Single White Psychopath Seeks Same

by Jeff Strand

  Stan gave him a lopsided smile. “We’re back to minutes.”

  The second man was also in a parka, but also wore a hat, scarf, earmuffs, and heavy mittens. His wide face was red from the cold. “I’m Samuel Striker,” he told me.

  “Don’t be a dick,” said Daniel. “Give him your real name.”

  “How do I know he’s not working for the cops?”

  “If he’s working for the cops, we kill him.”

  “Ooooh, that’s your solution to everything,” said Josie, slipping her hand seductively inside Daniel’s jacket.

  “Fine, fine. I’m Mortimer. Can we get on the plane now?”

  “Are the other prisoners on board?” Daniel asked.

  “Of course they are. Locked down and ready to get out of this place. So let’s go!”

  “Okay, then, let’s go.”

  We walked toward the jet. Foster shoved Roger a lot more roughly than I appreciated, but I didn’t let my anger show. “So now can I ask where we’re going?”

  “ Seattle,” said Daniel. “First.”

  “Then where?”

  “ Alaska.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. We’re on our way to the Last Frontier. And that’s where the real fun’s gonna start.”

  “WELCOME to Rankin Airlines,” said Daniel into the microphone. “Before we take off, I’d like you to observe some safety precautions. One, please contain all firearms, knives, bludgeoning devices, and electric chairs in the overhead bins until we’ve reached our cruising altitude. Two, in the unlikely event of a water landing, your seat cushion functions as a floatation device. However, your seat cushion also has the scent of blood, so expect to be devoured by sharks shortly after impact. If you are seated next to one of the emergency doors, you will be required to assist the other passengers. Since I can see that Stan is seated next to one, it’s fairly obvious that we’re all screwed. Thank you, and enjoy your flight.”

  ROGER HAD been taken down below, with the luggage. Daniel and Josie sat across from me, making out, while Mortimer leaned back and listened to his headphones as he slept. Foster was flying the plane, none too smoothly. Stan sat in front of me, holding his carrot stick between his index and middle finger while he stared out the window.

  So, I was going to Alaska. Wonderful. I had nothing against Alaska, never having been there, but any control I had over the situation was pretty much gone. What could I do? Maybe I could swipe Daniel’s gun while he was distracted, except that it was now inside his jacket and he’d most likely notice a third hand squirming around in there next to his wife’s. I didn’t know if Mortimer had a weapon, but I wouldn’t exactly have time to do a thorough search before a few dozen bullets ripped through my face. And for all I knew, there was somebody else down below guarding the prisoners. Maybe several somebodies.

  Of course, there was nothing stopping me from gathering more information.

  “Hey, Daniel?”

  Daniel spat out a mouthful of cleavage. “What’s up?”

  “How many prisoners have you got down there?”

  “A few.”

  “Are they secure?”

  “Nah, we’ve just got them running around down there with machine guns. Gee, I hope the bicycle lock on the door holds.”

  “Hey, I trust you,” I said. “I just like to know how things stand.”

  “You’re right, that’s understandable. But don’t worry about it. You’re on vacation. Leave the details to me. Get some sleep.”

  I really wanted to ask if I could go down and check things out, but I didn’t dare push the subject. Daniel resumed his slurping.

  There was nothing I could do. I hated that. The only really smart course of action would be to move my seat far from its upright and locked position and get some sleep. I had a feeling the next day was going to be fairly eventful.

  Roger’s Side

  SHIT.

  Sorry, I guess that’s not the most eloquent way to start this, but it really does seem appropriate. If I had a notepad or something I could probably come up with something poetic, or witty, or…I don’t know, I think “shit” pretty well sums it up.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I’ve got a lot of intro stuff on my first tape, but that’s back at the motel in New York, and for all I know nobody will ever find it, so I’ll start over. I’m Roger Tanglen. Thirty-three years old. I would lie and say I’m this handsome stud muffin, but I’m sure they’ll find some picture to go with this, so I’ll be honest and say that I’ve got a big nose. Now that I think of it, if they’re showing the picture, you don’t need me to say that I’ve got a big nose, you’ll be able to see it for yourself, so I’ve just wasted about twenty seconds of your life telling you this. But I’m not gonna rewind because I’m trying to keep this thing honest. So expect all kinds of babbling. Like what you’re hearing right now.

