Gavin English Thrillers

by Ken Lindsey

  "I'll be quick, love. Don't you worry about passing out if you need to, I won't be offended."

  With that, she felt him clamp his gloved hand above her right knee, and then the blade dug into her calf. She screamed so loud she thought she might tear her throat. The pain ripped through her. The knife tore back and forth through her flesh, and she felt the world closing in as her mind began to shut off. She screamed. She screamed until darkness engulfed her consciousness. The last thing she saw was her own blood splattering, like a Rorschach test, on the ceiling above her bed.***

  The afternoon came in hot and cloudy, and soon thunderstorms arrived. The rain poured nonstop and the sky exploded with lightning every few minutes. I stayed home and shut off my cell phone so that I could drink the day away. I was running on zero sleep for the week and a morning of questioning the high school gestapo, followed by staring at some sick asshole’s long pork leftovers. I couldn’t take anymore.

  I sat out on the tiny balcony which was afforded to me by my tiny apartment, and poured the last of an old bottle into my glass. The rain washed the urban landscape clean. Maybe that meant something. Maybe things just got dirtier after a while, and a good rain could clean it up. Not only the streets, but the people. Maybe the rain would make this sadistic piece of shit bring Jennifer home and turn himself in. Tomorrow was a new day, after all.

  Yeah, I was drunk. Without warning, I found myself with an empty glass in my hand and I headed to the kitchen for a fresh bottle. I still wore my suit pants, but my jacket, shirt, tie, shoulder harness (complete with holster and pistol), and shoes were piled beneath the bar where I had stripped down as soon as I got home. I lifted the bottle of Jameson, a recent and wise purchase, from its brown paper bag and tore the lid off. Took a swig for good measure, poured three fingers into my glass, and wiped the top of the bottle with the edge of my tank top.

  As soon I stepped out onto the balcony, the doorbell rang. I set my glass, and the bottle, on the wooden rail, and walked back inside. Mormons and census takers never came by this late in the day, so I decided not to be angry until I actually knew who had decided to break up my solitary drinking night.

  "Rachel?"

  She nodded and brushed past me into the apartment. "I hope it's okay, I found your address in the yellow pages.” Although rain from the storm had soaked her hair and clothes, my keen detective senses told me that she had been crying. Also, she had a handful of damp tissue, and continued crying.

  "What are you doing here? Did something happen?"

  She took off her stylish leather jacket and laid it on the arm of my couch. "Can I have a drink?"

  "Of course." What else could I say? She followed me into the kitchen where I grabbed a clean tumbler out of the cupboard for her. "Ice?"

  She shook her head. I took her and the clean glass out onto the balcony, where we sat down and I poured her two fingers worth. She tossed it back, grimaced, and held the glass out to me. I gave her another. This time, she only drank half of it before shivering and putting the glass down.

  "Your friend called me today to tell me that they were officially reopening my daughter's case. I didn't even know it was closed. She hasn't been found, so how the hell did they close her case?"

  I got two cigarettes from my pack on the ground next to me, lit them both, and handed one to Rachel. "It wasn't closed. He basically meant that rather than posting Jennifer's face on the internet and milk cartons, they are going to treat it as an active investigation."

  She took the cigarette and emptied her glass again. I followed suit, and then refilled us both.

  "I need to know whether or not she's alive."

  "I know."

  That thought hung in the air, thicker than the blankets of rain that continuously pounded against the balcony's overhang. For the next hour, we didn't speak. We drank most of the whiskey, and chain-smoked a whole pack of cigarettes while the white noise of the rain pattered and splashed the world around us, but we didn't say a word to each other. She cried off and on and I did my best to comfort her, without breaking the silence. Before I knew it, her head was resting against my chest and I had my arms around her, running my fingers through her hair.

  She sat up and wiped the tears from her face, then looked me in the eye. She said a thousand different things with that look, but my mind was too clouded by the booze, the rain, and the smell of her perfume to notice.

