by Chiah Wilder
With narrowed eyes, he lowered his head and sucked one of her nipples. His tongue flicked and played with it until he bit down hard. Very hard. Eyes on hers, he kept biting as he pulled and twisted her other nipple. Her muffled screams, streaking tears, and horror-filled eyes pushed his brutality further until he was hard as granite. Heavy panting, gagged yells, and her body thrashing against the sheets pierced the stillness of the quiet neighborhood.
After several hours, her abused body lay still on the saturated bed sheet. He straightened up and swatted her ass. “Get up,” he ordered.
She groaned as she pushed off the mattress, and he grabbed her roughly and took her into the en suite bathroom. A yellow toothbrush rested on the shelf in the medicine cabinet.
“Here. Brush your teeth, tongue, sides, and roof of your mouth. Now.” He glanced out the window. The blackness in the east was beginning to fade; he needed to be finished and out of the house before the sun rose. He’d been so worked up that night, he’d taken much longer with her than he’d intended.
When she handed the toothbrush back to him, he shoved it in his pocket and pushed her toward the shower. Checking the water, he made sure it was warm before he shoved her in. He watched as she scrubbed her body. Some of his women scrubbed themselves raw, as if trying to wash away what had happened, and others did a crappy-ass job and he’d have to help them out. This one was scrubbing hard—he wouldn’t have to get wet.
After she patted herself dry, he took the towel and shoved it into a plastic bag, then told her to go back into the bedroom. He collected all evidence that may have any of his DNA, then stared at her. The rush of exhilaration that normally surged through him as he prepared to leave was missing. That rush was what he craved and needed until the monster resurfaced and he went hunting again.
Slipping the knife out of his pocket, he came up behind her and yanked her head back, forcing her to look at him.
“You promised you wouldn’t kill me. You told me if I did everything you said, you’d leave. I did everything you said.” Her voice hitched before soft sobs filled the air around him.
Without a word, he sliced her throat, then let her drop to the floor with a thud. Gasping breaths and gargling blood through her severed windpipe were the only sounds in the room as he watched blood squirt out of her carotid artery while she lost consciousness.
As he left the room, he laughed out loud. Someone’s going to have a real mess to clean up.
On his way home, his body was still vibrating from the high he’d had when he’d cut her throat. In that one swipe, all the tension, all the pressure, had just vanished, dissipated. He was on top of the world. He switched on the radio and sang along loudly.
Pulling into his garage, he decided to hold on to his euphoria for as long as he could until the monster came back and overtook him.
Humming, he opened the back door and went inside.
Chapter Thirty-One
The stairs groaned as Detective Barnard and Sheriff Wexler slowly walked up to Joyce Gillen’s bedroom. A couple of deputies stepped aside as the two men walked into the room. The lifeless body of the seventy-five-year-old victim was on top of a red-stained carpet. The gap in her throat told Barnard that her death had been quick. Running his hand through his short hair, he bent down and shook his head: her right nipple looked as though it’d been chewed off, and her body was covered in bruises.
“The fucking bastard has escalated his violence. I was afraid this was going to happen,” he said to Wexler, who’d turned away.
“I knew Joyce. She was a great lady. My grandkids and hers are friends. Shit, I can’t believe she died like this. Such an upstanding woman. She’d do anything to help someone out. We gotta find this fucker.” His voice shook with anger.
Barnard straightened up, then put a hand on Wexler’s shoulder briefly. “We have a monster on our hands and no solid clues. If only we could get a damn break.”
The CSI team from Durango came into the room then, ready to begin their systematic search for any incriminating evidence. Barnard went up to the supervisor, Carlos Torres. He’d worked with Carlos on many rapes and homicide cases in the past; he knew if the sick bastard left any evidence, Carlos and his team would find it.
“I hope we get something,” he said.
Carlos nodded. “We’ll work the scene hard. What kind of a sick person is he?”
