Skellyman

by Rie Sheridan Rose

  “Not thirsty,” he’d lied—not intending to leave any DNA for the Spic.

  “Dance with me?” she’d asked, playing with the stereo.

  He’d lunged across the room and turned it off despite her pout. No point in pushing things with the neighbors. “Who needs music to dance, baby?”

  She gulped down the rest of her drink, barely able to keep her feet. She’d been drunk before he saw her at their rat hotel. The rum and Coke tipped her over the edge to near insensibility. She stumbled, raising a hand to her forehead. “Wow, that drink was pretty strong!”

  “Let’s go to the bedroom,” he purred.

  She nodded, shedding her coat as she went. In fact, by the time they arrived in Brenda’s bedroom, the girl was naked as the day she was born.

  He followed suit. After all, his clothes might be filthy, but he didn’t want to get blood all over them.

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea…” He stepped across the hall into Robbie’s room and grabbed one of the Brat’s old baseball jerseys.

  “Put this on, babe,” he ordered the girl.

  She batted her eyes flirtatiously and pulled it over her head. “This what you had in mind?”

  “Perfect.”

  They’d had a bit of the old in-and-out—first he’d been freely given in quite a while. Usually he had to rape a girl for sex, but the hooker had offered, hadn’t she? And she was pretty good—for a whore.

  He closed his eyes, stepping back to the present as he remembered the expression of slack-jawed surprise frozen on the girl’s vapid features as he slid his knife home under her ribs. Wrenching the knife out had allowed the blood to flow fast and free.

  It had gushed in a crimson flood from her damaged heart, pulsing out over the patchwork quilt and trickling down to pool on the carpet. Irrevocably marking his territory.

  Even if Brenda managed to clean the bloodstains from her grandmother’s quilt and replaced the carpet, the stains would always remain in her mind. She would never feel the same about the room again. She would likely move by the end of the month…if he gave her the chance.

  Grinning, he opened his eyes, once more watching the tawny, tan reporter orgasming over what was likely her first murder scene. The police hadn’t let the press into the house yet, but it wasn’t stopping the commentator from describing the horrific scene in intimate detail.

  If the reporter hadn’t been inside, she’d managed to finagle photos or a first-hand account from someone who had. Too bad she didn’t ask me. I’d have been happy to give her all the gory details—and a demonstration…

  He’d really enjoyed this killing. It opened further a tiny chink in his psyche he’d kept damped down for far too long—the ritual, the staging. This’d been so much more amusing than just a random murder.

  Now, he wanted to celebrate the darkness; to explore its full potential. He ached to take another life and make another artistic statement with it—it was so much fun—but it was too soon.

  That was how all the great ones inevitably got caught—they got clumsy. Sloppy. Impatient.

  Last night’s murder had started as a crime of opportunity and burgeoned into something magnificent. Next time, he would need to plan ahead of time to get the same rush.

  And he needed more practice before the Big Event. After all, practice made perfect.

  He saw the Spic step out of the house, shoulders slumped in weariness. Wasn’t it just like the Bitch to pick a policeman to whore around with?

  No more safe accountants or staid programmers for little Miss Fancy-Free. Danger with a side of Spic appeared to be the new flavor of the month.

  Well, let’s see how the relationship holds up after this…he thought.

  It was too much to hope Brenda would be blamed for committing the murder herself. After all, she’d been with the Spic most of the evening.

  But there was at least a chance there’d be suspicion cast as to her involvement—did she know the woman? After all, the girl was wearing her son’s jersey and in her bed.

  And a tiny seed of doubt could grow into a very large tree of distrust. He knew this from bitter personal experience.

  The news reporter had also spotted Phillip Sanchez, and she called out to him as he passed. “Officer Sanchez! Officer Sanchez—can you tell us anything further about this horrendous crime?”

  Phillip looked as if he’d rather do anything but; however, he was polite enough to stop for a moment. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ve been instructed not to discuss the matter until the investigation is completed.”

