“I think what Edgars meant was we have our next purpose. We can’t just believe victims are our test subjects, they are human. We must accept them all as living people, not playthings to dispose of. They have names. They have families.” Jane repeats, “They have names. The difficulty level of killing raises when you know someone.”
“Another rule?” Robert asks.
“You see them as deer, you hunt,” Kenneth snaps.
“I thought you were cured?” Robert snidely asks. He tires of the group and desires a hunt. He wonders if hunting one from the group would yield a promising challenge, more than random people off the street.
“Kenneth has made progress,” Jane defends, “and should we make it our rule. When we spot a potential victim, we must remember they are a living, thinking person. We won’t visit the family and make recompense.” She scoops up a burner phone package, waving it in the flecks of light in the center of the circle. “This might be the time to contact your buddy, ask for help to be reminded they are people, if you have an urge.”
“None of us has killed since the first meeting. But in a six-week period it’s not impressive. Not like a drinker. Even Kenneth abstained for years between killing? How long do we go before we earn ‘days without killing’ chips?”
“I desire to hunt right now. I’m itching for it,” Robert says.
“Did you not speak to Ed?” Jane asks.
“We spoke a long time. He didn’t go out hunting,” Ed says.
“You have no idea. I’d gone as far as to prepare a motel room. Near one of my hunting grounds there’s always a motel. Lots of couples use them for discreet cheating on spouses. The establishments take cash and keep no ledger, never have cameras and still use metal keys. Nothing electronic. Most barely have cable. I picked a room and waited then I called Ed. He got me to leave. It was no easy task. I needed to kill. He did good.”
“So we are able to bring each other down from the ledge,” Jane bubbles.
“You still have the urge?” asks Al.
“It’s in me.” Robert nods.
“Shouldn’t we discuss this kind of back step first before we share past killings?” Kenneth asks.
“If the person trusts the group with the information. It is between him and his sponsor, but they should address it,” Jane says.
“What do you do in these hotels? I thought you hunted them outdoors.” Jesse says.
“I utilized this method to capture my prey when I don’t employ my fake cop car routines,” Robert admits.
“Tell us about it, more insight, help you not need to kill,” says Edgars.
Jesse notes the writer’s brain scribbling mental notes, like he does, only Edgars is constructing a new chapter in a book, not trying to prevent his own urges. Or maybe the group’s stories will give him fuel enough he doesn’t need to kill anymore. Unable to convince himself of his earlier realization, he considers, Would my sister have read one of his books? Sis could have gone off to meet him.
Robert sweats, guilt sweat dripping from his forehead. “I need to hunt.”
“We’ll help you quell this urge,” Al says.
“You didn’t swipe a person, you came back here. It means you’re willing to stop. We will help you,” Jane says.
“I don’t know how,” Robert admits.
“Go ahead, tell us how you use the hotels,” Jesse says.
XI
NO-TELL MOTEL WAS not just a cliché for a location of illicit trysts. These off the interstate locations had little means to make revenue except by lost tourists and those couples seeking to hide affairs from spouses. If it weren’t for the frequency of cheating couples these places would fold.
I discovered this one motel near a large woodland area. In the spring, it attracts few customers and operates only a few rooms—the ones with the kitchenettes. Those mini apartments all had sliding glass doors with a view of a little creek running behind the building. Nice, peaceful nature scene.
No one checked the backdoor locks. All of them opened from the outside. Even if the patron locked the door from the inside, one twist of the handle and the door slid open.
I waited for the room to rent.
The couple was a man in his thirties, she had to be twenty-five. They had a single overnight bag to make it appear as if they traveled, but in reality, I bet they met privately all the time. And this was just one of their frequent rendezvous locations.
People would bolt the front door, shut the shades on the road side, but leave the back vertical blinds to the patio door wide open. If a suspecting spouse hired a private dick, he’d have no issue snapping photos of the infidelity.
This couple didn’t even set their one piece of luggage down before they were all over each other.
They were into each other faster than I was ready to move, no talking. And no wonder they came out here. She was a noise maker.
I slid the door open. Her pleasure moans masked the rolling wheels’ squeak.
I had a fresh dart between my teeth and the loaded tranquilizer gun poised to fire.
I popped him in the chest.
She screamed. Even though her voice shifted from pleasure wails to terror, I doubted anyone outside the room would notice or care.
The medication acted quickly on him. I’ve had some people make it halfway across the room before they succumb to the juice.
I slid a fresh dart into the breach. She had ceased her hip swivel, but did not move from him. She submitted to her fate.
I think she thought I was there to kill them in the motel. She was prepared to die for her transgression. I guess she would rather be dead than explain why she was here with this man.
It saddened me.
Those who, in a high-pressure situation, freeze make for a shitty hunt.
Once she was unconscious, I laid her next to him on the bed so her legs didn’t cramp from her odd falling position. I noticed she had the paunch most people get as they age, even when they have an almost flat stomach. She had a diamond shaped stretch mark pattern around the edges meaning she had kids—at least one. Maybe she thought her death would be better than getting caught screwing.
