Skin in the Game

by D P Lyle

  Or could it?

  Then she heard footsteps and the metallic sounds of him working the lock. The door scraped open and he was inside. The two standing lights snapped to life. He smiled at her. Calm and casual. As if returning from a day at work. As if he might say, “Honey, I’m home.”

  A canvas duffle over one shoulder. With a heavy thunk, he placed it on the table. The one she had spent days strapped to.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Confused. Scared.”

  “No need for either. This is your night. You’re the star.”

  She sniffed, swiped the blanket’s corner across her nose. “The star of what?”

  He walked to the cage. Looked down at her. “Art must be seen to be appreciated.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.”

  He returned to the table and unzipped the duffle. She now noticed his combat-style pants, black, like the tight, long-sleeved shirt he wore. He removed a pair of handcuffs and then unlocked her cage.

  “Take off your clothes.”

  She hesitated. It wasn’t like he hadn’t given that command before. Every day she had been there, in fact. Meant he was ready to work on her. But that was done. Every inch of her body displayed his grotesque tattooing.

  His jaw tightened. “Now.”

  She slid from her clothing, her flesh pebbling from the cold and the fear that welled inside her.

  “Turn around.”

  “Why?”

  He grabbed one arm and spun her. “Do exactly what I say when I say it.”

  He twisted her arms behind her back and snapped the cuffs in place.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

  “We have to take a little trip.”

  “Where?”

  “Someplace special.”

  “No. Please.” Her voice sounded foreign to her. Coarse, raspy. Stretched with the fear that tightened her chest. “Just let me go. I’ll never tell.”

  “Far too late for that, don’t you think?”

  “Why? I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”

  He studied her. “Are you sure you really want to know?”

  What did that mean?

  “But I guess you deserve that,” he said. “Knowing what you are. Who you are. That you’ll be admired and treasured forever.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He grabbed a ball gag from the table. “First this.”

  “What? Why?”

  He stepped behind her and pressed the ball against her mouth. She clamped her teeth together, shook her head. The gag slipped beneath her chin. He tugged the strap, pulling her against him, the ball now compressing her neck like a fist.

  He whispered in her ear, “Do I need to get the plastic bag?”

  “Please.” Her voice a mere whisper.

  “Open up.”

  Did she have a choice? She parted her teeth. He secured the gag in place.

  “That’s better. I hate screaming.”

  She whimpered.

  “You see, hunters, real hunters, always take trophies.”

  She stiffened. What was he talking about?

  “You wanted to know how special you are.” He clutched her arm and directed her to a table along the far wall. A canvas sheet lay over it. Tented up in the middle, something beneath it. “And so you shall.” He lifted the canvas, folding it to one side.

  At first she wasn’t sure what she saw. A large glass container. Filled with liquid. Something inside. Then the pieces came together. A face. A head. Shaved. Black-striped tattoos over its surface.

  Oh, my god.

  She recoiled, staggering. His grip on her arm tightened. A wave of nausea, her heart rising into her throat. She tried to scream, to breathe. A savage trembling overtook her. Her legs wilted. She slumped, but he held her upright, his mouth now against her ear. His breath hot.

  “She was to be my first masterpiece. But she was incomplete. Not worthy. But, you? You’re so very worthy.”

  He helped her back to the table. The table where he had tortured her with those incessant needles. He lifted her so she was seated on its edge. He cuffed her ankles and tied a blindfold in place.

  Then, his voice a gentle whisper, he said, “Relax. Don’t fight it.”

  She tried. She really did. But her panic only grew. Her heart thumped audibly.

  He wrapped a blanket around her, lifted her on to one shoulder, and carried her outside. The door clicked closed behind them. She heard gravel beneath his boots and sensed he was carrying her up an incline. Then a mechanical pop and she was rolled onto a hard surface. He adjusted the blanket, tucking it here and there. A door slammed shut. A vehicle door. She rolled to one side, then the other, extended her legs. Her heels rubbed against coarse fabric. The lining of a cargo area. Probably a SUV.