  Then she kissed me. Hard and fast and before I knew it her tongue slipped between my lips, digging forward until it met with mine. I kissed her back, with one hand buried in her hair and the other navigating its way from her knee, to her thigh and higher. I pressed on until my fingers slid against the warmth of the cotton between her legs.

  Somewhere beneath the whiskey and the smoke I could taste strawberries on her lips. She moaned while our tongues were still searching each other and I could feel my cock pressing against the fabric of my pants, aching and swelling more with each second.

  Was this happening? I sucked in a mouthful of her breath and pushed away. "Wait. Rachel. You've been drinking. I'm not sure if this..."

  She cut me off with a whispered, "Fuck you, Gavin."

  "What?"

  "This is not the time to pretend to be a gentleman. I've seen you stare at my tits and my lips and everything else, and you've never acted coy or ashamed. I need to feel something that isn't sadness right now, and I need you to be yourself. I need you to want me, and to take me. Right now. I don't need a nice guy tonight. I need you."

  I'm sure there was an insult in there somewhere, but I had spent the last drop of blood in my head when I pulled away, and I couldn't care less.

  I pushed forward and took her in my arms again. Her mouth opened eagerly for mine and I kissed her and laid her back against the hard wood of the balcony floor. Her hands danced at my zipper as I yanked my tank top off and tossed it through the open door of my apartment. I kicked my pants off as she removed her shirt to reveal a white, patterned Victoria's Secret bra underneath. Her stomach was smooth and she had a smattering of freckles that I kissed as I unclasped the bra. Then I tugged down her skirt and underwear in one try.

  Panting and flushed in the cool night air I took a second to appreciate her body as I ran my fingers down her side and over her hip. She had wide, pink nipples that were reacting perfectly to the cool of the air and the warmth of my touch. Everything beneath her skirt felt as smooth as her stomach, and the tattoo on her leg turned out to be a dragon, whose head ended just below her waist. I smiled when I noticed that she was giving me the once over as well.

  She tugged me forward and I ran my finger between her lower lips, which were soft and wet, as I kissed her again. She moaned once more and spread her legs so that I could slide between them. After only a moment of searching we both gasped with pleasure as I found my way home. I slid myself into her warmth slowly, deeper and deeper until she bit my shoulder to keep from yelling out.

  We made love, and then we screwed. Over and over. She bit and scratched and moaned, while I kissed and pressed and rolled her over, time and again. We kept it up until we both passed out. The rain died away and the morning sky began to break blue.

  When I woke up, I was alone, and morning had come and gone. I sat up, not sure what to make of the previous night, not sure if I would ever be able to look Rachel in the eyes again. Then I saw them. Tucked under the nearly empty bottle of Jameson, on the floor in the corner of the balcony, laid a half-folded pair of light blue cotton panties.

  What a great way to start the day.

  Chapter 12: Meat and Greet

  "Denise Beckham's mother carpet bombed my office with lawyers this morning," ranted David through my earpiece as I cruised west on I-80, toward Sparks. "She just stood there screaming, and some fat bastard ambulance chaser was stacking petitions on my desk, talking about the sanctity of religion and how I was violating Denise's right to have her body untouched after death."

  "Can't say I'm sorry I missed that one. The mom is pissed because
you guys did an autopsy?"

  "It's all bullshit. This case is getting TV coverage all over the goddamn country, and her attorneys are hoping to get a big fat payday, courtesy of the county."

  "What are you gonna do?" I asked as I exited the highway and headed north toward a maze of subdivisions born in the last housing boom.

  "I have to give up the body. The geeks said they got everything they're gonna get, and if I wind up kicking the shit out of one of her people, we're definitely going to get sued."

  I parked in Mr. Williamson's driveway, and shut off the Jeep. It was a single-story house, with a small front lawn and a few trees. "Get through the day. We can blow off some steam tonight."

  "Good plan. What are you up to?" My lunch date peeked his head through the curtains of the picture window at the front of the house. I gave him a wave. "Just got to Mr. Williamson's place, one of the teachers from the high school. He might know something about the girls that we haven't heard yet."

  "Does he think you're a cop? He better not."

  "No, I didn't say I was a cop."

  "Why are you at his house then?"

