by Jack Kilborn
“You wouldn’t last two minutes in my hood.”
“That’s because I wouldn’t ever go to your hood, Tyrone. It’s full of losers. That’s what you are. Born a loser, die a loser. You’re a statistic, Tyrone. And you know what else? You’re not tough at all. When we’re finished with you, you’re going to be crying like a little baby.”
“Hells no.”
“Hells yeah,” Martin mocked.
Martin spread out his hands, as if welcoming a big group of people.
“You still don’t know why I brought you here. Of course, why should you? You’re not the best and brightest of our nation’s youth. You’re not even in the top eighty percent. So I’m going to be a nice guy and tell you what’s going to happen. A man is coming to the island. A very important man, who is going to change the world. But he’s going to need to be convinced. So you’re going to help convince him.”
Martin smiled, and it scared Tom to his core.
“He’s going to tell us what to do to you, and we’re going to do it. Happily, I should add. So you three should actually feel pretty good about yourselves. You’ve defied all expectations, and done something productive with your lives. Something useful. Every ritual needs sacrificial lambs. The bloodier, the better.”
Martin’s eyes drilled into Tom, and the man who counseled him, mentored him, taught him, and pretended to actually give a shit about him, winked.
“Now if you kids will excuse me, I have to go upstairs and torture my wife.”
The bureau was Sara’s height. It was black, which made the dark red sketch on the front hard to see, but as Sara got closer, she could make it out.
A human outline.
In fact, this looked like one of those magician’s cabinets, the kind where a woman went in and then was pierced with swords and cut into thirds.
It also had the same little doors on the front, so the audience could see different parts of the woman’s body, to prove she was still in there.
But Sara didn’t think this was an illusion. And a sickening sinking feeling in her gut told her who was probably inside.
She reached for the top door, the one that would expose the face, but she stopped inches from touching it.
All across the surface of the cabinet were round black knobs. Dozens of them. They were also on the sides, and the back, from top to bottom. Sara touched one, gently.
Someone inside the box screamed, making Sara flinch.
What the hell were these things?
She looked around, stared down at the umbrella stand next to the cabinet.
But it wasn’t filled with umbrellas. It was filled with long things that ended in black knobs.
Suddenly understanding what they were, Sara grabbed the end of a knob in the middle of the cabinet and pulled.
Just like the magician’s trick, Sara removed a six inch metal skewer from the box.
Unlike the magician’s trick, this skewer was slick with blood.
“Oh, Jesus. Laneesha.”
Sara knew Lester was coming. Martin would be back soon, too. She had to get out of there. But she wasn’t going to leave Laneesha here with these monsters.
That posed a problem. There were dozens—perhaps over a hundred—of these skewers sticking in the cabinet. Did Sara even have time to remove all of them? And if she did, would Laneesha bleed to death?
She looked around for an answer, and saw two things on the floor that made her stomach churn. A car battery with jumper cables, and a handheld blowtorch.
She had to get Laneesha out of there.
“Laneesha, honey, it’s Sara. I’m going to help you, okay? I need to get these things out of your face first. Jesus, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry…”
Sara lifted her hands, hesitated, reached closer, hesitated, and then pulled the six skewers out of the outline of the head as fast as she could, Laneesha’s cries of pain scarring her soul. The she opened the door to view Laneesha’s face.
“Kill me,” Laneesha croaked.
Sara recoiled in horror. The blood. The damage. The agony the girl must be in.
That’s when Sara sensed someone behind her.
She didn’t hear it. She sensed it. Like feeling a glance from across a room. Since the door Sara came through hadn’t opened, the person must have come from the other door in the room.
Not Lester. Not Martin. This was the one who had done this to Laneesha.
Sara spun around, tugging the utility knife out of her jeans, ready to stab.
