by Billy Wells
From the time she got up in the morning until the time she went to bed, Cindy could think of nothing but getting even with Rupert. Then one night over a plate of spaghetti, the question struck her like a sucker punch as she peered through the window at the falling rain. How many other women had Rupert murdered? She’d done nothing to deserve his wrath. There had to be others. She hired a private investigator to find out how many.
* * *
Two weeks later, Cindy received the PI’s report. Ten women who were engaged to marry Rupert had mysteriously died from freak accidents. But, since none of the deaths were connected in any way, and they were committed in ten different cities; consequently, no one had suspected Rupert had murdered them. Cindy had always wondered why this charismatic, male hunk had no friends to invite to their wedding. Now, it made perfect sense; he probably killed them all.
Now armed with the report, she was certain she had enough evidence to put Rupert away for the rest of his life. Maybe a bunch of prison bulls would make his life a living hell every day until he committed suicide or died a broken old geezer in his cell. Still, it wasn’t good enough. Or should she say bad enough?
She bought a plaque at a flea market and hung it on the wall in her bedroom. She fixed her eyes on it every night when she went to bed. It read, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” She planned to bring new meaning to that old adage soon, but the time had to be right.
* * *
Rupert’s fascination with killing women began right after he graduated from college. He was still surprised he hadn’t been arrested after he botched his first kill so pathetically. He’d pushed Nancy, his first fiancé from a cliff, but she fell only ten feet and bumped her head. He had to climb down while other tourists were passing above and roll her body off the ledge. A little boy in a stroller watched him do it, but the little tyke with the plastic nipple in his mouth was too young to understand he had witnessed a murder. The authorities concluded Nancy’s death was an unfortunate slip and fall.
Mary was his second victim. She’d asked Rupert to take her to see Niagara Falls. He remembered the elation on her happy face right before he whacked her on the head with a tire iron he’d concealed in his raincoat. She'd been a lifeguard for years and had even considered training for the Olympics. Unfortunately, she couldn't swim well in an unconscious state with the top of her head caved in when she hit the raging water.
After her, there was Charlotte, Jackie, Liz, Margie, Jeannie, Paula, Kristen, and Cindy He could barely remember what they looked like without referencing his scrapbook. It was no fun to kill women the same way, so he’d killed them in different ways, just like in the movies.
Rupert didn't know why he was a serial killer, and he didn't lose any sleep worrying about it. His obsession wasn't his fault. He was born this way. He imagined some shrink might say his mother was too overbearing and militant with him, and that may have caused his psychosis. His mother beat him with a belt from an early age when he was bad. Sometimes she’d beat him for no reason at all if she got drunk enough.
Maybe she was the reason he was fucked up. He did hate her so much that one day while canoeing on a lake, he struck her in the head with a paddle and kept striking her until she stopped struggling and drowned. He fished out and buried her body in a dark cave. So dark, it was unlikely anyone would ever find it. After the police finally gave up the search for her body, it was clear they assumed his father had killed his wife for the insurance, but they had no evidence to convict him. Again, the authorities never suspected Rupert.
It had never taken more than three months for Rupert to find someone to fall in love with him. He was a handsome devil with a muscular body, a Hollywood tan, and rock hard abs much better than Usher and Adam Levine. He also drove an expensive automobile and lived in a luxurious apartment. What more could a woman want in someone who would be her soul mate for life, who would help her raise a family, and do the wild thing with her until she shriveled up and died?
Now with ten dead females under his belt, Rupert was living in Seattle, his eleventh metropolitan area in as many years. Starting over in a new city was the unfortunate downside of killing fiancés. Nonetheless, it was the safest way to commit murder and get away with it.
The scariest part of each encounter was meeting each of the victim’s friends. They always wondered why he had no friends of his own. He had practiced the explanation many times to be sure it sounded right. He always said he’d just relocated to a new job and hadn't had time to make new friends.
* * *
In only a few weeks of frequenting waterholes and Internet dating sites, another perfect candidate to kill arose.
