I haven’t even developed my MO, but I know—and after hearing what I’ve heard today—I don’t want to be like the rest of you. I’m here to stop any more deaths…” His pause could cost him, “at my hands.”
“We all want to stop,” Al says. “Something mental compels us to do what we do. If I could cut it from my brain to prevent me strangling another innocent girl, I would. People are disgusted or don’t understand how anyone could do such things. I wonder myself. Something’s wrong with me, but how do I ask for help? Anywhere I go for treatment places me in prison with no assistance to recover. Tell us your tale, Kid. If this group does nothing else, maybe we’ll find solace in saving one life.”
“Fine,” the kid blurts more like a three-year-old.
VII
SHE DIDN’T EVEN know I was alive.
I tried to speak to her. The one time I attempted—I was nothing—a tongue tied mess.
How does anyone speak to a girl so pretty? Her hair bounced around her shoulders when she moved, and she had this bronze skin. Those chest balloons always popped out the top of her buttoned-up shirts.
She had worn such garments on purpose.
Never did a mean word come out of her mouth. Even when she was angry she never berated anyone. Kind words for all. She was a dream. Maybe she was. Maybe I saw her different than she was because I desired her.
I spied on her all my freshman year. Amylyn hadn’t developed any curves then. It was never about her breasts. I thought if I could just see her topless then I could die happy. But she just was so nice. She would say hello. One day in science class she spotted a Dungeon’s Masters Guide hidden among my notebooks.
“You shouldn’t read those books, you’ll get possessed.”
She lacked judgment. It was one-hundred percent concern for my wellbeing.
Amylyn didn’t understand. There had been some news stories, but she cared. She had started her warning with my name. I bet half of science class didn’t know my name. She cared about me. No one ever cared about me.
I studied her from afar. I couldn’t speak to her, and she thought I was some devil worshiper because I gamed. Nerds were frowned upon then—bullied mercilessly. Targets for the jocks. At least they still were in my school.
• • • • •
It wasn’t the impact on the locker that bruised me, it was the combination lock handle.
Chaz drove his palm into my shoulder, pinning it against the molded vent. I couldn’t wriggle free. He maxed out at three-hundred on bench and was every bit the linebacker with enough sports medals to have single-handedly taken Iwo Jima.
“Listen, worm, I saw you staring at her tits again. I warned you. They are round and firm and…” he raised his palm to my face to illustrate size, “when free don’t fit in my hand. You’re never, never going to get to touch a titty.”
“Not what your mom said.” Nothing could take back the remark before he broke my nose. It might have been worth it, but the varsity star didn’t even get a lunch detention.
He had to go.
Too many sacks to the head or just a natural brutish male, I knew in the end he would be a wife beater and Amylyn would never leave him. She’d wear long sleeve blouses and be a klutzy girl who bumped into tables. No, I had to protect her.
No matter what, I had to stop Chaz—even if I never got to be with her.
I put a lot of thought into how I could protect her.
Most of the town’s recent housing developments were planted in wooded areas outside the city limits. In fact, never were there so many tree names. Woodland. Oak Tree Acres. Whispering Pines. Maple Valley. It was crazy. It made people forget they lived next a city. The forest provided cover. At some point, I never understood why some burglar didn’t figure out he had backdoor access to half the town in these residential areas. But I guess it’s hard to carry a plasma TV through the thicket.
Amylyn had a perfect body. I’d snooped on her while she swam. She had this…ritual…before she dove into the water; she’d twist and tug at her stomach as if she had a paunch. She didn’t, but her esteem must have told her she was fat, or Chaz told her she was. She’d swim so many laps.
Chaz wasn’t the macho stud he’d bragged about in the locker room. Amylyn would barely kiss him when he’d visit. She’d never close the pink fluffy drapes of her bedroom. Why would she when only the trees beheld her? Chaz would watch her swim only dangling his hairy legs in the water. I didn’t understand what she saw in him. They shared nothing in common.
She did stroke him off once. Just a hand job, and she remained fully clothed. She didn’t want to, but he pressured her. It was funny. Not the masturbation, but how Chaz was as close to nowhere with her as I was. He only got to fondle her breasts on the top of her shirt. Not that I observed her 24/7, but when I did witness them together—alone—they had no chemistry.
The problem was Amylyn was also an athlete. She had the most powerful serve ever in volleyball. And, because of this, she was expected to date a jock. I don’t know who made this rule and why it’s enforced—it ruins lives.
After spending my afternoons in the trees before my own parents got home, I learned none of the neighbors paid any attention to what occurred in their back yards either. They cared only for their manicured front lawns, ignoring the forest butting the property line. I built a nest to scrutinize Amylyn’s window.
My mother was happy I attended school functions. Mostly I appeared at the games Amylyn played. When she wasn’t on the court, I attended other games, too. While she sat in the stands witnessing Chaz smash into people, I observed her. Mom never knew I would spend some of my time at Amylyn’s window. Even on nights she wasn’t home, I’d wait—just in case. When she was gone I cured my boredom learning other homes weren’t out of view of cheap dime store binoculars.
Two houses down I spotted a kid who kept a twenty-two-rifle hidden in his closet. He didn’t wa
nt his mother to find it, nothing too abnormal about it. He had an older sister, and she was clearly of high school age, but didn’t attend mine. There may have been a few hundred in my grade but I would have remembered if I had passed her in the hall. She could go to one of the three religious schools in our town, but I never saw her in her uniform to confirm my theory. She spent most of her time in her room strutting around nude as if defying the Lord.
Never did she even once move my cock. I loved Amylyn. She was the only woman I desired. I needed Amylyn to notice me.
I would watch the girl sometimes only when Amylyn wasn’t home.
The night came when there was commotion from the other girl’s home, enough racket some neighbor should have called the cops, noise enough I shifted my binoculars off Amylyn.
The father left a crying mother on the living room floor with a bleeding lip. She blubbered as he marched up the stairs.
He broke open the daughter’s door. I knew she protested from her movement. I knew she screamed at him to leave. She even tossed stuffed animals at him, but I didn’t hear the words. Surprisingly, I knew what was going on from their actions. He ordered her to turn over, tossing a leather-bound book from her night stand at her face.
She opened the super thin pages—a Bible, the golden cross emblazoned on the cover. I thought she attended a religious school.
He drew his belt through all the loops in one whip-snap. She was too old for a spanking.
He whaled on her backside, mostly striking her ass. Tears filled her eyes as she reads from the Book. If she stopped reading, he whapped her arm with the belt. I didn’t know how she would move her legs from the beating.
The mom just cried downstairs. She did nothing to protect her child.
I lost count of the thrashes.
Mom’s trembling fingers fumbled with each button as she unbuttoned her dress. Allowing it to drop on the floor, she never exposed her naked back in my direction. Whelp scars wrapped around her ribs. She took the stairs with baby steps.
Upon entering the bedroom, he flung the mom down next to the daughter. The flogging ceased and he undid his pants. His assault on his own daughter was brutal, then he violently fucked the mom. During the whole fucking, the daughter never stopped reading aloud biblical passages.
SKA: Serial Killers Anonymous Page 4