It was a man. A fat man, naked except a black rubber apron that stretched from his chest to his thighs. He’d come out of the door—the bathroom door—Sara had been about to open. His hair was gray and shoulder-length. His chubby cheeks glistening with sweat over several days’ worth of stubble. His bare skin was lined with long, parallel scabs, like stripes, some of them still bleeding. In his right hand he was clenching a meat hook.
That should have been shock enough, but Sara stared into the man’s eyes. His smiling, pea green eyes, and she felt if she were being sucked into them, falling down a deep, dark hole.
She saw those eyes a thousand times in her nightmares.
They peered at her whenever the lights went out.
Even with all that had happened on the island, those eyes were still the single most terrifying thing Sara had ever seen.
They belonged to Paulie Gunther Spence, the man who abducted her when she was eleven years old.
Lester’s rage was a diesel engine in his chest, pumping and burning and threatening to blow. The Joe pet was special to Lester. He came to the island with Martin, and Lester had bitten off some of his sensitive parts, but left him mostly untouched. He liked the funny uhhhnnnnnn sound the Joe pet made. But he didn’t care for the begging, or the attempts to get away. So Doctor fixed him for Lester. Fixed his brain so he stopped talking. Fixed his arms and legs so he couldn’t run or fight back.
For six years, Lester had taken good care of the Joe pet. He was Lester’s friend.
But now someone had killed him.
The doctor was in the lab. Martin was out. The stairs were the only way up to Lester’s room, and he didn’t pass anyone while bringing the hay.
That left one person. The only other person on the second floor.
Subject 33.
Lester looked around for a weapon, wrapping his large hand around a filet knife. Razor sharp. Perfect for detail work.
He stormed out his room, heading down the corridor.
When Paulie Gunther Spence was a little boy, he wanted to kill people when he grew up. If his parents had known any abnormal psychology, they would have noted little Paulie wet the bed, started fires, and liked to hurt animals. These behaviors were documented precursors to psychopathy.
But they were too busy physically and sexually abusing Paulie to notice that he might be a little off kilter.
Perhaps they should have paid more attention, because when Paulie turned twelve he turned on the gas stove, blew out the flame, and waited in the back yard while the carbon monoxide filled the house and poisoned them to death.
It was deemed an accident, and the neighbors corroborated that Paulie was a handful and his parents sometimes made him sleep outside.
Paulie did the foster home shuffle for several years, eventually running away at fifteen and joining a travelling carnival. He lived the life of a carny for a decade, and the work suited him. Especially since it gave him easy access to children.
He never grabbed a kid while on the job. That would have been stupid. But he talked to the kids as he worked the game booths and operated the rides, and those who didn’t know better would give him their last name when he asked. Sometimes they’d even tell him where they lived.
The question that he cared about most, though, was whether the kid had a dog, what kind of dog it was, and if the dog was their responsibility.
Then Paulie would wait until after hours, use a phone book or the Internet to find the child’s house, and then wait in the shadows for t
he child to let his dog out for the night. Many of the suburbs the carnival visited had big back yards with plenty of good places to hide, and Paulie only chose them if the dogs were small breeds.
Most times, it was a bust, offering Paulie no bigger thrill than some window peeping fantasies and jerking off on the azaleas. But every so often, he got lucky. The kid opened the patio door, and Paulie grabbed him.
Twelve children in ten years. Their screams were like candy. None lived to tell the police.
Then Paulie messed up. One of the kids he took yelled so loud it brought unwanted attention. Paulie was arrested. He did most of his time in isolation, because every time he was put into general pop his fellow inmates tried to kill him; the unwritten convict code for dealing with child molesters. When he got out he had to register as a sex offender. Which meant no working around kids. Which meant no more carny life.
Paulie got a job in construction, saw his court appointed shrink once a week and fed him bullshit about how well he was adjusting, and cruised the malls for young meat.