  Another door slammed and the engine cranked to life.

  The next few minutes the SUV rose and fell and swayed. The road beneath pinged with gravel and then the rough hiss of asphalt.

  Where was he taking her?

  More gravel, gyrations, and finally the vehicle jerked to a stop.

  He climbed out, the vehicle rocking slightly. The door banged closed. Then two more car doors slammed. Footsteps on gravel. Then voices. Two, no three, all male. Muffled. She was unable to hear what they were saying.

  The rear snapped open. Hands grasped her and lifted her to a standing position. The gravel cold and hard beneath her bare feet.

  “Let’s see what we have here?” Not her captor. Another man.

  “Wow.” Another voice. “She’s magnificent.”

  “Got to admit, I wasn’t sure you could pull this off. Especially after the fiasco with the other one.”

  “You have little faith.” Her captor.

  She sensed the men walking around her, inspecting her. The blanket was gone. She was completely naked, exposed.

  Once again she was lifted over a shoulder. This one more muscular. Down a slope. She smelled water. Fish. Heard the unmistakable lapping of water against a shoreline.

  An unceremonious drop onto another firm surface followed. The impact hollow, a rocking sensation. A boat. She attempted to roll to one side. A boot pressed against her chest, flattening her shoulders against the cold surface.

  “Hold still,” her captor said.

  She tried to speak, to scream, but the ball gag prevented any intelligible sound. Her tears soaked the blindfold. Someone spread the blanket over her. It seemed even more coarse than it had earlier.

  The boat’s engine ground to life, then movement. First reverse, then a jerk forward. Water slapped the bottom, she bounced one way and then the other. Her back, shoulders, hips took the brunt of the impacts. It seemed forever but she knew it was likely only fifteen minutes before the engine slowed and then stopped. The boat crunched against something. The shore?

  Someone snatched away the blanket, then removed the cuffs from her wrists and ankles. Again, hands lifted her, over the side, and placed her upright. In water. Only a foot or so deep. Cold. Silt and smooth rocks against her soles. The smell of fuel exhaust strong. A firm hand clamped on one arm and led her up the slope to dry land. Pine needles. The blindfold came off, then the gag.

  Three men stood before her. Her captor and two others, one tall and thin, the other shorter, muscular. Each dressed in all black. Moonlight silvered their faces, the trees. She looked back across the water but saw no other lights. No signs of civilization. The only sounds were the waves against the shore, the gentle breeze that rustled the trees, and her own breathing.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Where you were meant to be,” her captor said. He smiled. “Turn in a circle. Let us see your beauty.”

  “Please,” she begged.

  “Do it. Now.” His voice sharp, threatening.

  She did.

  “Amazing,” the tall man said.

  “What did I tell you?” her captor said.

  The muscular m
an stepped toward her and ran his fingers over her face. She flinched. He smiled. His hand trailed downward, over one breast, down along her hip. “Perfect. You’re absolutely perfect.”

  Tears streaked her face.

  Her captor knelt, unzipped the duffle he had tossed from the boat, and lifted out an object. Then two more. He handed one to each of the other two men. At first Cindy couldn’t tell what they were, but as they each reconfigured the devices, unfolding the parts, snapping them into place with sharp clicks, they took form.

  Crossbows.

  What the hell would they need…? No, no. Surely not.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “Just what it looks like,” her captor said, briefly holding her gaze. “It’s time.”

  “For what?”

  “This way.” Again, a rough hand on her arm directed her into the trees, to a small clearing. She could see the terrain ahead was a mixture of thick trees, ravines, and patches of shrubs, some lit by the moon, others cast in deep shadows.

  “And now it begins,” he said.

  She looked at him. “What?”

  “The hunt.”

  She took a step back. He was insane. All of them were. Completely and totally. Her world blurred through the tears that collected in her eyes.

