by Abbie Roads
She raised one leg, rested her foot on the edge of the nightstand, and opened her thigh for him.
“Ahh…see. This is nice.” His hand moved lower and lower. She shut off the sensation of him touching her and counted. One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand. Four one-thousand. Five one-thousand.
She groaned, trying to create a sound of pleasure, rather than one of repulsion, and arched back into him. He braced, just like she wanted, giving her the leverage to lift her other leg to the nightstand.
She pushed off it into him with every bit of strength she possessed.
He stumbled back in the space between the beds, taking her with him.
Let me go, she wanted to shout, but shouting would take extra energy and she needed every bit she had to get out the door and away from him.
She felt the moment when he lost his battle with balance. It meant freedom. Her moment of escape.
In midair, she twisted to the side, out of his grip, and landed on her hip beside him. Pain detonated, and every bone clattered from the impact. The agony was too great to move. Could she even walk?
She’d fucking crawl if she had to.
She was a jumble of knees and hands and feet, propelling herself toward the hopeful crack of light that framed the ill-fitting door. The initial burst of pain had already faded. If she could just get her feet underneath her. Knee, hand, knee, foot, hand—
A weight landed on her back. She went down on all fours again. Her arms gave out. She slammed cheek first into the floor. The blow sloshed her brain. She couldn’t move.
Junior turned her over. Pinned her hands above her head.
“I wanted this time to be different.” He spoke softly. A drop of spittle landed on her cheek. “You chose this. Not me. Remember that.”
“Lathan!” His name burst from her lips in a scream that split the pain in her head, then doubled it.
Junior’s grip on her wrists tightened. “Don’t ever say his name.”
“Lath—”
Junior clamped his hand over her mouth, grinding his palm against her lips. Skin tore; blood rushed across her tongue, dripped down her throat.
A warm, moist circle settled over her nose. What was that?
His mouth. He covered her nose with his mouth.
Fear slammed into her so hard she bucked from its impact.
He blew into her nose.
The moisture choked her, burning like she’d gotten water in her sinuses. She thrashed against his hold, but his mouth was suctioned to her face. Her lungs expanded larger and larger. Pressure threatened to rip her wide open.
* * *
Lathan knocked on her room door.
It was late. Too late. Past midnight. And yet, here he was.
The air was heavy with diesel and fried food from the restaurant across the parking lot. Morty’s itself smelled foul. A combination of mildew and rot. How could she stand living here? How could anyone stand living here?
“Honey. Uh, Evanee.” Her name felt weird in his mouth. “It’s me, Lathan. We need to talk.”
From the moment she’d left him and walked into her room, something had felt wrong, but he’d ignored the feeling. Or tried to. Now he was acting all OCD over her. Obsessed about her safety. Compelled to make sure she was all right. Disordered enough to do it at midnight.
He banged a little harder on the door, feeling the hollow echo underneath his gloved knuckles. “I know it’s late. I just need a minute. Then I’ll leave.”
He waited. She might be sleeping. She might be telling him through the door to come back tomorrow, and he couldn’t hear her. He leaned in, sticking his damaged ears to the crack, trying to make them listen.
Her sweet honey scent floated to him. God, he loved her smell. He inhaled deeply and found garlic and motor oil and gasoline mixed with her.
Garlic? Motor oil? Gasoline?
Junior’s name slammed into his mind harder than a baseball bat upside the head. Adrenaline, or maybe it was fury, gripped every muscle to the point of pain. Only one thing was going to take care of that particular pain. Killing Junior.
Lathan went through the door. He didn’t remember how he got through it; he just went from outside to inside.
It took him less than a picosecond to catalog the scene. What he saw nearly slayed him.
Junior lay over Honey, holding her arms above her head, even though she wasn’t fighting, wasn’t moving. His hand over her mouth. His mouth over her nose. Her nose? What the fuck was he doing to her? Junior raised his head and looked directly at Lathan.
