His hands worked over the spool of rope in front of him. A row of twelve spools sat lined against the wall, awaiting their useful day. Around his wrist he twisted the tight knit fabric until his skin was masked with the wrapping. Taking the loose end firm in his opposing hand he wiggled the slack for a brief moment. Then, with mighty force, he yanked it taut. The boa constricted around his wrist burning his flesh as it moved rapidly across it. His fist clinched down on the rope and his eerie bellow rattled the walls.
When his demented joy subsided he moved the rope to his exposed thigh. He repeated the ritual again and again over his body. With each pull of the slack his mind erupted in joy at the thought that his pain was nothing compared to theirs.
His thoughts during his ritualistic ecstasy always flew to his first witnessed kill. His father had taught him well. As a boy every one of his father’s kills he'd been privy to had been a show of artistry.
He could still see his father’s skilled hands toil over the white-fronted capuchin. His innocent eyes had been wide with disbelief as his father slowly and methodically tortured the small monkey. Cuts and burns, abrasions and punctures stained his young eyes. The screams his father had persuaded from the animal still rang in his ears. It had taken seven days for the animal’s death.
His father was his hero. And now as an artist himself, he could appreciate his father’s patience and zeal for perfection. It took a surplus of control to extend the pleasure as long as that man could. He’d tried to hone that particular skill and failed at each attempt. Through childhood he’d tested his restraint on small animals. When they lost their luster he moved on to larger ones. He used goats and cattle, cats and dogs to get his adolescent rushes. But each time he couldn’t restrain the urge to end them much more quickly than his father would have.
In his adult years, his environment expanded and he learned more about the world. He was finally introduced to the concept of right instead of wrong, good as opposed to bad, happy versus sad. And the ideas stuck for a time.
He lived the straight and narrow for years, blending in with the people around him. He molded himself into a conventional man. College had been a liberating experience. It had allowed him to see good in the world and even to create happiness in his own.
But the demon would not be long denied. His hunger returned more ambitious and greedy than before. The tricks of his youth no longer held his attention. He needed something more.
When he crossed over into the human realm he met the devil inside himself. And he liked it. These pawns were so much more fulfilling than the ones of his youth. He could frighten them with one touch, one word. Even a look could conjure a beautiful plea.
Each beauty he enjoyed reminded him of his mother. Long, dark hair flowed down their backs. Their kind hearts and sweet smiles coupled with their feminine curves and lines. But the thing that reminded him most of his mother was the feel of their blood.
His loving mother ended her own life when he was just a boy. It happened shortly after his father had shown him his intricate hobby. He’d returned from the bus stop, a mile trek to where he was shuttled back and forth to elementary school, because he’d forgotten his lunch bag. He opened the front door and saw his mother hanging from the living room rafters.
Blood dripped from her wrists. Her favorite Billie Holiday song livened the background.
When he couldn’t get a response from her he laid in the pool of her blood, scrolling his fingers through the congealing liquid until his father came home from work. He liked lying there because he could see the slight smile on her paling face. Sure, his father had been angry with him for not going to school, but he hadn’t beaten him. He’d simply cleaned the blood off of them both and put Momma to sleep in the ground behind their house.
Today’s beauties reminded him so much of his momma. They were certainly more difficult to come by than cats or dogs. But the reward far outweighed the labor involved. On occasion their fight was more too. He had gotten a bloody lip and even a broken finger carrying out his devil’s will.
He was constantly challenged. From planning to execution, he methodically laid out each step of his pleasure’s feat. Crowds were a constant nuisance and the authorities were a hindrance. Several times he had to change tactics on the fly, which he hated to do. But it was all worth the trouble.
The joy of their cries tickled his ears. The sight of their struggle gave life to the mundane. Their begging stroked his ego. But nothing compared to that gleam in their eyes. Standing under their hanging spot, when the last thread of hope vanished, their eyes gleamed. He lived for the realization that came just before the noose tightened around their life and all was lost. No shining knight would come to their rescue. No one would save them.
