WEBCAM - A Novel of Terror (The Konrath/Kilborn Collective)

by Jack Kilborn

  He pulls over, rolls down his window.

  “How much?”

  She leans inside, looking at the interior of his van. The back is dark so she can’t see what’s in there.

  “Twenty for a suck.”

  He nods and unlocks her door. She climbs in.

  Up close, Erinyes realizes she’s younger than he’d originally guessed. Maybe even a teenager.

  “Where should I park?”

  “Here is fine. It’s dead this time of night. No one will bother us.”

  That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.

  Erinyes rolls up the tinted windows and she takes a condom out of her purse.

  “Money?” she says.

  He fishes two tens out of his pocket, hands them over. She tucks them away and leans over, unzipping his fly.

  When she starts to laugh he places the stun gun against the side of her neck and hits her with the juice. The whore does the two million volt boogie for ten full seconds, then collapses on his lap.

  He duct tapes her wrists. Her mouth. Uses a four inch metal spring clamp to attach her pony tail to the passenger side headrest. Then he’s on the road again.

  When she tries to kick, he zaps her.

  “Hurts, doesn’t it? If you try to move again, I’ll put this on your eyes. It’ll fry your eyeballs and make them burst.”

  Erinyes has no idea if that’s true or not. But she doesn’t try to move again.

  “Do you know what the furies are?” he asks as he drives.

  The whore doesn’t answer. She’s crying, and her runny eyeliner makes her look like Alice Cooper.

  “The furies are monsters. They have great, batlike wings and talons on their hands and feet. Their eyes are red; red as blood. They wear crowns of spiders. There are three of them. Alecto, Tilphousia, and Megaera, and they were created by God to punish sinners. Sinners like you.”

  The whore whimpers behind her tape gag.

  “Lust is the worst sin of all. It leads women to cheat on their husbands. It leads men to rape. You sell your body like the mother of harlots. The whore of Babylon. You bring misery to the world. Your soul needs to be cleansed. But first I need to know something. And I want you to tell me the truth, or I’ll do that eye-melting thing.”

  Erinyes turns and stares at the woman. “The truth, now. Is your name Kendal?”

  She shakes her head.

  Too bad. Kendals were the worst sinners of all. If she’d been a Kendal, she would have required special attention.

  Erinyes drives to his house. He takes the alley to his unattached two-car garage, uses the electronic opener, and backs the vehicle inside. With the van off and the garage door closed, Erinyes holds the stun gun against the whore’s arm until she passes out, then exits.

  The space is cool and smells like car exhaust and spoiled milk. A quarter of the garage is taken up by twelve fifty-five gallon metal drums. The barrels are black, carbon steel, epoxy-lined, with half inch valves at the bottom. He forgets which are full and which aren’t, and raps a few until he hears the telltale hollow sound.

  The whore wakes up when he lifts her lower body into the barrel. She fights him, but her hands are bound and Erinyes is bigger and stronger. After another zap from the stun gun, she slumps over.

  He spends a few minutes zapping her unconscious body.

  Her eyes do not melt. Though they do puff up and turn a milky color.

  Erinyes pushes her completely into the barrel, then seals a lid on top with a boat ring. It’s an airtight seal, and experience has shown him that when the body begins to decay, it releases a lot of gas. The inside pressure can build to the point that the barrel expands. No barrel has ever leaked, but if it did it would be bad; the decaying human body has a distinct, powerful odor, which is a big red flag for the police. To offset this expansion, Erinyes uses an electric vacuum pump to remove some of the air in the barrel.

  Forty seconds into the vacuum process, the whore wakes up. There is some pounding, some shaking, a muffled cry for help.

  All movement stops within a minute.

  Erinyes closes the valve, then rolls the barrel into the far corner, next to the ten other full ones.

  Ten souls, given Penance.

  Ten souls, saved from damnation.

  Hard work. But worthwhile.

  He goes into his house.

  Prepares and delivers an intramuscular injection of Delatestryl.

  Sits at his computer and opens TOR.

  Checks his forum.

