Rick got the message, doing exactly what Dean wanted. Now it was up to him to deliver the ultimate payback.
* * *
The car pulled inside the parking garage and into a space Dean had become well familiar with. It was Karyn's parking spot and where she'd been assaulted.
"Get out!" Dean ordered, narrowing his eyes.
When Rick hesitated, Dean pushed the gun hard into his ribs, making him wince.
"Okay," he stammered.
Dean followed him out of the car. "Does this place look familiar?"
Rick shook his head. "No."
Dean didn't buy it. "This is where you raped my wife, you son of a bitch. And where you're going to die for it!"
"Man, you can't kill me for something I didn't do," Rick insisted. "I've never been to this garage in my life."
Dean removed a photograph of Karyn and stuck it in the man's face. "Remember her? She's my wife. Six months ago you raped her right here."
Rick was perspiring. "I swear it wasn't me. Maybe he looked like me, but I never touched your wife."
Dean almost believed the man. But the pieces seemed to fit, even if Karyn may have been off on her description, minus the ski mask. The bastard had to pay for what he did to her and other women. Jail was not good enough in this case.
"Get down on your knees," he ordered the rapist.
"Please—don't do this." Rick did as he was told, shaking uncontrollably.
"If you want to get out of this alive, tell me what I want to know. Admit that you raped a woman in this garage six months ago."
Rick wavered.
Dean rapped him on the head with the gun. "Do it!"
Rick groaned. "All right, all right, I raped a woman here six months ago. I'm sorry if it was your wife."
"Yeah, just like you're sorry about the last woman you raped," Dean said angrily.
Rick reacted like the guilty man he was.
"How do you think I found you? There was a witness, dickhead!"
Rick's shoulders slumped. "I'll turn myself in to the police."
"You should have thought about that before you made the mistake of raping my wife!"
Rick squeezed his eyes shut and seemed to say a prayer.
Dean said one of his own. He was about to kill a man and needed all the help he could get to deal with the ramifications. All he could think of was that he had to set Karyn free. Even if it cost him his own freedom.
He placed the barrel of the gun to Rick's temple. After sucking in a deep breath, Dean counted to three, knowing there was no going back once he pulled the trigger.
He did so with no regrets, content to know this asshole would never rape again.
* * *
Dean parked in his usual spot in the garage, noting the empty spot where Karyn's car used to be. They had sold it a month after she was attacked. She had quit her job two weeks earlier and now seemed content doing nothing.
Maybe now things could change.
He entered the house through the side door. He could hear music coming from the den. Karyn was a big jazz fan, though not recently, preferring the sounds of silence.
He hoped this was a good sign.
Stepping into the den, Dean envisioned Karyn sitting on the couch, maybe sipping a glass of wine, enjoying the Kenny G tune. The room was empty.
He went to look for her in the kitchen. The kettle was on the stove, a half filled bottle of water sat on the table, and unwashed dishes lay untouched on the counter and in the sink.
But no Karyn.
Dean saw nothing to cause him to worry. But for some reason he was concerned.
"Karyn, where are you?"
No response.
He scaled the stairs. Maybe she fell asleep. She had been spending a lot of time in bed since the attack.
"Karyn, honey, are you up here?"
Still no answer. Dean considered that she could have fallen and hit her head and was now lying unconscious somewhere.
Or maybe she wasn't even in the house. In fact, he seemed to recall that when they were at Phil and Stella's house last night, Stella had invited Karyn to go shopping. Karyn had politely declined, though she had opened up far more than he expected her to.
Perhaps she'd had a change of heart and called Stella.
Dean clung to that thought, wondering why Karyn hadn't phoned him to say she was going out.
The bedroom door was slightly ajar.
"You in there, hon?"
Dean pushed open the door. Karyn was standing at the side of the bed. Her blouse was ripped, partially exposing one breast. She looked almost frozen stiff, as if having come face to face with terror.
