by Baker, Alex
“Yeah,” Apocalypse’s voice popped back into Roofy’s head, “like for making him into a human shish kabob.” The laugh that followed grated on the ex-wrestler and unsettled him, like nails on a chalk board. No, like hearing a small animal screaming while being killed slowly by a predator. “Don’t you listen to that quack, Roofy,” the demon continued, “He doesn’t know what you need – what you really want.”
As Roofy watched Father Philippe clear the table and begin washing the morning dishes, he concentrated on the conversation going on in his mind. “All I want is to have a peaceful life.”
“No you don’t want peace! Don’t you dare insult me with that drivel! You lying little shit!” Apocalypse shouted, and the words echoed like a gong. “We are not so different. We both want to live! We want that feeling – that electricity – that excitement – that truth – the truth that we exist. At least I can admit it, while you squander your time in control of this body by running away from it like a scared little boy!”
Was the demon wrong? No. Crazy? Yes. Of that, Roofy was sure. But he was not wrong. And it struck a chord with the Russian. Apocalypse had his own agenda; they both did, though. Yet, Roofy had to admit he had felt alive when he was on the run with Constance. He felt alive when he had played the chess match with the detective tracking them, and his blood burned like a fever when he ravaged her sexually. There was no denying he wanted that feeling again. Like a drug, he craved it deep down in places he could not keep suppressed; like a hunger gnawing at him. But how could he achieve that?
Having the demon lingering over his shoulder made it feel impossible to chase any dream. Correct or not, the being infecting his body was an immediate threat, and it had to be dealt with. Until he could do that, he needed to accept the fact that it had to be locked away where it could not escape and hurt someone. Locked away, Roofy conceded. Locked away with all of his own dreams.
A loud knock at the front door echoing from the other side of the church brought the Russian skidding back into reality.
Father Philippe dried his hands on a small dishtowel and placed it on a hook near the sink. “The authorities have arrived already? I didn’t expect them so quickly.”
Roofy could not respond. He picked up the small travel bag and held it in both hands like a school boy that had been scolded and awaited punishment from his parents.
The preacher must have sensed his emotional struggle. It must have been that obvious because the father crossed the room and put a reassuring hand on his large shoulder.
“Do not despair, my son,” Father Philippe said with strong sincerity, “God is with you.”
In Roofy’s mind, a chilling and all too familiar voice hissed, “No, He’s not. I am.”
PART TWO – BOYS AND BLOOD-DEALERS
8
“Real quality establishment we’ve got here. Yes, indeed,” Dwayne said as he lifted the police barrier tape high enough for Laura to go under with a minimal amount of crouching.
“Looking for a place to start bringing your dates?” she asked.
“Funny,” he replied, as the two stopped short of the door to room 112. “Seriously, though. Look at this place. It’s a dive. Murderer or not, what type of dirtbag would even want to use this place?”
“The kind that doesn’t want to get caught. What better place than one where nobody’s going to ask questions,” Laura answered. Like me. Dwayne was right, the Buena Vista was not exactly a five star experience. It barely qualified as one star. But, if someone was looking to keep a low profile, it was perfect. It had certainly worked for her.
She had chosen the location for that and a number of other reasons. Situated off Jefferson Davis Highway, which had fallen off the map the instant interstate 95 had been built, the motel made an excellent place for Johns and their paid dates and other questionable activities. Other perks included the rooms being cheap and the location being near the downtown bar area. Perfect sexual pit stop.
Dwayne leaned in the door. “Hey Bobby, take ten so Detective Stenks can do some sniffing around.”
The crime scene investigator pulled off his rubber gloves and exited the room. “She’s all yours, Detective. Hope you brought some bed bug repellant.”
“Thanks,” Dwayne said. “We’ll let you know when we’re finished.” He waited for the forensics worker to pass them before continuing. “Boys at the lab are processing all the evidence we found, but I figured I would have Bobby go back through one more time since we didn’t come up with any blood or fingerprints for the perp on our first run through. And, speaking of evidence, we should double check with the manager on any security tape or info. You want to take that?”
Laura was fairly sure the number of people that passed through the motel would make it difficult for anyone to remember her specifically frequenting the establishment, but she was not taking any chances. The last thing she wanted to deal with was word getting around that a cop might be involved in some sort of questionable activities. She had enough to answer for as it was with everything she had been involved with recently. “Nope. That’s all you. I’d like to take a look at the room.”
“Roger that. I’ll be right back.” With that, Dwayne headed off for the main office.
Laura stepped into the room and glanced around. Aside from investigative items, such as evidence markers and fingerprint dust, things were oddly neat in the small living room area for an attack to have taken place. The sleeping quarters were a different story.
The bed was in disarray and the sheets were littered with bloody patches. The victim had taken a beating, a bad one; much more severe than Laura, herself, had endured at the hands of her self-picked man toy. Her Amazing Woman exploits had unfolded just a few rooms down from this one. Consensual sexual assault, she labeled the activity, which had consisted of being tied and beaten with a baton.
