by C. A. Shives
He pulled out a small notebook wrapped in a pair of red lace panties. A quick glance revealed the pages contained Charlotte’s diary. He slid the journal into the pocket of his jeans.
Charlotte’s closet contained nothing other than a few summer dresses, a business suit, and six pairs of shoes lined against the wall. In Herne’s experience, Charlotte owned fewer shoes than most women. As he thought about her lace panties, and knew the reason a sensible woman would own such an impractical undergarment.
As Herne left the house, he stopped and spoke to Allen once more. “Are you employed?” he asked.
Allen nodded. “I manage the convenience store part of Gary’s Gas Station.”
Herne knew the store. He often stopped to fill up his truck with fuel, grab a hotdog for lunch, or buy a pack of cigarettes.
“Gary is open twenty-four hours a day,” Herne commented. “You must work late nights.”
“My shifts are always changing,” Allen said. “But Charlotte worked late sometimes, too. She’d have to go to town meetings or Homeowner’s Association meetings in the evenings.” Allen paused. He seemed to gather a ball of courage from inside of himself. But when he spoke, his voice was pleading. “Do you think you’ll find her?”
Herne saw the pain in the man’s eyes. Saw the dismay and worry that creased his brow. And as he turned without replying, Herne saw the fear that paled Allen’s face.
~ ~ ~ ~
Sunlight streamed through the chipped black paint on the windows, allowing a dim light to shine through. Charlotte sat and shivered, the chill of the concrete floor seeping through her blue jeans and into her skin. She’d been sitting in the dark, wondering if he had left her to die. Wondering if he would come back for her. Wondering if she even wanted him to come back.
She didn’t know how long she’d been alone in the basement. Hours. Maybe days. Thirst had dried her lips and mouth, caking them with a layer of thickness that could only be eased by water. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she could see her surroundings. The hard floor and cement walls wept with moisture, and the exposed beams in the ceiling revealed the advanced age of the house. The small basement contained nothing more than a stained mattress and a bucket. Charlotte was able to reach both, despite the chain that limited her movement.
A thick, leather collar encircled her neck. It was not so tight that it suffocated her, but she could feel it touching her skin. She had explored it with her fingers, but didn’t find a buckle or clasp. The collar was seamless except for a square metal box with a small hole. A lock, she thought.
Attached to the collar was a chain—just long enough to give her freedom to reach the bucket and rest on the mattress. The chain was screwed into the cement wall. Charlotte tugged at it, using her body weight to pull on the bonds that held her captive. The metal links were as cold as the terror screaming in her mind, but the chain refused to yield to her efforts. She slumped to the floor, exhausted by the effort, her energy sapped by dehydration and hunger.
Her muscles tensed with fear when she heard the footsteps above her. Heavy and hard, to her ears they sounded like the thump of an executioner’s ax against the chopping block. Each step seemed deliberate. Every thud sent fear shooting through her heart. And somewhere, in the back of her mind, she wondered if his ominous footfalls were intentionally designed to frighten her.
You have to be smart, she thought. Smarter than him. That’s your only hope.
She thought about her husband. Thought about the man she loved. And she wondered if anyone was looking for her yet.
Although she heard the basement door open, the click of the light switch startled her. The basement was bathed in the light from a single bulb suspended from the ceiling. She saw his feet first on the stairs—big feet wearing black boots. As his body gradually appeared in her view, she couldn’t prevent the gasp of surprise at the sight of his face. She’d known him from the moment he opened the trunk of his car, but it hadn’t really registered in her mind. The terror and confusion and after-effects of the drug had muddled her thinking. But now, in the harsh light of morning, her mind was clear.
And she knew him. Knew him well.
She shrank against the wall as he approached, hating her cowardice but compelled by fear and disgust. He seemed massive. Hard muscles rippled beneath his black tee-shirt and his broad shoulders filled her entire field of vision. He carried a brown paper bag in his thick fingers.
“Hello, Charlotte.” His voice echoed in the hollow basement, sounding heavy and dead. Charlotte steeled herself, trying to ignore the humor that glinted in his blue eyes. She found nothing funny about the situation.
