Do Not Disturb

by A. R. Torre

  And suddenly, her looks don’t matter. Because the sudden fact, one that eluded him while he was writhing on the floor, his mind breaking apart at the seams, hits him square. She, this tiny girl with long dark hair and eyes that scream her madness to the world, might be his downfall. And with death, not prison. An even more intolerable sentence, one impossible to return from, one that fills him with fear, his Catholic upbringing suddenly pushing to mind all of his crimes. All of the people he stepped on. Women he damaged. Lives he ruined. He’d thought the devil had come in the form of Katie McLaughlin. But no. It is Her.

  He blinks hard, the action clearing the tears, his improved clarity taking in the view before him, his chest inhaling as she runs the knife softly across his shirt. Her hand shakes, the knife jiggling slightly in her palm as it makes its path. Nerves? She doesn’t look nervous. She looks… excited. Eager.

  It is almost, in the final moments of his life, arousing—the knowledge that this beautiful creature could embrace, look forward to, enjoy the art of pain, of control. They say that love is finding your soul’s match in another. His cock hardens of its own accord, her eyes flickering to his as the consistency beneath her changes. He rolls his shoulders, trying to relieve the pain of lying on handcuffed hands. She shifts, rolling backward, testing his arousal. Then she chuckles, clicking her tongue disapprovingly and reaches up, gripping the knife with both hands and, with one swift move, buries it into the muscles of his chest.

  His hard-on withers and dies, right about the time that his chest seizes with incredible pain.

  CHAPTER 98

  MIKE STILLS, HIS eyes fixing at the upper right corner of the screen, where the video feed is. The video looks jerky, as if it is stuck on repeat, the stick figure on top repeatedly moving, arms up down up down, every other piece of the clip still, frozen. The body beneath her thrashes, her movement becoming that of a bucking bronco for a short moment before the man’s upper torso raises, the girl shimmying up his body with greedy movement, before one final downward swipe causes any and all motion beneath her to cease.

  He exhales, closing the top of the laptop, not sure if he could take any more, the image branded on his mind, contrasting sharply with the sunny smile he has grown attached to. He knew she had a dark side, had gotten a taste of it when she did the impossible five months ago. But that video, seeing the image of her physically taking a life… it paints over every image of her with a dark brush, adding shadows and depths that scare the hell out of him. He’s spent the last days hating that man, cursed him during bouts of clarity during those two days of hell. Hated him more than he’d even known was possible. Still—he feels a reaction to watching him die. A bit of pity, guilt settling into his stomach as if for a long residence. The last few minutes have taught him a lot about her. A lot that he hadn’t really known. He shoves the laptop to the side and closes his eyes. Swallows a wave of nausea.

  CHAPTER 99

  THE FIRST STAB is difficult, both of my hands needed when the blade pierces his chest. His reaction is immediate, his body bucking beneath me, his eyes wide, breath wheezing as he jerks, my knees tight on him, enjoying the ride, my euphoria mounting with each buck.

  Again.

  I yank the knife out, the effort strong, blood pumping out of the hole in quick rivulets, ones that splatter as he jerks. Again I raise the knife, his eyes following the movement, fear in them, my eyes narrowing down on my next target as I slam down the blade.

  Again. I hit his neck, the sensation completely different, a sticky crack of connection.

  Again. A stomach hit. His movements are less, his eyes still open, still on me as I smile at him, his blood splatter painting my face, the taste of rust on my lips when I wet them.

  Again. The final blow, his chest this time, and I fight to mentally describe the stab, try to cement this moment in my memory and hope that it will last me the rest of my life. The best comparison? The moment when a dental pick sticks in a weak spot of tooth, and the hygienist has to work a bit to get it out. I twist the knife as I yank it out, my chest heaving with exertion, and I watch his chest as it stops. Watch his eyes as the hate leaves them and they close. My nose flares as I roll my neck and lean my head back, wanting to bellow. Wanting to scream my awesomeness to the entire building. I have taken, I have conquered, I have killed. I lean back, my legs loose and rubbery, collapsing until I fall backward, lying flat on the floor, my arms spreading out and flopping to a stop on the wet plastic stretched beneath us on the floor. I close my eyes, my heart pounding out a furious rhythm, one that slows as I take measured breaths, the post-kill high orgasmic in its release of every fantasy I have harbored, every need I have controlled, every want I have denied myself. Then, a smile on my face, my dark soul happy, I fall asleep.

