by Mark Lukens
She’d gotten a loud sigh from Brian on the phone, and then: “I gotta go, Mom. Love you.” And then a click as he hung up.
Yes, maybe she wouldn’t call him tonight. She would wait for him to call her, see how long that took.
• • •
It was time.
The killer smiled. The air was still fresh and cool at night even though it was almost summer. The moon was full and bright, hardly a cloud in the sky. The wind was almost non-existent, but a gust of strong wind had just blown through the trees, rattling the branches, leaves and twigs falling to the ground around him like snow. That wind felt ominous, it felt alive, washing over him and fueling him with a dark energy.
He had his tool bag beside him in the grass; it was really a black canvas duffel bag, but he called it his tool bag. He had hammers, saws, pliers, knives, various nails, battery-operated power tools, tarps, rope, tape, and other tools of his trade. The bag was heavy, but he needed it with him.
He wore black clothes: a thick black hoodie sweatshirt, black jeans, black hiking boots, thin black leather gloves. He had worn rubber gloves when he had killed the older couples, but the gloves had gotten too slick with the blood and they made his hands sweat too much. It was those little things he learned along the way that made him better. He tried to think ahead and he tried to be prepared as much as he could. He’d bought the hiking boots and the clothes he wore at a garage sale a few weeks ago—untraceable. The clothes would go into a cloth sack after tonight and he would toss them into a dumpster behind a store. The gloves would make sure no fingerprints were left behind tonight. And he would leave no stray hairs because he had shaved every hair on his head and body—even his eyebrows. He would leave no trace of himself behind.
He also wore a generic black ski mask that could be purchased just about anywhere in Colorado. He was now a black shadow in the darkness, a dark shape moving in the night.
The killer inhaled a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment, and then he exhaled slowly. He picked up his tool bag. He had a gun shoved down in a shoulder holster inside his hoodie, and he had a Taser in his front pants pocket.
He was ready now.
CHAPTER 5
Marcie
Colorado
“What are you doing?” Marcie asked Harold as she came out of the kitchen with a dishtowel in her hands. She’d heard the doorbell ring while wiping down the counters, and now Harold was out of his chair and about to answer the door. Somehow, even with his bad hearing and the baseball game blaring from the TV, Harold had heard the doorbell. She wondered if Harold’s deafness was selective, his excuse to tune her out.
Harold was already at the door, unlocking it. She’d told him a million times not to answer the door without looking out through the living room windows first to see who was there, but Harold was set in his ways, still living in a world where you kept your doors unlocked at night and you trusted your fellow humans.
But Marcie felt like something was wrong. For a split second she thought Brian might be at the door, probably because she had just been thinking about him. But then she knew it wasn’t Brian. No, it was someone bad on the other side of that door. Someone real bad.
The recent murder of the older couples north of Denver came to her mind right away. They had been slaughtered like animals, their bodies mutilated and pieced back together in some kind of morbid artwork. And for some reason she felt that the killer was right on the other side of their door. Harold was always telling her that she was so negative, that she should try to look on the bright side of things. But tonight, right at this moment, she knew she was right to be afraid.
“Harold, no!” She ran into the living room to stop him from opening the front door.
Harold hadn’t heard her, or at least he had pretended not to hear her. He opened the door and then he was rocked back, a loud grunt escaping his lungs like he’d just been squeezed by a giant hand. He dropped to the floor, his arms and legs flailing in spasms.
A man dressed from head-to-toe in black stood in the doorway. He had something in his hand, some kind of Taser that he had just jolted Harold with. And in his other hand he held a gun. It was aimed right at her.
“Don’t move,” the man said. His eyes were wide and nervous behind the ski mask, his body tense. “Don’t scream. Don’t do anything. I don’t want to shoot you.”
Marcie didn’t have heart problems, but she felt like she was on the verge of having a heart attack right now.
The man slipped inside their home and closed the door behind him, locking it.
Harold tried to roll over onto his side, apparently able to control his arms and legs a little better now. He moaned, trying to get up.
The man was between Marcie and Harold in a flash, his movements quick and twitchy. He was trembling. “Turn that TV off,” he said over the baseball game blaring from it.
Marcie stumbled over to Harold’s chair on weak legs and picked up the remote control from the little table next to it. She pressed the power button and the TV turned off, the house silent now except for Harold’s moaning.
The masked man sighed, relaxing just a little. “Look, I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to take a few things and then I’ll go.”
Marcie didn’t answer the man. She found that she was nodding her head without even meaning to, agreeing with what he was saying.
“What’s your name, lady?”
“Marcie,” she answered. Her name came out as a breathless whisper. She was having so much trouble catching her breath.
“Marcie. I’m sorry I tazed your husband. I . . . I just need some money. And any jewelry you have.”
For drugs, Marcie thought.
“Do you have any guns in the house?” the man asked.
Marcie wasn’t sure if the man in the ski mask was asking about guns because he was afraid they would use them on him or because he wanted to sell them, but she shook her head no—they didn’t have any guns. Harold had wanted a gun for years, but she had never allowed it; she’d always been too afraid of them.