Candice was a stunning redhead with a beautiful body. Unfortunately for her, she had fallen for Rupert almost from first sight. After a whirlwind affair of wining and dining, outlandish excursions, and intoxicating sex, Rupert couldn't pull the trigger on ending this extremely satisfying affair, even after six months had elapsed.
Finally, the day came when Rupert knew it was time to kill Candice. She was pressuring him to set a date for the wedding, and her friends were always around. They kept asking too many questions about his former jobs and the cities where he’d lived.
On this particular night, Candice told him she wanted to show him how well she could cook. Rupert thought it odd that she wanted to prepare her first meal, not at her apartment in the city, but at one of her parents’ retreats in the Catskills. However, he thought the secluded place would provide the perfect opportunity for him to plan her demise since this romantic tryst did not include her friends or her parents.
After they arrived and made love for several hours that afternoon, Candice left him at poolside and went into the kitchen to prepare what she called a romantic feast he would long remember.
He’d been obsessing over what method would be the most fun to get rid of her and offer him the greatest rush. He was tired of preserving the bodies of his victims in order to make the authorities think the death was an accident. This time he would venture into unchartered territory. He would simply tell the police Candice went into the woods for a walk while he did laps in the pool and did not return at the time she specified. They would search the woods for god knows how long and would finally conclude a pack of wolves or coyotes had dragged her off, or some maniac must have abducted her.
He knew he would miss Candice more than he would miss all the others. Still he had to preserve his identity as a serial killer and not let this new bitch turn his life upside down. He also planned to have the best time he’d ever had killing her. He’d already rented a nearby cabin under a false identity and brought along his tool chest with all his favorite toys. He had several hacksaws, chainsaws, scalpels, hammers and nails, a drill, and a blowtorch. He didn’t know how long he would have to work on Candice before he had to report her missing, but he was determined to prolong her agony longer than ever before. He could do whatever his heart desired, because no one would ever find Candice’s body where he planned to bury it.
He would make a cocktail and put a drug in it to knock her out until he could carry her to the car and transport her to the cabin. He wanted her to know what kind of special person she had fallen in love with. He was almost creaming in his jeans now just thinking about the look on her face when he cut out her tongue and fed it to her.
Finally the moment of truth came. The food smelled wonderful as Candice lit some candles. On queue, Rupert went to the bar to prepare a couple of Manhattans. He slipped the drug in her glass and returned to the table with the drinks. He noticed she had filled two glasses with sparkling water and placed a wedge of lemon in them.
“Before we have a toast to start dinner,” she said warmly, “could you taste the sparkling water. I want your opinion on it since my dad wants to serve it at our wedding.”
Rupert hadn’t planned on this interruption, but he graciously complied. He raised the glass to his lips, drank some, and exclaimed, “Well, Darling. I’m no judge of sparkling water, I’d
rather drink hard liquor, but it tastes fine to me. Now, let me propose a toast, “To the most beautiful, sexy woman on the planet who I plan to spend the rest of my life with in marital bliss. Always and forever, my love.
They stood, raised their glasses, and drank some of their Manhattans, both smiling from ear to ear. Rupert saw her eyes glaze over almost immediately as she wavered, dropped the glass, and slumped to the floor. His heart was beating rapidly with anticipation as he moved toward her. Removing some handcuffs from his trouser pocket, he cuffed her hands behind her back.
As he looked down at her helpless, beautiful body, he was suddenly struck by the first pang of guilt he had ever known. He knew at that moment, he really didn’t want to hurt Candice. He loved her deeply and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. As he started to extract the keys to unlock the cuffs, he felt woozy, and the room seemed to waver like he’d just stepped into a dream. He lapsed into unconsciousness beside her in a pile.
* * *
When he awoke, Candice sat across from him still in handcuffs looking at him suspiciously. “What did you put in my drink?” she demanded.
His head was still spinning as he tried to sit up, but when he did, he found his hands were tied behind his back with duct tape, and Candice’s father, Clarence, sat on a chair across the room, glaring at him.
“Give me the keys to these handcuffs and explain yourself,” her father bellowed, taking a gun from a corner table and pointing it at him.