  Rubs some Fortestra gel on his thigh.

  Hears crying. Coming from the basement.

  Erinyes opens a can of dog food, cuts open two clindamycin capsules, pours them into a full bottle of water, and takes everything downstairs.

  The smell is getting bad again. Time for a new toilet bucket.

  Erinyes pours the dog food in the bowl and says, “I saved another soul today.”

  After a moment, a meek male voice whispers, “Please kill me.”

  “You haven’t atoned for your sins yet. Don’t you want salvation?”

  “I’m sorry. For everything.”

  Erinyes stares at the pitiable creature in chains.

  “So am I,” he says, and goes back upstairs.

  CHAPTER 25

  The phone woke Tom up.

  But it wasn’t his phone.

  He glanced at the clock. A bit past 7 A.M. Then he turned and stared at Joan, who was squinting at her cell.

  “Work?” Tom asked.

  He hoped it was work. Maybe that would help Joan forgive all the work he’d put in over the last few days, which strictly violated their no work while visiting agreement.

  “It’s Trish,” Joan said.

  “Roy’s girlfriend?”

  Joan nodded, then picked up. “What’s up?”

  Tom couldn’t make out Trish’s words, but she sounded upset. He sat up in bed, staring pointedly at her. If something had happened to Roy, Joan would tell him. But Joan didn’t look his way at all. She kept making backchannel sounds; uh-huh, hmmm, uh, yeah, and so on, which indicated she was listening intently, but it didn’t tell Tom a thing.

  He finally gave her a poke and mouthed, “Is Roy okay?” And she narrowed her eyes at him and rudely turned her back.

  Prior to Joan, Tom had been in several relationships. He blamed himself for those romances failing. On the job, he thought he was pretty good at reading people. Witnesses. Suspects. Cops. But Tom wasn’t as keen with personal relationships. One of his past girlfriends intentionally cheated on him to see if he would notice. Tom had been oblivious until he got their wedding invite in the mail.

  With Joan, Tom tried to be attentive. He made an effort to notice the subtle stuff, like the underlying meaning to things she said, and how she looked at him, and how often she smiled. So when she snubbed him, it hurt.

  He poked her again, making a sad face. She gave him a sideways glance, an eye roll, and went back to mmm-hmmming. Joan eventually ended the call with, “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Well?” Tom asked.

  “Trish thinks Roy is cheating on her. Is he?”

  “What? How should I know?”

  “You’re partners and best friends.”

  “Yeah. But we’re guys. We rarely share personal stuff, and when we do we mostly ignore it.”

  “So could he be cheating?”

  “I don’t know. I thought he was happy.”

  Joan got that little crease in her forehead, an indicator he’d said the wrong thing. “Since when does happiness have to do with cheating? So if you weren’t happy with me, you’d cheat?”

  “I don’t cheat. I’m committed to you.” Tom reached out and stroked Joan’s thigh. “Did you know Trish was intersex?”

  “Of course. And what does that have to do with anything?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t know about it. Just found out.”

  “What should it matter?”

  “It doesn’t.”

  She frowned. “What if I told
you I was intersex?”

  “I love you for you, Joan. And if there are some extra chromosomes in there, that wouldn’t matter.”

  Joan stared at him, then put her arms around his neck and kissed Tom behind the ear. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  “Is Trish okay?”

  “She’s a wreck. She was paying bills and saw one of Roy’s credit card statements. An eight hundred dollar room bill at the Sheraton. Dated last month.”

  “Did she ask him about it?”

  “He’s at work. She’s afraid to ask. Figures maybe he did it because of the baby thing.”

  “Baby thing?”

  “They’re talking about having a baby, and she can’t get pregnant. Didn’t Roy tell you?”

  “Did they get married and I missed it?”

  “You don’t have to get married to have a baby with someone, Tom. This isn’t 1950. Marriage is an archaic, patriarchal tradition rooted in religious dogma and societal enforced gender roles. Give it another two hundred years, marriage will vanish from our culture.”

  “Really? I thought women cared about marriage.”

