My Pretties

by Jeff Strand

  "I'll never see him again."

  "Let's pretend that's true, even though I don't believe that it is. Is that a reason to kill him? You still lose."

  "And his mother loses too. I won't have her thinking she won. I won't have her laughing at me."

  "Whatever issues you have with his mother, they're not his fault. He's your son, for God's sake! I can tell just by looking at him that he's a smart kid. Why extinguish that? Who knows what he could become? Who knows what he could do, what he could bring to the world? You're not just stealing from him, you're stealing from me."

  Was this becoming too corny? She felt like she might be veering dangerously close to being cheesy, if she hadn't already crossed that line. She didn't want the man to say, "Oh, give me a break!" and start shooting.

  "I don't want to kill him," the man said, sounding utterly broken. She wouldn't have been able to hear him if she hadn't walked closer.

  "Good! Then fucking don't!"

  His hand trembled a bit. That could mean that he was considering lowering the gun. It could also mean that he was preparing to pull the trigger.

  "What's your name?" Charlene asked.

  "Lee."

  "Hi, Lee. How about you give me the gun? That would make my day so much better. We've already established that you don't want to do this, so why drag it out? Every second this goes on makes the resolution more difficult."

  "If I let him go, will you trade places with him?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "I'll let him go if you'll be my hostage so I can get out of here."

  Hell no, Charlene thought. No way. Not a chance. I want the boy to survive but I'm not going to sacrifice myself for him. That's pure madness.

  "I can't do that," said Charlene, feeling like a selfish, cowardly monster.

  "I won't hurt you. They'll just think I'm going to hurt you. I'll let you go after we get away."

  "That...that really doesn't work for me."

  The little boy looked at her, and though Charlene honestly didn't like kids very much, his expression was heartbreaking. How many psychologists was it going to take to fix this kid's brain after this was over? Society would be lucky if he wasn't snatching women off the street like the other psycho.

  "All right," Lee said.

  Charlene didn't know for sure that he meant, "All right, then I guess I'll have to kill him now," but she suddenly decided that she couldn't take that risk. "Okay," she said. "I'll do it. I'll trade places with him. Shit."

  "Come closer."

  For a moment Charlene couldn't get her legs to work. Her legs were clearly smarter than her. But then she forced herself to walk up to Lee and the boy. She cursed her stupidity for getting into this mess. And, yeah, she cursed that bitch Gertie for dragging her into it. God, this was going to end horribly, wasn't it?

  Lee looked past her. "Hey!" he shouted. "Hey! One of you cops! Show yourself!"

  "Let the boy go," said somebody over a megaphone. "Nobody has to get hurt."

  "Can you hear me?"

  "We can hear you."

  "That's good enough, then! I just want it known for the record that this lady offered to trade places with my son! That was some pretty selfless shit and I want her to get credit for it!"

  "Understood."

  Lee lowered the gun. He knelt down and kissed his son on the cheek. "Go," he said, giving him a gentle shove. "Go on. Go find Mommy."

  The boy ran past Charlene.

  "The hostage idea sounded good, but I don't think I'd get away with it. I don't want to live as a fugitive, and I wouldn't want you to get accidentally shot by a dumbass cop."

  "I appreciate that."

  Now that he had a free hand, Lee wiped his face. "You should step back," he said.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I mean it. You should step back." He raised the gun again.

  "No, please don't."

  He smiled. "At least make sure your mouth isn't open."

  The voice sounded over the megaphone. "Don't do it!"

  Lee spun the barrel around, pointing it at his face, and pulled the trigger.

  With a couple of extra seconds to prepare, he might have shoved the barrel of the gun into his mouth before he pulled the trigger, or placed it to his temple. But apparently he wanted to do the deed himself, before the police had a chance to take him out, because he shot himself from a few inches away. The bullet hit right beneath his eye, exiting the back of his head in a spray of red mist.

