Flypaper Con: Dark Psychological Thriller - Book 4

by C. K. Vile

  “Right,” he continued, as if time hadn’t skipped on his mental record. “The video didn’t quite do the event justice. See, I was on his table for hours. Hours. I thought I’d eventually die. Hoped I would die, but… I didn’t.”

  Oh, if only.

  Delbert stood up. The bed creaked with relief as his weight lifted. “We don’t have hours, Nick. I wish we did, I wish I could show you exactly, step-by-step, what I went through. The process. I even thought about putting crabs in you. It would only be fair.”

  Delbert grabbed the lamp on the bedside table and violently shook it. Shadows danced along the walls and ceiling of the room. “Crabs,” he ground out. “It should be crabs.”

  Nick pulled his head away from Delbert and his lamp. The guy appeared to be fighting the urge to marry it with Nick’s brain.

  Delbert relaxed and relinquished his grip on the lamp, straightening its shade until it was precisely level. “But no… it’d be a little too on the nose, right? See, no one will have any reason to ever suspect I was here unless I give them a reason to, and anything crab-related would be like leaving behind a giant neon sign with my name on it. I don’t need that.” He continued to pet the fabric of the shade, like a man would stroke a woman’s hair. “There was a time when I wouldn’t have cared. I was ready to give it all up. My anger… it eclipsed everything. I couldn’t even look at my kids.” He stroked a finger down the seam. “I couldn’t make love to my wife.”

  Air was sucked from the room and Nick found it hard to breathe. Not from fear, but from the sudden onslaught of sympathy. Fear chased it away when Delbert turned his head to stare down at his captive. Nick shivered. It was as if Delbert’s eyes were designed for more than seeing.

  Delbert knelt to the floor and hefted a large black bag onto the table a few feet from the end of the bed. He sifted through its contents and pulled a few items out. Nick could see bottles, plastic bags, shiny pointy things… any number of intimidating implements. “Over time I realized I didn’t have to lose everything. I could release this… flaming rock in my chest…and also keep my wife and kids.”

  Thunk. A heavy, metallic object landed on the table. The black bag obscured most of it. Nick couldn’t quite make out what it was Delbert had over there, but the thing looked positively medieval in nature.

  “The universe blessed me. It said, ‘here Delbert, here’s your chance’. It was a chance to meet you somewhere where there’d be too many suspects to count.” Delbert pulled a large kitchen knife out of the bag. “Con full of Maggots was perfect, right? Like I said, a gift.”

  Nick waited for the payoff. Whether Delbert realized it or not, he was telling a story. Probably a knack he’d picked up reading to his kids at night. However this story ended, Nick figured it had something to do with the heavy object on the table.

  “So I started looking around the shop. For hours. There were days—I remember one day Mrs. Hobbes’ car sat on the lift from dawn to dusk—because all I could do was think about ways to hurt you, Nick.” His expression, his tone; it was the happiest Nick had ever seen him. He was positively pickled in nostalgia over days spent dreaming up torture porn starring his least-favorite author.

  The walls closed in. You’re going to die here.

  Delbert picked up the heavy object and heaved it over to the bed. Metal and rust given form plunged into the mattress. Springs wailed beneath the thing’s heft. Nick stared at it in an effort to discern its purpose.

  Grip. Screw. Two parallel sides.

  It was a vise.

  Oh, fuck no.

  Nick didn’t think about the ball gag in his mouth. Logic had deserted him. He screamed. Rubber and saliva suffocated the sound, but he screamed and kicked and rocked the bed against the wall with a wump wump wump.

  He was going to die… surrounded by thousands of people in every direction, and not a soul could hear him. And not at the hands of a Maggot—though they permeated every inch of the building—but a man Nick would wager had never read a single one of his books.

  If Delbert Williams didn’t kill him, the sheer irony would.

  Chapter 15

  “I am God here.”

  One day when Corpse was very young, her father watched the movie Lawnmower Man.

  Strange movie. Oddly prescient, but also completely terrible. Stephen King had his name taken off it. This was the same guy who directed Maximum Overdrive.

  Lawnmower Man revolved around a man’s transformation from mentally handicapped to a super-genius Internet Jesus.

  “I am God here,” Internet Jesus bellowed in the confrontation with the doctor who’d created him.

  It really stuck with Corpse through her formative years. What six year-old girl didn’t want to be a virtual deity?

  The quote reeled through her mind any time she forged her way into the zone whilst bound to her keyboard. She was God there. A flick of a finger, a pedophile goes to jail. A twitch of the wrist, an ‘accounting error’ gives half of Baltimore double food stamps for a month.

  It was an abundance of control over an expansive area—the precise opposite of the situation in which she’d grown up.

  In the real world, however, she was considerably more limited. Her influence often ended at her fingertips, as opposed to being amplified by them.

  This was one of those times. Nick had gone missing and she hadn’t a whit of what to do about it. It was a feeling of helplessness she hadn’t experienced in a long time.

  Not long enough.

  Blaire’s heels tapped at the lobby floor as she trotted toward Corpse and Hellen. Behind her followed a handful of security guards.

  Corpse rolled her eyes then scolded herself for it. Think positive, Nick would say. Maybe. If he were there, he might also be concerned that his fate rested in the hands of rent-a-cops.

  “Corpse, dear.” Blaire’s usual faux smiley face was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she wasn’t a complete imbecile. “Local law enforcement is on its way. They’re treating this as a possible kidnapping given his profile and the history of threats.”

  A couple of people rubbernecked on their way across the lobby. The security guards drew their attention.