"Karyn...?"
She didn't move.
Only now did he look down and notice the gun at her bare feet. He had gotten it for protection soon after the sexual assault. She had been resistant to the idea, unsure if she could use it.
He had insisted she learn how.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean caught sight of something on the floor. He turned and saw a brawny person wearing a bloody ski mask lying there. Three or four bullet holes had seeped blood onto the hardwood.
He wasn't moving.
Dean took no chances. Walking over to the man, he bent over cautiously and felt his neck. Nothing.
Again. Same result.
He removed the ski mask. Dark eyes devoid of life stared back at him from an ashen, puffy face.
Dean went to his wife, picked up the gun, and tucked it in his pants. He put his hands on her shoulders, forcing Karyn to look at him.
"What happened?"
She was unresponsive, as if in a trance.
He nudged her. "Tell me, Karyn."
Her chapped lips began to move. "He came back, just like he promised—"
"Who?" Dean raised a brow. "You're saying this is the man who raped you?"
Karyn stared blankly at him, nodding. "I grabbed the gun and when he came at me, I-I shot him… And I just kept shooting…"
"Are you sure it's him?" Dean studied her, his world frozen in that moment.
She didn't flinch. "I'd never forget his smell and voice; the way he laughed and had his hands all over me before he raped me."
* * *
No Going Back can also be found in a collection of bestselling thriller, mystery, and murder tales, EDGE OF SUSPENSE, available in eBook and audio.
# # #
Following is a bonus excerpt of the bestselling thriller by R. Barri Flowers. Available in print, Kindle, Nook, iTunes, and Audio.
BEFORE HE KILLS AGAIN: A Veronica Vasquez Thriller
PROLOGUE
He walked around inconspicuously, nodding in a friendly manner to other shoppers who nodded back and smiled as if they really meant it. There were flowers of every type imaginable—Dutch tulips, pretty campanula, fresh lilies, and magnificent daisies—giving him ample choices. But he already knew what he wanted long before he got to the store. In fact, he had known for months now...the notion was etched in his mind. After a suitable time spent wandering around like a lost puppy, he walked up to the counter and waited to be helped.
The florist flashed him an exaggerated smile and said: "Can I help you, sir?"
"Yes, I'd like a dozen of those white roses," he said cheerfully, pointing at a large vase behind the counter.
"Sure thing," she said.
He watched her ass jiggle as she walked over and pulled out twelve long stemmed roses.
"White roses seem to be pretty popular these days," she commented.
That was exactly what he was counting on.
"With good reason," he said, pouring on the charm. "I think they are the prettiest roses."
"I agree," she told him.
He knew she would have said that no matter what color roses he had chosen to buy. But that was fine with him. She was just doing her job.
The woman pulled out some red paper from beneath the counter, set the roses atop it, and began to wrap them. "Looks like some lucky lady will be grinning from e
ar to ear this evening," she said.
He smiled. "You've got that right."
As always, he paid for the flowers with cash, was careful not to touch anything else, and left the store humming. In the parking lot, he walked over to a black van. Once inside, he tossed the flowers on the passenger seat.
"Bought something for you lucky ladies," he said, glancing in the back of the van at his guests. "But you can't have it yet. I'm sure you understand. You're not exactly in a position to show your gratitude right now."
He laughed, pleased with his dry humor, started the engine, and took off. Within minutes, he was on Interstate 5 heading south from Portland. Dusk had settled in like sand in the desert and he turned on his lights to cut through the newly formed darkness.
In the back, he could hear one of his prisoners starting to moan and squirm, as if this would somehow lead to her rescue. Sorry, but that's not gonna happen, he thought gleefully. Though her hands and feet were bound securely and her mouth taped shut, he could not get to his destination fast enough. Alerting the attention of a nosey passerby with a cell phone could ruin his plans in more ways than one.