  The other people down here are giving me really dirty looks, so I need to get back on track. Right now I’m on a plane bound for who knows where. I’m sitting on the floor, and my feet are locked into these metal things…they’re sort of, I don’t know how to describe them…metal things that clamp over your ankles. I’m trying to think where I’ve seen them before. Well, it doesn’t matter; all that’s important is that I can’t go anywhere. There’s also a metal band around my neck, which is chained to the wall. The chain is starting to feel pretty heavy, to tell you the truth, but it’s not really restricting my movement, though if I managed to get my feet free it would keep me from escaping.

  At least my arms are free. The guy who locked me down here searched me, but was nice enough to let me keep the tape recorder. He’s probably interested in hearing what I say. If I were really clever, I’d break it apart and make some sort of device to pick the locks, but I’m not all that clever. I don’t even know what these metal things are called.

  There are three other people here with me. One is next to me, but not close enough to touch, and the other two are on the opposite side. Actually, how about you all call out your names and where you’re from? We never know where this tape will end up.

  “I’m Mary Bendever, and I’m from Detroit.”

  “Susan Piccinini. Also Detroit. ‹sobbing›”

  “My name is Rodney Telfare, and I’m from Phoenix, Arizona, and if my wife and kids are listening to this I want them to know that I love them, and that Daddy will be home soon!”

  So that’s the crew. My best friend Andrew is on the plane, I’m pretty sure. I still can’t believe it. He was the Headhunter all along. And you know, I think I even suspected it, but I didn’t want to admit it to myself. I feel like a total idiot. I can’t believe he murdered my cat. My precious Reverse Snowflake, killed by that monster.

  I don’t want to talk about him any more.

  I wonder if this flight will have beverage service?

  Chapter 9

  “AH, SMELL that fresh air,” said Daniel, beating on his chest and breathing deeply. “That’s the first thing that’s gotta go.”

  We were in Alaska. According to Daniel, we were about thirty miles out of Fairbanks, not that I would have known any different. Local temperature was ten below zero, just super for a thin-blooded Florida guy. It was two in the afternoon, but Daniel told me that darkness would be falling very shortly.

  We’d landed at another small runway, almost identical to the other one. Then we’d divided into two vans, one with Foster and the prisoners, and one with the evildoers and myself. A long drive through some treacherous, virtually non-existent, roads later, we arrived at our destination.

  The centerpiece was a huge mansion. Patricia’s place was undeniably large, but this was one serious mansion. It was two stories, and almost as big as the Chamber Mall. “Forty-eight bedrooms,” said Daniel, as the iron gates swung open.

  Behind the mansion was an immense metal structure, which from the outside sort of looked like an airplane hangar. A twenty-foot-high iron fence surrounded the entire area. A couple of dead birds lying i
n the snow next to it made me believe that it was electrified.

  The gates closed behind us. Foster’s van veered to the right, and a sliding door opened at the entrance to the metal structure. As Foster backed the van into the structure, Daniel drove us right up to the front doors of the mansion and shut off the engine.

  “Home, sweet, home!” he announced. We all got out, and then he made the comment about the fresh air and how it was the first thing that needed to go. Nobody laughed. I think they’d all heard it before.

  “Nice place,” I said. “So what exactly is your day job, anyway?”

  “I’m in the inheritance business.”

  “Ah. Good work if you can get it.”

  “No kidding.”

  Daniel entered a code into a keypad next to the door, and there was a loud click. He swung the double-doors open and gestured grandly. “Welcome to my humble abode! Please wipe your feet before you enter.”