  “Is it true you and the owner of this residence are acquainted?” the reporter pressed.

  Oh, thought the skellyman, she is good.

  He hadn’t expected that tidbit to come out for a few days, at least. This was turning out even better than he’d hoped.

  “No comment,” muttered Sanchez gruffly, turning on his heel and walking away from the woman.

  “And there you have it—” she told her viewers. “Police refuse to comment further on any details of this heinous murder. Back to you, Jim.”

  “And we’re off,” called her cameraman. “Great job, Meghan. This outta get you a shot at the desk.”

  The reporter tossed her mane of perfectly highlighted gold waves and sniffed. “It would’ve been better if that cop had dished. Still…it gives me an angle for the follow-up.”

  She began to pack up her equipment, and the skellyman faded away from the scene. There was no further entertainment to be gained here anyway.

  He headed back toward his room and a nap. It had been a long night, and he hadn’t gotten much sleep. His long limbs moved with a disjointed fluidity, almost as if he were held together with brass brads instead of sinew—like Daisy’s calavera puppet, tucked away beneath his coat. He liked the symbolism of having taken it off the bulletin board.

  He knew there seemed to be too many bends in his arms and legs. Watching him move was oddly disconcerting to other people, and those he passed turned away almost instinctively—as if consciously blocking out the sight of him.

  It makes it easy to get away with murder, he grinned to himself.

  The hooker really had been fun. He had remembered to use a condom during their playtime and to remove it from the scene. Not that he expected any database in the world to have his DNA, but all the cop shows on TV couldn’t be totally wrong. He wasn’t going to risk his final prize on a stupid mistake.

  But what was next? What could he possibly do to escalate things from here without attacking Brenda or her family directly? There had to be something which would cause her the same pain without inflicting that final pinnacle of loss…

  An image of Phillip Sanchez flashed through his head.

  Hmmm…an interesting possibility. Am I ready to take that risk? A trained police officer will be much more of a challenge than a drugged-out hooker…

  It would require some serious planning.

  He stopped at the corner market on the way back to his room, picking up a few more ramen cups and some flavored water. On impulse, he added a bottle of beer to his purchases. After all, he had something to celebrate.

  “Uh…I’m not really supposed to sell beer before noon…” said the pimply-faced kid behind the counter.

  “That’s on Sunday,” replied the skellyman, giving the kid his best full-toothed grin.

  “Oh, okay…if you’re sure…” He rang up the beer on the register.

  A sudden vision of the store in flames while the kid screamed flashed through the skellyman’s head, and he felt a flare of excitement shiver through him.

  He forced it down. This was the only place that sold his ramen within walking distance of the hotel. For now, the kid was safe.

  “Uh…that’ll be $9.95,” said the kid, holding out his hand.

  Maybe I can live without ramen, the skellyman thought, eyes narrowing. He fished a crumpled ten out of his pocket, and the kid opened the cash drawer.

  The clerk slipped the ten into the register and started to close
the drawer.

  Lightning fast, the skellyman’s hand shot out and closed around the kid’s wrist.

  “Forgetting something?” he murmured softly.

  “Hey, man, let me go!” squealed the kid, face twisted in pain. “You’re breaking my fucking wrist.”

  “I believe you owe me change.”

  “Jesus, dude—it’s just a damn nickel.” The clerk fumbled a coin out of the drawer and practically threw it at the skellyman. “Now get out of here, you psycho.”

  The skellyman gave the kid’s wrist an extra, vicious twist as he let it go and picked up the nickel from the counter. It galled him to have to make a big deal over a single coin, but it wasn’t as if he had a fortune to spare.

  Clutching his bag to his chest, he scurried toward the hotel just down the block. Once, yeah, he’d thought nothing of letting a snot-nosed punk get away with something like that. A nickel here, a dollar there—no worries. But now, he was one of those crazy people who kept their eyes to the ground hoping for a dropped penny, and checked the coin returns on the pay-phones for quarters. The cash he did have came mostly from his victims these days, so it wasn’t a steady income he could count on. It seemed to flow away like water.