"Save your breath," he shouted at her, hiding the fact that he could never be totally at ease. Not until the job was done. The bitches had to pay...with their lives. All in good time. "Believe me," he admonished the moaner, "you'll need it later when you really have something to whine about. And don't even think about getting away. Escape is damn near impossible! Hell, there is no way out—at least not in the way you think."
The prisoner increased her moaning and wriggling with the desperation of a terrified person who knew she had nothing to lose at this point. If she only knew. He turned up the volume and sang along to Louis Armstrong's gravelly rendition of "Mack the Knife," effectively drowning her out.
"And the shark bites," he sang along, "with those pearly white teeth, dear..."
Looking into the rear view mirror, he observed the woman. She was in her late thirties with almond brown skin and thick curly black hair that reminded him of a baby lamb's wool. Taller than most women and slender in all the right places, she was just the way he liked them. She had on well-worn jeans and a bright pink blouse that was so tight across her large braless breasts he was surprised it had not ripped apart during her valiant struggle to elude capture. Of course, he had been one step quicker, physically superior, and more determined to have what he wanted.
He glanced at the other prisoner. She was motionless, obviously still under from the isoflurane he'd used to sedate her. The woman, in her mid-thirties, was white with permed auburn hair and somewhat on the slim side. She was a few inches shorter than his other captive and wore a faded, oversized jersey and jean shorts. Her bony legs were less than appealing, but he knew she would have to do.
Both bitches would do tonight. They had to pay the ultimate price for what she had done to him.
And that whining bitch will be the first to get it, he thought, eyeing the squirming, moaning black woman.
The speedometer read sixty-five and he was tempted to kick it to eighty, maybe ninety. He loved going fast and feeling the pungent air hitting his face as if to snap him back to life. Instead, he let up on the pedal, bringing his speed down to the limit of fifty-five along this stretch. He couldn't take any chances that the cops might pick his vehicle randomly amongst the many speeders to stop.
That would certainly interfere big time with his plans for these two.
Not to mention put him on a one-way trip to prison—or worse.
As if to validate his paranoia, or perhaps ensure that he would not go down without one hell of a fight, he leaned over, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a .357 Magnum. The cool steel felt good in his hands. He rested it against his face for a moment or two before putting it back in its resting place...knowing it was ready to grab at a moment's notice.
He took the exit for Hillcrest. Soon he was passing by the familiar gas station and a strip of stores and places to eat. He turned onto an unpaved road and headed down about three miles, made a right, and went past farmhouses, pastures, and pine trees. It was about as far away from Portland as you could get and still be within a short drive of the city.
Soon he reached his destination. He drove onto a winding gravel road that led to his property. The one story western red cedar log cabin sat on two acres of overgrown weeds and tall evergreens. The nearest neighbor was a mile away, which suited his purposes just fine.
He pulled up to a dirt path in front of the cabin that served as a sidewalk and shut off the engine.
"Welcome, ladies," he told his captives, "to my own little private hideaway. Now it's your home, too...at least temporarily." He chuckled nastily.
He dragged the black woman into the cabin first, enjoying her resistance.
"Scream your pretty head off," he spat. "It won't do you one bit of good—except maybe give you some pointless satisfaction that you didn't go down without making your whiny voice heard." He laughed. "Too bad I can't understand a thing you're saying with that tape strapped across your lips."
In the back room, he left her on the floor with her arms and ankles still secured while he went out to get the white bitch. She had begun to stir, as if coming out of a bad dream.
But he knew her nightmare had only just begun.
She joined the black bitch in the room. He left them to contemplate their fate while he got the roses out of the van. He put the flowers on a small wooden table in the front room. As usual, he needed only two, tossing the others in a wastebasket to rot.
He put one of the roses on some newspaper and grabbed a can of black spray paint. After shaking it, he sprayed it liberally on the rose till it was as black as charcoal.
Perfect, he thought, nodding with approval. Just perfect. It would be nice and dry by the time he finished with his captives. Then the black and white roses could be presented to them appropriately for their cooperation and participation in his game of life and death.