Despite being on the receiving end, though, she had been the one in charge. Her John had to be verbally forced into most of the actions. True, once he got started, he seemed to enjoy it, but not like this person did. Whoever had committed this particular assault took great satisfaction in wrenching his gratification from his victim with force and foresight. He had a taste for it.
A taste she shared. As she smoothed her hand over the sheet on the bed, her thoughts ran back through the details of her own escapade: the silky feel of the stockings she wore as her legs rubbed together, the rope biting into her flesh as it tightened around her arms and ankles, the feeling of helplessness as the man strong-armed her into position and hit her with the baton, the smell of sweat and bodily fluids, and the swell of pleasure that erupted when she came. Aside from one flaw, it had been exhilarating. If it was not for having to play instructor, the moment could have been perfect. That had definitely taken the edge off.
Where it had failed to deliver the edge, though, Roofy had far surpassed it. The way he had handled her…dominated her…had been a spontaneous sexual overload. It was more than she could have ever set-up in one of her scenarios. Dwelling on his sheer strength and how he had easily overpowered her made for an intoxicating aphrodisiac.
Laura became aware of how tightly she was gripping the bedding. Her other hand rubbed lightly at the top of her slacks, and she wanted so very badly to unbutton them and pleasure herself.
Control, Laura. You’ve got to keep control. Damn, exactly what file would I even put this in?
Accepting the truth she felt, she admitted there really was no desire to file it away. She wanted to bathe in the Russian’s intensity, washing herself in his dominance. It had made her feel so…alive.
The door at the entrance to the motel room squeaked on its hinges, and Laura pulled herself together as footsteps approached from the hall.
“Okay,” Dwayne began as he entered the room, “I spoke to…” He paused and took a good look at the detective. “Are you okay?”
“Sure,” She answered, still trying to recover her appearance. “Why?”
“You look a little flushed,” he repl
ied, and the two stood in awkward silence for a moment before Laura threw up her hands, as if to ask ‘Well’ with the gesture. Dwayne took the hint and continued. “Anyway. The manager’s willingness to help was as useless as the video footage. Most of the cameras don’t even work – just the one in the office itself, and that one is so grainy and in such a bad spot that all I could make out was a hooded male figure. Most of the people that have signed the register have used the name Mister Smith or, literally, John Doe. And payments have been in cash – so no tracing a credit card.”
“That’s how I would do it,” Laura added. In fact, that was exactly how she had done it, using the alias Miss Jones. Glad I did not use Miss Amazing. “And, you said the manager was a bust?”
“Guy never even looked up from whatever cheap porn he was watching to acknowledge me. Think he had more fluid stains on his shirt than the mattresses here do, if that’s possible. Best he could say was that it was a male and clean shaven. That is, if he was even remembering the right guy. Not reassuring.” Finishing his report, the two began inspecting the room further.
“So, what do we have so far?” Laura asked, kneeling down to look under the bed.
Dwayne finished putting on his Nitrile gloves and began opening dresser drawers. “Both victims wore the same style of costume. Both were bound and beaten with a blunt, hard object. Both appear to have been drugged, possibly to dull their attempt at resistance. Still waiting on the toxicology reports to confirm that last one. Both sexually assaulted.”
Laura pulled the nightstand out away from the wall and looked behind it. Comparing what they knew so far to her fetish experience, there were definitely some similarities, not the least of which was her incorporation of a police issue baton. That fit the very definition of a blunt, hard object. Of course, she had based her fantasy on an actual murder that had taken place. And, just like that, she was back to Ambrose. However, neither of these victims had been bitten or drained of blood. Nor had either of them been assaulted with some unique, comic based, weapon. Okay, you are running in circles, Laura.
What about the differences? She continued thinking as she scoped out the cramped bathroom. Other than me not ending up dead, what were the contrasts between the first Amazing Woman murder and my reenactment? The answer came to her, and she exited back to the bedroom, looking for Dwayne, who was down on his knees looking under the mattress with a flashlight. Thinking back to the graveyard, Laura humorously imagined him crawling in-between it and the box springs.
“Have all of the bars within a five mile radius of here checked. We need to know if anyone recalls seeing a male frequenting any of the establishments. He would have arrived alone and left with a female or, at least, followed one outside.” Laura stopped to think for a moment before starting her train of thought again. “Better yet, pull all of the transactions for the credit and debit cards of our victims. See which bars they were at and start there.”
“Already working on it, my lady,” Dwayne responded, letting the mattress drop unceremoniously back down before returning his flashlight to its pouch.
Oblivious to the response, Laura had already stepped back into the bathroom and immersed herself in the details of the case. The conclusion was an obvious one: she had trolled the bars close to this exact motel in order to find a partner for the night, so why wouldn’t the killer have done the same? She was still frustrated, though, by the feeling that the other answers she was looking for were just as obvious, but she could not lay her finger on them. Like the costumes: why would the killer have both the victims wear the same one? How did it tie in to all of this?
