by Frank Zafiro
Control.
Pain.
Vengeance.
Somewhere deep inside the icy core of his soul, he felt a small flickering warmth spring to life. Katie was the only one who had thwarted him since he had become a real man. She was the only one who had defied him. Since that night on Mona Street, he’d heard his father’s mocking laughter in every voice. Worse yet, he’d seen his mother’s hard features in every line of Katie’s face. Just like his mother had done when she attacked him and tore away at his sexual power, Katie’s defiance and her escape robbed him of his manhood. It stripped him of what he’d become.
She had to pay.
His mouth curled into a cold smile. He’d send Katie to hell, where she belonged. Right next to his mother.
“I’m coming,” he whispered, and got out of the car.
1017 hours
“Adam-254, Adam-251?”
Gio reached for the microphone. “Fifty-four, go ahead.”
“Assist the detective. Contact Ida-409 at the west end of Corbin Park.”
Gio clicked the mike, signaling he copied the call. A second click followed, presumably from Ridgeway. Gio was close to the park and drove there in a matter of a couple of minutes. As he turned off Post and into the wide lanes at the west end of the park, he was surprised to see Ridgeway already there. He pulled his car alongside.
“You got here quick,” he said.
Ridgeway grunted back.
“Ida-409?” he asked Ridgeway. “That’s Tower, right?”
Ridgeway nodded, but didn’t say a word.
Gio suppressed a sigh. Instead he said, “You take an oath of silence or something?”
“No,” Ridgeway answered, “but sometimes I wish you would.”
“What’s up, Grumpy Gus?”
Ridgeway’s bleary-eyed stare answered Gio’s question.
“Nothing’s up,” the veteran officer said through gritted teeth. “I’m just tired.”
Gio nodded an apology. Ridgeway accepted it wordlessly and leaned his head back against the headrest.
It was at times like this Gio missed their fallen comrade, Karl Winter the most. Winter knew how to listen, especially to Ridgeway.
The best he could do was sit next to him and know when to remain silent.
1020 hours
He strode down the alley like he owned it.
He did own it.
He was in control.
At her small back gate, he unlatched the clasp and slipped into the yard as quietly as he could. He clutched the Buck knife in his right hand, the blade hidden by the cuff of his white shirt. The weight of the cool metal reassured him.
Confident, he walked to her back door. At the door, he peered through the small glass panes into the house.
No activity.
He strained his ears, listening for movement.
The patter of water and the rumbling whine of plumbing filtered toward him. He glanced at the marbled, frosted window a few yards to his right. Condensation formed on the outside of the window and the glass had a hazy film of steam covering it.
She was in the shower.
Perfect.
Without hesitation, he drove the metal butt end of the knife into the small glass pane in the lower left corner of the back door. He was rewarded with shattering shards of glass. Flipping the knife around, he used the blade to clear out the four-by-four-inch mini-pane of any remaining glass. Then he reached through and fumbled for the lock inside.
First the knob.
He found the small button in the center of the doorknob. Pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, he twisted it until it stopped.
Then the deadbolt.
The larger locking mechanism was easier to find and to flip to the opposite side. A solid click sent a thrill of success through him.
He opened the door and stepped through.
Inside, the heavy sound of falling water from the bathroom filled the quiet of the house. He forced himself to creep cautiously toward the sound. His eyes flitted around his surroundings as he moved.
He wondered if she brought her gun home.
If so, where did she keep it?
A quick look told him the kitchen counter was clear.
Probably the bedroom, then.
He knew he should go there first and collect it, but he was drawn to siren’s song of the falling water in the bathroom. It sounded so...vulnerable. He imagined her naked body under the shower head, water cascading down upon her. Rivulets of white, foamy soap sliding down her breasts, across her stomach. He could almost see the dark patch between her legs standing out against the lather soap and her pink skin.
I’m going to tear you to shreds, bitch.
I’m going to lay the whammo on you like you’ve never known. And then –
The water came to a sudden stop. The sound of a shower curtain being drawn aside was muffled by the door between them.
A moment of panic struck him, but he pushed it down. Quickly, he adapted his plans. It would have to be an ambush when she stepped out of the bathroom, then.
He moved silently to the side of the bathroom door.
He gripped his knife and waited.
1022 hours
Tower pulled up next to Gio’s car. The two officers looked over at him. Gio’s pleasant features were expectant. Ridgeway’s were sullen.
“Where are we going?” Gio asked.
Tower recited Jeffrey Goodkind’s address. “It’s about ten blocks away,” he added. “Just up the hill.”
“What’s there?” Gio asked.
Tower smiled. “It might be the Rainy Day Rapist.”
He enjoyed the surprise that registered on the faces of both officers, followed by anticipation.
“If,” Tower said, “you’re interested.”
“Hell, yeah,” Gio said.
Ridgeway gave Tower a resolute nod.
“All right, then,” Tower said. “Let’s go.”
1023 hours
Katie scrubbed her hair with a towel, drying off. The weariness from the long night had seeped into her bones. Her muscles felt heavy and weak. The warm breakfast and now the hot shower had only made her exhaustion complete. Thoughts of flopping her head onto the pillow in her own bed and slipping into a deep sleep filled her mind.