“Who the hell knows. I just want to find him before he does this again. To think she went through the ups and downs of life, raised her kids, helped out with the grandkids, and survived the heartache of losing her husband only to end up on the floor, naked, raped, and killed. There’s no fucking rhyme or reason in this goddamn universe.”
“Seems that way in our line of work. I’ll let you know if I find anything,” Carlos said.
“Thanks,” Jack replied as he walked out of the room.
He found Wexler talking to a middle-aged man in the living room. A woman in her early fifties sat on the couch, wiping her nose and cheeks as her gaze fixed on the sheriff. The detective went over to Wexler and the man.
“It looked to be a dark SUV, parked across the street and several houses down. I didn’t get a license number, but when it passed, I noticed a shiny hood ornament. The way the streetlight hit it, I could see it pretty well. It was an American eagle. The wings were spread wide. I’ve seen a lot of cars around here that have the same ornament.”
“Did you see who was driving the vehicle?” Wexler asked.
The man shook his head. “I didn’t get a good look at him. It looked like he had a hood or something over his face.”
“Like a ski mask?” Barnard interjected.
The guy nodded. “Yes! It was a ski mask. I didn’t really see anything else. I was captivated by the hood ornament. I guess I should’ve paid more attention, but it was dark. There was some light in the sky, but it was still too dark to make out anything more.”
As the sheriff talked to the witness, Barnard went over to the woman on the couch. “I’m Detective Barnard.” He extended his hand.
The woman placed her hands in her lap. “Jeannie Bennell. My mom is… was Joyce Gillen.” She placed her fingers on her trembling lips.
“I’m very sorry for your loss. I’ll do everything I can to apprehend the person responsible for your mother’s murder. Did she have any strange incidents that she mentioned to you? Like in the past few weeks or even months?”
Shaking her head, she stared at the floor. “No. She never mentioned anything. If something were amiss or if she was worried about anything, she would’ve told me or my brother. This is just so terrible. Why would anyone want to hurt my mom?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.”
After several hours at the crime scene, Barnard walked out into the bright sunshine. It was always surreal for him to leave a brutal crime scene and enter back into the ordinariness of life. It seemed as if there should be something different to mark the passing of a life, but there never was. Trees swayed in the breeze, birds chirped, and butterflies flitted around in the garden in front of the house.
Wexler came out, his jaw tight, his eyes narrowed; a couple of his deputies followed him. Silent with slumped shoulders, Barnard followed them to the patrol car as the body of Joyce Gillen, bagged and on a gurney, trailed behind.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The smiling face of Joyce Gillen graced the front page of the Alina Post, mesmerizing Goldie. The woman looked very familiar, and he racked his brain trying to figure out where he’d seen her before. As he perused the article, he read that the charity she’d done a lot of volunteer work for was the same one his grandmother had devoted so much time to after he and his siblings were grown and out of the house.
“What’s going on?” Eagle asked as he sat down by Goldie, a coffee cup in his hand.
“I knew this woman.” Goldie tapped Joyce’s picture.
Eagle took the paper. “Fuck. That sucks what happened to her. How did you know her?”
&nbs
p; “She worked on a lot of committees my grandma did for Volunteers Helping Native Americans. I remember bumping into her at some of the fundraising events.”
“When did the fuckin’ psycho go from raping to murder?” Eagle put the paper down.
“He offed another victim before this one. She worked at the rehab center. Now the fucker’s got the taste for blood.”
Eagle nodded. “When you take that plunge, there’s no going back. They get some rush out of it. It’s pretty sick.”
Goldie nodded as he took out his phone. He wanted to make sure Hailey was safe.
Goldie: Hey. U good?
Hailey: Ya. Good 2 hear from u so early in the am.
Goldie: Thinking bout u. Want 2 make sure ur safe.
Hailey: Safe n sound. Something came up. I’m going 2 Albuquerque.
Goldie jerked back. “What the fuck?” he muttered.