He did okay. It surprised him how many parents let their precious little children run around unsupervised. He was fine for a few years until he got greedy and tried to grab two girls at once. Someone saw him, which led to the cops checking the parking lot security tapes, which led to his car being IDed, which led to him being caught before he’d gotten the chance to enjoy both little morsels.
This time he went away for life, and they locked him in solitary and threw away the key.
He rotted in that hole for more than a decade. Then that military stiff came to visit, giving him the chance to not only get free, but to kill again. Paulie was happy to sign on.
But he didn’t know a crazy doc was going to shove needles into his brain, taking away his ability to speak, and changing his lust to kill into an all-engrossing, unquenchable thirst.
Every waking moment, Paulie existed only to indulge his need. But rather than a blessing, it was an awful burden. Whenever Paulie was without a victim, he was compelled to take his bloodlust out on himself. Every square centimeter of his body was covered with self-inflicted cuts. The pain was intolerable, but the urge to cause pain—even if it was to himself—always won out.
So he tried to keep his victims alive as long as possible. A difficult line to walk, because hurting them felt soooo good.
One day, he would get out of this place. Then he would have his revenge on the doctor who did this to him.
But until then, there were perks.
Like this juicy little tidbit with the utility knife.
Paulie never forgot one of his children. Especially the ones that got away.
He just had to get her in his pain box.
The box was based on years of testing and experimenting. Every skewer positioned and angled so it wouldn’t hit anything vital. Paulie’s biggest wish was to get the doctor in there.
But until that day came, this was a tasty little substitute.
Sara was paralyzed with fear. A tiny part of her brain recognized what a cliché that was. But it was true. She was so terrified, so overwhelmed by dread, she couldn’t move.
Paulie Gunther Spence stared at her. Through her. Sara knew he could read her thoughts, sense her helplessness.
He lowered the meat hook and gave her a lopsided grin. Then he walked slowly to Sara’s left, stopping at a dresser.
Run! Sara yelled at herself. Get out of there!
But her feet remained planted, her veins felt filled with cement. She couldn’t even turn her head, staring at her abductor out of the corner of her eyes, watching as he slowly slid open a drawer. He put his hand inside, grinning, obviously enjoying himself, and then removed a rope.
No! Don’t let him tie you up, Sara! You have to move!
That’s when the door burst open.
The sound was enough to break Sara out of her frozen state. In one smooth motion she dove sideways, tucked her elbows in, and rolled lengthwise under the bed, the utility knife clutched to her chest.
“You! You killed my pet!”
Lester’s presence seemed to fill the room. He looked twice as big as the last time she’d seen him, and his eyes were wide and lips pulled back to bare his revolting teeth. He was pointing, accusingly, his hand ending in a knife that glinted orange in the candlelight.
But he wasn’t looking at Sara. He was looking at Paulie Gunther Spence.
“The Joe pet is dead. Now Lester will kill Subject 33’s pet.”
Lester took two quick steps toward Laneesha’s cabinet, and Sara watched aghast as he flung open the large middle door without removing the skewers.
Laneesha’s insides came out, spilling onto the ground, some of them sliding under the bed and onto Sara. She shoved her knuckles into her mouth and bit down to keep from screaming.
Lester turned, raising the knife.
“Now Lester will kill Subject 33.”
Paulie Gunther Spence held up one hand in supplication as he shook his head. His other hand was gesturing wildly.
Pointing right at Sara.
But Lester wasn’t following the man’s finger, and though Paulie’s lips were moving, no sounds were coming out.
Lester lunged.
For a fat old man, Paulie moved pretty fast. He danced away from the blade and came up on Lester’s side, the meat hook raised. Paulie swung, cutting through empty air with a whir.
Lester lunged again, nicking Paulie on the shoulder. Paulie again swung and missed. The taller man’s reach was too long, and he easily kept Paulie at a distance.
When Lester cut Paulie’s other shoulder, she could see the futility on Paulie’s. He knew he was going to die. That’s when he stared Sara dead in the eyes, and then ran right at her.