  As blood streamed down Lee's face, Charlene just stood there, paralyzed.

  The gun dropped out of Lee's hand. It struck the pavement but Charlene couldn't hear it over the ringing in her ears.

  Lee dropped to his knees, then his body pitched forward.

  Charlene was vaguely aware of frantic movement behind her, but she couldn't look away from the thin red rivulets that streamed away from his head.

  Somebody put their arm around her, and she screamed and shook them off, even though she knew nobody was trying to kidnap her. She thought it might be Gertie, but, no, it was a female police officer. As more people rushed forward, Charlene doubled over, hacking but not actually vomiting, and violently swung her fists around so that nobody would touch her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Thank you! Oh, God, thank you!" a woman shouted at Charlene. She had an ugly bruise on the side of her face and her arms were tightly wrapped around the little boy.

  Charlene ignored her.

  A couple of minutes later, she sat in the back of an ambulance as a paramedic checked her out.

  "I'm fine," she insisted. "He didn't do anything to me." Well, he might have permanently destroyed her hearing, and he definitely left some massive psychological damage, but there was nothing this paramedic could do for her.

  "Just checking you out to be sure, ma'am," said the paramedic, shining a penlight into her eyes. When he was done with that part of the examination, Gertie was standing there.

  "Congrats," she said.

  "For what?"

  "You saved the kid."

  "The police would've saved him."

  "We don't know that. The guy could be headed for the state line right now."

  "The guy blew his brains out. His dead body is about fifty feet away, if you want to check it out for yourself."

  "I know what happened to him."

  "He might not have done that if we hadn't interfered. I didn't know what the hell I was doing. If we'd just given the description of his car and left it at that, the police might've caught him without anybody dying."

  "He did that to himself, Charlene. He threatened to kill his son and then he committed suicide. Surely you're not blaming yourself for that. You're not, right?"

  "What I'm saying is that we don't know how it would've turned out if we hadn't chased him. He might have surrendered. They might have shot him in the leg."

  "Yeah, and he might have done what he said he was gonna do—murder the kid and then turn the gun on himself!" Gertie looked completely flabbergasted. "We're the good guys here. If we hadn't been around, maybe the boy would never have gotten back with his mother. No, it didn't have a magical happy ending, but it could've been so much worse. What if we hadn't followed the car, and we heard later that the boy was found dead in a ditch? How would you feel?"

  "I don't know how I'd feel. All I can say is how I feel now."

  Gertie sighed. "Well, you were right there when it happened. You saw it and I didn't. Once the shock wears off and you can think about this rationally, you'll be proud of what you did. That little kid is back with his mother because of you. You'll realize that soon."

  "I don't want to talk to you anymore," said Charlene.

  "You mean now or forever?"

  "I don't know."

  "Are you going to talk to the press? I see a couple of news vans around. I'm sure they'll want to do an interview."

  "Hell no."

  Gertie nodded her understanding. "All right. I'll leave you alone since that's what you want, bu
t if you change your mind about wanting to talk to me, call me, no matter what time, okay?"

  Charlene waved her away. Gertie left.

  "You're okay," said the paramedic. "Blood pressure's a little high, but that's obviously not a surprise. There's nothing we can do for your ears, but the ringing should stop soon, just like if you went to a really loud rock concert."

  "Yeah. Great fuckin' concert."

  "It's none of my business, but I'm with your friend on this one. I was here when the dad said you were willing to trade places. That asshole was already over the edge. How it worked out is how it worked out, but that's not on you."

  The paramedic helped Charlene out of the ambulance. A heavyset police officer walked over to her. He didn't look like he agreed with Gertie or the paramedic's assessment of the situation.

  * * *

  He made her tell the whole story. Then he made her tell it again.

  She told him the complete truth. They hadn't done anything criminal, just stupid, and of course he'd be questioning Gertie as well so any attempt to distort the truth ("We were simply out for a walk") would be discovered. The officer might chew her out, but she wouldn't be charged with manslaughter or anything like that, right?

