“You know what to do.”
She frowned, but her eyes lit with excitement. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Lying bitch.
“If you want to help me, you need to do it. It’s the only way.” He was sweating and shaking. Was this like wanting heroin? Meth? The physical reaction was real. Too real. He needed her to do it. “Now, dammit. I need it.” He grabbed her by the neck, pushed her back up against the wall. “You want it.”
“I don’t.”
He slapped her. “You do. You need it as much as I do. You just won’t admit it. But I know you better than you know yourself. Your eyes betray you.” His lips touched her ear as he whispered, “Your body betrays you. You’re shaking as much as I am. I’m in withdrawal. You’re in ecstasy. Do it now, or I swear I’ll kill you.”
She pushed him away. “Don’t threaten me.” She opened his special black box. She was naked, had a curvy body, shapely legs, tight ass. Things he would have appreciated before. Things he would have enjoyed before.
Now he only craved one thing.
She turned toward him, the leather pouch in her hand. “Lie down.”
He obeyed and lay on the hard floor. She took two needles from his kit. He quivered. She straddled him and sank his dick deep inside her. She shuddered. “I hate this.”
She was a liar.
He could barely speak, but the words had to be said.
“You hate that you enjoy it.”
She held the two needles in front of him. Taunted him. He moaned. “Please. Please please please.”
She moved and gyrated on top of him, sending him into agony not from sex, but from the inability to release. But it was always about her. Her, her, her, her …
… she found the nerve on the side of his neck and put in one needle. The pain surged through his body as his nerves reacted to the invasion. He’d taught her well.
“Kill me,” he moaned. “God, kill me.”
She then inserted the second needle high on his inner thigh and he screamed, tears streaming from his eyes, sweat pouring off his body as his hips moved violently. The first time they’d done this, he’d bucked her off him, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t about her pleasure, it was about his pain. Now she anticipated it. Enjoyed it. Craved his agony so she could get off.
He exploded within her, the pain giving him the release he needed. He whimpered with humiliation and pulled out the needles himself. The pain subsided. A lesser man would be disabled for several minutes, but he’d had practice.
He flipped her over, holding her down by her neck.
“Don’t make me wait again.”
“I’m s-s-” she began.
He glared at her and for the first time saw that small glimmer of fear in the back of her eyes. He smiled, giddy, excited. She did fear him. She damn well should. He could kill her.
No no no! Ethan couldn’t kill Karin. He needed her. What would he do without her? He couldn’t survive. He wouldn’t be able to finish their plans. He kissed her lips. Her neck.
“I need you.” He started crying and hated himself for it.
“Don’t, baby. Don’t cry. I’ll take care of you.”
“Are you mocking me?” he asked.
“No, of course not!”
He didn’t believe her. “Don’t move.”
“What are you going to do?”
He took one of the needles that had been in his body, and without hesitation, inserted it just under her nipple. The pain that crossed her face delighted him. He could see why she became so excited watching the others suffer.
She couldn’t scream, she couldn’t think. He counted off the seconds. One. Two. Three.
Ten seconds would feel like hours. He knew. He’d been there. He’d been through far worse. If only she knew. If only she’d been there. To watch. Would she have gotten all hot and horny watching him suffer? Hearing him scream? Would she fuck the man with the black gloves as Ethan froze in pain?
Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Whoops. Too long.
He pulled out the needle. She rolled over and threw up on the wood floor.
“Bas-bastard.”
He stood, happy. Odd feeling, but there it was. Birds singing and a zip-a-dee-do-dah day. He laughed and dressed. “I’m hungry,” he said. “I’ll make dinner, okay? Your favorite.”
Karin watched Ethan as he walked to the kitchen, whistling. Jekyll and Hyde. Bastard. She’d shoot him in the back for what he’d done to her if she didn’t need him to finish teaching her the tools of his trade. She had watched him and had learned, but there was nothing like doing it herself. And he didn’t let her do it often. When she pushed too hard, he clammed up and it was almost impossible to get him to open up again.
He was a fucking lunatic. But she’d forgotten that Ethan, though probably certifiably insane, was also dangerous.
She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
CHAPTER THREE
Megan went home late Monday night, the murder of George L. Price weighing heavily on her mind. She didn’t know why it bothered her so much-murder was part of the job.
She poured herself a glass of red wine, kicked off her shoes, and sat heavily in her armchair. A white ball of fur jumped into her lap and meowed loudly.
She frowned at Mouse, as she called the cat, and said, “I already fed you.” She’d never been an animal person. Her job wasn’t nine-to-five, and she didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else. Megan liked to come and go as she pleased. But her ex-husband had recently presented her with the furry creature, rescued by his new fiancee when someone threw the animal into a local lake.
Unconsciously, she stroked her pet, who immediately started to purr. The purr was surprisingly soothing, and Mouse kneaded his paws on her lap.
Megan sipped her wine and closed her eyes. It was close to midnight after a long, long day. Her squad was the only Violent Crimes Squad in the Sacramento Regional FBI Office, and she’d spent hours on the Price homicide, following up with Detective Black and Simone Charles several times throughout the day, reviewing the little evidence they’d thus far collected.
Their one lead-the license plates noted by the security patrol Sunday night-was still viable, though Megan wasn’t holding out hope. Two of the vehicles cleared quickly-the owners had valid reasons for leaving their cars in the garage, and they had verified alibis as well.
The third plate was a possible. The plate was registered to an eighty-two-year-old great-grandmother. When Black went to her house, he discovered that the plates on her sedan did not match the numbers logged by garage security-someone had switched them with those off a black Econovan registered to a neighbor who had reported his vehicle stolen Monday morning. When Black followed up with him, the owner said the last time he’d driven his van was on Saturday morning, and he didn’t know it was gone until he left for work on Monday. So far, the van hadn’t turned up. Black was checking into neighbors and relatives. He was thorough and methodical.
In addition to this priority serial murder, Megan had to clear the paperwork piling up on her desk. She preferred taking care of her supervisory duties as they arose, not putting anything off too long, knowing how quickly the stacks of paper grew. But in the course of dealing with paperwork, she had to delegate new assignments, review reports, and attend a joint task force meeting on child prostitution while the assigned agent prepared to testify in a high-profile case.
She hadn’t submitted her own written report on the Price homicide until after ten that night. But she left the office with a clean desk and a plan for tomorrow.
Now that she was home, she could think about why this morning’s crime scene bothered her so much. Price was a veteran. He should have been taken care of by the country he had fought to protect, but instead he’d been marginalized and homeless. How had he gotten to that point? What had happened to put him on the streets? Drugs? Alcohol?