It felt good to be home again. To dry off with her own towel. To see her own robe hanging from the back of her own bathroom door. She imagined that she’d sleep better tonight than she had for weeks.
Katie wrapped the towel up on her head. She reached for a second blue fluffy towel, drying off her body with long strokes. Slight stubble on her legs reminded her that she hadn’t shaved them while showering.
Oh well. It’s not like I’m going on a date.
Finished, she re-hung the towel on the rack. Then she put on her battered terry cloth robe and opened the door.
1024 hours
When the door opened, a rush of smells blasted outward, riding on the steam. Soap. Linen.
Her.
He trembled.
His fist tightened around the handle of his knife.
* * *
As soon as she stepped through the door, she felt an eerie malevolence in the room that made her skin prickle. Before she could calculate a response or process the sensation, a figure appeared in front of her. A bare hand shot toward her throat.
Instinctively, Katie knocked the grasping claw aside in a sweeping block with her left forearm. The collision of her fleshy muscle and his bony hand reverberated through her arm and up to her shoulder.
“Bitch!” he snarled.
Katie’s eyes were drawn to his face. An enraged variation on the police sketch glared back at her.
A moment later, another attack flashed out at her. She brought her opposite forearm across to block this second attack. Something bit painfully into her arm.
He pulled his hand back. “You like that, bitch?”
Katie gaped down at her right arm. The white terrycloth sleeve was stained bright red.
> The knife came slashing back at her in something akin to a sword stroke. She held up her hands defensively. The cool blade sliced through the flesh of several fingers, leaving an icy trail behind.
Katie let out a cry. A moment later, warmth flooded through her fingers. Pain throbbed in her hand with each heartbeat.
He drew back the knife to slash again, but paused a moment. He shifted the handle in his hand until the blade was pointed downward so that he could stab instead of slash. Katie stared at the silver blade tinged with her own blood. Fear raced through her body.
“I’m going to lay the whammo on you,” he whispered hoarsely, his tone almost reverent.
Katie met his gaze. A sheen of lust and anger coated his eyes, radiating outward. She read her own death in the black pinpricks of his pupils.
He stabbed downward with the knife.
Katie brought her foot up sharply, driving it into his groin with every ounce of strength she could muster. Her instep landed with a solid thunk. The force of the blow rang up her leg as far as her hip.
As soon as the kick landed, his downward stab faltered and fell to his side. A low groan escaped his lips. He reached for his groin and sank to his knees.
Katie sidestepped the kneeling assailant and sprinted for her bedroom. At her bedside table, she grasped the portable telephone. The receiver slipped out of her bloody hand, falling to the floor. She knelt and picked it up. With trembling, blood-soaked fingers, she punched in the numbers 9 – 1 – 1.
Her heart racing, she pressed the receiver to her ear.
One ring. Then two.
She watched the bedroom door, her entire body trembling with adrenaline.
Three rings.
“Nine one one, state your emergency.”
He burst into the room with a roar. His face was contorted in rage.
“YOU BITCH!”
He held the knife out in front of his body in his right hand.
“I need police here now!” Katie screamed into the telephone.
“What is the problem?” the calm voice on the other end of the line asked.
He lunged forward, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set.
Katie tossed the telephone aside. She dove onto her bed, tucking and rolling across the mattress. As she left the far side of the bed, she fell to the floor on her knees. Scrambling to her feet, she raced toward her dresser. Her service pistol rested there.
His eyes followed her motion towards the gun, and he moved to cut her off.
* * *
The 9-1-1 transfer popped up on Janice Koslowski’s screen. As always, the urgency of the call was indicated by the red font and the blinking letters. With a few quick keystrokes, she opened the call. Calmly, she read the text.
Female voice states she “needs police here now.” Male voice in background calling her “a bitch.” Phone dropped. Open line, sounds of struggle.
Janice looked at the address. It was immediately familiar, but it took her a moment to remember why she knew it. Then she gasped. Without pause, she depressed her microphone lever and spoke.
* * *
“Any available units,” the car radio crackled. “Code Ninety-Nine at 5610 North Calispel. Officer MacLeod’s residence. All available units, respond.”
Gio slammed on his brakes and cranked the wheel, whipping his patrol car around. Then he buried the accelerator. The police cruiser leapt forward, the engine opening up with a throaty roar as he headed north.
* * *
Get the gun!
Katie reached the dresser first. She grasped the pistol by the grips and popped the snap with her thumb. With her bloody left hand, she clutched at the holster and pulled.
The holster slipped from her hand.
He reached her, his free hand lashing out at her. The blow caught her square in the nose, driving her back into the wall. Stunned, she flailed at the holster. Her wet fingers were beginning to go numb. She found one of the belt loops and pinched. With her right hand, she jerked the gun from the holster.
Another crushing punch thundered into her face, this one flush in the eye. Stars ricocheted through her vision. A forceful slap knocked the gun from her hand and sent it clattering away.