I packed them, one at a time, out the back door. There was a four-wheeler path most deer hunters used in the fall to reach a secluded camp about four miles into the woods.
At the manmade clearing there was fire pit. Even in the warming spring air a fire was nice.
I had put both back into their pants. She had rough feet and unkempt toenails. At least some of her young life she worked standing. She might have a good run on bare feet but there were too many pine needles. In her bag she had these soft soled moccasins, more like house shoes, but I slipped them on her. Him, I put in his loafers. No socks.
I tied them together at the ankles. A knot, time consuming to undo, but not impossible.
The meds may have knocked him down quickly, but he metabolized them fast and was wide awake when she finally stirred.
He pulled her in close never relinquishing his death stare at me. Now that she was rousing he hugged her, shielding her naked breast from my view.
I didn’t care. Their exposed skin was actually a cheat. They were both so white and the forest was greening. I wanted to be able to spot them better.
When she peeked at me though his protecting arms I patted my gun as a reminder for them to stay put.
Every time I hunted was different. These people didn’t even ask why.
A tiny part of me wondered who she was married to. I thought maybe she was more afraid of her husband or thought he was behind this. Maybe what I offered was a better fate than what her husband would do if he found out about this tryst. Some women cheat because the danger gives them a thrill.
I sat across from them, out of arm’s reach, or a good lunge.
I held up their driver’s licenses.
“Adam. Maybe I should have left you naked. And Shannon. Last names are different. I bet you two aren’t married to each other.”
“What do yo
u want?” He still shielded her in a bear hug. She peeked through his arms at me with negotiating eyes.
“I don’t care who you fuck. I care about—” I pocketed the licenses and waved one of my homemade arrows in their direction. “If you’re able to get away. See, I hunt. I hunt for sport, but not little furry animals. They’re for eating. I hunt people to test my skill.”
“You’re a sick fuck.” Adam never raised his voice or dropped his protesting glare. Thing was he never even appeared to be searching for an escape, just held Shannon.
“This campfire is four miles from the hotel where I acquired you.” I point the arrow tip at the path. “If you run the road it curves out and is four miles.” I point in the ‘follow the crow flies’ direction. “If you go that way, it is three or so miles, a straight shot to your room through the woods. The back door is open and your phones are keyed up to 911. Just hit send.” I made one of the horror movie pauses before adding, “If you make it.”
“You’ll just let us go?” Shannon didn’t believe me.
“If you get back to your hotel room. I’ve got to make it sporting or there is no fun in this.” I slid the arrow into my quiver, drawing a hunting knife. “Any questions?”
“Why are you doing this,” Shannon pushes away from Adam. “My husband put you up to this. Scare me into not seeing Adam anymore.” She spits. It lands a foot before my boot. “I don’t care how powerful he is in the business world, he has no power in the bedroom. You tell him that when you collect your check.”
“I bet I’d make a fortune at scaring wives into being faithful. I don’t know your husband, I just hunt.” I threw the knife. It dugs into the log they leaned against. It severed the rope keeping them tied together.
Adam grabbed the knife, jerking it up and down to release it.
“I’d run,” I suggested, notching an arrow.
Shannon bolted. the branches whipping against her naked skin and flopping breasts.
Adam hesitated a second as if my actions were a bluff.
I put an arrow across the skin where his neck met his shoulder. Blood pulsed from the scrape. His run—terror filled—caught him up quickly to Shannon.
I sheathed my knife. Wouldn’t leave it behind.
I moved—in no hurry.
They made a beeline for the hotel.
Even if they didn’t, there was a thicket of blackberry brambles to traverse, forcing most hiker to circle around.
Blood dotted the ground.
They gave a good run. I had to pick up my pace to stay on them. Once Shannon had given up attempting to protect her bare flesh and tore through bushes, she made over a mile before I caught up. Poor Shannon, it appeared as if someone had drawn a cheese grater over her exposed skin.
They had reached a swift moving part of the river. It was the reason the road was four miles and didn’t cut this direction. There were plenty of stones to use to cross—all wet moss covered.
Shannon was wading out. Damn, the girl was going to die trying to make it. I’m sure she had some story cooked up in her head about how she was kidnaped and woke up next to the stranger and forced to play this little game. Or she thought I was working for her husband and was going get back so she could kill him.
I notched an arrow.
She was a good player. Time to keep her motivated. My aim was dead on. I would place it in the back of her left arm, right in the meatiest part of her triceps. The hit wouldn’t affect her run, but the impact would distress her balance.
She slipped on the moss and fell into the river as the arrow passed.
It was luck she fell the direction she did. If she had fallen to the left it would have punctured her lung and it would have been all over but the crying.
She saw the arrow across the river. She was halfway across when Adam caught up with her.
I notched an arrow.
Adam grabbed her and flung her around as a human shield.
Fuck.
I had already loosed the arrow.
Not how I played this game.
She struggled to escape his grip as the arrow sunk into her breast. The thickness of fat may have prevented it from reaching deep into her lung, but not completely. She fell, blood frothing on her lips.