  CHAPTER 100

  MIKE SHOULDN’T REOPEN the screen. He knows that she is safe from harm, there is no need for further spying. But he does. He lasts fifteen minutes before logging back in, fingers tapping impatiently as the screen loads with maddening pauses for processing. It appears that Deanna, Internet minx who has fake-sucked his dick to countless orgasms, has fallen asleep, her body sprawled out over the man she has just stabbed to death, in a manner that seems wholly unconcerned with his demise. More than unconcerned, she seems blissful, her ear-to-ear grin visible from the webcam’s eye more than ten feet away. Mike opens a second window, taking a moment to follow the money trail—for no purpose other than to know if his own life is also in danger. If the money was moved, divvied up and sent out into the world, then his might be the next dead body Dee lays atop of. A pent-up breath whooshes from his chest when he see what he wants to see, $1.3 million, safely in the business money market account of RDC Enterprises. Not a cent touched. His fingers get to work, moving the money back, scattering it over thirty different transfers, to ghost accounts, accounts they barely touch green foot in, skipping it across the world, occasionally joining forces only to separate again, the process long and tedious, any oversight meaning that thousands might be overlooked. When it is all back, settling in and making its home in her account, he relaxes. Turns off the feeds to her cams. Sinks back into a pile of pillows, his shoulder still stiff, an unbandaged hand finding a bottle of painkillers, washing them down with a Bud that is a good half hour away from cold. He swallows the pills and relaxes, leaning his head back, a drug- and exhaustion-fueled sleep seconds away.

  He is so confused by her.

  CHAPTER 101

  I WAKE AT some point. Drag myself off of my mystery guest and stumble to my feet. Give myself a moment to wake up while staring down at his body. Realize, while awakening, that I don’t know what to do with his body. A hundred and fifty pounds of pain-in-my-ass.

  It was easier with my other kills. I did the deed and walked out. Left their bodies for others to handle. I don’t have that choice now. I can’t leave him here—he’ll smell. Put out an aroma that will raise curiosities until cops show up. Plus, there’s Jeremy to consider. I’d have to break up with him just to keep him out of the apartment long enough for FingerCutter to decompose. For all of my planning, this was one big oversight.

  I am clueless in how to dispose of a body. I haven’t watched television in… years. My recreational reading is more of the erotica genre, less true crime. I don’t have a tub I can fill with acid, don’t have a chainsaw I can use to hack up and bag his body, wouldn’t know how to operate it if I did have one.

  My houseguest is, in the light of my kitchen light, fairly fucked up. Face swollen, his eyes puffy, like he’s had an allergic reaction of the anaphylactic shock variety. His neck is split, the cut unnecessarily deep, the puckered cut hanging open like a stuffed bag’s zipper. Decorated with wounds, his chest is eerily reminiscent of my father’s, the resemblance causing a shudder to pass through me. But there the comparisons stop. FingerCutter’s chest is still wet with blood, each stab of my knife bleeding his body, the thin tarp beneath my feet wet, rivers of red running and collecting in the creases and dips of plastic. My fath
er’s wounds were dry, a likely effect from the fact that his heart had already stopped, the shotgun blast to the neck ending his life minutes before a knife ever broke the surface of his skin.

  I can’t prop this guy up, walk his body down to the elevator, then load him into my car. Even here, where screams in the night and the crash of glass is ignored, a corpse will raise eyebrows. Some do-gooder somewhere will call the cops. And FtypeBaby already gets looks whenever I take her out. Necks crane, her occupants are examined, a dead body would be noted. Plus, her trunk is puny. Big enough for designer luggage, too small for a dead body. I should have thought over these things during my car selection process. I do a slow sweep of the apartment and try to think.