He saw in their eyes the acknowledgement of pure evil in the world and the recognition that he was the conductor of it all. When that gleam flashed in their eyes and they accepted their fate, he was victorious.
His body rocked as the memories and power washed over him. Putting his spool aside for the moment he placed latex gloves on his large hands. Their pop stung the air. The bottle of all-purpose kitchen cleaner squeaked as his hand depressed the nozzle and removed any evidence from the table. When the site was clear he picked one of the waiting spools from the wall and placed it on the linoleum.
He sat in front of the heap of rope. He sang Strange Fruit with Billie while he made his next noose. He would get to use it sooner than he’d thought. The corners of his mouth turned and a deep laugh escaped his throat. Once again he was working on the fly, but he would enjoy it no less.
Madelyn angered him and she would pay. He hadn’t seen a glint of terror in her eyes. Not enough sadness for his pleasure. She was stronger than the others. She needed a more penetrating threat.
19
“Do we really have to take both tests tomorrow?” Yaniel whined.
Madelyn continued writing the review pages for their test on the abolition of the Caribbean slave trade. “Yes.”
“But…with everything that’s happened… I don’t know. I figured we’d take time to mourn Mrs. Gallow,” the boy continued.
Talk about a low blow. Madelyn snapped the cap on the dry-erase marker and then wiped the stray ink from her fingers. She faced the class and centered her no-nonsense glare on the boy in the back of the single-room hut. “We won’t just mourn her, Yaniel. We’ll honor her with high marks on our tests.”
No one had a good comeback to that. She smiled. “Make sure you have these page numbers in your notebooks and that you study them tonight. Now, on to my man Hamlet.”
“I need to use the ladies’,” Martha interrupted.
“We break in ten minutes. I’m sure you can hold it that long. Now, who can tell me which characters survive at the end of the play?”
A few hands raised, but Martha’s hand whipped through the air.
“Lin.” Madelyn called on the girl in front of the student whose eyeballs apparently floated in urine.
“Horatio and Fortinbras.” Lin beams.
Almost.
At least the pandemonium allowed little free time to think about the sorrow, the decisions to be made, the fear, and the unexpected spark that Nathan Brewer’s presence ignited. A spark that seemed to burn her from the inside out.
Martha flailed two hands and added her head in the mix, shaking side to side.
“Okay, Martha.” Madelyn held up a hand. “Answer the question correctly and you may be excused.”
“Thank you, Ms. Garrett.” The girl’s hands gripped the edge of her desk. “Horatio, Fortinbras, the English Ambassador, and likely Osric.”
“Nice work.” Madelyn nodded. “You may go, but if you make less than ninety percent on the test tomorrow you won’t get to go again.”
“Yes, um’.” The girl slid her seat back.
“Ms. Garrett?” Zuberi’s voice turned her attention to the back of the room. “If I answer a question right can I go to the bathroom?”
Two other hands s
hot up. Kids. They saw a perceived crack in her armor and took aim. But watch out for the chasm beneath. She smiled. “Sure. You just have to earn a one hundred on the test tomorrow or you lose your bathroom privileges for the rest of the year.”
The two hands sank. Zuberi puffed his chest and jutted his chin.
“All right,” Madelyn conceded. “Compare and contrast Hamlet with Horatio, Fortinbras, Claudius, and Laertes.”
He balked, but she knew he could answer the question. Despite his macho swagger, he paid as close attention to their reading of the play as he did Martha’s short skirts. Well, almost.
“So,” Zuberi started, “Horatio is—”
A shrill scream sliced through the orderly classroom assembly and severed the boy’s answer. The sharp pitch radiated from the young girl lurching from the gaping classroom door. She backpedaled, slammed into an empty desk, and fell to the ground.
What on earth… Then Madelyn remembered that this was no ordinary day. Nathan’s warning flashed in her mind. She sprinted hard and fast, clearing the long room in a few strides.
“Are you okay?” Madelyn kneeled next to the girl. Her gaze searched for signs of injury, but found none. Martha’s bloated eyes focused on a point over Madelyn’s shoulder outside the classroom.
