"I don't feel comfortable here."
"Don't you trust me? I'm one of the good guys."
He unlocks the glove compartment, takes out a silver cigarette case. Lined up inside are six rolled joints. He lights one up, hands it to her.
"I married my wife for money, and believe me, she's got a lot. She won't put out, though. So I have to get it on the side, and I have to be discreet about it. You understand."
She puffs and nods.
Enjoy it, baby. It's your last.
No one gives them a glance as they walk into the building. The hallway smells like piss and worse. Lighting is at a minimum. She holds his arm until they get to his room.
His hand is trembling as he unlocks the door.
Almost there. Just a few more minutes.
They enter and she turns in a full circle, taking it all in. "Wow! What's your kink, man?"
The floors and walls are lined with clear plastic sheets. The only piece of furniture in the room is a bed, and that's also similarly covered.
"I like plastic."
"I can tell." She smiles in a way that she probably thinks is sexy. Annoying bitch. He's going to enjoy slicing her up.
"I want you to wear something for me."
"Let me guess. A plastic garbage bag?"
"No. These."
He reaches into his pocket and takes out a pair of earrings. Silver hoops, antique-looking.
"Those are pretty."
She removes the dangly gold ones she has on, shoves them into her little spaghetti strap designer purse. When she puts the first hoop in, he begins to pant. His expression must scare her, because she stops smiling.
"You know, I usually don't make dates on my own. I normally go through the escort service."
"Don't worry. You trust me, remember?"
She nods, but it's uncertain.
"These earrings look beautiful on you, Eileen."
"Thanks. Um, how did you get my number, anyway?"
"I have ways."
"Yeah. I guess you do."
"The bathroom is over there. I'd really like it if you came out wearing nothing but those earrings."
She gives him a half smile, hesitates, then trots off to the bathroom like a good little whore.
He undresses, folding his clothes neatly and putting them on the floor of the closet, next to the axe. His other instruments are laid out on a stained towel.
What to use, what to use?
He selects a garrote for the murder and a box cutter for the detail work. The garrote is something he picked up at work -- a twenty-inch strand of piano wire, the ends twisted around wooden pegs. He hasn't tried it yet. Should be fun.
She comes out of the bathroom, strutting. Her confidence is back. Her naked body is flawless.
But it won't be for long.
"Well, you're a big one, aren't you? What do you want to do first, big boy?"
Severing her head is harder than he'd have guessed. He has to prop his knee up against her back for leverage, and then use a sawing motion with the garrote to get through the spine.
There's a lot of blood.
When he's finished, he goes to work with the utility knife.
He attends to her eagerly, like a starving man. The feeling is more than sexual. It's euphoric. Mind-altering.
Pain-relieving.
The moment he walked behind her and stretched the wire across her pretty little throat, the pain vanished. His vision cleared, his jaw unclenched, and a feeling of pure relief a thousand times better than any orgasm flooded through him.
He doesn't understand why. He doesn't care why. The throbbing is gone, replaced by a mad giggling fit as he works harder and faster with the utility knife.
It soon escalates into a mindless frenzy.
Afterward, he takes a shower. The water is tepid and smells like rust. He doesn't care.
The pain is gone.
How long it will stay gone is unknown to him. Sometimes it lasts for weeks. Sometimes, only a few hours.
He takes what he can get.
He scrubs his nails with a toothbrush and a lot of soap, cleaning out all of the gore and little bits. He notices similar bits in his mouth, spits something bloody onto the shower floor.
Must have really gotten crazy there.
Stepping out of the bathroom, he sees how crazy he's actually been.
It's a mess. Worse than he's ever done.
He sits on the bed, naked, in a Thinker pose, staring at the body. He doesn't even remember doing half of these things to her. And using only a one-inch blade and pure strength. Impressive.
"I am one scary son of a bitch," he says to himself.
Careful to avoid the blood pool, he pads over to the closet and quickly dresses. On his cell phone, he presses 3 on speed dial.
"I've got another one."
Chuckles on the other end. "Busy little bee, aren't you?"
"Come get her."
"I'm already out the door."
He stands in the corner. Staring at the mess. Memorizing it.
Twenty minutes later, there's a knock.
"Who the hell is it?"
"The password is psycho. Open up."
He grins, letting Derrick inside. The man is short, compact, with acne scars on his chubby cheeks and a lazy eye that always looks to the left.
Derrick views the room and whistles.
"Damn! This is some piece of work. I'm going to need a shovel to clean this up."
"So?" He hands Derrick fifty dollars. "Go buy a shovel."
"Be right back, tiger."
In half an hour, Derrick returns. He wheels in the cart, the body bag resting on top.
"I thought you went to get a shovel."
"It's in the bag."
Derrick gets to work, rolling up the body and the mess in the plastic tarps lining the floor.
"Boy, you really did a number on her," Derrick says. "Where's her heart?"
The killer belches, pounds his chest.
Derrick laughs. "Talk about having heartburn."
The joke is lost on him. He's becoming anxious. Now that the rage has passed, he has to make sure everything goes according to plan.
"How are you going to dispose of her?"
"This one I think I'll cremate. I can't risk one of my famous two-for-one specials. The casket would leak."
"I want these to be found at the morgue, same as before."
The killer hands him a plastic bag.
"Ears? That's a riot." Derrick brings the bag to his mouth and yells, "Hello! Can you hear me?"
Idiot. But beggars can't be choosers.
"Leave the earrings on. They're important."
"No problem. These will be easier to sneak in than those arms. Hell, I could keep them in my pocket."
"Her things are in the bathroom. Take what you want. There's a grand in her purse."
"Righto, chief."
The cleanup continues for another fifteen minutes. The body and bloody tarps are zipped up in the bag.
"I'll line the room with new plastic sometime next week."
"Sooner."
"Sooner? You got the itch again already?"
"Not yet. But it could come back."
Derrick didn't know about the headaches. He thought he was dealing with a run-of-the-mill sex killer.
"Damn. I'm glad I'm not a good-looking chick with you loose in this city."
That won't save you. When the time comes, I'll gut you as well.
They leave the room, Derrick pushing the cart, the killer walking alongside. A few liquor-stained eyes peek at them, then quickly turn away. Derrick's van is parked in the alley, behind the killer's car. He pushes the cart into the rear, spring-loaded legs collapsing as he eases it in.
"Hey, you think, maybe, next time you do one of these women . . ."
"You want to watch?"
Derrick's face lights up. "Yeah! I mean, I'm no stranger to this shit. I'm not as, uh, extreme, as you are. But I've done things."
You pimple-faced freak. I know about the things you've done. You make my stomach turn.
"We'll see. A tag-team match might be fun."
"A tag-team. Yeah, I like that."
He claps Derrick on the shoulder, forces a grin. He knows the hardest thing about getting away with murder is disposing of the body, and having a mortician under his thumb makes things a lot easier. Still, there's no way he'll ever let Derrick see him in action. He might have to get rid of him sooner than expected.