  “Imagine you’re a tigress. On the Transvaal.” He waved a hand. “The entire world is your domain.” Now he raised the bow above his head. “And we are the hunters. Seeking a trophy.”

  “You’re sick. All of you are.”

  “I thought I was an artist.” He smiled. “Or were you trying to play me?”

  She groaned.

  He shook his head. “So transparent.”

  “Please don’t do this,” she said. “I won’t tell anyone about you.”

  Her captor shook his head, let out an exasperated sigh. “We’ve been through that. Over and over. Besides, the bets have been placed.”

  “What?”

  The tall man spoke. “We each ponied up ten grand. Winner take all.” He nudged the muscular guy with an elbow. “Means you’re worth thirty K.”

  “Please.” Her voice a weak, desperate, foreign rasp.

  “You have ten minutes,” her captor said. “Run.”

  She looked at the three men. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s simple. You flee, we hunt.”

  “No, no, no.” She shook her head. “I won’t do this.”

  He clutched her arm, squeezed. “You will or I’ll shoot you right here, right now. Your only chance, the chance of any prey, is to escape.” He shoved her. “Now run.”

  She staggered and nearly fell. She spun back toward him. He raised the bow and aimed at her chest.

  “Nine minutes.”

  She ran.

  CHAPTER 25

  Beautiful. Hideous. Spectacular. Disturbing.

  A work of art.

  A psychopath’s dream.

  All this raced through Cain’s mind as he and Harper stood next to Chief Laura Cutler and Jimmy Rankin.

  Cain’s and Harper’s plan to hit the road early, get back to Nashville and track down Adam Parker, hit a snag before it really began. They had loaded their bags into the trunk of Cain’s Mercedes just after seven a.m., and then headed into the breakfast room where Lily Butler busied herself putting the finishing touches on a spread that included scrambled eggs, thick bacon and sausage links, a bowl of grits, and a platter of fluffy, golden-brown biscuits. As Lily had promised, it was spectacular. After thanking Lily for her hospitality, and the great breakfast, they headed north. Only made it three miles out of the city when Cain’s cell buzzed. Cutler, telling them to meet her at the post office.

  “Why?” Cain asked.

  “Something you need to see.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t even describe it.”

  Cain disconnected the call with an amped up sense of dread. After whipping a u-turn where a gravel road spurred off the highway, they booked it back toward town.

  The building was white clapboard with black trim. Keeping with that theme, a large, white sign with “US Post Office 37352” in black, block letters crowned the front door. Cutler’s black Bronco, a silver Ford Taurus, and three patrol units squatted in the gravel lot just left of the building. Cain parked and he and Harper stepped out.

  A semicircle of canvas screens on movable metal poles shielded the side of the structure from the public’s prying eyes. Cain and Harper ducked inside.

  The girl hung by her ankles from a large metal hook screwed into the wooden eave. Arms extended downward, reaching within a foot of the ground. Her lithe body imprinted with thick, black and orange stripes.

  Her head missing.

  “Jesus,” Harper said.

  Cutler turned toward her. “Jesus ain’t nowhere to be seen in this mess.”

  “Who found her?” Cain asked.

  “Norm Sweeney, the post master, when he came in to open up. Fortunately, he’s an early riser, so we were able to do all this before the town cranked to life.” She waved a hand toward the canvas barrier. “He entered through the back door so didn’t immediately see her. Not until he hauled yesterday’s trash out to the dumpster. He freaked. Called. So here we are.”

  Cain stepped closer to the body. Young, fit, very dead. He touched her cold leg. The tattooing amazingly detailed with crisp lines. He moved around her, examining the work. Whoever did this possessed an experienced hand.

  “Any idea who it is?” Cain asked.

  “Nope.” Cutler let out a long breath. “I took her prints and sent them up to Nashville.”

  “How’d you do that?” Harper asked.

  “We aren’t all that backwoods. We have one of those scanners. The City Council sprung for it a year or so ago. So they’re now in the hands of the Nashville PD.”