She turned and the reel of her life hitched. Everything slowed. A frame per second ticked by. The bright Caribbean sky framed the doorway. A ghastly silhouette absorbed the sunlight. Camouflage rope knotted around the wooden rafters of the porch. The noose, tight around his neck, severed life. His. Hers.
No!
The word ricocheted in her skull. It rang her ears louder than the roar of the sea. And yet, she didn’t make a sound as she stared at Deacon’s suspended bulk. Her only friend left in the world hung limp. Lifeless.
No!
This time the silent word boomeranged as a command. Like her will had the power to change reality.
The wicked laugh from her past echoed. A chill settled along her spine. Her gut flipped. And she’d swear his ghost stood over her, mocking the seed of hope as he’d done so often all those years ago. He’d beaten down every sprout of hope in the desert that had been her life. That was quickly becoming her life again.
No.
“Deacon.” Madelyn scrambled across the distance. Her bare knees stung from the traction of the rough floor. One of her sandals slipped from her foot, but she made it to the door.
She lunged for Deacon and wrapped her arms around his narrow waist. A shiver rocked them. Madelyn gasped. Her tongue threatened to lodge in her throat. Was that his shiver or hers?
His belly still radiated heat.
“Deacon?” she cried.
When he shuddered under her hand a sob choked itself off in her windpipe. She gathered as much of his haunches and middle as she could with him hanging so high and lifted. His uneven weight tattered, but she held strong. She waited, hoped, begged that she hadn’t hallucinated the fight left inside him.
“Deacon!”
He reared against the rope. She shuffled under him, struggling to keep the rope from cinching around his throat. The rope some psychopath had placed there. In the daylight. Silently. With her and her children only ten feet away.
Her gaze scanned the dirt yard, the other huts, the woods surrounding the school. Was he there, watching and waiting?
“Martha,” Madelyn hollered.
“Yes,” the girl squeaked.
“Tell Sauda and Zuberi to come here and everyone else to close the windows and get into the supply closet now,” she commanded.
‘Yes ma’am’s’ murmured behind her. Then the shuffle of adolescent feet scattered. Apparently, she’d gathered a crowd. The boys she’d requested stood before her. Sweat dripped from Sauda’s dark chin.
“Is he…” Zuberi rang his hands.
“No, but I need your help.” Her heart beat so forcefully against her chest it stole all the oxygen from her lungs. Stars danced in her periphery.
“Name it,” Sauda pled.
“A chair,” she panted.
They scrambled.
Her shoulders sang. The feeling in her fingers faded down her arm. Madelyn straightened her back and reinforced her grip. “You’ll be okay, bud. I’ve got you.” A tear slipped down her cheek, but she rubbed onto his fur. She couldn’t lose it now. Her kids needed her.
The clattering of a chair hitting the porch sent a fresh shot of adrenaline through her body.
“Sauda had to help with the windows. Most of the scaredy-cats made for the closet.” Zuberi laughed as he rubbed at the tremor in his hand.
“I’m scared too,” she whispered.
“Ha. You don’t sound scared or look it.” He scooted the chair closer and hurried atop it.
She grew up scared, every second of every day. Crisis mode became her twisted little comfort zone. She learned to operate under pain, and terror, and his ever-watchful eyes.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Yes.” Madelyn loosened her stance to catch his falling weight. “I’m ready.” Her breath seized and she waited.
And waited.
Her torso quivered under the weight of Deacon’s body and his sluggish struggles. “Calm down. It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay,” she said in a light, even tone for all their benefit. If only the cramp in her side would agree.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Garrett. But the rope... I can’t get it loose. There’s not enough rope between the noose and the rafters.”
Sweat tickled her brow. Her entire body quaked. She couldn’t hold on much longer. But she couldn’t let go. Not for a second. Not for anything.
“Scissors,” she ground through clenched teeth.
The boy leaped from the chair. His too large feet for his body clopped inside. “Scissors,” he yelled. Seconds later the rumble of feet approached. “I have them. And Sauda can help now.”