The mere thought of killing them infuriated and excited him like nothing else he could imagine.
Except the thought of his next kill...
And the terror in the eyes of those who would soon become his next victims.
CHAPTER 1
Veronica Vasquez was admittedly a bit nervous as she waited in the office of Homicide Detective Bryan Waldicott of the Portland Police Bureau. At the Bureau's request, she had been loaned to the department as a criminal psychologist and profiling member of the FBI's Serial Killer Unit. She was proud to have earned her stripes as a certified FBI profiler and determined to stay one step ahead of those who would like to see her "put back in her place."
Her current assignment was to help track down a vicious sexual serial killer terrorizing Portland, Oregon and its surrounding neighborhoods. Dubbed by the press as "The Rose Killer," the unsub had murdered six women thus far. The murders occurred in pairs, involving a Caucasian woman and a woman of color. The women had all been severely beaten, disfigured, and strangled. Most had also been sexually assaulted.
As grisly and unusual as this was, Veronica's frayed nerves were not due to the morbidity of the case or being uprooted from her home in Washington, D.C. at a moment's notice. Nor was she shaky at the prospect of having to deal with a temporary new boss who had once been one of the FBI's most brash and bright special agents, until he inexplicably walked away from Quantico three years ago.
It wasn't even the fact that she had just turned thirty-five and was already a widow with seemingly the best years of her life behind her.
No, what disturbed Veronica more than she cared to admit was returning to her hometown of Portland for the first time in nearly eight years. Not too coincidentally, that was the last time she had seen her sister, Alexandra, who was two years her junior. In fact, the two had not seen eye to eye on much of anything ever since their parents died when the sisters were in their late teens.
If the truth were told, they were about as different as night and day in Veronica's mind, l
eaving little ground for a stable, steady relationship, much less a bona fide sisterly bond. It had just seemed better all the way around if they went their own separate ways.
Or at least one of them.
And it ended up being her.
Now, against her better wishes, she had come back. She knew she would have to face Alexandra sooner or later to see if they could possibly salvage anything out of their kinship or if they would remain lost to each other forever.
Veronica forced these thoughts aside as she saw a tall, well-built man approaching the office. Even from a distance, she could see that he was handsome and looked to be in his late thirties. Thick hair that was as black as the night surrounded a chiseled face with a long, pronounced nose. When he got closer, she could see that his eyes—never parting from hers as if in a trance—were pools of deep blue with an intensity that probably matched her own green eyes with gold speckles. He wore a navy suit that was only slightly wrinkled, as if to indicate that he refused to go more than a few days without having it pressed. His striped tie was only loosely fastened over a crisp, white shirt.
Veronica immediately sat up in the chair, as if she had been slouching and did not want to make a bad first impression. She had chosen to wear a gray suit that flattered her five-foot-seven inch slender frame, along with a pink shirt, and black low-heeled pumps. Her straight black hair hung across her shoulders, bordering a heart-shaped face.
She rose to her feet as the man entered the office, self-consciously pulling down her jacket. Her mouth opened to a soft smile after she saw him do the same.
Don't let him see you sweat, she told herself. You've done this enough times. No reason to be intimidated now.
"Mrs. Vasquez—?" he asked in a strong baritone voice.
Veronica hadn't been called Mrs. Vasquez much in recent memory. Not since Daniel died three years ago. Did the detective think she was still married? Had he forgotten that she was an FBI agent and should be referred to as Special Agent Vasquez, if not simply Vasquez? Or, if the conversation was strictly informal, he could just call her Veronica.
Perhaps he was just being polite out of respect. Whatever his rationale was, Veronica realized that the formal title of Mrs. had the effect of dating her current status more than she wanted it to as a single woman. Though she was not looking for love, per se, she was no longer close-minded to it.
The Wrong End Of A Gun (A Noir Mystery Short) Page 3