A smile stretched across Junior’s lips. The smile of someone who savored his dominance. The smile of someone who got jacked off by it.
“You don’t touch her.” The words ripped from his throat like a snarling cornered coon.
He was on top of Junior before his brain even sent the message to his body, grabbing him by his shirt, dragging him off her, away from her. Junior tried to hit him, but the blows were less than effectual. Lathan tossed him onto the floor in a dark corner of the room. He kicked into the dark, packing all the force of his fury into the movement. He connected. One. Two. Three. Four. That should keep Junior down for a while.
He turned to Evanee.
She lay in the patch of orangish light spilling in from outside. Her chest bellowed up and down in giant movements. He knelt next to her.
“What did he do to you?”
Her eyes were wild, and fear rolled off her.
“I’m here now. He won’t hurt you anymore.” To keep that promise, he needed to get her out of there. No telling when Junior might get a second wind.
He scooped her up in his arms. She felt so good he buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply as he stood. She turned into his neck and fisted his shirt in her hand. He ran from the room, heading for the restaurant across the parking lot.
He wanted to punch himself in the head for not listening to the warning in his gut. He’d known. He’d fucking known something bad was going to happen. And what did he do? Spent hours driving around until he stopped—a-fucking-gain—at the carving. The giant, snarling bear sculpted from one big-assed hunk of wood that stood atop a hill outside town. He’d wasted an hour staring at that carving and asking himself why he felt compelled to visit the thing so damned often. Just like every other time, he got no answers.
He shouldn’t have squandered his time on such a useless activity. He should’ve been watching out for her. Protecting her. He’d fucking known Junior would make a play for her. He just hadn’t thought it would be so soon.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should’ve been here sooner. It’s my fault. My fucking fault.” The words leaped from his mouth before he could contain them.
At least she was alive. Everything else they could deal with. They. Because he was going to act like a tattoo and permanently attach to her. There wouldn’t be a next time when it came to Junior. Or if there was, there wouldn’t be a Junior after next time.
“Call 911,” he yelled the moment he pushed through the door of Sweet Buns and Eats. A trucker three booths in had just stood. Lathan shoved the table full of dishes back with his leg and sat in the empty booth with Evanee.
“Honey?” He tilted her face up to him.
She was purple. Fucking purple. Gasping for air like it was in low supply.
“Shh… Honey. Breathe. Just breathe.”
Her eyes were ravaged, consumed by an agony that went deeper than any physical pain ever could. Her mouth was a horrifying smear of crimson that wasn’t lip gloss.
Fury burned through him. He shook from the power of it.
Cold steel pressed against his temple. A gun. Shit. Fucking damn.
Lathan cut his gaze to the side, expecting to see Junior, but a Mr. Clean impersonator held the shotgun to his head. Mr. Clean backed off a few inches and Lathan fac
ed him.
“…her down real easy and I’ll… arrested without putting any holes in…head.”
Lathan didn’t catch all the words, but he got the gist. He didn’t blink away from the threat. “I’m not letting her go.”
Burning cinnamon flowed off the guy.
Honey straightened, her backbone going rigid one vertebra at a time. She spoke, but Lathan didn’t attempt to hear the words. He was locked on Mr. Clean and the gun aimed at him, which was too close to being aimed at her.
Anger snarled Mr. Clean’s lips and clenched his jaw, but his eyes were full of soft tenderness for Honey. The guy had a fucking thing for her.
Lathan pulled her in closer, and she responded by looping her arm around his neck.
Mr. Clean lowered the shotgun barrel to the floor. Only then did Lathan’s attention go to her words.
“…killed her.”
Killed her? Did he hear that right?
“Stay in here.” Mr. Clean pointed at the floor and ran out the door toward the motel.
A waitress—dressed in shorts so skimpy they might’ve actually been underwear—approached the table. “Evan…okay? Is there anything I can do?”
