A Life Without Fear

by Leo King

Gladys Castille must have been staring intensely at the young man, as he stopped and offered her a nod of his head, waving his knife toward the meat on his plate.

  “My compliments to the cook, Aunt Gladys,” Dallas Christofer said with a smile. He had never expected something as delightful as this, not on such short notice.

  However, Gladys still stared at him from across the table, her eyes fixed on him without emotion. In the dimly lit room, the shadows played off her face. She had a tight-lipped and tense look.

  He mused to himself, sipping some more wine, before asking, “Do you know about Kobe beef, Aunt Gladys? There is a type of cow in Japan that is given a special diet of sake-soaked grain, as well as having its muscles massaged to keep the meat tender. It’s said to be the most tender and tasty meat in the world.”

  Across the table, Gladys said nothing, her eyes fixed upon him like a hawk.

  Dallas shrugged and cut another slice of the meat. He so dearly loved marinated tenderloin, especially when cooked rare. “Yes, Kobe beef. Your husband, Kent, was interested in trying it. Why don’t we order some for tomorrow night, Auntie? We can have it flown in from Japan.”

  The stretch of silence as Gladys stared at him like a statue was uncomfortable.

  Following the meat with a lingering sip of wine, he hummed to himself, only then understanding the immensity of what he was asking. “You’re right, Auntie, that was a stupid idea. We’ll need to give it at least a few days. My apologies for being so impulsive.”

  Looking up, he could see the old woman’s eyes glinting in the light as if they were glass baubles. He could feel Gladys staring into him and could see that her expression was extremely stern.

  “Right.” Dallas sighed, then muttered to himself, “Such a charming dinner companion you are, you old bat.”

  Finishing his meat, sopping up the last of the sauce, and washing it down with the last of his wine, he put down his silverware and leaned back. “Truly marvelous.”

  Dabbing his mouth clean, he got up and bowed to his aunt. “Thank you for dinner, Aunt Gladys. I’ll be sure to tell the cook it was her best creation yet.”

  Walking along the length of the table, Dallas stopped at Gladys, who was still staring icily ahead. He placed his hand on her shoulder and said, “Get some rest, will you, Auntie? Tomorrow is going to be very busy.”

  Giving her a gentle push, he watched as she fell forward, landing face first on her plate. Reaching behind her, he pulled out the stiletto knife which had been embedded in her spine for the past two hours.

  “Thanks for holding onto this,” Dallas said, smirking at the dead woman and heading out of the dining room.

  Walking through the dimly lit hallways of the Castille mansion while twirling the stiletto knife between his fingers, he started to slide his feet in time to the Brahms symphony as it played over the house’s sound system. He passed by the entrance to the kitchen, spun inside, and called out to Miss Cooper, the cook. “Fantastic meal, Miss Cooper. Such wonderful work this evening!”

  Miss Cooper, who was standing up on a stool in front of the stove, leaned over a large pot where her intestines spilled out of her stomach. They were boiling quite nicely. Her assistant, kneeling before the oven, had his head inside. Smoke billowed out as the smell of burning flesh and hair wafted through the room. Neither had much to say.

  “Carry on,” Dallas said before waltzing down the hallway. A young maid leaned near the doorway leading to the study. In a moment of boldness, he swept the maid into his arms and danced around. The maid’s head leaned back, the little flap of skin that was holding her head on snapping. Her head hit the floor and rolled out into the hallway.

  “Oops,” he said and placed the maid in the plush chair behind the desk. He tapped his fingers together and cleared his throat, bowing politely to the corpse. “Sorry.”

  Sliding to a bookcase in the back, he perused the volumes until his fingers rested on a certain book. “Ah, here we are. Hematology!”

  Pulling on the large book, he heard a clicking sound. The book slid back into place, and a few moments later, the bookcase opened up. He headed down a stone staircase into the darkness below, sighing with contentment. “All right, time to get to work.”

  When Dallas reached the bottom, passing through a stone archway, he entered a square chamber made entirely of stones. Dust was thick on devices such as a rack, a Saint Andrew’s cross, a spiked chair, and an iron maiden. At the far end of the torture chamber was a metal door that latched from the outside. To the side of the door was a large valve. Over the door was a dusty sign that said “Crematorium.”