  The engine roars in a battle cry that mimics my heart. FtypeBaby opens up, screaming to ninety-four miles per hour before I bring her back, my foot easing off the gas, downshifting into third gear. The navigation screen showed a car rental place three blocks from Mulholland Oaks, but I wanted speed. Highway. The chance to let the wind blow through my hair and wash out any residual death. So I go farther, moving down two exits and pulling into a twenty-four-hour Hertz, parking on the far end of the lot, away from any other car. Get out, shut the door, caress her hood, and arm the locks. Then I step to the front, open the glass door, and wince when a bell dings. Loudly.

  A square glass room. Empty, save a cheap counter and displayed brochures advertising GPS and additional insurance.

  It takes three minutes for someone to appear, a gum-smacking girl who slides a clipboard across the counter without so much as a “kiss my ass” greeting.

  I don’t touch the form. “Do you have any trucks?”

  “Trucks?”

  “Yes.”

  She leans forward, an action that stretches her shirt tight across a huge chest, and I feel a bit of insecurity as I glance at my much smaller bust. Her weight on the counter, her boobs squashed together and beaming out of the neckline of her polo, she surveys the well-lit parking lot. Left, right, and left. I shift, certain there is a more technical process than this I-hump-the-counter-and-look method.

  “Looks like we got a white Chevy. Fifteen hundred. Single-cab, that’ll work?”

  “Yes.”

  She nods to the form. “Sign the waiver, I’ll need a driver’s license.” She lifts a butt cheek and makes her way fully onto a stool, then types a few keystrokes.

  “Name?”

  I give her an alias I rarely use, one that Mike created while bored. The end result was Beverly Jane Norcross, who came complete with a driver’s license and prepaid credit card, the items overnighted to me along with an invoice, the words “defile this chick” scribbled in the margin. I paid the five grand, figured it’d come in handy at some point, but have rarely used the alias. Today, the day of moving bodies, seems like a good time to whip it out.

  “How many days?”

  I glance at my watch. 2:13 a.m. “I’ll have it back later today.”

  “Morning, afternoon, or evening?”

  “I don’t know. Put me down for evening, just to be safe.”

  She goes through a halfhearted attempt to rent me a GPS system, a roadside assistance premium package, and three different levels of insurance. I’m at the stage of stabbing her to death with her cheap pen when she finally shuts up, returns my credit card, and looks up with a dry expression that I think is a smile. “Here are the keys. Bring it back full of gas or you’ll have to pay for us to fill it up.”

  “Will my car be safe here?”

  She blinks slowly, her eyes on mine, and I can’t tell if she is processing the question or has mentally checked out, her ability to process thought maxed out for the day. I start to repeat the question, but she jerks back to life with one slow gum snap. “The parking lot is fenced. I’m sure it will be fine.”

  I nod, take the keys, and walk out, casting a wistful look at FtypeBaby as I walk toward the boring white truck that will be my accomplice in crime. I can practically hear her growl as I start up the Chevy and leave her behind.

  Driving the truck reminds me of Jeremy’s. A similar size, the same XM options for my listening pleasure. I backtrack, at the apartment within ten minutes, the drive infinitely less enjoyable at a paltry sixty-two miles per hour. But the truck gets fewer looks. And when I back it up to the stairwell door, no one pays attention. I leave the truck and head upstairs to 6E.

  I have never moved a man’s body. I used to drag Trent and Summer across the waxed floors of our home, a firm grip on the back of their jackets, or their pant legs, their squeals of pleasure setting a theme song to our play. But they were light, thirty or forty pounds. This man is heavy.

  I move lights, stands, boxes, clearing a space in the middle of the room. Then I pull my mattress off, lean it against the wall, and drag my box spring to the middle of the room. Using a hammer, I pry off the staples that hold the fabric covering. Pull the nails that hold the cross beams. The work is not laborious, but is time consuming, my smooth hands not accustomed to manual labor, splinters piercing the delicate skin, calluses already forming on my palms by the time I stand, stretch my neck, and look at the finished product.

  A box. Shallow. So shallow I stop, use a book as a ruler, and make sure that the depth will be enough. The base planks are strong, strong enough, especially since there shouldn’t be too much weight placed at any one point on them.

  I take a break, return e-mails and eat—roasted pork, stuffing, and green beans, a new diet plan called Medifast. Yum. Then I tie my hair back, pull on gloves, and prepare for heavy lifting.