He took a fistful of her hair and yanked, pulling her forward to the ground. Her vision cleared just as he jammed her face into the wooden floor of her bedroom. She felt his knee between her shoulder blades. The weight of his body pressed down on her, pinning her to the ground.
“Not so tough without a gun, are you?” he taunted her. “Without that, you’re just another worthless bitch.”
Katie struggled to breath. She flailed with her arms, trying to find purchase on something, trying to dislodge him from his position of control.
He chuckled darkly. “You can try as much as you want. It won’t matter. I’m stronger than you. Much stronger.” His voice took on a faraway note. “Finally, I’m much stronger than you.”
Think, Katie! Don’t let him beat you! Think!
“Cops,” Katie wheezed,” are...coming...”
She felt his motion shift and heard his voice nearer to her ear. “Maybe so. Maybe they’ll even catch me this time. But not before I lay the whammo on you.” He pressed the cold blade against her cheek. “So it really doesn’t matter, does it?”
Katie stopped struggling. She let out a whimper of fear.
“That’s more like it,” he said. “Now, don’t move.”
The weight slid off her shoulders, but the blade remained resting against her face. He tore aside her robe, baring her skin. He paused for a moment. Katie felt his knife hand tremble. A cold, sick feeling broke out through her entire body. She pushed it away. Instead, she focused her anger.
Then she heard the clattering noise of his belt unbuckling.
Now! It has to be now!
Katie waited.
The unmistakable sound of a zipper descending seemed to fill the room.
You can’t let this happen. Not again.
Next came the rustle of his jeans as he pushed them over his hips.
Now!
Katie waited.
When she felt the rigid warmth of his erection brush against her bare buttocks, she twisted away from the knife. Whirling and sitting up, she swung her left hand blindly, fingers extended. The knife edge of her hand caught him in the temple.
He grunted in surprise.
Katie didn’t stop. She reached out with both hands and gouged her fingertips into his eyes.
A primal scream erupted from his mouth. He lashed out madly with the knife, clipping her in the shoulder with the point of the blade.
Katie yelped and let go. She scrambled backward across the wooden floor until her back slammed into the wall.
“You fucking cunt!” he yelled. His empty hand rubbed at his eyes while he held the knife out in front of him, slashing defensively from side to side. “You blinded me!”
Katie heard her own breath racing in and out of her lungs. She watched him in horror as he rose to his feet.
Where were the police?
Crouching in the corner, with the bed to her left and the wall to her right, she felt like a trapped animal. She told herself that she should get up, scramble over the bed and run out of the house. Before she could react, she heard a siren in the distance. Momentary relief washed over her.
He removed his hand from his face. Blinking, he looked around the room. For a moment, she wondered if he’d be able to see her. Then he cocked his head slightly and his gaze locked onto her.
“I hear them coming,” he rasped. “And I can still see you.”
Katie tensed herself to leap to her feet.
“You’re fucking dead, bitch,” he growled, and stepped forward.
At that moment, Katie spotted the dark black metal of her gun resting on the floor, slightly underneath the bed. She lunged for it, clutching it in her bloody hands.
His heavy thudding footsteps seemed to shake the world as he drew nearer.
Range-master Sergeant Morgan’s b
ooming voice over-shadowed even that sound as she remembered his frequent advice for taking down an enemy combatant.
Fire into the pelvic girdle.
She tightened her grip on the gun.
Break the body’s support.
Katie swung the gun toward his advancing figure.
If a man can’t walk, he can’t fight.
Without aiming, she pointed the pistol toward his waist and slapped the trigger.
The gun barked in her hands, the muzzle flashing.
He didn’t stop.
She fired again. And again. The gun bucked in her hands as she brought the sights back to bear on his pelvic girdle. She blasted a fourth time, then a fifth.
He paused, then stumbled brokenly backward. With a loud crash, he collapsed to the ground only a few feet from her. His arms and chest shuddered.
Katie indexed, placing her trigger finger along the side of the pistol. She stared at the quivering heap of evil on her bedroom floor through the sights of her gun. Rage suffused her. Her own hand trembled with fury.
He tried to rape me.
He tried to kill me.
In my own home.
He should die.
With some effort, she steadied her hand. The unmistakable yelp and wail of police sirens rose in volume as they grew closer. The acrid smell of cordite and the coppery odor of blood filled her nostrils. Katie drew a bead on the back of her attacker’s head, her trained eye focusing on the front sight. She moved her finger from the indexed position onto the trigger.
He should die.
A gurgling breath leaked out of his mouth.
Katie pressed the trigger slightly, swallowing in anticipation. She could do it. She knew she could. All it would take is for her to apply few pounds of pressure on the trigger and a 186-grain bullet would blast into the back of his head.
Blood coursed down her fingers and dripped from her extended hands onto the floor. The dollops that landed on the wooden floor seemed louder than her own breathing, louder than the approaching sirens.
All she had to do was squeeze. Kill him. Kill the memory of Phil. Just another pound or two of pressure and the gun would explode with the same fury and pain she’d carried with her all these past years. The blast would fill the room. The gun would leap backward in her hands. The bullet would sizzle through the air, impact his head and end his miserable life. No one would know any better.