  He was still waltzing to the music, which was no longer audible, when he stopped in the center of the torture chamber. In the middle of the room were the stained remains of a circle of blood. Dallas had heard that the circle had been used in a pair of rituals performed in 1967.

  Amazing that after the Knight Priory stopped meeting at the Castille estate, Grandfather turned the gathering place into his torture chamber. I suppose if you’re going to try to summon forth the powers of voodoo through human suffering, this is the place to do it. Go, Gramps.

  His gaze flashed over to the crematorium. I do wonder what the purpose of that room was. Grandpa never cremated any of his victims. Oh, well. I killed Aunt Gladys before I could ask. I guess it’s not important.

  He stopped in front of an operating table. Next to the table was a metal pan filled with ethanol. Dallas tossed the bloody stiletto knife into the pan and then turned his attention to the centerpiece of the table and the centerpiece of the entire torture chamber—the nude, blond woman tightly secured there.

  Sam Castille.

  “Hey, Sam, sorry to keep you waiting,” Dallas said, looking down at her. She just stared back up at him, her eyes wide and wild.

  “Yes, I know, it was rude to make you wait.” He shrugged innocently. “But you know how demanding Aunt Gladys is, right?”

  From Sam’s throat, a strained whine issued forth. Her chest started to rise and fall more quickly. Her eyes slowly moved away from him.

  “I know, I know. How can Richie do this to you, right?” he said, patting her shoulder. “But believe me when I say this…” He grabbed her face so that she was looking at him. “This may be the face you know as Richie, but I can assure you, only Dallas is here. Earlier tonight, I made sure he experienced his own death. That should be the end of Mr. Fastellos.”

  Sam’s eyes widened more. The whine took on a strained gurgle.

  He looked her over, admiring her terrified expression. “Was it confusing to watch Richie struggling at the doorway to your room? Was it scary to watch him beat himself up and talk as three different people? Were you terrified when he advanced on you?”

  Dallas leaned in and whispered, “God, I hope so.”

  He released her face and patted her cheek, then walked over to some hospital equipment. He counted to make sure everything was there, and then he nodded. Well, at least Kent and Nick’s money was good for something.

  Selecting a device, a large box with a screen on it, he pushed it toward the operating table.

  She stared wordlessly at him.

  “Still locked in, eh? I have to admit that at first, I was really disappointed.” With the device next to the table, he started to attach the pads to Sam’s chest, arms, and back. As he did so, he said, “I mean, part of the point is to savor all five of the senses. With you locked in there, it’s going to be a lot of whimpering and gurgling instead of screaming in agony.”

  Dallas hit a few switches on the device, turning it on. The heart-rate monitor started to beep. Seeing that the machine was in working order, he stepped away and went to another device, one with two clear bags held up on poles.

  He chuckled as he pushed the intravenous machine over. “But now that I think about it, this works out better for three beautiful reasons.”

  The IV machine in front of Sam, he took two small plastic tubes and attached a catheter needle to each, and then started tapp
ing on one of her arms to make the vein bulge. Her eyes were focused on those needles. The beeping of the heart-rate monitor started to speed up.

  “First, this part would be harder with you kicking and screaming. I would have to use anesthesia, and I really don’t have time tonight to wait for anesthesia to wear off again,” he said, gently sliding the first catheter into her vein.

  Sam whined in her throat as the needle was pushed inside. Her eyes followed him as he walked around her.

  “And second, there’s all the whining and pleading and ‘Please don’t do this to me.’”

  Dallas went to her other side and started tapping her other arm, getting the vein to stick out. “And the bribery. My God, the bribery! Did you know that Cheryl Aucoin said she’d be my love slave if I didn’t harm her? Me?” He pointed at himself incredulously. “Have sex with a sixteen-year-old? Please, I am not a sicko. I have morals,” the serial killer said.

  Taking the second catheter and pushing it into Sam’s other arm, he said, “The third reason is that I’ll wager that this is infinitely more terrifying. There you are, all locked inside your little head.”