  Dead weight is an appropriate term. I do as I’ve been taught. Lift with my legs, not with my back. Discover it’s easier to move the mattress box close to him rather than drag his heavy ass over. I thank God he isn’t Ralph. Ralph was over two hundred pounds. This guy is thin. Thin and short, with a lack of muscle tone that indicates he doesn’t have a gym membership. I lift him limb by limb, rolling one leg, then the other, my hands digging into his ass as I heft him over the edge and onto the wooden frame. He is stiff, rigor mortis beginning to kick in, the effect making him cumbersome, uncooperative. I fashion a lever, using a broom handle and a cardboard box of laundry detergent to help, the new synergy lifting him in a way my scrawny muscles couldn’t. His upper half is easier. I step into the box spring, grab both wrists and pull, the plastic wrap sticking to his back as I roll him into the hole, the pull of his lower half helping his movement. Then he is in, his body rolling into place, the stiff bend of his arms almost comical in their mannequin-ready form. I grab the hammer, nailing back into place the lateral beams and following their progress with the staple gun, floral fabric soon hiding every view of Marcus’s body.

  An hour and fourteen minutes after parking the truck, the box spring is reassembled and, by all appearances, completely normal, should someone not try to pick it up. I turn it vertical, leaning it, with a heavy thud, against the wall. Then I clean up, tucking the ends of the bloodied plastic in and then roll it, bit over bit, until the black tarp is in one tight roll. I glance at my trash can, then back at the mattress. Fuck. I remove a few staples, enough to peel back the fabric a bit and slide the tarp inside. Then I restaple, cursing myself for the simple oversight. Ten minutes, a handful of used paper towels, and two bottles of bleach later, every surface he might have touched has been sanitized and wiped clean. I throw on a sweatshirt, pull the hood up, and prepare for whoever might be outside my door.

  A box spring, on its side, furniture mover disks underneath, slides easily on threadbare carpet. I am almost surprised at the speedy path we make down the hall, beelining for the elevator, my head down, shoulder pushing, hands gripping the sides to keep it upright. I can’t feel the body, the framework of the box blocking his body from swinging and face-planting against the thin fabric of its walls. So Marcus and I slide down orange carpet until we come to the elevator I hate, the one I avoid on the rare occasions when I brave the outside world. I press the button and pray for an empty car.

 
Ding.

  Empty. I send a thank-you up to the big guy, struggle with the slides and floor changes, terrified, for a brief moment, that the mattress won’t fit, that I’ll be stuck here, trying to pull it out, when the elevator moves, splintering the frame with one forceful decline, one that causes a bloodied body to pop out unannounced and get stuck between dinging-its-heart-out doors.

  But I am fine. This elevator was built to haul sofas, appliances, and beds. The mattress fits easily, its descent uninterrupted, and I breathe a sigh of relief when we hit the ground level and the door opens.

  Five minutes and one sweat-soaked T-shirt later, the mattress is flat in the bed of my rental truck, the tailgate up, wheels turning the vehicle away from Mulholland Oaks. I turn up the radio and head north with no earthly idea of where I am taking him.

  CHAPTER 102

  SHIVERS RACK JEREMY’S body, bringing him to life, lifting him from the dark hole that his mind has been in. He tries to lift his eyes, tries to open his lids, but they are weighed down, his vision blurred, his tongue too heavy in his mouth to create speech. Shivers. Uncontrollable, his abs cramping with the fight to control limbs, awareness becoming stronger as his mind crawls up the tunnel into life. Enough awareness to realize that his mind is not the only thing restrained. His limbs are also stuck, arms and legs unable to move. Straitjacket. That is his first thought. But that is wrong, too many things wrong for that to be possible, and any other thought disappears as he pitches forward, his stomach twisting, retching, wrestling itself as his mind awakens enough to panic. Vomit. It’s about to happen, that queasy upheaval of his organs fighting to push any and all stomach contents to the surface. He is about to vomit, unsure if his tongue will even cooperate enough to move out of the way. That detail is of small consequence to his sluggish brain, because his mouth is taped shut. He fights against the tape, trying to force his lips to move, sudden claustrophobia hitting as he struggles to take in enough air through his nose to live.