Evan. The waitress called her Evan. Was that a nickname? Lathan craned his neck in an unnatural position to see Honey’s response.
“I’m okay now, Amy.”
Amy tucked a stray strand of hair behind Honey’s ear. “Is it true? What you said about Junior?”
A cop car slid into the parking lot. Its red-and-blue lights danced around the diner. Honey twisted in Lathan’s arms to look out the window at the officers exiting the vehicle and heading toward the restaurant. Fear scented the air around her in a garlic cloud.
Mr. Clean emerged from the motel room and waved the cops toward him.
“Why are you afraid of the police?” Lathan asked.
“Junior’s dad is the sheriff. I’m in trouble. You’re probably in trouble.”
Yeah. She’d told him that earlier, but he’d filed that under not-important information. Great. He’d probably have a chance to meet Senior, who had to be just as bad as Junior. Except Senior was in a position of power. That made him lethal.
“Everything will be fine.” He shifted to get his cell from his pocket and quickly texted Gill.
Lathan: Probably going to be arrested. Things might get ugly.
He shoved his phone back in his pocket without waiting for a response. “Gill’s on his way. He’ll take care of everything.”
Amy leaned against the booth across from them. “I can’t believe it…just handed over your checks ten minutes ago.”
Lathan watched every word Amy spoke. And then it clicked.
Honey was a waitress. Not a whore. Relief and guilt waged a small battle for supremacy. Relief won.
“You work here?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She glanced away from him, and a small puff of spoiled dairy hit his nose. She was ashamed of her job. And he hadn’t helped matters with how he’d acted earlier.
“Evan, you’ve got…” Amy motioned toward her mouth.
Honey wiped her hand over her lips. Blood smeared her fingers. All the color that had built back up in her face drained away.
Lathan covered her hand with his. “Don’t look at it. You keep those twin sapphires on my face. Is there someplace we can get you cleaned up?”
She nodded.
“Show me.” He helped her stand, putting his arm around her to ensure she was steady on her feet. It was only then that he noticed the diner full of men. All of them staring at either Amy or Honey, lust in their eyes. He shifted to shield her with his body.
She led him down a hallway that ran alongside the kitchen to a tiny bathroom.
“Close your eyes.” Without hesitation she obeyed, but reached out and gripped his shirt like she was afraid he’d try to sneak off. “I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”
He wet a towel and began cleaning her face. Her lips were puffy and painful looking on the outside—probably mangled meat on the inside. Her right cheekbone had a lump the size of an egg on it.
He tried to be gentle, but she still winced and flinched—and it tore at his heart.
When he’d wiped away the last of the blood, he tossed the wad of towels in the bathroom trash and gathered her in his arms. She fit like she’d been chiseled especially for him.
Holding her took the edge off the rage simmering inside him. If she was in his arms, he couldn’t find a knife from the kitchen and cut Junior into little pieces. That’s exactly what he wanted to do.
He knew that was how it would end. He would kill Junior.
He smelled a man approaching and turned. A cop. With his hand hovering over his weapon.
“Step back from her and raise your hands in the air.”
Chapter 6
James adjusted the focus on the video camera, then stepped back to view the entire scene. The orange bulb in the porch light cast an intimate glow akin to candlelight. Color and shadow contrasted sharply with each other as they fought for dominance on Subject 85’s trembling body.
She was bound, staked to the ground, spread-eagled on the hard-packed earth just outside her back door.
He walked over to her, careful not to block the camera’s view. This was how he trained, how he developed his skill, how he learned to catch killers—by being a killer. By watching and re-watching the recordings. Cataloging his reactions, his thoughts, his frame of mind. And those of all of his subjects too.