  The needle in and the IV machine hooked up, he leaned down and kissed her forehead. Her heart rate continued to increase. “You can see and hear and feel everything I do, and you can’t say a word.”

  Lowering himself down to her ear, Dallas again whispered, “And I bet you are so scared right now. Oh, God… that is such a turn on.” He gently licked her cheek. She tasted like fear.

  Getting up, he went over to a small black bag and pulled out a set of syringes. “And to be honest, I’m not entirely sure I completely destroyed Richie earlier. I always figured he’d be weak, him being the subordinate personality. But near the end there, he turned out to be not so weak. I think it was his love for you. Anyway, we can’t have him coming back if you start pathetically calling out his name, can we?”

  Picking up a syringe, he took out a small vial labeled “Epinephrine” and drew some into the syringe. Sam’s heart rate sped up again, causing him to say, “Oh, this won’t hurt you, Sam. It’s just adrenaline, to keep you from passing out. We can’t have that.”

  The adrenaline measured out in the syringe, he headed to the IV machine and injected it into the plastic bags. “Speaking of Richie, wanna hear how he came about? Story time! The night you were released from Dr. Lazarus’s facility… remember that power box you found in the utility closet? Yeah, I wired it to short out and explode. The fire nearly killed everyone, including our buddy Julius and dear Dr. Lazarus. After saving the doctor, I made sure Julius took my place while I ran off, and I made sure he was burnt beyond recognition.”

  Dallas checked the tubes going into and out of Sam’s arms. “Anyway, after my escape, I wandered around for weeks, stealing from truck stops and doing things I’d rather forget, finally arriving in Houma. A nice old lady named Annie-Mae Bernard picked me up. Told her my name was Julius Boucher. She bought it and decided to just raise me on her own. That’s what I love about bayou folk, they are so nice… so gullible… ya know, good people.”

  Her heart rate was more pronounced now, and she was whimpering more audibly. He noticed this and decided to get things moving along. “Side note! Julius Boucher, by the way, was totally my bitch. You may have run our little group, and Julius may have acted like he was the front man, but every time we’d get alone, I’d hurt him in ways that would trigger the most horrific flashbacks.”

  Laughing, he shook his head and made a mock trembling motion. “Julius was so scared of me that the night of the fire, he ran deep into the burning building to get away from me, even though I was going to save him. I needed him to pretend to be me. It was great fun, though, to hold Julius down while his head baked. Had to make sure his face was burnt beyond recognition.”

  He stood there recalling the memory fondly. Looking over at Sam, he blushed and said, “Sorry, I always get lost in the recollection of pinning him with his face near the flames, hearing him cry and blubber, and telling him that if he ever stopped pretending to be me, I’d finish the job. All the while, his hair and face were burning right off. Good times.”

  Sniffing, he cracked his neck to relieve some tension. I’ll need to get a massage soon, my neck is killing me.

  “I have to thank Grandfather, though. If he hadn’t made me watch him murder Mom, I never would have learned about how pain can be a motivator. Not to mention, I never would have met you. Then I never would have learned about the real Knight Priory, the tkeeus, or any of that other stuff you told me about in the hospital.”

  Sam, who had been moaning in fear, sobbed in her throat. A few tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Heading over to a large black duffle bag, Dallas took out a box and carried it to the operating table. He opened it and took out scalpels, forceps, scissors, switch blades, tourniquets, and hemostat clamps.

  Sam started to whimper again.

  “So, back to the story! I actually got to live a regular life until a high school friend invited me to a party for Ouellette’s son. And on a boat ride, no less. Then I realized that I could get my revenge on Ouellette. I mean, how could I not take that opportunity? Luckily for me, Sam, the old bat who adopted me took Amobarbital like it was candy. Just ground up a few, popped them into Jason Ouellette’s beer and, splash, one dead Marine.”

  The tray filled with operating equipment, he headed back to the duffle bag and started taking out tools—sanders, drills, a chainsaw—and placed them on the nearby rack. Sam’s whimpers got louder and the beeps of the heart rate monitor got more rapid.