  We walked inside. The foyer was enormous and elegantly decorated. There was a red-carpeted staircase leading upstairs that sort of looked like the one Clark Gable carried Vivian Leigh up in Gone With the Wind. There was a golden chandelier that sort of looked like the one in the Walt Disney version of Beauty and the Beast, though in real life and not animation. The whole place was overall very, very, very impressive.

  “Wow,” I said, indicating that I was impressed.

  “I’ll take you to your room,” Daniel told me. “We’ll eat dinner in about an hour, if that’s okay.”

  “Sounds great.”

  Daniel led me upstairs and down a long, red-carpeted corridor. The walls were covered with a light gold-colored wallpaper. The doors were spaced about thirty-feet apart, so I assumed there was plenty of closet space.

  “Do you get a lot of visitors?” I asked.

  “Oh, sure. Not like you, of course. Most of my visitors are of the non-homicidal variety. That’s why I’ve gotta keep things reasonably tasteful, at least in the mansion. But you get the special guest room.”

  We stopped at a door that looked much like the others. Daniel tapped it. “That’s mahogany,” he said, proudly. He swiped a yellow plastic card through a reader next to the door, and then swung it open. I stepped inside the room.

  There were dead bodies everywhere.

  It was the tackiest decorating scheme I’d ever seen.

  Every square inch of wall space was covered with pictures of corpses. Corpses in very bad shape. Some of the pictures were black-and-white newspaper clippings, while others were full-color and poster-sized. One of them looked like it was in 3-D. The four-poster bed had several fake heads resting on the pillows.

  “Whaddya think?” Daniel asked.

  “It’s…it’s nice.”

  Daniel patted me on the shoulder. “I know it’s a bit much, but you’re a virgin to this place and you’ve gotta get the whole treatment. Don’t worry; we’ll move you to another room tomorrow. Go ahead and take a shower, enjoy the Jacuzzi, whatever you want. There are bathrobes in the closet, but I’ll bring you some clothes right before we head down for an early dinner. Is there anything else you need?”

  “A vomit bag?”

  “You’ll be interesting to have around,” said Daniel. Then his expression turned serious. “Now, I don’t want you to take offense to this, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re new here, we only know each other through letters, so you’ll understand if I have to take some precautions, right?”

  I nodded. “Absolutely. It takes time to feel you can trust a homicidal maniac.”

  “Great. So don’t freak out when I lock you in here, all right?”

  “Not a problem. I understand completely.”

  “To make more bubbles, just turn the black knob to the right. Sometimes it sticks a bit, but you’ll figure it out. See you in an hour.”

  Daniel left the room, shutting the door behind him. A soft click proved that I was now a prisoner, too.

  WHEN I was little, my dad used to say, “Son, guilt doesn’t make a very fluffy pillow.” It was not a statement that will ever make it into any of those best-selling books of quotes, but that didn’t stop him from saying it on a regular basis. My mom would occasionally try to intervene, insisting that it was only confusing me, but my dad would explain that he was trying to teach me a lesson. It didn’t really work.

  The only long-lasting effect of his lesson is that, in times such as these, when I was wracked with guilt, I’ll often think to myself “You know, Andrew, guilt doesn’t make a very fluffy pillow.” It’s annoying as hell. I’m terrified that someday Kyle will misbehave and I’ll say it to him before I realize what unholiness I’ve unleashed.

  So, anyway, I had that stupid quote running through my mind while I turned on the water in the Jacuzzi. I had no intention of actually relaxing in it, but I hoped the noise of the whirlpool would cover the sound of me poking around, as well as convince anyone who happened to be listening that I was perfectly relaxed in my demented environment.

  I did, however, take a hot shower. I felt guilty while I did it, since Roger no doubt was not currently enjoying a cascade of soothing water, but I couldn’t exactly go downstairs to dinner reeking of nervous sweat.

  After I was done, I turned on the whirlpool, took one of four white bathrobes from the closet, and then began to search the room, hoping to find either a weapon or an escape route.