“Bad news?” Eagle asked as he stared at the TV.
“No. Just something I need more info on.”
Goldie: WTF?
Hailey: My best friend’s having a bday party. Wants me 2 come. Miss my parents, so can see both at the same time. Win-win.
Goldie: I don’t wanna talk bout this by text. I’ll pick u up @ 7:30 for dinner.
Hailey: Sounds good.
Goldie: Remember 2 text when u leave shop. Ruger will watch out 4 u tonite.
Hailey: K. Gotta go. Shop is crazy today.
“I’m outta here,” Goldie said to Eagle.
“Are you going to the ink shop?”
“Not yet. My bike’s making a funny noise, so I’m headed to Skid Marks to see what’s up. What’re you doing?”
“I was going to check out one of the new dancers at Lust, but I think I’ll head over to Skid Marks to see what’s going on with your bike.”
“You’re passing up a new stripper?” Goldie chuckled.
“I can see a stripper any day, but I wanna see what’s up with your bike and what Diablo and Shotgun can do. Anytime we can learn something about our Harleys takes precedence over everything.”
“Damn straight,” Goldie said as he walked out to the parking lot.
The familiar scent of motor oil filled their nostrils while cool air encased them when they entered Skid Marks. Diablo sat on the stool behind the counter, a scowl on his face. When he saw Goldie and Eagle, he lifted his chin.
“It’s fuckin’ hot out there,” Goldie said as he went behind the counter and pulled out a cold bottle of water. He tossed one to Eagle.
“You guys bored or have a bike problem?” Diablo asked.
“My bike’s making a funny noise. I’m not sure what’s up with it. I wanted you or Shotgun to check it out.”
Shotgun came out of a small office, wiping his grease-stained hands with a rag. “Your new Harley’s acting up? What the fuck’s up with that?”
“I dunno, bro. I just noticed the noise last night. I want to check it out.”
Throwing the rag in a bin, Shotgun said, “Let’s go out and take a listen.”
The four of them stood out in the blazing heat and listened to the engine. “Sounds like something in the valve train,” Diablo said.
“I totally agree. It doesn’t sound bad. I’ll have Cal check it out and see if he can fix it now or if you’ll have to leave your bike,” Shotgun said.
“I was hoping you or Diablo could fix it. Is Cal good?” Goldie ran his hand over his bike’s leather seat.
Shotgun quirked his lips. “Yeah. You think I’d hire a shitty mechanic to work here?”
“He’s just nervous. I get it,” Eagle added.
“We all fuckin’ get it, but Cal definitely knows his way around bikes and cars,” Shotgun replied.
“Drive it around back. I’ll meet you there,” Diablo said.
Soon the four brothers were inside the shop and talking about bikes while Cal made the necessary repairs to Goldie’s Harley. They reminisced about past antics at various runs and rallies, and Eagle busted out laughing.
“What’s so funny, bro?” Diablo asked.
“I was just thinking ’bout Army and all the women he fucks. Each rally he’s got his dick in new pussy,” Eagle answered.
“Correction—pussies,” Goldie said, and the others laughed.
“Did you hear how he fucked up and met up with three women at the same place?” Eagle said.
“No shit. I didn’t hear that one,” Goldie said.
Diablo shook his head. “Me neither, but it sounds like something he’d do.”
“The chicks were all pissed off, and he ended up fucking one of the club women.” Eagle laughed harder.
“He better juggle his bitches better, ’cause one day he’s gonna meet the wrong woman and she’s gonna chop his cock right off,” Shotgun said.
Diablo sniggered. “Army just needs to meet the right woman. Once that happens, he’ll settle his ass down.”
“Not sure he’s gonna meet his ideal woman unless she’s a nymphomaniac who owns a liquor store and has a brother who works at a Harley dealership,” Goldie said.
The brothers guffawed, but when Wexler and a man in a crumpled suit walked in, they all went stone-faced. Wexler went up to the bikers right away, but the man with him paused and mopped his face with a handkerchief before approaching.