  "He told me he'd be okay with answering a couple of questions. He seemed kind of weird, but I'm pretty sure it’s only because he was hitting on me."

  "Okay sweetheart, remember to use protection."

  "Whatever. Free lunch is free lunch."

  David hung up and I threw my earpiece into the glove compartment. My Makarov rested in there too, but I didn't think a squirrely school teacher would welcome a gun in his house. I checked my tie in the rearview, straightened my jacket, and got out. By the time I reached the porch, Mr. Williamson stood out front, holding the door open for me.

  "So glad you could make it," he smiled and invited me in.

  "Sorry about making you wait, I had to finish up a business call."

  "No problem at all, I was just putting the finishing touches on lunch anyhow."

  As he led me through a modestly decorated living room, the tell-tale scents of grilled meat hit me and I realized that I hadn't eaten anything that morning. "It smells delicious."

  "Thank you," he replied as he pointed me to a seat at a built-in dinner table. "I don't mean to brag, but I'm kind of an artist when it comes to preparing meat. I think you'll like it. Can I get you a drink?"

  I almost begged off, thought of asking for a glass of water. Then I saw the huge glass liquor cabinet sitting next to the fridge. Johnnie Walker, authentic tequila, old single malts with no labels, and a variety of other delicious beverages were on display. "Sure, whatever you're having is fine."

  He poured us drinks and brought out plates full of food. Before long I was halfway through the most delicious pork steak I had ever eaten. "This is amazing," I mumbled between bites. It tasted so good I couldn't even be irked as he chewed with his mouth open. Maybe a little irked.

  "I'm glad you like it. Now, you had questions about Denise?"

  Oh yeah. I took one last bite and did my best to savor it before putting down my knife and fork. "Right. Anything you could tell me about Denise and her friend, Jennifer..." I looked at the Scotch sitting in front of me—second serving, only halfway gone, but I felt properly tipsy. I wondered if I could find a way to get him to gift me the bottle. "Jennifer's mom hired me to look into her disappearance."

  "Oh, alright." He smiled and refilled my glass. "Well, as I said before, Denise was great. A real treat. Jennifer as well. She's incredibly tender, wouldn't you say?"

  "What? Oh, I didn't know her. Her mom, though... Wow." I couldn't focus. The room started twisting and I had a feeling like I was falling in the pit of my stomach.

  "I'm sure she's too old for my tastes, Mr. English. They tend to get stringy after adolescence."

  "What?" Somewhere in the back of my mind a tiny voice screamed at me to straighten the fuck up. The same voice I'd heard every time I got pulled over after a bender, back before I decided that paying for a taxi costed a lot less than going to jail, or worse. I shook my head to clear the cobwebs. "What do you mean, 'stringy?'"

  "I think you know exactly what I mean."

  I did. Fuck. For the first time, I noticed that his glass hadn't been touched, even though he'd refilled mine once. Or twice? This was not good. The photos of Denise's mangled body invaded my mind. This guy had done that to Denise, and might be doing it to Jennifer.

  I wanted to jump up and fight, pin the fucker to the wall. I didn’t know if I could. My arms felt like lead and each moment that passed made it harder to keep my head up. My ex-wife roofied me once because she was pissed off about something stupid I’d done or said. This felt worse, and I couldn’t imagine waking up to awesome, angry morning sex this time.

  "It's you," I slurred. "You... You're a... Fuck... Sick fuck... You."

  "Oh, I don't know about that, Mr. English. You seemed to enjoy the meal nearly as much as I did. So, if I'm a 'sick fuck,' what does that make you?"

  The pork. Oh god.

  My body moved faster than my mind. Before he had a chance to react, I lunged across the table and wrapped my hands around his throat. "YOU FUCK! SICK FUCKING COCKSUCKER!" I caught him off-guard and his face turned red as he fought to gasp for air. He flopped and jerked, knocking things from the table left and right as he tried to get out of my grip. Even drugged, I was stronger than him. I could only hope that he would suffocate before I passed out. I held tight until I saw his eyes roll back into his head. His legs gave out beneath him, and I couldn't hold on any longer. His body hit the floor with a soft thump.