Adam, thinking it would save her, tore the arrow from her body. Blood mixed with the flowing water. She would bleed out now.
Coward.
I put an arrow into his thigh.
His death would be slow.
He slumped down next to her. Shannon clutched her chest. She stuck a finger in the hole, which might have plugged it enough to staunch the bleeding if the fool hadn’t ripped anything vital. She was out of the game.
Maybe it was ‘my women can’t do anything men can do’ upbringing, but in my hunts women turned out to be the survivors. I rooted for them to make it. I made my shots to prolong the chase, no matter the gender, but women made the best runners.
She wouldn’t have made it to the hotel. The hillside on the opposite bank was too steep and wet for a half-naked girl in house slippers to climb, but damn this man who used her as a shield.
I put an arrow in his shoulder.
Shannon’s coughing fit sprayed blood.
I remained on the river bank. My next arrow pinned them together. He would die with my next shot. He jerked, or the arrow didn’t fly as straight as it should, because it pierced his jaw and I had been going for the neck. Adam died from the shot.
Shannon bled out from her wound, a livable wound had Adam not jerked the arrow from her breast. Who knows, she may have made it up the hill. I know I wouldn’t have, and would have had to cut around the hill to stop them before they reached motel.
I don’t want it impossible for my prey to escape, or I have no sport.
XII
“YOU SAID YOUR stories are the same, but they are not. You may hunt, but each time you hunt is different, even if your end goal is the same. When you have a victim who has spirit you change your strategy,” Jane says. “You’re willing to allow the strong to survive.”
“Worthy,” Al says. “Not strong. When Robert finds a worthy prey, he releases it. Rather Darwinian.”
“I’ve committed many crimes. You’ve allowed some of these women to go, but you hunger for talented prey strong enough to escape. You need one final hunt with a worthy adversary,” The Plagiarist assumes.
“Are you volunteering? Because unless you are we are here not to kill anymore,” Jane snaps.
“I just understand his issue,” The Plagiarist says.
“But saying one more killing is the same as believing ‘I’ll quit after one more drink’. It doesn’t work,” Kenneth says.
“Agreed.” More than one member spouts.
“No one kills. No matter what,” Jack says.
“What if I just leave the group?” Robert asks.
Jane never considered anyone would bow out of the group, proclaiming they would murder again. She selected those to attend based on their desires to quit killing. Unlike alcoholics, she thought these people had more willpower since their murders were all premeditated, involving more planning and execution than opening a bottle.
“I vote you allow him to go,” The Plagiarist says.
“Plagiarist, you were never fully a part of our merry little band, nor have you promised to stop your killing,” Jack scoffs.
“THE. My name is The Plagiarist.”
Jack ignores the pretension.
Jane realizes she’s losing Jack as well. Not to killing, but because the grandfather is disgusted with the acts the others have performed. Jack’s killings were against evil, in his mind, and some of the murderers in this room have performed pure evil. At least none of them have attacked children. No part of those…people. Even I didn’t care to hear those stories. The rapes are bad enough, but children. I, too, might have to kill again. “Gentlemen, we are here to discuss the driving force behind our impulses. We’re far from casting a vote on anything. Robert, why do you want to leave?”
&
nbsp; “Returning to hunting dumb deer will fill my belly, but not whatever satisfied me when I hunted people.”
“We all have those emotions,” Kenneth says. “Isn’t this why we attend? We’re trying to get over those incorrect urges.”
“By whose standards? I, too, have been doing some reading. I read, you know. Humans were meant to hunt, not drive cars. I’m fighting against my nature when I don’t kill,” Ed says.
“Being able to fight against our nature is what makes us human,” says Edgars. “We fuck when we want, and when we do we don’t have to have offspring. We don’t have to adhere to those primitive regulated urges. You enjoy tracking the gazelle because you are a lion, but humans weren’t meant to be lions. We were meant for a higher purpose.”
“I’m not going to church to praise some invisible being who takes roll call. And I sure as fuck don’t buy into ‘He is testing me’ shit. If I wasn’t meant to kill, then those urges should never be inside me. God is people’s excuse for what they do so they don’t have to accept responsibility.”
Got him. His own words. Jane says, “Then if you leave the group you aren’t accepting responsibility for your actions.”
Robert pauses. He considers what she threw in his face.
“Why don’t we speak of God? He is a part of the AA healing process, the most important part, and I was a regular church attendee before the accident,” Jack says.
“And your loving God stole away your family for no reason. If he were just, and gave two shits about us, he would strike down those who harm those created in his image,” The Plagiarist says.
“Don’t they contradict themselves? Your beliefs and what you’ve done?” Edgars asks. “To claim belief in a deity who says don’t murder and then you kill. You’re unable to do both.”
“Besides, the Bible is never clear on killing. God gives Moses his most sacred laws and then informs his people to go eliminate those on his sacred land promised to His people.
“I don’t see it that way,” Jack says.
SKA: Serial Killers Anonymous Page 27