She knew him, of course. But in the dim light of the basement, he looked different to her. Bigger. Menacing.
“So nice to see you again, Trout,” she said, using the name she remembered from high school. She was relieved to hear her voice didn’t quiver when she spoke.
He threw back his head and laughed, and the sound of his amusement shot daggers of fear into her heart.
“You remember my old nickname,” he said.
“Of course I do, Trout,” Charlotte said, trying to fill her voice with contempt. “It was a nickname that suited you perfectly.”
Ten years ago she’d been a senior at Hurricane High School. Pretty. Popular. Homecoming queen. Cheerleader. It seemed like a lifetime ago. She remembered him from that time only vaguely. The way she almost remembered her old locker combination or the musty scent of her high school gymnasium. He had scurried through the halls like a frightened mouse. No friends. No girlfriend. He’d been skinny. Scrawny. With thick lips that hung like fleshy hunks of pink meat from his face.
His lips were still thick. But he was no longer scrawny.
Trout’s mouth curled into a snarl. “Given the circumstances, you might want to avoid pissing me off, Charlotte,” he said. “I’m already angry with you. Making me even angrier would not be a wise decision on your part.”
She shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “I guess I’ve never been very wise,” she said.
He shook his head, and to her eyes his thick neck looked like that of a pit bull. “No, you weren’t the brightest bulb on the tree. If you’d been smarter, you would have known that fucking with me was a very big mistake.”
He tossed the brown paper bag to her, and she caught it in her hands. Gingerly, she held it between her fingers as if it were a dead mouse, feeling its weight. Her mind flashed through the items the bag might contain. Poison. Weapons of torture. Body parts.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay,” he said. “I have work to do. But I did want to bring you breakfast, although I suppose rations would be a more exact term. But I prefer to call it breakfast. That way you still can hope that there will be another meal today.” He giggled at his joke.
Charlotte opened the bag to find a peanut butter sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of water. “Such gourmet fare for little ol’ me?” she said. “You shouldn’t have.”
His fleshy lips spread into a wide grin. “Oh, Charlotte,” he said. “You and I are going to have such a good time together.”
CHAPTER 4
NOVEMBER 4 — SUNDAY AFTERNOON
His penis sprang to life when she slipped his hands through the cuffs and tightened them on his wrist. No sissy furry handcuffs for Gabe. He always asked for the cold, hard metal of the real thing. He started moaning as soon as she tied the leather blindfold over his eyes, even though she hadn’t even started business yet. Tammi Greene rolled her eyes, knowing her current client was unable to see her. Instead, she said, “Yeah, big boy. You like that? Is that what you want?”
Gabe was a Sunday regular for Tammi, usually taking up her entire afternoon. He’d been seeing Tammi for so long that she knew his routine: tie him up, blindfold him, mutter some dirty talk, give him a blowjob, spank his weenie with a leather paddle, then fuck him until he was finished. For Tammi, it was an easy job. She had plenty of clients with a lot more deviant preferences. And Gabe’s Sunday appoin
tment paid for her groceries every week.
Gabe Vanderbilt had been attractive once. Tammi remembered him from high school. A few years older than her and captain of the soccer team, his blond hair and blue eyes had seemed dreamy to a young girl. Tammi hadn’t been exactly a prim and proper lady back then, and she recalled fucking Gabe a few times in the backseat of his Camaro. They hadn’t been friends. Hadn’t run with the same crowd. But he’d been looking for an easy fuck, and Tammi was always available.
Unlike today. These days, as the only prostitute in Hurricane, her schedule was usually booked. Nothing easy about getting an appointment to fuck her now. She rented Room 9 at The Keystone Motel for her business, and her arrangement with the manager was simple. As long as the room was always available for her use, he could get a free blowjob or fuck any time he wanted. It worked out fine for both of them. She never had to pay for a private space for her clients, and the manager could get laid every time his frigid wife refused to have sex with him. And Tammi knew it was not a business problem for him. There was always vacancy at The Keystone Motel. Hurricane wasn’t exactly a booming tourist town.