“I want you to escape.” He spoke slowly so Subject 85 could understand his every word. He checked the time on the clock he’d placed next to her face. Six p.m. “I’ll give you thirty minutes. If you escape by six thirty, you are free to go. If not—” He bent down and lightly grasped the pinkie toe on her left foot with his gloved fingers. “I will begin here, breaking every bone in your foot, then your ankle, then your leg until I reach your hip. Then I will switch to your right foot.”
Her pupils were fully dilated from terror. Sweat soaked her face, mingling with tears and yellow ropes of snot. Duct tape covered her mouth. Her cheeks puffed as she pushed air out her nose. Her hips thrust off the ground. She raised her head, searched around her for help.
“Popping a hip out of its socket isn’t difficult if you know the right angle to apply pressure. I will then remove your intestines. You will be alive during this entire process—”
Subject 85 wailed. A buzzing noise sounded from a loosened section of duct tape. It reminded him of the ti-ti-ti-ti sound his ten-speed bike made when he was a kid. No matter how much noise she made, it didn’t matter. The nearest neighbor was seven miles away.
He waited until she finished. “Do not worry. I will leave your heart and lungs untouched. Then I will begin breaking the bones in your left hand. Then your right.”
She strained against the bonds, hips thrusting. A vein in the middle of her forehead bulged with blood. She might pop a vessel before he had a chance to get that far.
“I know this is terribly distressing, but if the pain becomes too great, all you have to do is ask, and I will put you down in a humane manner.”
She froze as that last little bit of information worked its way through her adrenaline-soaked brain.
“Before we begin, I will remove the tape over your mouth. I would never forget that. You may start.”
Subject 85 redoubled her struggle for freedom.
James sat on the wicker settee, facing the camera’s viewfinder to wait. A clean-room suit covered his body and hair. His fingerprints were hidden inside the latex gloves he wore. Thick boot covers guaranteed he would not leave a viable footprint. There would be no trace of him when he left this home.
For a few moments, he watched Subject 85, but her struggle was the same struggle he’d witnessed from eighty-four other subjects. The struggle to survive. But ton
ight he just wasn’t engaged.
“I am feeling very disinterested in this entire process.” He spoke directly to the camera, then turned his attention skyward. The sky was different here in West Texas. No bright city lights muted its brilliance; no sounds distracted him from its dark beauty. Pastel-colored stars flickered like sequins on a dancer’s dress. The night’s version of color was more astounding for its understated glory than the gaudy blue of day.
Subject 85 screamed and screamed and screamed. Until she choked on the blood of her raw vocal cords. A fine mist of red blew from her nostrils.
A coyote answered her, howling from no more than a quarter mile away. Might have smelled blood in the air and come to investigate.
James turned his attention back to the camera. “I don’t need this anymore. I already know enough.”
Until he spoke the words aloud, he hadn’t realized how done he really was. He was bored with killing. But as illogical as it sounded, he was almost afraid to stop. From the moment of his first kill, it was as if he and Death had formed an alliance. He fed Death, and Death fed him. Would his profiler skills still be as sharp without Death?
The only obstacle was Lathaniel Montgomery. Somehow, the special skills consultant had managed to link thirty-eight of James’s experiments and claimed an active serial killer was on the loose. Impossible. Lathaniel couldn’t know. Each experiment was carefully choreographed so nothing would link it to any of the previous ones. There were variations in race, sex, age, body type, hair color, religion, socioeconomic status, sexual orientation, geographic location, mode of death, and method of discovery—he’d made sure of that. There was no signature, no modus operandi.
But Lathaniel wouldn’t drop it. He had tried to get to Dr. Jonah to convince him of the presence of a new serial killer. That’s when James started doing his own research. The layers of secrecy surrounding Lathaniel made it difficult to find answers. Why the secrecy? It had taken months of surveillance just to find Lathaniel’s home.
From where he sat, he could smell the warm tang of blood and sweat. A smell he was familiar with, but one he wasn’t particularly fond of. Subject 85’s wrists and ankles were shredded. Blood dripped from her wounds. The thirsty ground soaked up each drop.