  I eliminated the escape route idea fairly quickly. No secret doors under the bed, under the rug, or in the closet. At least no obvious secret doors. I could possibly kick a hole through the wall, given sufficient time and better shoes, but I wasn’t going to pursue that option quite yet.

  Next I searched for weapons, something that could be easily concealed. The bedroom was a dead end. Some of the corpse posters looked like excellent paper cut material, and perhaps I could smother somebody with one of the fluffy pillows, but I needed something more substantial.

  There was a shaving razor in the bathroom, but unfortunately it was electric. The best I could come up with was a pair of fingernail clippers. I slipped them into the pocket of the bathrobe. You never know.

  In an emergency, I could break the mirror on the medicine cabinet and use the shards of glass, but beyond that I seemed to be pretty much stuck with the fingernail clippers.

  I continued to search, and jumped when there was a knock at the door half an hour later. I waited as long as it would have taken me to get out of the Jacuzzi and towel off, and then went over to the door.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Foster. I’ve got your clothes.”

  The lock clicked, and then Foster opened the door, holding some neatly folded clothes.

  “Great, thanks,” I said.

  “No problem. Too bad yours got stolen.”

  “Yeah, well, things happen.”

  “Uh-huh. By the way, I don’t believe for one second that you are who you say you are, and it will be my great pleasure to gouge your eyes out very soon. Then I’m going to rip out your throat and make you eat it.”

  “But you’ll spare my nose, won’t you?”

  “Just keep thinking this is funny,” said Foster. “Pretty soon it won’t be.”

  He thrust the clothes at me, and then shut the door.

  “What a prick,” I said to the shirt.

  I got dressed in the designer jeans and green polo shirt Foster had so thoughtfully provided. I transferred the handy fingernail clippers to my jeans pocket. I’d just tucked in my shirt when Daniel arrived to escort me to dinner.

  “SO, ANDREW,” began Mortimer, stuffing a bite of prime rib in his mouth, “what’s the story? I’m talking about the whole Headhunter thing? Daniel explained part of it, but I’m still confused.”

  I shrugged. “Not much to tell. Have you read my book?”

  “Yeah, actually.”

  “Lies. From beginning to end.”

  “You don’t say.” Mortimer thought about that for a moment. “So you actually worked for Ghoulish Delight
s?”

  “That’s right. They tried to rip me off, and I have it on good authority that they regretted it.”

  Daniel chuckled. “Excellent lobster, honey,” he said to Josie. “You’ve outdone yourself again.”

  “Just call me Mrs. Domestic.”

  “And while you were with Ghoulish Delights, you were also going around killing people as the Headhunter?” asked Mortimer.

  “That’s right.”

  “Busy son of a bitch,” muttered Foster.

  “Idle hands do the devil’s work.”

  “So, you’re part of Ghoulish Delights, and you’re the Headhunter,” said Mortimer. “You’ve got this fantastic cover story that you’re Andrew Mayhem, the family man who stopped a bunch of sadistic killers and their fans. Why would you tell anyone your secret?”

  Thomas had posed that same question to the Headhunter. “Because,” I said, taking a sip of my red wine, “Daniel here promised me one hell of a party.”

  “And you’ll get it,” said Daniel.

  “Besides, who’d believe it?” I asked. “I’ll just tell the press that you wackos kidnapped me.” I laughed in what I hoped was a convincing manner.

  “What about Roger? I thought you two were best friends from childhood.”

  I took a much larger sip of the wine. “We were.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Things changed.”

  “No kidding. They must’ve changed quite a bit for you to bring him here. What did he do?”

  “Let’s just say that when I came home early one day, I decided to be a little more creative than running for the shotgun.”

  Mortimer nodded his understanding. “Gotcha.”

  “Lost three wives that way,” said Stan, not looking up from his dinner. Daniel had forbade him from smoking at the dinner table, but an unlit cigarette stuck out of the corner of his mouth as he chewed his steak.

  “So when do I find out the big surprise?” I asked. “There’s only so much suspense one guy can take, you know.”