She bent her head and started sucking on Gabe’s penis, using her experience and knowledge of his preferences to make him moan with pleasure. She marveled at how a decade could change a person: Gabe’s blond hair had receded, leaving him almost bald. His flat stomach now paunched with the story of too many beers and too many burgers. His teeth, once white and sparkling, were etched with brown nicotine stains. The musky scent of his penis—the story of a man who hadn’t bathed that morning—assaulted her nostrils. But Tammi was too much of a professional to gag at the odor.
“You like that, baby?” she asked, removing her mouth from his penis and sliding her hand up and down its length. Gabe groaned loudly, almost drowning out the noise of the radio that played Metallica in the background. “You want me to keep sucking you?” Tammi asked.
“Oh yeah, slut,” Gabe said. “Suck it hard.”
As she bent her head toward his penis again, she felt the cold prick of a knife blade against the back of her neck. It wasn’t the first time Tammi had felt a knife on her skin. The touch of cold metal was unforgettable. She didn’t bother to wonder how someone had slipped into the room without making a sound. She didn’t question whether or not she had remembered to lock the door. She simply froze, Gabe’s penis fully in her mouth.
“Don’t look back,” a voice whispered in her ear. “Don’t turn around. Just get out of here.”
Tammi didn’t need to be told twice. She popped her mouth off of Gabe’s penis and left Room 9, never once looking over her shoulder.
~ ~ ~ ~
Charlotte’s journal turned out to mostly contain poetry. Herne was no literature expert, but he suspected Charlotte’s poetry was bad. Very bad.
He sat in his kitchen and read her writings, the legs of the table wobbling with every flip of the page. A slice of cold pizza sat on the table next to him and a cigarette burned in the ashtray. He’d given up the booze—mostly—but he hadn’t been able to kick his nicotine habit. Crisp air blew in through his open window, overshadowing the scent of his cigarette with the odor of autumn leaves. Herne read Charlotte’s poetry while he smoked.
I’ll never forget the feel of your muscles beneath my hands.
Muscles? Herne remembered Allen as average.
I love to dance my fingers on your bald head.
Herne snorted, stroking his own bald scalp with his beefy palm. Women had touched his head, of course. But he doubted any of them had danced their fingers on it.
Allen had sported a full head of hair that showed no signs of thinning.
The romantic poems had been written in present tense. These were not words about a former lover. Not about someone from her past who still had a place in her heart.
Charlotte had been having an affair.
Herne’s scanned the pages quickly, looking for any additional indicators that would reveal the identity of the man who was the subject of Charlotte’s passionate poetry. Finally, tucked in the last pages of the journal, was a photograph.
Herne recognized the man’s face. He knew Charlotte’s lover.
~ ~ ~ ~
The cotton rag made an ideal gag, and Gabe barely struggled when Trout tied it around his mouth. He thinks it’s part of the sex game, Trout thought, laughing silently to himself.
He removed his mask and stood beside the bed in Room 9 of The Keystone Motel, watching as Gabe’s erection faded. Gabe thrust his hips upward and muttered through his gag, obviously expecting his whore to start another performance. Trout reached out and ripped the blindfold from Gabe’s eyes.
The awareness that dawned on Gabe’s face filled Trout with satisfaction. Gabe began struggling against the handcuffs, trying to pull himself free. Trout pulled out his knife and pressed it against the naked man’s throat. Gabe went still.
“Tammi uses police issue handcuffs for guys like you, so I’m sure they’ll hold you. And if anyone hears you struggling, I’m sure they’ll think it’s just you getting your cock fucked by that whore. But I want your full attention, Gabe. So stop jerking around.”
Gabe remained still and silent, his panicked blue eyes never leaving Trout’s face.
“Do you recognize me?” Trout asked. “Do you know who I am?”
The man on the bed didn’t move, as if he’d been frozen in place. Anger ripped through Trout. He wanted his victim to react. Wanted to see him cower with fear. He snarled, the spittle flying from his mouth and splattering across Gabe’s face. “Answer me, asshole,” Trout growled. “Do you know who I am?”
