by Cade Brogan
Ding.
Release.
Sharp pain.
Her breathing hitched.
Her knees buckled.
Her face contorted.
Her fingers clung to the vanity.
Tears, not many, trickled down her cheeks.
But she didn’t scream. No matter how much pain, she’d never cry out. If you scream, I’ll slice your grandma’s face. You’d better never make a sound. She relaxed, becoming accustomed to the agony. Five minutes. Touch yourself again and it’ll be a lot longer. At four and a half minutes, she palmed down her abdomen, stroking her clitoris with her fingertip. Congratulations, slut, you just added five more minutes. She adjusted the timer accordingly. At ten minutes, she swallowed hard, knowing that when she removed the clips, blood would return to her nipples, and the pain would be excruciating. To touch them in the hours that followed would be torture. She gasped, watching her pupils as she squeezed the clips, releasing the pressure. “Ohhhhh,” she sobbed. “Ohhhhhh, it hurts.” Better stop crying or you’ll get it again. She sniffled. I know. No more. I promise. She blew out a breath, stepping into the shower. You’re filthy. It’s time to cleanse yourself. And she lathered and scrubbed her feminine parts, including her bruised and battered nipples, with a stiff-bristle brush. She scoured until she was raw, determined to wash away the many layers of filth. When her knees buckled, she sat down, sliding the safety cap from the sharp edge of a new razor. No rest for the wicked. There’s work to be done. It was her daily routine, to assure that nary an auburn hair was visible. Smooth as silk, she thought, touching herself, this time being careful not to linger. She rinsed and stepped onto the bath rug. And before the light went off, she paused to admire her body in the mirror. At thirty-nine, her curves were well-defined, and her ample breasts were impressive. High and firm. She’d always been an exceptionally attractive woman. It was no wonder that Claire routinely begged to see more of her. But the extensive damage to her upper body prevented Elizabeth from showing her. She smiled, thinking about later. Then, she shoved Snuggles to the floor, enjoying his yelp as he hit the leg of the coffee table, and curling up to watch the news on his cushion. When a commercial for home security interrupted the program, it occurred to her that if Claire were out on a case, Rylee would be with her. It was an added benefit that she hadn’t considered. With that, she reached for her cell, opened the application that she hadn’t accessed since last year, praying that her webcam’s long-life batteries were still good. And the low-flow indicator spun round-and-round-and-round. “Mmm, showering while your lover’s out,” she murmured, twisting her throbbing nipple, “and right on schedule.”
CHAPTER SIX
Rylee drove, lost in thought. It was to be kept quiet at all cost, a direct order. If the public got wind of this before they had answers, there’d be panic in the streets; the friggin’ city would shut down; and worse, there’d be a mass exodus, potentially exposing other cities, the state, the country, and maybe the world. The order made sense, but she couldn’t follow it. Not when it came to her family. She’d have defied it during dinner had she not been called out. She had to tell them, had to tell them something to get them to leave town, at least for a while. As she pulled into the parking lot, she noticed a gaggle of reporters near the entrance, and her thoughts went wild seeing their front-page story in her mind: And in today’s news, a viral outbreak at a secure mental health facility leaves local authorities baffled. That’s right; they don’t have a clue what they’re dealing with and no cure in sight. But don’t worry, Joe Blow Citizen, the murders were targeted. So, as long as no mistakes are made, it may not turn into a pandemic. And as long as that doesn’t happen, there’s only a small chance that you’ll be the spree killer’s next victim. After all, Chicago has a population of two-point-seven million. She backed her shiny black Tacoma into a parking space, lining up her driver’s window with Claire’s. “Let’s go in mine. Hop in.”
Claire reached across, collecting her things. “What’s going on?” she asked, pushing the lock button on her remote. “I mean over there.”
Rylee looked over, seeing the gathering that she’d already seen. “Don’t know. Probably there wanting a statement on a heater case.” She leaned across, pushing her passenger door open. “Come on, get in.”
Claire set her items, a notebook, a camera, and a snack for later, on the floor by her feet. “You think they’re there about our case?”
“Maybe,” Rylee said, switching on her siren, and pulling into traffic. “People talk, you know, so it could be.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed. “Did you talk to anyone?”
“No,” Rylee said, activating her radio, changing lanes. “ETA twenty minutes.” She looked over. “Did you?”
Claire shook her head. “No. Not even about us having to sit an extra three hours to be sure we didn’t catch anything. It was hard not to though,” she added, “but an order’s an order.”
“I thought you said you didn’t have anyone.”
“I don’t,” Claire responded, fidgeting with the lid on her to-go cup. “Not around here anyway. But I have people. Everybody’s got people. You know, someone, somewhere.” She’d wanted to tell Elizabeth and would’ve probably told her had she not been called out. When something big happens, it’s only natural to want to tell the one you love about it.
“Yeah, okay,” Rylee said, reducing her speed as she moved through a busy intersection. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just making sure I understood you right, that’s all.”
“No problem,” Claire responded, reaching for her bag of corn chips, and crunching. She turned, holding it open to Rylee. “You want one?”
