It was deemed an accident, and the neighbors corroborated that Paulie was a handful and his parents sometimes made him sleep outside.
Paulie did the foster home shuffle for several years, eventually running away at fifteen and joining a travelling carnival. He lived the life of a carny for a decade, and the work suited him. Especially since it gave him easy access to children.
He never grabbed a kid while on the job. That would have been stupid. But he talked to the kids as he worked the game booths and operated the rides, and those who didn’t know better would give him their last name when he asked. Sometimes they’d even tell him where they lived.
The question that he cared about most, though, was whether the kid had a dog, what kind of dog it was, and if the dog was their responsibility.
Then Paulie would wait until after hours, use a phone book or the Internet to find the child’s house, and then wait in the shadows for the child to let his dog out for the night. Many of the suburbs the carnival visited had big back yards with plenty of good places to hide, and Paulie only chose them if the dogs were small breeds.
Most times, it was a bust, offering Paulie no bigger thrill than some window peeping fantasies and jerking off on the azaleas. But every so often, he got lucky. The kid opened the patio door, and Paulie grabbed him.
Twelve children in ten years. Their screams were like candy. None lived to tell the police.
Then Paulie messed up. One of the kids he took yelled so loud it brought unwanted attention. Paulie was arrested. He did most of his time in isolation, because every time he was put into general pop his fellow inmates tried to kill him; the unwritten convict code for dealing with child molesters. When he got out he had to register as a sex offender. Which meant no working around kids. Which meant no more carny life.
Paulie got a job in construction, saw his court appointed shrink once a week and fed him bullshit about how well he was adjusting, and cruised the malls for young meat.
He did okay. It surprised him how many parents let their precious little children run around unsupervised. He was fine for a few years until he got greedy and tried to grab two girls at once. Someone saw him, which led to the cops checking the parking lot security tapes, which led to his car being IDed, which led to him being caught before he’d gotten the chance to enjoy both little morsels.
This time he went away for life, and they locked him in solitary and threw away the key.
He rotted in that hole for more than a decade. Then that military stiff came to visit, giving him the chance to not only get free, but to kill again. Paulie was happy to sign on.
But he didn’t know a crazy doc was going to shove needles into his brain, taking away his ability to speak, and changing his lust to kill into an all-engrossing, unquenchable thirst.
Every waking moment, Paulie existed only to indulge his need. But rather than a blessing, it was an awful burden. Whenever Paulie was without a victim, he was compelled to take his bloodlust out on himself. Every square centimeter of his body was covered with self-inflicted cuts. The pain was intolerable, but the urge to cause pain—even if it was to himself—always won out.
So he tried to keep his victims alive as long as possible. A difficult line to walk, because hurting them felt soooo good.
One day, he would get out of this place. Then he would have his revenge on the doctor who did this to him.
But until then, there were perks.
Like this juicy little tidbit with the utility knife.
Paulie never forgot one of his children. Especially the ones that got away.
He just had to get her in his pain box.
The box was based on years of testing and experimenting. Every skewer positioned and angled so it wouldn’t hit anything vital. Paulie’s biggest wish was to get the doctor in there.
But until that day came, this was a tasty little substitute.
Sara was paralyzed with fear. A tiny part of her brain recognized what a cliché that was. But it was true. She was so terrified, so overwhelmed by dread, she couldn’t move.
Paulie Gunther Spence stared at her. Through her. Sara knew he could read her thoughts, sense her helplessness.
He lowered the meat hook and gave her a lopsided grin. Then he walked slowly to Sara’s left, stopping at a dresser.
Run! Sara yelled at herself. Get out of there!
But her feet remained planted, her veins felt filled with cement. She couldn’t even turn her head, staring at her abductor out of the corner of her eyes, watching as he slowly slid open a drawer. He put his hand inside, grinning, obviously enjoying himself, and then removed a rope.
No! Don’t let him tie you up, Sara! You have to move!
That’s when the door burst open.
The sound was enough to break Sara out of her frozen state. In one smooth motion she dove sideways, tucked her elbows in, and rolled lengthwise under the bed, the utility knife clutched to her chest.
“You! You killed my pet!”
Lester’s presence seemed to fill the room. He looked twice as big as the last time she’d seen him, and his eyes were wide and lips pulled back to bare his revolting teeth. He was pointing, accusingly, his hand ending in a knife that glinted orange in the candlelight.
But he wasn’t looking at Sara. He was looking at Paulie Gunther Spence.
“The Joe pet is dead. Now Lester will kill Subject 33’s pet.”
Lester took two quick steps toward Laneesha’s cabinet, and Sara watched aghast as he flung open the large middle door without removing the skewers.
Laneesha’s insides came out, spilling onto the ground, some of them sliding under the bed and onto Sara. She shoved her knuckles into her mouth and bit down to keep from screaming.
Lester turned, raising the knife.
“Now Lester will kill Subject 33.”
Paulie Gunther Spence held up one hand in supplication as he shook his head. His other hand was gesturing wildly.
Pointing right at Sara.
But Lester wasn’t following the man’s finger, and though Paulie’s lips were moving, no sounds were coming out.
Lester lunged.
For a fat old man, Paulie moved pretty fast. He danced away from the blade and came up on Lester’s side, the meat hook raised. Paulie swung, cutting through empty air with a whir.
Lester lunged again, nicking Paulie on the shoulder. Paulie again swung and missed. The taller man’s reach was too long, and he easily kept Paulie at a distance.
When Lester cut Paulie’s other shoulder, she could see the futility on Paulie’s. He knew he was going to die. That’s when he stared Sara dead in the eyes, and then ran right at her.
Sara shrank back, but it wouldn’t help. This was a cheap bed, light and flimsy. Paulie would be able to upend it with one hand, exposing her to Lester.
But Lester acted fast, sticking out a foot, tripping Paulie so he fell near the edge of the bed. The fat man flopped onto his belly, momentum making him slide across the gore toward Sara.
The meathook clanged to the floor and bounced away, and Sara locked eyes with the fallen killer, less than two feet between them. Paulie’s pea green eyes were no longer the sadistic, powerful eyes that haunted Sara’s dreams. These eyes belong to a desperate, frightened man. A human being, not a monster.
Then Paulie stretched his hands under the bed and grabbed Sara’s wrist.
Martin was feeling pretty good. The drugs had taken the edge off his injuries, the children were all accounted for, and he was about to spend some quality time with the missus. Plus, he was now the owner of a pretty sweet boat. Which, unfortunately, he was going to have to sink.