She cried out when her orgasm took her, and she pulled him close. Christian didn't resist, but the spell was broken. She had what she needed, and he had experienced it – made it part of the art that would follow. It was time to move on and finish what he'd begun
He would give her what she'd asked for, more than what she'd asked for. He would immortalize her in ways she couldn't even conceive. He had promised, after all.
He would save her youth for her. He would make her eternal and keep her perfect. He would make men drool at the sight of her, long to hold her, to caress her. He would make her unattainable to those men, a goddess. It was her destiny.
He slipped off the bed, into his pants and across the room as quickly as he could. She lay across the bed and watched him first in confusion, then in resignation, in the realization that their moment had passed.
He smiled at her, but her expression was wistful and even sad. He wished he'd gotten it on film, a fitting start for the work to come. She would not have been sad if she knew how much she meant to him at that moment, how deep the effect she had on him had become. They were blending to one being, entwined in his vision and bound by her beauty.
He didn’t want to lose her completely, so he went to the bathroom and wet one of the hotels washcloths with warm water. He took it to the bed, sat beside her and let her run her hand over his still naked chest as he bathed her, wiping free the sweat and the sticky remnant of their coupling.
As the warm water brushed over her breasts, followed by the chill air of the room, her nipples sprang taut. She sighed and leaned back, arching her body to meet his hands. Christian continued to wash her for a few moments, reveling in the sensations his ministrations caused and memorizing each and every reaction of her flesh, cataloguing them for future use.
The vision he would create could not violate the essence that was the model. It was the secret, the focus he'd missed.
Christian rose and turned on first one light, then the next. He moved about the room as professionally as he could with no shirt and an erection that was rapidly returning to full strength. He concentrated and tried to cleanse his memory of her body and her touch, filing each in its proper place as he completed the image.
Madeline blinked and held her arm over her eyes to ward off the sudden brilliance of the lights, but he continued. He knew she would grow accustomed to it, not that it would matter in the end. No light on earth would matter then.
"The scarves are in my purse," she called out, sliding back across the silk cover and preening. She had lost any shyness at being the center of his attention, running her hands brazenly across her skin, spreading her legs and grinning wickedly at him from the bed.
He knew that some of it was alcohol, more of it the Cocaine she didn't even suspect she'd been fed, but it was intensely erotic. She was enjoying herself immensely. She was also teasing him, trying to coax him back to her, and he fought it off bravely.
Christian opened her purse and pulled out the four scarves. Each was brilliantly colored, and each was different. He turned back, looked quickly at the way the light gleamed on her hair and the way the highlights of her muscles shone, and made his decision.
The colors would have to be placed correctly for them to have the proper meaning when it was all done. Nothing could be random or left to chance.
The first scarf was black, the design a floral pattern of neon pinks and yellows. He looped it quickly, tied it in a slipknot and slid it over her ankle. He pulled it tight and allowed his hands to rest for a moment on her calf, running up and down the softness of her skin. She must have shaved, because her skin rivaled the softness of the silk sheet.
He fastened the scarf to the bedpost and looped the second scarf, which was yellow with black and orange blossoms, around her other ankle. He pulled it tight and looped it around the other side of the footboard, spreading her legs at an angle that was still comfortable, but that she could not release herself from.
The two remaining scarves were white and brilliant scarlet. Both were completely covered in intricate designs, but the designs wound in and around one another so tightly the color was almost solid.
"The scarlet," he told her, talking as much to keep her alert, to keep her vital, as to make any sort of point, "will go on the left. It symbolizes the woman, the white the little girl. Your two sides, the two halves of your life."
As he spoke, he fastened her left wrist in the red scarf, tied it to the headboard and looked down at her. His desire flamed again, very suddenly, and he fought back to a point of control, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he circled the bed and repeated his task on the right wrist, fastening it tightly. Madeline lay helpless, bound and prostrate, and giggled up at him. She had caught the flash of lust in his eyes. She knew he wanted her.
She raised her hips and moved them in a circular pattern, twisting and writhing in her bonds. Grinning seductively, she pressed up toward him and licked her lips. It was like a game to her now, a test, her body against his will, and her pleasure against his work.
"Don't you want me anymore?" she breathed, a small moan escaped her lips. Her eyes still laughed, but her body was very, very serious. Christian knew he couldn't take much more of this, and he had to get to work. It was time for a lesson in reality.
"Oh," he said softly, "I still want you, Madeline dear, never fear about that. I have never wanted anything more in my life. There is something missing here, though, something you left out of your image, I believe."
"What?" she whispered, her eyes wide, questioning. "What more could there be?"
He moved slowly to her purse and pulled free another scarf, bright yellow. It gleamed in his hands, caught the light and flashed like gold. He moved to her side again, lifted her head gently, and brought it around behind before slipping it between her lips. She stared at him uncertainly, but did not pull away as he tightened it, fastening it on the side in a bow.
"Can you talk now?" he asked softly.
She tried, but only a mumbling, gurgling sound came out. He smiled down at her and ran his finger down the side of her face, over her throat, down to circle one nipple.