“Great. Please, hurry.” She swore she wouldn’t rush them, but the last bit of feeling fled her hands.
Sauda, the taller of the two, bracketed his hands on the lower part of Deacon’s chest. The white of his eyes grew, contrasting against the charcoal of his skin. “Cut it already.”
“I’m trying,” Zuberi huffed. “It’s not like cutting paper.”
“It’s okay,” Madelyn said. But her voice came as little more than a whisper. A wish. Her eyes closed on the hope. One of the boys growled in frustration.
Deacon’s bulk gave way. It crashed down hard on her face, but her arms stayed locked around his back end. She shuffled to balance the awkwardness of the grip. Sauda shifted. He sidled closer to her and encircled Deacon’s chest.
“Inside,” she huffed.
They stumbled into the building and Zuberi slammed the door behind them.
“Put the chair in front of the door.” Madelyn turned to make certain the child did as she asked. Her foot landed on the side of Sauda’s. In an effort not to hurt him, her ankle rolled. The mass in her arms flailed. The classroom tilted.
Madelyn landed hard on her elbow and Deacon landed on her chest. The impact drove her flat as a paper doll onto the floor. Two feet of the sturdy wooden chair and the stiff back of the top wedged between the knob and the floor. A shard of relief slipped into place. “Thank you. Now, in the closet boys.”
“But who’s doing this to us?” One of them begged.
“Closet now. Questions later.”
She rolled Deacon onto his side and scrambled to her knees beside him. His breaths came shallow and slow. But they came. Distance glazed his eyes. His pulse bumped lazily against his chest. A drop of water splashed against his cheek. He blinked mechanically.
A sob shook her shoulders and she realized the water was her tear. She sucked back the emotion. Her gaze darted around the room looking for her students. The desks stood empty. A few pencils littered the floor along with a piece of paper and a half eaten banana.
Why hadn’t she trusted Nathan? Now her dog and her children were in jeopardy.
Nathan.<
br />
Madelyn wasn’t the damsel in distress type, but a vicious, sadistic killer was out of her league. She dove for the closet, frantic for the radio he’d given her last night. Too bad she’d left the gun nestled under her pillow.
She flung the closet door open. Several kids gasped, while others lifted makeshift weapons in their trembling hands. Broom handles, yardsticks, and scissors were better than nothing.
“Someone hand me my bag,” she begged in the calmest voice she could manage.
Arms reached in every direction. Someone yelled, “Here. I got it!” A collective sigh lightened the thick air. They crowd-surfed the woven bamboo tote. Her hand dove into its contents, roving for the feel of hard plastic while she surveyed the perimeter of the room.
Sweet success tickled her fingertips. She yanked the contraption from the bag and closed the closet door. She leaned against it for fortification, pressed the button, and hoped. “Nathan?”
20
Broad daylight. The boldness of it had excited him. The reality of it boiled the blood in his veins. He’d been so close to getting caught that the clink of the cell door being slammed on his ass echoed behind him. On top of that he’d been interrupted before he’d split the dog in two.
Reliving her reaction in his mind aroused and irritated him further.
Her body jerked at the sight of his glorious work, as though caught dead center by a bullet. Those lips, so often smiling or smirking, formed the terrified O of Edvard Munch’s pastel-painted scream. Damn her to hell. Just like the painting, no shrill screech or throaty cry poured from her stretched mouth.
Had Deacon’s blood been splattered across the porch, had his insides been on display, maybe then that sweet song would have caressed him like a greedy hand wrapped around his dick.
He stomped through the woods and came out on the other side of the thicket near the beach. A woman toting a large bowl of fruit on her head gave him a friendly smile. He returned the gesture while inside he seethed, his body suddenly too small to contain the rage. It took every bit of restraint he possessed to let her walk past him without grabbing her in a choke hold, dragging her into the woods, and finishing the work he’d spoiled for today.
For All to See (Bureau Series Book 1) Page 10