  Half the time, he couldn’t figure out where the hell it was going. Oh, wait. Most of it went for the meth. And that was not an extraneous expense.

  He might be currently flush, but he couldn’t count on that lasting for long.

  Another reason to hurry this phase along. He couldn’t wait forever. The big prize would be worth it…but it was hard putting up with the shit along the way.

  Turning into the lobby of the hotel, he grimaced at the sight of the day manager. He’d lost track of time. It must be later than he realized, and Wanda would want to chat. Wanda always wanted to chat—but today she might actually have something to talk about.

  “Oh…Mr. Brown! Did you hear? It’s just awful…Candy—the girl from 104, just down the hall from you, you remember? —she was murdered! Last night. Drew said he saw her go out, just like every other night of the world, but she never came home.”

  The skellyman nodded, feigning the expected interest. All he really wanted to do was slip by the gregarious woman and get to the safety of his room. Then he’d remember Candy all right.

  “That’s too bad,” he murmured, sliding along the wall across from the caged counter.

  “Oh, it is!” Wanda agreed, nodding her head and setting her many chins quivering. “I don’t know what this world is coming to. Of course, the girl weren’t no better than she should be. I think she was a…” Wanda looked both ways, as if checking the coast were clear, and then leaned toward him. “…a W-H-O-R-E,” she breathed. “Now, normally I wouldn’t have that kind of person in my establishment, but she was quiet and paid her rent regular. She didn’t bring none of those men of hers home though. I put my foot down about that!”

  As well as being the day manager, Wanda owned the building, and fancied herself a benevolent despot. She didn’t realize hookers and coke-heads were the only tenants desperate enough to live in a dive like this.

  Hookers, coke-heads, and him. He liked it this way. It was exactly the sort of place he could relate to. It felt like home…but he still fantasized about Wanda’s head in a vise as he turned the handle…twist, by twist, till her eyes popped from their blubbery sockets. Her idiot son, coke-head Drew, the night manager, wasn’t much better, but at least he was quiet.

  The skellyman sidled a bit further down the hall.

  “Oh, and Mr. Brown…I hate to mention it.” All the breathless-excitement was gone from Wanda’s voice. Now it had the steel of a bear-trap. “The rent was due last Tuesday. It’s already Monday again. If you don’t catch up tomorrow with two weeks payment, I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to leave.”

  He’d known it was coming—one reason he’d been moving around only at night. Wanda forgot what she didn’t see.

  “Yes, ma’am. Let me get that for you right now,” he murmured.

  The promise would shut her up for a few minutes at least. He scurried on down the hall to his room—and then remembered he had turned in the key to Drew on his way out the night before. Damn!

  He turned to go back, but apparently Wanda was taking no chances this time. He was startled to find her directly behind him. For a big woman, she could be very stealthy when she tried. He’d have to remember that.

  “Here, let me get the door for you,” she purred, producing the key from somewhere—he didn’t dare speculate where.

  She opened the door and pushed past him into the room before he could protest.

  “Would you look at that!” she breathed, taking in his wall of pictures.

  “Get out of my room,” he growled, voice tight with rage.

  Wanda continued to study the pictures as if he hadn’t spoken. “What a stunning woman. Is that your wife? And who is this beautiful baby girl? Oh, how sad! Who died?” She glanced toward him and then away without waiting for a response. “No, that can’t be your family. How could you ever go off and leave them alone for a place like this? You’d have to be out of your head.” She chuckled at her own wit. “Now, where’s that money you have for me?”

  Shaking with fury, the skellyman set his bag of groceries down on the rickety table and turned his back to her. He fished in his pocket again.

  Candy had been good for more than a quickie…he pulled a hundred-dollar bill from the stack he’d taken from the dead hooker.