“No, I’m not hungry, thanks though.” She passed a string of slow-moving vehicles, brake lights fluttering in a long row. “So, three more,” she blurted out, “different wings and different floors.”
“Looks like he’s got a thing for hospitals.”
“Yeah, it does, so far.”
Claire turned toward her. “You ever worked one like this before?”
“If you’re talking’ about a spree case,” Rylee answered, “yeah, several. But if you’re talking’ about one where the doer used a virus as a weapon, no, that’s all new territory. How about you, you ever worked one, I mean one where the doer was a spree killer?” She knew without asking that her new partner’s answer would be no.
Claire shook her head. “No, not really.”
Rylee smiled. Didn’t think so.
“But when I was a cadet,” Claire continued, “I kind of worked a serial case once.”
Rylee lifted an eyebrow. Translation, you did next to nothing on it. She wished that she could shake her bad attitude, feel good about Claire like she did about Rich. You might if you taught her a few things, gave her a chance to prove herself.
“It was when I first started,” Claire went on, “so they didn’t let me do much, a few phone calls, and some paperwork. Oh, and I got to do a collateral interview once.”
“Once is better than not at all,” Rylee responded, respecting her honest response. “So, did they catch him, your serial killer?”
“Not while I was involved,” Claire answered, “but they did eventually get him. Guess he’d been right under their noses in a motel just outside the city limits.”
Rylee took a breath. Probably where Joanna Grey is right now. She couldn’t explain it, not with cold, hard facts, but she knew the bitch was back in town. She was back with Kenzie in her sights. After a year, she should feel relief by now, relief that she hadn’t been on the radar since that night, but she didn’t. What she felt was scared to death, scared that she’d be called out, and find Kenzie dead when she got back. Rylee swallowed hard. If there was one thing she regretted, and probably would for the rest of her life, it was that she didn’t shoot Joanna Grey between the eyes.
“He made a run for it,” Claire added, “and bang-bang, that was all she wrote.”
“I’m sorry?” Rylee responded. “Oh yeah, your
serial killer.”
“AO shot him in the back of the head, bullet exited square between his eyes.”
“Good for him,” Rylee responded, “saved the taxpayers the cost of a trial.”
“Good for her,” Claire corrected. “And yeah, laying him out saved a whole bunch of money.”
“That, and probably some lives,” Rylee responded, deciding to follow through on her resolve. “So, sprees,” she began, “they’re different than serials.”
Claire shifted her position, opening her notepad.
Rylee smiled. “They’re different,” she continued, “because they don’t take extended breaks between killings. They just kill, bing—bing—bing, until they’re done. See, with serials, they kill one, maybe more than one, and then go back to their normal lives.” She looked over. “If you’re like me, it’s hard to wrap your mind around crazy killers having normal lives—grocery shopping, getting their oil changed, having sex, watching their favorite soap opera.” She shook her head slowly. “And then, weeks, months, years later, whenever they’re ready, they fire up that ol’ killing mechanism, and away they go again.” She curled her upper lip as an image of Joanna Grey filled her mind. “They stalk complete strangers, kill ‘em, and by doing so fulfill their deranged little fantasies, fantasies that if you’re normal, you can’t wrap your mind around.”
Like a sponge, Claire soaked in knowledge. “But they both do multiple victims, right?”
“Yes, and the killings are in different locations.”
“So, this one is a spree because the victims were on different floors, right?”
Rylee smiled, nodding. “That’s right.”
“So, really, these guys are more similar than different.”
“No, not at all,” Rylee responded. “Sorry, I forgot to mention the key thing that sets ‘em apart. See, with sprees there’s an emotional component to the killings. They get these strong feelings about something, even money, and it’s those feelings that motivate ‘em to kill.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed. “So, in our case, we’re looking for a connection between the victims, something that they have in common, something that’d make our doer hate ‘em enough to kill ‘em.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s something else, something that just pissed our doer off.”
“Like his surgery got postponed because the hospital was full?”
“Yeah, even that could be a possibility,” Rylee responded. “These guys are tricky little bastards. Anything could be the thing that sets ‘em off.” She pulled into a space reserved for law enforcement vehicles, got out, and walked toward the building. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.”
*
Patients with varying degrees of illness and injury occupied the chairs near the front entrance to the hospital. The ER was closed. Rylee showed her badge, approaching the information desk. “Detective Hayes. And my partner, Detective Robbins.”
“Right this way,” the masked woman responded, leading them through one pair of sliding glass doors, and down two long corridors. “You’ll need to suit up before you go on.” Once they’d complied, she handed them off to a suited woman who led them through a series of doors, opening into an isolation ward. “You can speak with him using the intercom,” she said, pointing to a shiny panel.
“Thanks,” Rylee answered. “Oh, and before you go, Walter Matthews from the CDC, I assume he’s around here somewhere. Could you let him know where we are?”
“Yes, when he comes through, I will.”
“Thanks,” Rylee said, stepping closer to the glass. “Detective Hayes. And this is my partner, Detective Robbins.” She smiled sympathetically, thanking God that at least one victim was well enough to talk. “You let us know if this is too much.”