“Did you hear me?” Dwayne asked from his standing position right outside of the bathroom doorway.
Laura answered him with a look.
“Right. I said I’m not coming up with anything. How about you?” he repeated.
“Zilch,” she answered. “Let’s go hit the other scene before we call it.” Frustrating, she repeated to herself. Her hand caught her attention as she closed the motel room door. Specifically, her fingernails and the sad shape they were in. It had not been that long ago that she was sitting at home and counting the seconds as she waited for the chance to get back to work. Frustrating, but exciting. Things could be worse.
9
The soft glow of the small, wall-mounted television provided the only ambient light in an otherwise dark bedroom. The volume had been turned down and was faint, to the point of being all but inaudible to any typical person. But then, watching a movie was not what the intention was anyway, thought Constance. It was all part of the ruse – of going through the motions – of creating the scenario.
Picking up boys was almost too easy. Flash the smile. Give them the look; that look; the one that says you want to show them how much you really like them. Act interested in whatever mindless drivel they are spewing. Invite them to come back to your house and watch a movie, code words for asking if the boy wanted to get lucky. No problem. An easy fix. And absolutely no challenge what-so-ever.
We are talking about boys here. Maybe it was time to up her game, to quench more than one thirst. Maybe it was time to start going for men. A real man would be strong, driven, domineering, sexually secure, longing for the intoxication of fantasy, and wanting to feel alive. Like Roofy.
The memory of the large Russian popping into her head took her aback. What an unexpected thing to think of at this moment. Was that it? Was she craving for what she had come so close to having? Was she using him as a template – comparing her conquests to him? He certainly would have been a challenge. She wondered if she could have broken him. Sure she could. There was no doubt he wanted her. She was his key to feeling the exhilaration he had been missing. She was youth and beauty. She was desirable.
A hand swept Constance’s hair aside and the delicate, moist touch of lips pressed against the back of her neck in a kiss. Took him long enough. Not that he needed to make the first move, but she had wondered how long it would be before he got his nerve up, as he had come across as being a little too much on the reserved side of things. That spun into a game she decided to play with herself – what would happen first: his kiss or her hunger overwhelming her?
A second kiss touched the nape of her neck and the boy’s hands, which had been wrapped around her waist, slid just inside the lower part of her corset. It was a tight fit, but he managed to still get to skin. Constance gave a slight moan to keep with playing her part in the act.
They had been sitting on the bed for almost an hour, with her in front of him and his legs split to either side of her. She could tell by the hard lump poking her in the lower back that her toy was more than excited enough to show that he wanted her. Unfortunately, his package was also pushing the zipper top from his jeans up against her flesh in a very uncomfortable way, which was beginning to agitate her.
His hands rubbed over the exposed skin of her lower torso, and with her offering no resistance, he moved them outside the tight corset and up towards her breasts. There we go. Lips met skin again on the side of her neck, so her hand found its way up and began running through his hair.
Teeth bore down in the same spot where he had just kissed, causing Constance to react by grabbing a handful of the young man’s brown hair and yanking. Leaning back to look up at him, Constance gave a playful expression. “No marks. I wouldn’t want to look like someone tried sucking my blood.”
“Yeah. Got it. The parents,” he replied.
Constance brought both hands down on his legs and slowly slid them back as far as she could without touching his very prominent erection. Teasing – just another form of control.
“Speaking of parents,” the teen boy started again, “you sure they are okay with us being in here and doing this.”
Constance took his hands and moved them up to her breasts, where he immediately started rubbing and squeezing softly. “I’m the only thing you should be worrying about,” she replied.
Her parents. They had been so surprised when she reappeared aliv
e and even more shocked that she had shown up in their bedroom doorway in the middle of the night. Constance recalled standing there and watching them sleep, contemplating feeding on them but deciding against it. There were things that needed to be done and who better to do it than the parental units. It guaranteed having someone to wait on her and take care of her needs, like keeping her clothes clean.
Actually, Constance had to admit, it pleased her to be in control of her mother. The attention-hogging woman who had to have everything centered around her shallow feelings would now spend all of her time serving her daughter.
Truth be told, Constance believed her mother was so overcome with emotion that she would have probably done anything that was asked of her to some degree, especially to keep Constance from leaving, and that was leverage that could have been used. But sooner or later, the elder Kysta would be back babbling to her neighbors. “Oh, look, my little girl came home. She’s alive. Blah blah blah.” It would all be about her again.
And then there were the feedings. Surely her parents would question that, no matter how happy they were to have her home. And certainly they were happy. Well, after they got over thinking someone had broken into their home to kill them.
She had not been sure how to keep control over the pair, though. So, she got to them one at a time, when they were separated. Her mother was first.
Constance waited until her father went to lie back down. He had seemed reluctant to accept what was happening without some sort of viable explanation, but her mother had been so overcome with joy that he caved, just as he always did when it came to keeping the woman happy. So when he went back to bed, Constance approached her mom and asked the woman what she would be willing to do to keep her there. Of course the answer had been, “Anything.”