Rupert was still woozy, but he fumbled in his pants pocket, extracted the keys, and handed them to Clarence. He had to think fast. “Well, I know it looks bad, but I was in the mood for some kinky sex with your daughter. I handcuffed her so I could take…well… shall we say playful advantage of her.” Rupert said, baring an embarrassed smile.
“So you couldn’t wait until after you had dinner to get my little girl in the sack? Huh, Rupert?” Clarence said, in a disbelieving tone.
“What were you going to do to me, Darling?” Candice prodded, sporting an evil grin.
Then, it occurred to Rupert, he had also been drugged. “Well, Darling, I guess I have to ask you the same question. What did you put in the sparkling water? Did you want to take unfair advantage of me before we ate your piping hot pot roast?”
Candice said nothing and gave her father a nod.
Clarence stood, and clearing his throat he replied, “I asked my Candice to invite you here this weekend to get some matters straight. She loves you, and she wants you for her husband. I want her to be happy so I hired an investigator to check into your past. My daughter suspected you might be a serial killer, and the private eye has confirmed her belief. He believes you may have killed nine women over a period of ten years.”
Rupert’s mouth dropped open. He wondered how long it would be before the police arrived and which fiancé the PI had missed in his investigation.
“The crazy part is that’s what turns her on about you,” he added, “because I’m sorry to admit, I’m a serial killer myself, and she’s a chip off the old block. From the moment she met you, she planned to kill you, but she fell in love with you instead.”
Clarence put his gun away. “We thought maybe if you didn’t love Candice like she loves you, you would try to kill her this weekend, which you may have been in the process of doing when I intervened. She drugged you in self-defense until I arrived, not knowing you had drugged her.
Rupert sat in disbelief. No wonder he loved Candice so, she was a serial killer just like himself. He wondered how many men she had killed.
“I’m here to tell you, you’re wasting your time trying to kill my Candice,” Clarence explained. “She’s way ahead of you every step of the way. And, if you ever did succeed in harming a hair on her pretty head, I’ve got a stable full of thugs who will make you wish you were never born. So, you have your choice, Rupert. You can walk away and continue your own killing spree, as we will, or you can have Candice’s hand in marriage and kill people together. What’s it gonna be?”
Rupert didn’t hesitate. He struggled to his feet with his hands tied behind his back. Candice stood still cuffed, and she went to him and looked into his cold, remorseless eyes. They gave each other a long and slobbery kiss.
* * *
It would be a marriage made in heaven...or should he say hell. Rupert never thought this would ever happen, but he had become hopelessly in love with Candice and truly wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Could the infatuation last for two psycho serial killers? What would the rush of killing people together be like? He couldn’t wait to find out.
* * *
After weeks of agonizing over how they would go forward, they decided to start out living two lives in separate cities with Seattle as their home base. Each of them would find a second new job in a different city that placed them on the road about half the time. There, they would seek other beautiful people who wanted to marry them. When they found the right person, they would kill them, just as before. After a little break, they would start the process all over again.
Preparation for their wedding was bizarre since Candice had 150 friends and relatives attending, and Rupert only invited ten people he worked with on his current job in Seattle. Rupert sent invitations to colleagues he'd worked with in other cities, but none of them cared enough about him to come to the wedding.
* * *
On their wedding day, after they were man and wife, a server came to Rupert’s table with two glasses of champagne on a tray. One glass had Candice etched into the fancy crystal, and the other had Rupert. They took their respective glasses and smiled lovingly at each other.
After the best man, who Rupert barely knew, proposed a toast and said a few lame words about him, they followed suit with everyone else, and drank the champagne. It tasted wonderful and must have cost a fortune, knowing Clarence.
After a few minutes, Rupert felt tipsy, wasted, then his eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed on the floor. Everyone chuckled and made jokes about how well he would do making love on his wedding night if he were falling down drunk. Several waiters picked him up and sat him on a chair at the main table. When he didn't respond for more than an hour, the same men took him to his room in the honeymoon suite.