  Luckily, no blood had gotten on her purse or the money. He’d dumped the purse, but the money would eke out his nest egg for quite a while if he kept his expenses low.

  “Here you go, Mrs. Delaney. I am sorry I forgot last week. You should have reminded me sooner.” He handed her the bill.

  “No problem, Mr. Brown,” she murmured, all smiles now as she tucked it away in her not-inconsiderable cleavage. “We all make mistakes from time to time. Now, you should really think about going home to that beautiful woman there if she does belong to you—” She pointed at Brenda’s picture. “She looks like a good one.”

  “She’s dead,” he replied dully, fighting to keep his temper in check.

  “That’s terrible! I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Brown. Well, she sure was a looker. And what an angel of a little girl! I swear they look familiar. I almost feel as though I’ve seen them somewhere before.”

  The skellyman’s blood turned to ice. If she remembered…

  The risk was too great. Wanda Delaney would have to experience some unfortunate accident—and soon.

  Chapter 44

  Brenda stared at the television in utter shock. What is happening to my world?

  It had seemed all was lost when she got the news of the accident; when she lost Ethan and Robbie. Since then every day had been a struggle, trying to be there for Daisy when the bulk of her emotional resources had gone up in the flames of the wreck. But she had thought the corner turned…things had been starting to make sense again—until the night Daisy first saw the skellyman on the street.

  Who is this lunatic who seems to be following me around? Is he somehow responsible for this latest nightmare? And if not him, who? Why?

  She saw Phillip step out of the house. So did the reporter. The perky blond immediately began plying him with questions, which he declined to answer. Still, the woman’s pointed inquiries probably wouldn’t help his career any. Damn.

  Suddenly her guts were threatening to crawl out of her throat. She barely made the toilet before she vomited up everything in her stomach again—and then some.

  I’m never going back to that house. No matter what happens.

  She’d send in movers for anything she absolutely had to have. Maybe Papa would supervise them for her, but she was determined not to step foot in it again.

  She turned off the TV, hand shaking. When she tried to set the tray on the dresser, the shaking escalated into full-fledged tremors and it fell from her hands in a crescendo of breaking dishes and splattered f
ood. Her breath came in sobbing gasps as she fought to bring herself under control.

  I’ll have to pay Penny for those dishes…the banal thought broke her control completely, and she cried until there was nothing left inside but emptiness.

  Finally, she managed to pull herself together.

  Better go ahead and get dressed. Penny is counting on my help at school today.

  She took a quick shower and put on one of the dresses she’d picked up the night before. It was a little light for the weather, but she hadn’t really had time to pick and choose—besides, her wardrobe was mainly geared to the t-shirts and sweats she’d been wearing for the last few days.

  There was a knock on the door. She opened it, expecting Penny, but it was Phillip. He looked tired, and his face was serious.

  “Come in,” she said, gesturing toward the desk chair. “Sit down. You look all done in.”

  “I can’t,” he replied softly, remaining outside the door.

  “I guess I expected that. Was it…bad?”

  “Bad enough. I can’t really discuss the details. It’s not my case—the detectives will be investigating. But I…had to see you. I want you to accept police protection, Brenda. It’s really not a request. The man who did this was an animal. The bedroom was like an abattoir. I hope you weren’t too attached to that patchwork quilt.”

  “It was my grandmother’s,” she whispered, eyes filling with tears.

  “I don’t think you’re going to want it anymore. It’s evidence right now, anyway. They’ll probably need you to make a statement at some point—for the record. God, Brenda, I am so sorry this had to happen.”

  “It’s him. It’s got to be.”

  “Who?”

  “The skellyman—whoever this lunatic is who’s been following me. Have there been any hits on the sketch?”

  “You watch too many cop shows,” he replied, with the ghost of a smile. “We’ve been showing it around, but no one seems to recognize him.”

  “With looks like that, how can he be invisible?” she murmured with a shudder.

  Just then, Penny appeared in the doorway.