“A couple of the department’s bikes need a tune-up and an oil change,” the sheriff said. Shotgun nodded and pulled out a service slip. “It’s a scorcher today. Are you getting ready for the bike rally? You’re having it over at Helmstad’s place, aren’t you?”
“Is that all you’re gonna need?” Shotgun asked as he wrote some things on the service form while the other brothers remained stoic and silent.
Wexler nodded, and then the man, who was sweating profusely, said, “Have you sold an American eagle hood ornament for a dark-colored SUV, maybe burgundy or brown?”
“Why the fuck are you asking?” Diablo said.
“And who the hell are you?” Goldie added.
Wexler cleared his throat. “This is Jack Barnard. He’s helping out with an investigation in our town.”
“I’m a detective with the Durango police. We received some information we’re just following up on.”
The brothers just stared at him; they didn’t give information to badges. Ever.
Shotgun shook his head. “I don’t recall selling any American eagles. We don’t really carry them.”
“That’s funny because the bottom shelf behind you has two American eagle ornaments. I’ve also seen several around town, and people tell me they bought it at this store,” Jack said.
“All we want to know is who you sold them to and the dates. We’re not asking for anything more.”
They didn’t say anything.
Jack pounded his fist on the counter. “Fuck! The bastard who raped and murdered the older woman on the front page of the paper had an American eagle hood ornament. Chances are high he got it at this shop. We just need to know who you’ve sold them to.”
“That ornament is common as hell and all shops carry it. It can be bought online. There’s nothing sayin’ we sold it to the killer,” Diablo said.
“I’m not saying you did, and even if you did, you had no way of knowing who he was. I’m just trying to cover all the bases. I want to catch this fucking bastard and put him away for life. If any of you have sisters, mothers, girlfriends, wives, or know and care about any woman, I’d think you’d want this sick bastard caught.”
Hailey flashed through Goldie’s mind, as did the man who’d scared her. The muscle in his jaw twitched. I’ll be on the lookout for the eagle. And if the fucker bought it from us, I’ll tear him apart. Their lifestyle dictated that he and his brothers would take care of business in their own way. And in their world, a person was guilty until they thought he was innocent.
Wexler fixed his gaze on each of the brothers and a tacit agreement passed between them. Smiling weakly, he turned to Jack. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve got work to do.”
“We’ll be back with a subpoena for those records,” Barnard said.
“Do what you need to do,” Shotgun said. “When do you need the bikes back by?”
The sheriff spun around. “In a couple of days. Does that work?”
Shotgun nodded. “Works fine. I’ll call you.”
“Sounds good. And thanks.”
When the two cops drove off, Goldie leaned against the counter. “Check to see if this fuckin’ asshole bought the hood ornament here.”
“Yeah. We’ll take care of him,” Diablo growled.
“The fucker’s gonna find out what a fucked-up pussy he is when we get through with him,” Eagle said.
“It’s gonna take time to go through all the records ’cause we sell a shitload of those eagles in the store and online. I’d bet money he got it at our store. It’ll take some time, but I’ll find the bastard.”
“You better talk to Steel about having Chains dummy up the records. There’s no way that Durango badge isn’t coming back with a damn subpoena,” Goldie said.
“I’m gonna call him now.” Shotgun went into the small office and closed the door.
“Bike’s ready,” Cal said as he walked into the store. “Did you want me to pull around in front, or do you want to pick it up in the back?”
“Was it in the valve train?” Diablo asked.
“Yep, but it wasn’t anything major.”
“I’ll get it out back,” Goldie said to Cal. Bumping fists with Diablo and Eagle, he left the shop and retrieved his bike. He had a few appointments at the ink shop, and then he’d pick Hailey up for dinner. I can’t wait to see her. I’m so damn into her. I don’t like that she’s going to Albuquerque by herself. He’d talk to her about it that night at dinner.