The young man, strong and healthy just two hours prior, gurgled, “I will.” His eyes were dull, his breathing was labored, and before they could start the interview, he coughed up a glob of black blood. She was sure that had he not been in prime health when he succumbed to the virus, he’d have been gone by now.
Claire held up a small recording device. “We’d like to record your interview if that’s okay?”
“It’s okay,” he gasped, his voice weakening as he spoke. He nodded to confirm his demographic information—thirty-one, single, African American, and a veteran.
“You were a sailor,” Claire commented, smiling as she reviewed his chart. “Did a tour myself. Right outta high school.”
“Coo—,” he responded, launching into a gut-wrenching coughing fit.
“Enough with the small talk,” Rylee said, stepping forward. She stood by, assuming control of the conversation when he quieted. “How about you tell us what happened during the last couple of hours?” she requested kindly. “We need to know who you spoke with, where you went, what you did, that kind of stuff.”
He nodded, trying his best to stay with them, to finish the interview before he passed out. “I visited my uncle—cough—cough—cough—”
“Take your time,” Claire said. “There’s no hurry. The most important thing is for you to catch your breath.”
He nodded, gasping. “I don’t remember his room number—cough—cough—cough—Bruce—cough-cough—Bruce Sims—cough—cough—cough—gag—forty-one something—cough—cough—cough.” His eyes bulged, trying desperately to fill his lungs.
“Should we call his nurse?”
“In a minute,” Rylee said.
Claire lifted an eyebrow.
“Just look at him,” Rylee continued. “This is our chance.”
Claire clenched her jaw, nodding.
“Heads up, he’s ready to talk again,” Rylee said, pressing the button, and making gentle eye contact. “Go ahead; we’re listening.”
“I waited,” he continued, “but I didn’t get to talk with him—cough—cough—cough—because he was sleeping.”
Rylee shook her head, watching him devote all he had to his next breath, his mouth, opening and closing like a goldfish. “On my way home—cough—cough—cough—gurgle—I got sick.”
“It’s okay,” Rylee said softly. “Don’t try to talk.” She pressed the button, summoning help. “You gave us enough.”
*
“Do you think it’s terrorism?” Claire asked.
“Can’t say for sure,” Rylee responded. “Exposure was intentional, that’s really all we’ve got right now. And even with that, it’s based on one doc’s opinion. We’ll know more once we get through the autopsies.” She was hoping that her old friend, Benjamin Holmes, would do at least a couple of them, mainly because she trusted his ability and judgment. “For it to be terrorism,” she continued, “the motive has to be to terrorize the public. It’s usually political. And so far, the doer seems to be going to great lengths to keep exposure to a minimum. Might not mean anything. Might just be a strategy. But we have to take it into consideration. Gonna give Homeland Security a heads-up though just in case.”
“Be nice to know how the doer’s hitting different parts of the building without exposing more than get exposed.”
“Sure would,” Rylee responded. “Not sure why, but I’ve got a feeling that’ll end up being significant. I need to do some research, see if there’s anything like this one on the books.” She stood, tossing her coffee cup into the trash receptacle. “Okay, break’s over. Next up, rooms and inventories. I still have hopes of getting an hour or two of shut-eye.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rylee closed the door, entered the six-digit code, arming their home security system, and made her way to the living room. The table lamp, the one that sat next to Kenzie’s antique rocker, was on. She knew it would be. It felt nice, not coming home to a dark house. She paused, taking in the décor, all of it Kenzie’s doing, right down to the hand-knotted emerald green, bright turquoise, and ruby red oriental rug. At first, something looked different about the room, but it wasn’t. What was different was that she paused to notice. She slid her fingers along the edge of the dark mahogany mantle as s
he stepped toward the kitchen, switching on the overhead light. Then, she opened the refrigerator door, swigging orange juice from the jar. She’d worked challenging cases, hunted vicious killers, put most of them behind bars, but this one chilled her to the bone. Who could do this intentionally, make people so sick that they’d throw up their guts and bleed out? Who could do it, knowing that for each one, there would be others, some of them little children and babies? And the tape, the one that had been playing over and over for hours, started up.
“We use mathematical principals to predict the exponential spread of a virus,” Walt had explained, “to tell us when it will infect enough people to be considered an epidemic. Two hours, that’s all it takes for a single contaminated hotspot to infect an entire office building. Touch a doorknob. Pour a cup of coffee. Break a five-dollar bill. Touch a public restroom push plate. Touch anything. It doesn’t matter what you touch; if you’re infected, you’ll expose people; who will, in turn, expose people; who will, in turn, expose more people.”
Terrifying, that’s what it was, that a pathogen like this had been released on an unsuspecting urban population. Touching anything could spark the end of everything. She closed her eyes, willing her mind to fall silent. If it didn’t, she wouldn’t sleep, and she needed sleep to function. Her eyes popped open when the dishwasher sloshed. Kenzie must have been up to start it. Had that not been the case, the appliance would’ve long since completed its cycle. Maybe she was still awake. She took another swig, returned the almost empty container to the refrigerator, and turned off the lights.