  “After that, I slit Mama Bernard’s throat and hitchhiked to Pittsburg. Why Pittsburg, you ask? No reason. Anyway, I needed to create a pseudonym, since Julius Bernard was now not safe, Julius Boucher was supposedly dead, and hell if I’d call myself Dallas Christofer.”

  Dallas went “hmm” and tapped his lips with a dentist drill. “Well, one day, I started noticing this other personality coming up inside of me. I think it was an icky desire to live a normal life. Ya know, like back in Houma. So I started to cultivate that personality. I started pushing it memories and thoughts of a life in California, of fleeing to Pittsburgh with a battered mother and growing up there. It took a lot of work, but in the end, I had a mask I could wear any time I chose.”

  He nibbled on the head of the dentist drill. “The hardest part was a name. Oh, I could have chosen any old name, but anagrams are more fun. Do you remember how we used to make anagrams at the hospital? That’s how we came up with ‘Nite Priory’ as an anagram for ‘iron pyrite.’ You were telling us about the Knight Priory, and Julius kept insisting they were fake, like fool’s gold. So I pressed him into making an anagram that would make people think of the Knight Priory but actually mean a misdirection. I was already plotting. Years later, I was able to use what Julius came up with to fool the police.

  “Think about it, Sam. They get all worked up over ‘Nite Priory.’ Then, when they finally figure out that it’s a ‘misspelling’”—Dallas made air quotes with his fingers—“of Knight Priory… they start chasing that tired old group like they’re the culprit. But all of that, every bit of it, is just some silly game three mentally troubled children used to play. Poetic on so many levels. The ultimate ‘fuck you’ to every detective out there!”

  He cleared his throat. “Sorry, I’m getting sidetracked.” Winking at Sam, he said, “Anyway, I remembered the anagram game. And that is how I got my eventual alias, Richard Fastellos. All thanks to you, Sam!”

  He turned back and saw tears rolling down her cheeks. He quickly rushed to her side. “No, no, no! Don’t cry, Sam. Don’t worry.” He wiped the tears away and licked his fingers for the taste. “The love Richie has for you is real. But me, I love something else. I love the pain Grandfather taught me about. I mean…” He motioned around the torture chamber. “This is my world, Sam. I can no more help torturing and murdering than a spider can help spinning a web.”

  Leaning against the table near Sam
’s head, he gently tapped the blunt end of the dentist drill against her nose. “So that’s how Richie came about. He popped up one day because a part of me wanted a normal life, and I cultivated him into the perfect disguise.”

  Using the dentist drill, Dallas turned her head to look at him. She whined through her throat in protest. “See, Sam,” he said in a low voice, “Dallas Christofer is the real deal, while Richard Fastellos is the mask. He, like everyone else in my life, is my bitch.”

  He tapped her nose once more. “Just like you’re about to be.”

  Tossing the dentist drill into the tray with the scalpels and surgical tools, he said, “Every now and then, parts of me would come out in Richie. He’d get paranoid if people jumped out at him, he’d get emotionally detached way too easily, and the anxiety attacks—my God, the anxiety attacks! Did you know that his pills actually made it harder at first for me to take back control to do the killings?”

  With a wink, he headed back to the rack, where the heavier equipment lay, and started to carry the industrial devices to the operating table, placing them down one at a time. “Anyway, the whole point of Richie was to hide myself, so imagine my shock when he became a wildly successful author years later.”

  Dallas had a good chuckle over that, the irony too much for him. “But it gave me a ton of time to research the Bourbon Street Ripper murders and learn who all needed to be punished.”

  Holding a chainsaw in front of Sam, who moved her eyes away from it, her breathing getting heavier, he said, “And believe me, Sam, a lot of people needed to be punished.”

  Putting down the chainsaw, he went over to a nearby basin and started to wash his hands.

  No reason to risk infection.

  “See, the whole problem is that everyone was down on Maple because she had a temper. But my father, he saw the passion in Mom and just knew she was a good woman. Meanwhile, your mom, Mary, was Little Miss Perfect. So perfect that while Maple married Edward, my dad, Mary had to one-up her sister and marry Vincent, your dad.”

  From the operating table, Sam let out a confused and horrified shriek that stuck in her throat.