  I stumbled around the table, leaning heavily on the sturdy wooden surface to keep myself upright. He was down, unconscious, at least for the moment. I slapped myself. Again, hard. My legs were shaking, and my eyes didn't want to stay open, but somewhere deep inside my brain continued firing on at least one or two cylinders.

  I fumbled around in my pocket with my free hand until I found my phone. I stared at the screen until the slider bar finally came into focus. It still took me three tries to get the damn thing to work. David was the last person I talked to, I wouldn't even have to dial a number. Thank Christ.

  Green phone button once. Green phone button twice. I put it to my ear. It rang at least four thousand times before he answered, "I'm still at work dammit. Is your date over?"

  Come on, mouth, do something! "It's... Teacher." The room around me started to look like a fucking nightmare. Everything wagged back and forth and I'm pretty sure David licked my face through the phone.

  "What? Are you drunk?"

  "No. Drugs."

  "Drugs? What the fuck are you talking about?"

  "Teacher. Druuuuhhhgs." Come on, I'm speaking clear as day here, David.

  "Oh shit, did he try to roofie you?" he laughed.

  Come on, Gavin, focus. I picked up my fork from the table and jammed it as hard as I could into my thigh. It helped.

  I screamed.

  David yelled, "What the hell?!"

  "TEACHER! CANNIBAL! DRUGGED ME! HURRY!" I replied sensibly before dropping the phone and yanking the fork out of my leg.

  I didn't bleed. At least, I didn't bleed blood. Instead, tiny kittens started oozing their way out of the prong holes on my leg. They were terrifying and cute, but I had work to do.

  If this guy was the killer, then Jennifer might be in the house. I had to look. I hefted myself away from the table and stumbled into the living room. I fell twice while swatting at the giant wasps that were trying to get to my blood kittens. Stupid wasps.

  There were three doors. One of those doors probably led to Jennifer. The other two were sure to have bears behind them. I picked the one in the middle because I knew I had no time to waste. I gripped the doorknob as tightly as I could and readied to defend myself.

  I yanked it open. No bears. "Ha!"

  There were stairs, though. About a million of them. I took the first step down, and then the staircase flipped on me. I felt like I was in a dryer during the spin cycle. Over and over the stairs rolled, taking me with th
em. Luckily, when they stopped spinning, I hit the bottom.

  Then the lights went out.***

  Robert Williamson was twenty-six when he returned to Salt Lake City from his mission trip to Sierra Leone. Three months after he and his group were kidnapped by insurgents, he alone survived to be rescued by the U.N. peacekeeping force. After going on record about the atrocities he had witnessed, which included rape, torture, and cannibalism, to name a few, he was admitted to a makeshift medical facility. It had been set up in the ruins of a home in the jungle of Western Africa.

  Without the tools or personnel necessary to perform skin grafts, they bandaged Robert up and gave him a few days to stabilize before he flew back to the United States. Once in a proper hospital, Robert insisted that he be allowed to remain awake, while the doctors surgically reopened each of the wounds on his legs. With a minimum amount of anesthetic, he watched as metal plates were used to repair the damage that blades and teeth and fire had done to the bones of his leg. Along the edges of his wounds, doctors had to cut away healthy and infected skin alike, to give the skin grafts something to attach to.

  He relished the three months he spent healing in that hospital. Medical staff were open about the procedures they used to put his leg back together, as well as the types and doses of pain killers and antibiotics that were needed to keep him comfortable, but still able to function. He asked new questions daily, not only about his body, but about others he saw come in and out. He listened and learned, all the while remembering that first taste of human flesh he had received, while still locked in a cage.

  "You wan' stay alive, whito?"

  "Yes. Please, I'm starving."

  The revolutionary couldn't have been more than 12 years old, but when he smiled, Robert saw that his teeth were rotting out of his head. "Then you eat this, whito. Is all we got to give you."

  He cringed and gagged at the thought, but the barely cooked flesh exploded in a burst of flavor in his mouth. Tender. Delicious. He asked for more.