  “Married women care about marriage. Single women are having too much fun to care.” She kissed his neck again. “I’m meeting Trish for breakfast. I figured it was okay, because it’s an emergency.”

  “Of course.”

  “Plus, you’re working.”

  “I’m not. I’m taking the day off.”

  “Seriously?”

  “You’re here for four more days, and I’m making every one of them count.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. I swear.”

  This time Joan kissed his mouth. The moment they touched tongues, she pulled away.

  “Morning breath.”

  “I don’t mind,” Tom said.

  “I do. It’s like kissing a dead salmon.”

  “You’ve kissed a lot of dead salmon?”

  “My ex-boyfriends are none of your business.” Joan winked, swung her legs out of bed, and padded over to the bathroom. Tom admired the view for a moment—was there anything sexier than a woman wearing one of your old tee shirts?—and then went in after her.

  His sink was tiny, so he stood behind her as they both brushed their teeth. Joan leaned with one hand on the sink, and Tom pressed against her back and put his hand next to hers.

  It felt… right.

  Then he leaned forward to spit, missed, and got it all over her hand.

  Joan giggled, and she wasn’t the giggling type. She turned around, slipping into his arms, mint Colgate dribbling down her chin.

  “Do you know why we work?” she asked.

  “We need the money?”

  “No. Us. Why we work as a couple.”

  “Because I got really, really lucky?”

  She grinned, eyes glinting. “We both got really, really lucky. And we both know it. And that’s why we work.”

  Joan kissed him, and they both tasted like toothpaste anyway so it didn’t matter Tom hadn’t finished brushing, and then her shirt was off and his boxers were too and Tom was on his back on the cold tile floor while Joan bounced on top of him and he realized that he needed to do whatever he could to make sure he spent the rest of his life with this woman. Even if her views on marriage were different than Tom’s, he had to ask her.

  Now probably wasn’t the right time, though.

  CHAPTER 26

  Erinyes cannot see them, because the camera on Tom’s phone is on his nightstand, facing the ceiling.

  But she can hear.

  Tom and Joan are rutting. Like swine. Moans and grunts and flesh slapping flesh.

  Sinners.

  Erinyes doesn’t want to listen anymore, but she’s weak. She touches herself between her legs. Runs her hand over the bumps and ridges.

  The tears come, and as she cries she also screams; a harsh, guttural noise that sounds more monstrous than human.

  CHAPTER 27

  After Joan left for breakfast with Trish, Tom forced his way through some pushups, then dug his twenty-five pound dumbbell out of the closet and curled it, left arm then right arm, until he couldn’t anymore. Then he showered, thinking about life, and Joan, and life with Joan.

  He didn’t think about The Snipper. Or his job. Or anything to do with policework.

  But he did have several unpleasant thoughts about his credit score.

  After toweling off, he picked up his cell and spent ten humiliating minutes on hold listening to recordings of how his bank card was working for him, then two more humiliating minutes being told that his credit couldn’t be extended. All he had was four hundred dollars left. Also, his bill was due in four days; it wasn’t late yet, but that was a friendly reminder.

  Okay. Plan B.

  Tom went back into his closet, and found the white cardboard box under a bag containing old sweaters and a pair of hiking boots. He hefted the box onto his bed and took off the rectangular top.

  Last he remembered, there were roughly a hundred comic books in the box. Before moving out of his parent’s house after college, Tom had taken care to bag and card each issue, on the off chance that one day they might be worth something.

  Today he was going to find out.

  He pulled out a few random issues, judged them to be in decent shape, and then used his phone to Google comic shops in Chicago. There were many, but the biggest seemed to be a place that also sold sports memorabilia and used jewelry, called Golden Treasures, on Addison.

  Tom called, confirmed there was an appraiser there, and then dressed and carried the box out to the car. Twenty minutes later he was walking through the door, approaching a mousy-looking man a decade his senior, who wore a Wayward Pines tee shirt and smelled like he was allergic to showers. Tom propped the box up on the counter and said, “I called a little while ago.”

  “Let’s see what you got.”