  "Anything else you think I should know?" the cop asked.

  "Nope."

  "All right. Some reporters want to shove microphones in your face. You can talk to them if you want, or we can get you past them and into your car."

  "I'd love it if you got me past them."

  "Will do."

  "So am I in trouble?" Charlene asked.

  "Do you think a jury would convict you?"

  "I'd like to think not."

  "You think correctly. You and your friend need to knock off this vigilante nonsense, but we've got one live child and one dead abductor. I'm sure a lot of people are perfectly happy with that result. Things play out a little differently, he shoots his son...well, public opinion might not be so rosy toward the person who took it upon herself to do a hostage negotiation. As it is, no, nobody is going to arrest you and say you're responsible for what that dipshit did to himself. I’m guessing there's a lot of praise headed your way. Enjoy the fame. It won't last, so don't squander it by beating yourself up. He's the one who pulled the trigger."

  "Thanks."

  "No problem. That's as much of a motivational speech as you're gonna get from me. Still want us to sneak you past the reporters?"

  "Yes, please."

  "Come with me."

  * * *

  Ken took out his cell phone. Almost one in the morning. Three missed calls from Vivian and about ten texts.

  He shouldn't have stayed this long. But he didn't have to work tomorrow, and Vivian wouldn't bitch at him any less if he'd gotten home a couple of hours earlier.

  Regina had been dead when he arrived. He hated that he missed the moment of her passing. He was often tempted to hasten the process, just so he'd get to watch them die, but that would be an act of mercy. The women wouldn't truly be starving to death. Why bother to give them a slow, agonizing, primal demise if he was going to prematurely end it?

  Anyway, they were so weak by the end that it was difficult to tell when the moment of death actually happened. He'd been here when his third victim died, but he'd had to hold a mirror under her nose to be sure that she'd passed.

  Olivia was still alive. Wasn't talking much anymore. Ken didn't mind. He didn't need for her to actually do anything while he watched. He was perfectly happy to sit there and watch her mostly motionless, beautiful body hang in the cage, her life very slowly seeping away, like an inflatable mattress with the tiniest pinprick of a hole in the side.

  He stood up. "Would you like some more water before I go?" he asked. "I've got a bunch of yard work to do, so I won't be back tomorrow. I'd rather not come back and find you dehydrated."

  Olivia nodded.

  He brought over the stepladder, gave her some water, then carried the ladder and chair back to their place. He always carried them upon his departure and dragged them upon his arrival. There was no practical reason that he needed to move them to the far corner; obviously, nobody was going to disturb them while he was gone. He just liked the awful sound they made as they scraped across the concrete. It was a wonderfully unpleasant way to let his girls know that he was ready to watch them.

  Ken took one last long whiff. He was a little ashamed of the way he enjoyed the room's smell. Death, vomit, piss...even a savage serial killer should find the aroma unpleasant. Not him. He'd bottle that scent and wear it as cologne if he could get away with it. Use it to season his food.

  When he ran out of cages and had to empty the first one to make room for another victim, he'd probably hose down the floor as well. For now, everything that came out of the women stayed on the concrete.

  He waved to Olivia, even though he was behind her and she couldn't see him. He waved to the corpses as well, enjoying the thought that their spirits might be forever trapped in their shriveled dead bodies and that they could see him waving to them. He opened the door and left the room.

  Ken shut the door and entered the four-digit passcode to lock it.

  He walked up the stairs and entered a different four-digit passcode to unlock the door at the top. He emerged into the main part of the house, shutting and locking the door behind him.

  It was a small house in an isolated area. You could see the neighbors off in the distance, but not hear them unless they were having a really loud party. Of course, the basement was completely soundproofed. As long as the door to the cage room and the door at the top of the stairs were both closed, a brand new healthy victim could be shrieking at the top of her lungs, and somebody standing where Ken was right now wouldn't hear a thing. Top-notch soundproofing. Not cheap.