Harold was up on all fours now, his head hanging low.
“Okay,” the masked man said to himself, glancing around their living room and then into the dining room like an idea had just occurred to him.
At least there was only one man, Marcie thought. He wasn’t the killer who had slaughtered two old couples up north, she told herself. He was just some junkie who needed money for his next fix.
The masked man darted into the dining room and shoved his pistol inside his hoodie jacket. He shoved his Taser down into his pants pocket as he grabbed two dining room chairs and brought them back into the living room. He set them right in the middle of the floor, side by side. “Sit here,” he told Marcie, but he made it sound more like an offer rather than a command.
Marcie knew that when the masked man had grabbed the dining room chairs it had been her chance to run, to bolt outside or to their bedroom for the phone. She could have gotten out a window. But she had been too frightened to move, her legs and arms felt impossibly heavy, even her mind was sluggish.
But the man would have easily caught her. He looked young and fit. And if she had run, then what about Harold? She was just going to leave him behind? No. Running was out of the question. Maybe she could just do what this man wanted, give him the money and the jewelry he wanted, and then he would go and leave them alone.
“Please,” Marcie managed to say. She could feel the stinging of tears in her eyes.
“I won’t hurt you,” the man said. “I promise. You let me tie your hands behind your back and sit in the chair. I’ll be gone in ten minutes. I swear.”
Marcie shook her head no, unable to utter an answer for a moment. She felt the helpless tears coming now. She looked at Harold—he was still trying to get up to his feet, still moaning in pain and shock. She looked back at the man. “You’ve already hurt us.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know if he had a gun. Now that I know you two won’t sho
ot me, then I won’t hurt you. You let me tie you to the chairs, you tell me where your money and jewelry are, then I won’t hurt you. I swear.”
And if we don’t? But she didn’t ask that. “You won’t do anything else to us? You won’t blindfold us or gag us?”
“No. I won’t gag you, Marcie. I need you to tell me where your stuff is.” He even smiled a little behind the mouth hole of his mask, showing her how silly her fears were.
“I can’t have something over my mouth,” she told him. “I’ll panic. It will feel like I can’t breathe.”
“I told you I wouldn’t,” the man said. It was the first tinge of anger in the man’s voice, the first sign of his impatience with this negotiation. He breathed out a heavy sigh like he was weighing his options.
He could taze both of us, Marcie thought. He could taze us and tie us to the chairs if he wanted to. I can’t fight him off, and neither can Harold. We’re only going to make him more and more angry.
“Look,” the man said. “I’m wearing a mask. You haven’t seen my face. I’m wearing gloves. There won’t be a trace of me left here. No witnesses. I don’t need to kill you. I don’t want to kill you. I just want your stuff so I can go.”
Marcie didn’t say anything. Her mind was stuck on the word kill.
“Help your husband into the chair,” the man said, his voice a little harder now—he was done playing games. He still seemed twitchy, ready to grab one of the weapons he had on him.
To her amazement, Marcie found herself following the man’s orders. Harold was almost up on his feet now, on one knee, his body trembling with the effort. She took his hand and helped him all the way up, guiding him to one of the dining room chairs the man had set up for them. Harold sat down heavily in the chair. He seemed like he was half-asleep, still dazed, not thinking clearly yet.
“Now you,” the man told Marcie.
Marcie sat down in the chair next to her husband.
“Hands behind you,” the man said. He was right behind both of them now. She couldn’t see him anymore.
Again, Marcie followed orders without thinking about it. Just do what he wants and he’ll go away, she thought. It was a mantra she repeated in her mind. And what other choice did she have? She put her hands behind her, around the back of the armless chair. She felt a piece of rope winding around her wrists, binding them together. She winced; he had tied her wrists together a little too tightly. Was the rope going to cut off her circulation?
Then a terrible realization entered her mind: Where had he gotten the rope? He must have had it on him already—it hadn’t come from her house. Had he been expecting to tie them up? Had that been his plan all along? She feared this man wasn’t some junkie looking to score a few hundred dollars—this was something much more sinister than that.
Harold grunted as the man bound his hands behind his back and the chair, pulling the ropes tight. Then the masked man walked away from them, walking to the front door. He unlocked the door and opened it, ducking outside for just a moment. He came back in with a large black duffel bag.
The tightening in Marcie’s chest was back again, that pressure, the panicky sensation of not being able to inhale a complete breath.
Burglary tools, she told herself. That’s just a bag of burglary tools he brings with him. Or maybe that’s the stuff he’s already collected from other homes he has burglarized. He would have to have something to carry his stuff in, wouldn’t he?
The man locked the front door and walked towards them. It was a slow walk and he had a smile on his face underneath the mouth hole of his mask, like he was savoring the moment.
“What the hell do you want?” Harold growled, finally coming fully awake. But it was too late now. “Just take our stuff and get the hell out!”