Sara shrank back, but it wouldn’t help. This was a cheap bed, light and flimsy. Paulie would be able to upend it with one hand, exposing her to Lester.
But Lester acted fast, sticking out a foot, tripping Paulie so he fell near the edge of the bed. The fat man flopped onto his belly, momentum making him slide across the gore toward Sara.
The meathook clanged to the floor and bounced away, and Sara locked eyes with the fallen killer, less than two feet between them. Paulie’s pea green eyes were no longer the sadistic, powerful eyes that haunted Sara’s dreams. These eyes belong to a desperate, frightened man. A human being, not a monster.
Then Paulie stretched his hands under the bed and grabbed Sara’s wrist.
Martin was feeling pretty good. The drugs had taken the edge off his injuries, the children were all accounted for, and he was about to spend some quality time with the missus. Plus, he was now the owner of a pretty sweet boat. Which, unfortunately, he was going to have to sink.
Martin had told Captain Prendick the truth about his prices being too high, and Martin taking over Plincer’s supply needs. But the real reason he killed Prendick was because he needed the boat for the plan to work.
A noted psychologist, a ship’s captain, and six teenagers couldn’t just disappear while Martin walked away scot-free. So Martin was going to use Prendick’s GPS navigation system to find the deepest part of the lake—Huron went down 750 feet in some parts. Then he was going to set the boat on fire and sink it, putting in a last minute call to the Coast Guard just as he jumped overboard.
“There was some kind of horrible explosion,” he would tell the authorities. “I must have been thrown clear. Damn lucky thing I had my life jacket on. Oh, my poor now-dead wife. Those poor, underprivileged, blown-up children. What a terrible and tragic freak accident.”
He’d work on the story, and his delivery. A few burn marks on his life preserver would lend credence, as would his outstanding reputation in the field of social work.
The best part? Sara was insured for half a million dollars. Enough to buy a nice, new boat. Joe had been right about that one thing; boating life was the way to go. The things were like floating whorehouses.
Martin got to the top of the stairs and wondered if he should drop in on
brother Joe, maybe give him a dog bone for old time’s sake. But the growing tension in his groin told him to wait until later. He wanted to get in some husband and wife bonding first.
He walked to his room, smiling when he saw the trunk in the corner. Martin could picture Sara in there, tied up and terrified. He thought of all those countless, wasted nights, holding her in bed because she was frightened, pretending to care.
Payback was a bitch.
Martin snuck over, raising his palm to give the chest a good whack and scare the crap out of her, when he heard Lester yell something down the hall.
Odd. Lester never yelled. Not in the six years Martin had known him. Something must be happening.
He left Sara to her personal hell and went into the corridor.
Another yell from Lester. It seemed to be coming from Subject 33’s room.
Martin headed that way.
Whatever hold Paulie Gunther Spence had on Sara over the years, whatever spell he’d woven to keep her in near-constant state of fear, was now gone.
Instead, it was replaced by rage.
Paulie gripped her wrist, his eyes huge with panic, trying to drag her out into the open.
No way in hell that was going to happen.
Sara still held the utility knife, and she used it without hesitation, slashing at his knuckles, his hands, his arms. Digging deep and twisting the triangular blade.
Paulie released her, his soundless lips flapping as Lester tugged him away from the bed. Paulie’s arms scoured the floor, trying to grab onto something, finding only bits of Laneesha.
Sara watched, awestruck, as Lester placed a huge foot on Paulie’s flabby backside, leaned down, and plunged the knife into his back. Paulie flopped around for a bit, like a fish on a pier, his mouth wide in a silent scream.
Then, all at once, he stopped moving, a sail that ran out of wind.
She stared, knowing Lester wasn’t going to stop there. While part of her said she should turn away, another part wanted to watch as Lester cut her boogeyman into a million little pieces. Indeed, Lester tugged out the knife and raised it again. But his plans were interrupted when the door opened.
