He’d been right about the dogs. I don’t want to die. I’m sorry, she prayed, hoping God would still hear. You can’t let me die. Who will take care of Liza?
Upstairs a door opened, closed, and she heard the click of a dead-bolt. He’s coming. He flicked on the light and she could see. And her thundering heart simply stopped.
Shoes. The walls were lined with shelves that held more shoes than she’d ever seen outside a store. They were grouped by the pair, heels out. Dozens of shoes.
At the end of the top row was a pair of stretched-out pumps with a tiny heel next to the five-inch leopard skin stilettos she’d pulled from her own closet, just hours before.
My shoes. God, please help me. I swear I’ll never turn a trick again. I’ll flip burgers, I’ll do anything. Don’t let me die here.
Desperate, Lindsay yanked at the ropes as he came down the stairs, but they were too strong. She drew another breath to scream, but again it came out hoarsely pathetic.
His expression went from expectant to furious the instant he came into view. “You’re awake. When did you wake up? Godammit,” he snarled. “I was only gone five minutes.”
“Please,” she begged. “Don’t kill me. I won’t tell. I promise I won’t tell.”
Pain speared through her when the back of his hand hit her mouth. She tasted blood.
“I didn’t say you could speak,” he snarled. “You’re nothing. Less than nothing.”
Terror clawed. “Please.” The pain was worse the second time, his ring hitting her lip.
“Silence.” He was naked and erect and she tried to get calm. It was just sex. Maybe this was a bondage fantasy. She dropped her dry, burning eyes suggestively to his groin. “I’ll make it good for you. I’ll give you what you need.”
She cried out when his palm struck her cheek.
“Like I’d put anything of mine in anything of yours,” he said with contempt. He climbed on the bed, straddling her. “You give me nothing. I take what I need.”
His hands closed around her throat, tightening his grip. Can’t breathe. God, please. Lights danced before her eyes and she flailed, trying to draw just one breath. Just one.
His laugh was faraway, tinny. Like she was in a tunnel. The last thing she heard was his groan as he climaxed, his seed hot on her frozen skin. And then… darkness.
Breathing hard, he stared into her face, now slack in death. Withdrawing his hands from her throat, he clenched them into fists. It should have been better. He’d needed it to be better. Dammit. She’d woken earlier than he’d calculated and he’d missed her postsedation hallucinations. During the hallucinations was always the optimal moment.
Whatever he whispered as they were going under, they experienced as they awoke. The abject terror in their eyes when they were waking… He’d learned long ago that their fear was far better than any drug, sending his orgasm into the stratosphere.
That had been denied him today. His breathing began to slow, his racing thoughts to settle. Which was the primary objective. The orgasm was just… incidental.
Nice, but completely unnecessary. He climbed off her, staying away from the blood sullenly oozing from her lip. He was always careful with the trash he collected. Hookers and addicts, crawling with disease. Disgusting.
It was late. He’d shower her stink off of his skin, get dressed, and do what needed to be done. He hoped somebody had found Martha Brisbane. He’d been waiting for days, the need to move forward to the next victim growing every hour. He couldn’t move to the next victim until the police found the last one. That was his own rule.
Rules kept order and order controlled chaos. The higher the chaos, the greater the chances of discovery and that wouldn’t do at all. So he’d follow his own rules.
He looked at the body on the narrow bed. She’d served her purpose. A diversion, a means to keep his mind clear while he waited for someone to discover Martha. Once he got his mind prepared for a kill, he had to move. If he didn’t, his mind raced too fast.
Options, scenarios, outcomes. It was distracting, and he couldn’t afford to be distracted. In his line of work, he had to be sharp, every day. Now, more than ever.
He grabbed the steel handle in the concrete floor. The slab moved silently on well-oiled bearings, revealing the pit where he’d disposed of dozens of bodies over the years. Hookers. Addicts. Trash nobody would miss. The world is a better place without them here. Dozens of victims and the police had never had even a whiff of suspicion.
He sniffed in disdain. “Modern-day heroes,” he muttered, quoting the shallow, pathetically written article all the detectives claimed embarrassed them, but he knew better. They’d secretly preened, thrilled to be so elevated in the public’s regard.
They were simply thugs with big guns and very small brains. Easily manipulated. He should know. He’d been manipulating them for years. They just didn’t know it.
That was about to change. He’d bring them down, humiliate them. Show everyone what they really were. The premise of his plan was quite simple. He’d do what he’d been doing for years-killing women right under their noses. He looked into the pit. But not like this. Not quietly. Not discreetly. And not the dregs of society no one would miss.
He considered the six women he’d chosen. Single women who lived alone, but who had family and friends who’d grieve their loss in sound bites covered by a sympathetic press who’d quickly lose patience with their precious Hat Squad.
Which was the point of it all. The six he’d chosen would capture the public’s attention, command their ire in a way no skanky, lice-infested prostitutes ever could.
Of course the irony of his choices wasn’t lost. His six had never walked a street or shot up, but they were hookers and addicts just the same. They simply plied their trade and fed their addictions in less traditional venues. They were women, after all.
He’d had to change his MO in other ways. No bringing them here where he had disposal down to a science. Instead he’d posed them in their homes, leaving clues of his choosing. He didn’t touch them, couldn’t risk putting his hands around their necks. He’d correctly anticipated the loss of the tactile would detract from the experience.
And he’d had to hold back. He couldn’t release himself on them. Any killer that left DNA behind was a fool. The strain of killing without the physical release had been a bit more difficult than he’d expected, but this hooker had taken off the edge.
It would be worth it. Headlines would scream SERIAL KILLER UNCHALLENGED and COPS CLUELESS. So true. A serial killer, the people would quail, in their own midst. Oh my. If they only knew he’d killed in their midst for years. Oh my.
How many victims would it take before they wised up? Martha was the third of his six. But they hadn’t found Martha yet and he was growing impatient. Fortunately he was disciplined enough to stick with his plan, falling back on the tried and true for relief.
He dragged the hooker’s body to the pit and rolled her in. He threw her clothes in after, except for her shoes. Those he would keep, as he’d done dozens of times before.
He donned the coveralls he’d taken from the man he’d hired to dig the pit, twenty years before. Who, bullet in his head, had become its first inhabitant. He shoveled lime from the steel drum into the pit, covering the body.
Quicklime hastened decomposition of flesh without the fuss and muss and foul odor, but one had to be careful. It was powerful stuff, highly reactive with moisture. He kept his basement dry with dehumidifiers, with a side benefit the preservation of his shoes.