* * *
Two days later, Rupert stirred from under the covers of a double bed. His head was hurting so badly he could barely open his eyes. He didn’t understand the double bed since he remembered a king size bed in his room when he checked in. Maybe someone had put him in a room closer to where the reception was held after he passed out. He couldn’t worry about the small stuff now; he had the overwhelming urge to piss like never before. Tossing the covers to one side, he struggled from the bed and tried to stand without falling.
He didn’t know why, but this room was completely different than he remembered. The ceiling light was so excruciatingly bright to his senses, he had to peer through almost closed lashes to see, as he weaved from side to side toward the hazy doorway to what he hoped was a bathroom.
Reaching the doorway, he fumbled for the light switch and vaguely saw his reflection in the dark mirror. He stood there wondering why his torso below the waist looked red. He didn't know what to make of it. He assumed the guys must have played a prank on him for his wedding night.
Still fumbling for the light switch, he finally found it and pushed it on. The lights above the mirror were so penetrating, he couldn’t keep his eyes open even to find the toilet. Like a blind man in a stupor, he stumbled forward to where he thought the commode should be. His bladder felt like it was about to explode.
When he finally couldn't wait any longer to pee, he just said, “Fuck it.” and lowering his boxers, he grabbed for his penis, but couldn't find it. His hand continued to grope for “King John,” as Rupert fondly called it, and then he discovered his hand was covered with blood, just like his groin and legs. Rupert finally arrived at the conclusion some maniac had sliced off his penis. His distended belly looked like a woman in the late s
tages of pregnancy. He grunted like a wild man; yet, he couldn’t pee no matter how hard he tried.
Through his lashes, Rupert discerned a phone on the wall and after three tries, successfully dialed zero. A man with a surly voice answered, “Front desk.”
Rupert screamed, “This is room…. I don’t know what room I’m in. Call 9-1-1. Someone has cut off my dick, and my bladder is about to explode. Hurry! Hurry! I beg you! No bullshit!”
After a pause, the irritated man barked, “Look , Mac, you’ve got a phone, call 9-1-1 yourself. What do ya think this is, the Waldorf Astoria?”
Rupert shrieked, “Shut the fuck up, and call 9-1-1, or I’ll sue this place for everything it’s worth.”
“Fat chance, clown.” He heard the click in his ear, slid to the floor, and started to sob.
Suddenly he heard a moan. Then Candice spoke in a rasp from the bathtub behind him, “Rupert, is that you? I can barely hear a sound, and I can’t see. Is that you?”
The pain was excruciating, but he said through clenched teeth, “Yes, darling. It's me. I called 9-1-1. They'll be here soon. I’m sorry. I can’t tend to you now. The pain is excruciating. Hold on.” Candice started to scream, and Rupert lapsed into unconsciousness.
* * *
Three days later, Rupert awoke from a deep sleep. Looking around, he saw IV’s hanging from plastic bottles all around him and heard various machines chirping. His vision seemed to have returned to normal.
When he saw the nurse standing at his bedside checking his vitals, he shrieked, “Is Candice all right? Tell me the maniac didn’t hurt her. Please! Tell me my wife is all right!”
“Settle down, Mr. Savage, you've been through a lot, and you shouldn’t excite yourself. Your wife is resting comfortably. The doctor will be in shortly to brief you on your condition and hers.”
“Is she all right? What did that maniac do to her?”
A doctor in green scrubs appeared at the doorway. When the nurse saw him, she gave him a concerned look and quickly left the room. He had two thick manila envelopes in his hand he had received in a special delivery pouch earlier this morning. The files, complete with pictures and uncorroborated evidence eight inches thick, from an unidentified source, accused his patients, Rupert Savage and his wife Candice, of being serial killers, who murdered twenty-nine men and women over a twelve-year period. The doctor could not assess the legitimacy of the data, but the pictures of the victims in the two files appalled him to the point, he felt like strangling the life out of both the inhuman psychopaths with his bare hands. But, to continue with the lifestyle he had grown accustomed, he decided to call the police instead. They were on their way.