  “Give them a call,” Cain said. “Tell them to check them against Cindy Grant. I suspect, they’ll match.”

  “Why do you think that?’ Cutler asked.

  “A hunch.”

  Cutler pulled out her cell and did exactly that. “They’ll get back to me shortly.”

  “I take it the ME will send someone down,” Cain said.

  “In the works,” Rankin said. “Said it’d be an hour or two.”

  The rope that bound her ankles ended with a short loop that allowed the suspension. The knots simple, nothing distinguishing. Cain moved to where he could see the soles of her feet. Ripped and excoriated. Embedded limestone slivers. Just like the school teacher. He turned to Cutler. “We have a problem here.”

  “You think?” Cutler said.

  “Worse than simply this.”

  “How so?”

  “Whoever did this, did your school teacher, too.”

  Cutler hooked one thumb in her belt. “Why do you think that?”

  “The tattooing is similar.” Cain reached out and touched the girl’s leg again, running his fingers over the smooth skin. “Black and orange stripes here. Only black on the teacher.” He turned to Cutler. “But the similarities aren’t accidental.”

  Cutler’s face paled.

  “Her feet are damaged the same way. Reinforces what I thought.” He looked at Cutler. “She was hunted down. Both of them were.”

  “Come on,” Rankin said. “You’re kidding? Right?”

  “Wish I was. We have two young women. Naked. Tattooed to look like animals. Both with injuries to the soles of their feet. The kind of damage that comes from running over rocky terrain. I don’t think either would do that unless they had to.”

  “Okay,” Rankin said. “This young lady is a tiger. What about Rose Sanders?”

  Cain shrugged. “An unfinished tiger? Maybe he hadn’t gotten to the orange part yet.”

  “Maybe the teacher was a zebra,” Harper said.

  Cain nodded. “Could be.”

  Rankin shook his head. “If that don’t beat all, I don’t know what does.”

  “Wait a minute,” Cutler said. “You’re saying we have so
me psycho running around here hunting young women?”

  “After he tattoos them,” Cain said.

  “What kind of sick freak does that?”

  “The worst kind,” Harper said.

  Cain circled the corpse again, closely examining her chest and abdomen, found what he expected. “Here.” He pointed.

  Cutler, Harper, and Rankin stepped up beside him.

  The first entry wound was easy to see. Near the left scapula, middle of an orange stripe. Small, round, clean. The second was more difficult, buried in a black stripe. Lower right chest. Also small and clean. No blood. He stepped down.

  “Two entry wounds. No exits. The bullets will be retained so the ME should be able to grab them. That’ll at least give us some ballistic information.”

  “When and if we find a weapon,” Cutler said.

  Cain pulled out his iPhone. “I’m going to grab a couple of photos. Send them up to one of the FBI profilers I know. Get his take on this.”

  “What are you thinking?” Cutler asked. “What are we dealing with here?”

  “A serial killer,” Harper said. “A narcissistic one.”

  Cutler twisted her neck one way, then the other. “Which means?”

  “He’s not finished. He’s proud of his work. That’s why he displayed her this way. Likely considers himself an artist. Wants the world to know how special he is.”

  “If that’s the case, it begs the question,” Cutler said, “why was Rose buried and this one displayed here?”

  Cain shook his head. “I don’t know.” His gaze ran over the corpse. Even as grotesque as this was, she was beautiful. A work of art. Of sorts. “If I had to guess, I’d say he wasn’t satisfied with Rose.”

  “Satisfied?” Rankin asked.

  “Maybe she wasn’t perfect,” Harper said. “Not up to his standards.”

  “Some fucking standards,” Cutler said. “This guy doesn’t possess standards.”

  “Sure he does,” Cain said. “This,” he waved a hand toward the body, “was painstakingly done. It took time. He put his soul into it.”

  “He doesn’t have a soul either,” Cutler said.