  The smell was easier to block. The basement was sealed up like a non-working freezer filled with rotting carcasses.

  Of course, Ken couldn't afford to rent a second home like this on his own. It was a joint venture with his buddy Darrell. Ken handled all of the paperwork, making sure the rental couldn't be traced to either of them, and Darrell paid most of the rent. Ken got the basement. Darrell, who needed a place to screw his three mistresses, got the upstairs.

  Ken said only that he needed the basement for "drug-related matters." Darrell never asked for more information. But Darrell loved to share his own tales of debauchery. He'd describe everything in graphic detail, and Ken would ask the appropriate questions with the appropriate leer on his face, even though it didn't much interest him that Darrell finally got Lydia to let him in the back door, or that Sarah liked her nipples twisted, hard.

  They coordinated their schedules to make sure Darrell's side chicks didn't freak out because somebody else was in the house. Darrell's own schedule was further complicated by the fact that Lydia and Sarah knew about each other and were cool with it—though not cool enough to double up, damn it—but Jackie would not only lose her mind if she knew about Lydia and Sarah, but she'd freak if she found out that Darrell wasn't really divorced. "She'd tear my balls off and feed them to me," Darrell said with a chuckle.

  Ken drove home, hoping Vivian would be asleep when he got there.

  She wasn't.

  "Where the hell have you been?" she asked.

  "I love you too," he said, giving her a kiss. He made sure to give her a dose of his whiskey breath before their lips touched.

  "I asked you a question."

  "Am I not allowed to have friends? You have friends. Jared has friends. But not me, oh no, no friends for Kenneth! Why, he'd be shirking his grown-up responsibilities if he went out and enjoyed himself for once."

  "I don't stay out all night with my friends."

  "It's not all night. It's one-thirty. When did we become so old that we have to be in bed at a reasonable hour?"

  Vivian ignored the hypothetical question. "And I call or text you to let you know where I am. How hard is it to send a text?"

  "I have large thumbs."

  "
Don't be a smartass."

  "Fine. I'm sorry I was out so very late. I had a few drinks and wanted to sober up before I drove home."

  Vivian clenched and unclenched her fists. "Please stop lying to me. I know where you were and what you were doing."

  "Is that so?"

  "Are you going to tell me who she is, or should I wait to see her picture on the news?"

  "I didn't kill anybody," said Ken, lowering his voice so Jared wouldn't hear.

  "Bullshit."

  "I didn't kill anybody! I wasn't out on a hunt! I promised you that I'd tell you when I was going, and I'd never break that promise."

  "You're out there too often. You're going to get caught."

  Ken smacked his palm against his forehead in frustration. "What did I just say? Why aren't you listening to me? I didn't strangle anybody tonight." He held up his arms. "Do you see any new scratches? Any signs that somebody fought back? Anything? Want to check my fingernails for dirt? Do you want to check the shovel in the trunk? I swear to God, Vivian, I'm telling the truth. You know about all of them. Like you said, their pictures show up on the news."

  "Maybe you've been killing outside of your type. How do I know you aren't murdering little girls?"

  "Are you listening to yourself? Is your brain processing the words that are coming out of your mouth? I can't just go around strangling a new girl every other night. You don't think I'd get caught if I was digging that many graves? If I'm going on this massive slaughter spree, why isn't it on the news, huh? How come the news is only covering the ones you know about?"

  "Maybe you're traveling."

  "Yeah, that's it. That makes so much sense. How the hell would I get a little girl, anyway? You think I'm going to take the risk of talking to a strange child and have her run away and tell her parents?" He put his hands on Vivian's shoulders and looked into her eyes. "Vivian, honey, the eight women I've told you about are the only ones. I would never hunt without telling you. I know how bad things will be for you and Jared if I get caught, and I'd never put you through that."

  "Then where were you tonight?"