The man didn’t respond. He set his duffel bag down on the floor in front of them. He unzipped it, revealing all the tools inside. He pulled off his ski mask. His head was completely bald, his skin pasty white, his somewhat handsome face screwed up by a cruel smile.
We’ve seen his face now. He’s not going to let us go. He was never going to let us go.
The man pulled out more lengths of rope from his duffel bag and walked behind their chairs to tie them up more securely.
CHAPTER 6
The Killer
Colorado
Hours later the killer sat on Harold and Marcie’s couch, relaxing. He had blood smeared all over him and now he was getting it all over their couch and the pillows. He looked down at the blood smeared all over his leather gloves and the chunk of flesh in one hand. There was blood on the front of his black hoodie and down the front of his pants, big spots of it on his hiking boots. His boots left bloody footprints all over the carpet and wood flooring in the dining room and kitchen.
Harold and Marcie Watson were dead now. He had tortured them, taking his time with them, trying to stretch out those precious few hours before he killed them, those precious few hours of their pain and their knowledge that their lives were going to end very soon.
Yes, they were dead now, still bound to the chairs with the extra ropes he had used because he knew they were going to struggle once the cutting started. Now that they were dead, the real work would begin: the cutting up of the bodies, the rearrangements, the positioning, the artwork. He remembered the articles and websites about the Dig Site Murders, how the pieces of the bodies had been placed together, pieces inside of pieces, a perfect flesh and bone sculpture. Some websites had leaked photos of the bodies from the cave, other websites had drawings and other artwork, others had detailed accounts; he studied them all. He only wished he had nine bodies to work with like at the dig site in New Mexico, but he was working up to that.
Right now he was hungry. He wanted to eat something before he got started.
Let’s see what Marcie Watson cooked for dinner.
The killer walked past Harold and Marcie, their bloodstained bodies leaning slightly forward into the ropes that kept them in their chairs. In the kitchen, he washed the blood off of the piece of flesh in his gloved hands. The water running off of his hands was red at first, then it turned pink, and then clear. Once the piece of flesh was clean, he set it on the counter to use later when he began to reconstruct Harold and Marcie’s bodies.
He wore his gloves the whole time, doing his best not to leave any evidence behind, but he knew he would eventually be caught. Serial killers never lasted long anymore; forensics was too good, there were too many cameras everywhere. Eventually a highway traffic camera would pick up the license plate on the back of his car, placing him somewhere in the vicinity of a crime scene. Or his image would be caught on a security camera in a corner store. A receipt would give him away. A waitress would remember him. All the little pieces of evidence would eventually come together and the police would catch him. He didn’t fear that day, he just accepted the inevitability of it. And until that day came, he would continue to hone his craft, to perfect his art, to take chances with it, hoping to be mentioned alongside the legends of serial killers one day.
After they eventually caught him, he had everything planned out. The police would want to talk with him; they would want to know everything, every detail about the crimes. But he wasn’t going to talk. He wasn’t going to reveal a thing. Sure, they would threaten him at first; they would try to bribe him. Psychiatrists would try to figure out what buttons to push to make him talk, even promising that he would be a legend like Ted Bundy or Henry Lee Lucas. Movies would be made about him, books written, maybe even classes taught at universities and at the FBI devoted to his methods and motives. Others had talked, they would tell him. Others had revealed their secrets, and look at them now—legends, modern-day monsters, the bogeyman hiding in the dark.
But they had it all wrong. Yes, those killers were legends, but there were other serial killers that had come and gone, their names no longer on people’s lips or in the back of their minds when they walked alone down a dark street or double-checked the locks on their doors at night.
No, there was another way to be sure he would be immortalized, and that was to create a mystery that would never be solved. He would tell the police and the FBI and the reporters nothing. He would let all of them agonize over his methods and motives. The more he refused to talk, the stronger the mystery would get. And he would never give in, right up until the time they walked him down the hall to the room where they would stick a needle in his arm so he could pass away peacefully, he would never talk.
The killer pulled out a dinner plate from the refrigerator that was wrapped in tin foil. He set it on the countertop next to the piece of flesh he had washed in the sink. He pulled the foil off of the plate revealing a chicken leg and thigh with what looked like some kind of barbecue sauce concoction on top of it. A dollop of mashed potatoes and a serving of broccoli were next to the chicken. That was good enough for him. He was about to slide the plate into the microwave oven over the stove when he froze.
There was a noise from the living room, a creaking sound, like someone shifting in the wooden chair and pulling against the ropes.
He stood there for a moment. He couldn’t see into the living room unless he went out through the archway into the dining room. He just waited, listening.
Another creak of the ropes. Another popping of wood. Two loud thumps.
For just a moment the killer’s heart raced. Either Harold or Marcie was moving around out there, but that was impossible. They were dead. They couldn’t be alive, not with everything he had done to them, and all the parts he had taken away from them. And at the end, he had slit both of their throats, watching their eyes as the life faded from them (the one eye Harold had left, in his case). No, they had to be dead.
And that left only one other possibility. There was someone else in the house right now. Either someone had been hiding in the house or someone had just entered.