  The clerk began pulling out issues, arranging them in some order known only to him, and mumbling stuff to himself.

  “Copper age. More copper age. Turtles. ASM #238. New Mutants. Alpha Flight. Secret Wars. Dark Knight Returns in 8.5. Maybe 9. Hey, an Uncanny #120!”

  “Is that good?” Tom asked.

  “First appearance of Northstar,” said someone behind Tom. A thirty-something, skinny jeans, hipster beard.

  “From Alpha Flight.” Tom remembered the character. Canadian, could fly, emitted energy blasts. Superheroes were probably the reason Tom had grown up to become a cop. Though Joan said it was because Tom was genetically wired for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It was an inside joke.

  “Northstar is the first openly gay superhero in the Marvel Universe,” said the hipster.

  “Really? I must have missed that.”

  “CCA wouldn’t allow it,” said the clerk.

  “The Comics Code Authority.” Tom nodded. Though he’d outgrown comic collecting, he could still speak some nerd. Or was it geek? He got the two confused.

  “Came out in Alpha Flight #106. Married Kyle Jinadu in Astonishing X-Men #41.”

  “Number fifty-one,” said the clerk.

  “Is it worth anything?” Tom asked.

  “I’ll give you forty bucks for it right now,” said the hipster.

  The clerk nodded, “Take it, I could only offer thirty. He’s also got a lot of New Mutants.”

  “Karma?” the hipster asked, coming over to sort through Tom’s comics.

  “Yeah,” the clerk looked at Tom. “Gary collects LGBT titles.”

  “Karma was gay?” Tom said.

  The clerk and the hipster exchanged a look that said duh.

  “Any transgender superheroes?” Tom asked.

  “Mystique could change gender,” said Gary. “And she was bisexual.”

  “Sasquatch. Remember the Wanda Langkowski years?”

  Tom did recall that one of the strongest Alpha Flight members was trapped in the body of a woman for a few issues. It caused a bit of confusion for the character.
“How about intersex?” he asked.

  “Shining Knight in the New 52,” the clerk said. “And Alysia Yeoh.”

  “She’s trans.” Said the hipster.

  “Okay. How about Sera from Asgard’s Assassin?”

  “Also trans.”

  “She was assigned male at birth.”

  “Are you sure?”

  As they went back and forth, Tom walked up to a jewelry display case. Among the antique brooches and necklaces was an eye-catching ring. Light yellow stone, a solitaire cut, in a silver setting. He’d been stopping in the occasional jewelry store for the past few months, keeping a look out for something that looked like Joan’s style. Tom took out his cell and snapped a picture, wondering if maybe he could take it to a jeweler and have them do something similar in gold with a diamond.

  Tom then wandered around a bit, found some back issues of Fangoria, and thumbed through some old Dr. Cyclops reviews until the clerk called to him.

  “Gary wants your Alpha Flight run.”

  “I’ll give you four-fifty,” Gary said.

  “A fair market value. You’ve got some average issues, but some good ones. The Dark Night #1 can go for $700. You’ve got the first ten TMNTs, but the condition is only very fine. Be worth a lot more if you didn’t read them.”

  “What would be the point then?” Tom said.

  “Just sayin’. Don’t kill the messenger. Your best is your New Mutants #98. First appearance of Deadpool. One just sold for two k.”

  “So what would you give me for everything?”

  He squinted, then chewed his lower lip. “I’d go… four thousand for everything.”

  “Plus my four-fifty,” Gary added.

  Less than forty-five hundred bucks? It was a lot lower than Tom expected.

  “I thought they were worth more,” Tom said.

  “You could get more, if you sell them on eBay one at a time. That’s what I’ll do with most of them. You the original owner?”

  Tom nodded.

  “You paid a buck for most of these. Four thousand percent mark-up is pretty good for a thirty year investment.”

  True, but Tom was less concerned about how much his goods had appreciated and more about getting Joan a ring. He was a grown ass man. He caught bad guys for a living. But financially he was no better off than he was a decade ago. It was damn depressing.