"How about a scream, then?" he asked. She only watched him as he rose and moved back toward the camera and his satchel. It wasn't until he turned back and she saw the syringe and the bottle in his hand, that she tried the scream. She failed. It came out a long, garbled moan, and he returned, smiling, to sit at her side, holding the syringe and letting his free hand drop to her belly. Perfect. Now he had her attention. Now the games were over and it was time for the true work to begin.
"I have some things to tell you, Maddy, before we go on, things about the photographs I take, and about Hiram. I think you'll find them very interesting. We are going to make art, you see, not just pretty pictures.
I've gone to great lengths for you. Your own vision and mine are not that far apart. We will capture your beauty, your essence, and we will make art like the world has never seen. Let me tell you my dream."
* * *
Fifty-fourth and Fifty-fifth had been two more dead-ends. Nothing. The night was wearing away all-too-quickly, and Tommy's nerves were going with it. He knew it had to be tonight, knew he'd be going over the edge by the next morning. There were limits to everything, and he was rapidly approaching his.
He stared fixedly at the road ahead as they pulled out and headed for Fifty-third. After the Shady Rest, they had only one more place before they had to head out again, starting from scratch.
Tommy pulled into the parking lot and let Mac out near the door. He cruised the shadowy lengths of cars, his mind wandering as his eyes worked over-time. He was getting one hell of a headache, and his stomach felt like someone had filled it with acid and kicked it a few times. He had to piss, and he wanted a drink, and he wanted this freak. More than anything else, more than anything in his entire fucking life he wanted this god damned freak in his hands, or his gun sights.
It was no different than other times, really, no worse and no easie
r, but it was the present. Only the freak of the moment mattered. The others were nightmares now, captured in his mind and played out in his sleep when he had the time to spare for them.
He rounded the last of the cars. No Darts. Not even an old Ford in the lot. He slipped back to curb, picked up Mac, who shook his head shortly and looked off into the darkness to chase his own shadows. They both knew they were nearing failure again. One more fucking hotel. One more chance.
Tommy reached for the microphone and called the station, more out of habit than out of any real hope that they would have something for him. He heard the crackle of static, heard another car breaking in on his call, then Caroline's voice boomed out, and his ears pricked up.
"Eighty-five, Eighty-five, proceed to Broadway and Fifty-first, I repeat . . ."
He didn't wait for her to finish repeating it, but neither did he flip on the siren or the lights. No need to let the freak know they were coming. He didn't wait around, either. They were getting there first. They had to. This was personal, and he'd rather make it a surprise visit.
The rest of the call confirmed what his mind had already deduced. They'd started at the wrong end of Broadway. It figured. The last hotel, the fucking last place they looked, was it. Some bum had called Terri, told her he'd seen that car not once, but twice that day, turning off Broadway both times and pulling down Fifty-first.
There was only one hotel on this side of the tracks, The Bainbridge Inn, a flea-bitten, one story string of rooms that was so obvious he hadn't even considered it a likely prospect. There he went again, trying to use logic. You'd think after so many years, habit would kick that shit the fuck out of his head, at least when he was working.
He squealed around the corner, whipped the wheel straight again and slid into the parking lot. He pulled in front of the office, let Mac out as before, and then began to circle. He spotted the Dart almost immediately, saw that there were lights on in the room, bright lights, and he stopped. He killed the cruiser’s headlights and waited for Mac to return.
Seconds later his partner appeared, and seeing him, Tommy pulled the cruiser slowly forward, coming within a few yards of the Dart and blocking it in. He killed the engine. Mac stood like a statue, and Tommy held off slipping from the driver's seat, until they were assured that they hadn't been heard. Slowly, he opened the door, watching Mac, and stepped into the night.
When he finally moved, his elbow slipped, the tension robbing him of some of his coordination. He pressed into the horn, blared it just once, and he froze. Mac froze. Then all hell broke loose and he was moving, heading for the door, cursing and spitting his anger to the wind.
Behind him, sirens raised their plaintive voices to the wind, lots of them. The other cars were closing in, and as Tommy rushed forward, almost diving for the door to that room, the door to the fucking completion of this nightmare, he heard one of the black and whites squeal around the corner and enter the lot, lights flashing.
Swell. If there were any doubt in the freaks mind who had come to call before that instant, they were gone now. Nothing left but rock and roll.
SEVENTEEN
Christian set the syringe aside. He'd only meant to distract her with it, not to use it. Not yet. It was just that she'd tried to manipulate him, to seduce him and pull him back under the umbrella of her own control. It had been working. Even as fear replaced the promises in her eyes, he felt the heat, the call of her flesh to his own.
No, he didn't want to use the poison yet. He had no one else to share the moment with, no one who would understand. What would be more fitting than to let her in on the secret, to tell her what her last moments on earth would produce? It was probably beyond the scope of her understanding. She was concerned only with survival at this point, but that was fine. Christian wanted to share his secrets, but not on a permanent basis.