Gabe nodded slowly.
“Do you know why I’m here?” Trout asked.
Gabe shook his head.
The room smelled of mildew and sex and despair. It was the perfect place for his revenge. Trout leaned in close so that his face was almost kissing distance from Gabe’s lips. “You persecuted me, asshole. In high school. You and your buddies. Do you remember what you did to me?”
Gabe shook his head again, his eyes wide with terror and panic.
“Well, asshole, I remember. I remember it very clearly.” Trout pulled the knife away from Gabe’s neck and held it up so the sharp, thin blade was visible. “So now it’s time to make you pay.” Trout brought the blade closer to Gabe’s left eye, the sharp point of the knife almost poking the viscous fluid that surrounded his eyeball. Gabe shrieked beneath his gag and started struggling again.
Gratified, Trout watched his victim flop on the cheap mattress. Pleasure surged through his veins as he absorbed the terror that Gabe exuded. It was better than he could have ever expected.
But time was running short. Trout pulled a syringe from his pocket and injected it into his victim's neck, enjoying the feel of the give of Gabe's flesh as the needle sank into the vein. Gabe struggled for a few more moments before closing his eyes. His body stilled.
Then Trout waited.
A few minutes later Gabe's eyes fluttered open. His gaze was vacant and confused. Trout's fleshy lips peeled away from his teeth in a satisfied smile.
“Here's your payback, asshole,” he said. Then, while the drug still muddled Gabe's muscles and mind, Trout acted.
With a thick finger, Trout peeled open Gabe’s eyelid and held it in place. He could see his own reflection looking back at him. His own thick jaw. His own fleshy lips. Trout plunged the tip of his knife into the thick moisture of Gabe’s eyeball, skewering his own image.
The gag muffled the screams, but Trout worked quickly. Although it was unlikely that Tammi had contacted the police, it was always possible. There might not be much time.
He stabbed through Gabe’s other eye, blinding him, and then wiped the knife on the bed sheet. Trout wanted it clean and pristine for his next work. For his real work.
The feel of the knife slipping into Gabe’s body was familiar to Trout. Cutting into flesh always feels the same, he thought. Trout pushed sharp knife into Gabe's stomach and pulled upwards,
cutting a deep line into his victim. As Gabe’s soft tissue yielded to Trout’s sharp blade, blood spurted onto Trout’s shirt in a shower of red fluid.
Gabe grunted and screamed, the sound of his terror seeping through the gag in his mouth. His body flopped like a fish on the bed, struggling against the agony and invasion of the knife.
As Gabe writhed on the bed, the line on his body opened wider, spilling blood and fluid onto the sheets. Splatters of blood splashed Trout's face and clothing. Good thing I brought a coat with me, Trout thought.
Gabe’s thrashing slowed until his body was still.
“You asshole,” Trout snarled to the corpse on the bed. “You had it coming to you.”
He grabbed Gabe's legs and twisted them. Although Gabe's arms were still tied to the bed, Trout could turn the lower half of the body enough to reach the backside. With two quick strokes, he carved an X on Gabe's buttock before returning the body to its original position.
Trout sat there for a few moments, enjoying the feel of power that surged through his veins. Then he pulled on his trench coat and gloves before slipping the knife into his coat pocket. He checked the peephole at the door to ensure no one was outside the entrance before he left the room.
He had more work to do.
CHAPTER 5
NOVEMBER 4 — SUNDAY EVENING
Jeffery McNeil’s blue eyes widened with surprise when he saw Herne on his doorstep, but he said nothing.
“Do you remember me?” Herne asked.
McNeil nodded. “You’re friends with Rex. He introduced us last month at the diner.”
It had been a quick moment. A flash of three people crossing paths: McNeil, Tucker, and Herne. Tucker had introduced McNeil as “an old friend.” They’d shook hands and gone on their way. But these days, Herne never forgot a face. His senses, once dulled by alcohol and drugs, had sharpened again.
