The police were called.
The rapist took off before the sirens sounded in the distance. Investigators gathered facts and DNA samples. They took pictures and interviewed the child’s mother. The woman’s six-year-old daughter was subjected to all sorts of tests, lots of probing and prodding. Owen Dunham was ultimately arrested, but something happened along the way, and he was released on a technicality.
This time, he’d gotten away with his crime. Or so he thought.
“If you don’t let me go,” Owen growled, “I will hunt you down and make you wish you were never born.”
“I don’t think so,” Hayley told him. “After I’m done with you, you’re the one who’s going to wish you were never released from prison.”
“Wait a second. Is this some sort of birthday prank? Did my brother set this up? This is Larry’s doing, isn’t it?” Nervous laughter erupted. “I don’t know how much he paid you to do this, but undo the ties and I’ll double it. I’m asking nicely. The money is in my wallet, across the room in my top drawer.”
“I don’t want your money.”
His voice deepened. “What do you want, then?”
“We’re here to make sure justice is served.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Prison time didn’t teach you a thing.” Hayley drew in and released a long, frustrated breath. “And so now it’s up to me and my friend to do what they should have done in the first place.”
“I never touched those girls.”
“And which girls might you be referring to?”
He said nothing.
“More than one examiner determined that both of the Vicente girls were raped.”
“I’m not saying they weren’t, but it was their father who raped them, not me.”
“I wonder how it was that your DNA was found on the girls?”
“We were neighbors. He planted my sperm. Took used condoms right out of the garbage. It wasn’t me.”
“And what about the daughter of your latest girlfriend? Who raped her?”
“That woman is crazy. I met her once.”
“Well, I guess those pictures all over the news of you and the little girl at the park and the zoo were just the mother’s imagination.”
“Let me go right now,” he warned. “You’re starting to piss me off.”
Hayley looked at Kitally, who put down the sharpened knife, picked up the duct tape, ripped off one more piece, and taped his mouth shut.
“You’re not the only one who’s pissed off,” Hayley said. With every word out of his mouth, she’d felt the rage building within. She was so tired of assholes like him taking advantage of innocent young girls. Owen Dunham should have been left in prison where he belonged.
Muffled noises sounded beneath the tape as they both put on latex gloves. Hayley looked at Kitally. “Should we cut off his balls, or do you want to perform surgery to try to sterilize him instead?”
“Hell, yes, I’ll give it a try,” Kitally said, retrieving the knife. “Although I think castration might be the way to go.”
The muffled cries rose in pitch.
Kitally went to the side of the bed. “Maybe we should carve rapist across his forehead.” Kitally put the tip of the knife against his forehead. “Don’t move or you might end up losing an eye.”
The man growled.
Kitally pulled the knife away.
“What is it?” Hayley asked.
“I changed my mind. I’m going to perform a vasectomy instead. More of a challenge, less mess, and we’d still be making sure he won’t reproduce.” She climbed up on the bed. It took her a moment, but she made the first tiny incision. The man moaned and quivered all over. “Easy, easy there now,” she said. “I don’t know. Even if he holds still, I’m not sure this will work. It’s a delicate procedure.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure it’s worth the bother,” Hayley said. “Give me the knife.”
Kitally climbed off the bed, and Hayley took over.
“Just count yourself lucky that I’m only going to cut off your balls,” Hayley told him as she moved to the side of the bed. He was huffing wetly now against the tape. “I could remove just one, but I think your crimes justify the removal of both. I’m leaving your penis for now.”
His face was red from exertion, his wrists and ankles raw from trying to free himself.
“You’ll be sterile,” she said matter-of-factly. “The procedure should reduce the production of testosterone and hopefully your desire to rape.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug and then leaned over, grabbed a handful, and cut his testes off in one clean swipe.
He thrashed and bellowed obscenities beneath the tape.
As far as Hayley was concerned, Owen Dunham fell into a particular grouping of rapists: the worst of the worst. He deserved to die for what he’d done to those girls. She could guarantee there were more victims out there. How many lives had Owen Dunham ruined?
Hayley’s heart was racing. She felt a tremendous urge to pick up the knife and plunge it into his heart. The last time she didn’t finish a job like this, her mom had ended up a casualty of that mistake. But Kitally was standing nearby, and killing the man was not part of tonight’s plan. Maybe he would bleed to death or infection would set in. She could only hope.
“If this doesn’t work,” Hayley said, close to his ear as she slid his bloodied parts into a plastic bag, “if you rape again, I guarantee you I’ll be back for the rest.”
When she straightened, she held up the bag.
Her work was done here.
His testicles would be buried in some open field or maybe thrown into the river. She would make it impossible for a surgeon to sew them back on. Been there, done that.
CHAPTER TWO
He carried pen and paper to the table out on his balcony where he could see the magnificent view of the American River. Peaceful. Tranquil. The morning sun hit the water just so, making it sparkle. He then filled his glass with his favorite energy drink, opened his leather-bound journal to its opening pages, which he’d left blank all this time until he felt inspired to supply this introduction, and began to write.
I am a natural born killer. Although some people might beg to differ, I would say I am normal, as far as normal goes. Throughout elementary school, the teachers always liked me. I suffered no psychological abuse while growing up.
Never wet my bed. Not once.
Neither have I abused alcohol or drugs.
I make friends easily, but I prefer to be alone.
You might be surprised to know that I feel things . . . really feel things: emotions, sentiments, and desires. I have them all. I never pretend to be happy or sad. The emotions are right there to be viewed, like the angry scars etched across so many people’s wrists. Unlike most of the people I have encountered throughout life, I am rarely angry or stressed. Drama is something I steer clear of at all costs.
Let’s see. What else?
I have amazing and supportive parents. After forty years, Mom and Dad are still together. And still alive, which was no small feat on my part, thank you very much. There were many times when I wanted to take the butcher knife from the kitchen and carve their hearts out.
Yes. You heard me right. I wanted to kill my parents, butcher them. I wanted to kill them so many times, in fact, it forever boggles the mind to see them alive and thriving. My dad has one of those buzz cuts, along with a big nose and a craggy face. Mom is prematurely gray, though petite, perky, and cute. Not only do they make me smile, seeing their faces also makes me shake my head. They have no idea how lucky they are: two people in their fifties, buzzing around town, always bragging about their only son, the same son who killed their only daughter . . . my sister.