He rose and walked back to the dresser, grabbed his makeup case and retrieved a small envelope from his satchel. The envelope was filled with small prints of his work, of the first three girls. He wanted her to know everything from the start. He wanted to show her the photos, tell her the secrets of each image, and then reveal them for the flawed failures that they were. He wanted her to see why things had to be this way, and why she would be transcendent.
If he had to know all of her, to know the form of her flesh, the rise and fall of her breast as she breathed, the touch of her, inside and out, then she should know him as well. It was a joining, after all. She was a part of it, even if the vision was not hers. She would be immortalized along with his talent.
Before he took her again, before he released her soul and made her into so much malleable clay she had to know all of him. In that way, she would know what reactions he craved and what end he sought. He would be hers, in a remote sort of way; she would own him as he owned her. It was the only way.
Christian brought the envelope to the bed and sat beside Madeline. He pressed his thigh hers. She was confused now, not knowing what his intentions were, no longer certain of the effect her body could have on him. He was glad that she hadn't flipped out completely. She still seemed to think it might prove part of some game, a new sexual encounter that would end and release her with a memory.
Christian pulled free a picture of Lindy and held it up so Madeline could see it. Her gaze tracked his finger as he traced the girl’s curves slowly. He knew she recognized Lindy from the other photo, but this time he was going to fill in the blanks, the questions that must have arisen over the perfection of the work.
"I want you to understand," he told her calmly. "This is my first. Her name was Lindy. She and her boyfriend, Tony was his name, used to make fun of me, to call names at me as I walked down my street. That isn't important, though.
"What is important," he explained, "is that I saw this inside her. She was a beautiful girl, much as you are a beautiful woman, but she did not realize her full potential. I don't mean this in the same way a counselor would mean it, or a parent. She didn't realize the potential her body could reach in these images because her form was tainted by other desires. She was impure.
“She knew her potential as a female, as a girl, and was on her way to realizing her potential as a woman, but she did not know her potential of beauty, or as art. It is a failing in all of us.
"That is my gift, to extract the images of that beauty before they disappear from the earth unheeded. It is my destiny. Her body was her own, but I stole her essence for my own.
"I watched her, day in, day out, and even suffered abuse from the boyfriend for staring too long, but I saw, and I created. These photos are her essence. I am an artistic alchemist, a seeker of truth in beauty."
Madeline squirmed against the bonds as he spoke, testing the limits of her confinement. She wasn't yet desperate, but she was pushing, pulling, twisting about with careful, guarded movements that she thought he wouldn't see. She kept her eyes on his, but her mind was bent on escape.
"You might as well not bother," he told her lightly, grabbing the scarf that held her left ankle and tugging on it firmly. "Silk is a very strong material, and I have tied you securely. I thought this was how you wanted it, how you dreamed of it. You wouldn't want to spoil the pose?"
She struggled harder, but he ignored her, going on. "You see the makeup?" he asked, returning his attention to the photograph with pride. "I did it myself. I did it from the image that popped into my brain one day as she stared at me from beneath a street-lamp.
"The skill, of course, I would have to attribute to the years I lived alone with my mother. I learned those lessons from her, but the use of the color, the subtleties of hue and dimension, those are mine.
"I saw it before it slipped away from her; her childhood was ripped half free, dangling in the breeze and wrapped up in her boyfriend’s greasy hair.”
Madeline’s arms and legs were taut with the strain of trying to free herself, and her eyes had teared up. Christian smiled at her.
“You should really listen more closely, Madeline. This i
s your story too, after all.
"She wouldn’t have been less beautiful without that innocence, that extra spark that drew me to her, not to other men, anyway," he went on, "but she would no longer have been worthy of art. There has to be something special to be drawn forth. I have made some mistakes, you see, Maddy, but I am learning. Every day, I'm learning more."
She no longer hid her fear. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she writhed crazily, trying to slip one arm, or one leg, free, trying to win a bit of freedom, fighting room. Trying and failing.
The drugs and alcohol still held her, but not as strongly as before. The sex had burned some of it from her and sobered her enough to realize that the pleasure was gone. The reality of what she saw and felt was no nightmare or hallucination, and not a game.
"I see that spark in you, Maddy," he told her, reaching out and stroking the side of her head, running his hand down through the long auburn locks of her hair. "It’s different, though, and much brighter. You are the one destined to make me great, to set me apart as a genius. You should be honored.
"The first girl I photographed unconscious," he told her matter-of-factly. "She was drugged, not able to move and ruin the shot, or to rob me of the beauty I sought. That is what I thought at the time, anyway. As I said before, I have made some mistakes.
"Somehow, I was wrong. I regret that I had to kill her. She was truly special, and I would have liked a second chance."
Madeline's eyes shifted. She tried new tactics, pleading silently for mercy. She reached to him with her body again, tried to entice him away from his thoughts and distract him, buying time. He watched the play of her muscles, the silky sheen of sweat that had risen to coat her flesh, but he didn't let her interrupt.
Sins of the Flash Page 24