  “So what do we do, start kicking in doors?” Corpse would have cleared a floor already had Hellen not physically restrained her.

  “Right now they’re saying we should wait for the kidnapper to make demands.” Blaire pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know. I’m not sure they understand the situation. We’ll talk to them more once they arrive.”

  “Demands? Are you shitting me?” Corpse’s voice echoed through the lobby. Good. Make a scene. Let the lookee-loos get the word out. Nick Dawkins is MIA. “Maggots don’t make demands because their agendas don’t involve getting rich. At best, they want to be famous, but probably for the worst reasons imaginable.”

  Hellen agreed. “She is right.”

  Corpse exploded. “Who asked you? If you didn’t have something to do with it, you probably know someone who did. Like, personally know them.” She made an obscene gesture with her hand.

  Blaire held an arm out between Hellen and Corpse. “Knock it off. Not productive. Right now we wait for the police to arrive, we go from there.”

  A stiff penguin-of-a-man waddled up to the group. “Hi, Wesley Wilkes, hotel manager. I understand there’s been a potential incident?”

  Just the man Corpse wanted to talk to. “We might know for sure, if your security were worth a shit, Wesley.”

  The gaggle of security guards exchanged looks and adjusted their belts with building indignation.

  Wesley put his fingers together. “Mr. Dawkins actually turned down our offer for personal security.”

  “Not them.” Corpse jabbed a finger in his face. “Your computers, you great puffy twat. Your cameras have been offline since Friday morning and we know it. Un-fucking-acceptable.”

  Wesley patted at his forehead and glanced around the lobby at the growing crowd of onlookers. “I’m sure I don’t have any idea what you
’re talking about, but—”

  “Get your shit together.” Corpse yelled. “Or I swear I’ll start cracking Maggot skulls one by one until I find—” Her eyes scanned the people standing around the lobby, half of them were recording the proceedings on their phones. One smug little dipshit face stood out among all the others.

  Brundlefly.

  “You.” Corpse moved toward him, pushing aside a security guard. “Where is he, you little shit-heel?”

  Brundlefly tried to run, but collided with a couple of bystanders directly behind him. Corpse lunged for him. “Where is he?” she repeated with venom.

  “I don’t know.” He moved again, but she clutched at his arm. “How should I know, I’m here. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Corpse pulled him close. “Yes you do.” She sucked air in through his nose. “I smell it on you.”

  Hellen grabbed her arm. “We don’t know he had anything to do with anything.”

  Corpse jerked away from her. “Bullshit, he was up Nick’s ass all day yesterday.”

  Brundlefly opened his mouth. “Hey, I don’t have him. Look at me, I’m right here.”

  Blaire put her arm across Corpse. “Stop, this isn’t helping. We’ll find him.”

  Corpse relented. She loathed to admit it, but Care Blaire was right. Even if Brundle had done something to Nick, pummeling him there wasn’t a solution.

  “But whatever might have happened to Nick,” Brundle said as Corpse turned away, “he probably had it coming.”

  Oh no he didn’t.

  Corpse spun around and dove for Brundlefly’s face. He laughed as Blaire, Hellen and a couple of security guards held her back.

  “She assaulted me.” He gestured at her for the benefit of all the phones pointed in their direction by onlookers. “You all saw it. Unprovoked assault. I should file charges.”

  Several police officers filed into the lobby. Red and blue lights painted the streets outside.

  Hellen put herself between Corpse and Brundlefly. “Stop. Stop. You can’t help him this way.” She lowered her voice. “What happens if you get arrested?”

  Corpse stopped pulling.

  Hellen maintained eye contact. “Not worth it. Am I right?”

  She was.

  Friggin’ bitch.

  “Everything okay here?” A police officer looked around for anyone there to give him some information. He eyeballed Corpse. “Everything okay, ma’am?”

  Blaire stood up straight and caught the officer’s attention. “Hello, Blaire Coutrice. I’m Nick Dawkins’ agent. My client appears to be missing so if we could focus on that?”

  The officer nodded and followed Blaire and the hotel manager away. Most of the security guards went with them, though a couple stayed near the scene of the altercation.

  Corpse looked for Brundlefly. He’d disappeared.

  Hellen pulled Corpse behind a marble pillar. “I’m guessing you don’t want a lot of police attention.”

  Corpse peered out from behind the pillar. The others moved behind the front desk to an office area. “You guessed correctly. Thanks.” She looked the supposedly former Maggot up and down. “I guess. For all I know you’re covering for that little skidmark.”

  “Oh my god,” Hellen spat out, crossing her arms across her chest. “I just saved you from whatever super deep hole they throw people like you into and you still don’t trust me. Fuck’s sake. Fine.” She waved a hand and turned on her heel. “I’ll find him myself and you can kiss my ass afterward.”

  The crowd had dissipated. Blaire and the cops were behind closed doors, jerking off over maps of the building or whatever made them feel useful in situations like this. And Corpse… she was out of her element.

  The real world—dealing with real people—it wasn’t her wheelhouse.

  “Wait wait wait.”

  Hellen stopped in her tracks. She waited for what Corpse had to say.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing right now.” The words were like glass, ripping their way up and out of her throat. “I… need help.”

  Ugh.

  Hellen cocked her head to one side. “I’m sorry, it must have been my trick ear… did you just say—?”

  Corpse spoke through gritted teeth. “Don’t push it.”

  To her credit, the Hell-bitch hid her self-satisfied smirk pretty well.

  Chapter 16

  Nick’s knuckles scraped across the cold, tetanus-infested metal of the vise. Delbert, with help from the black leather strap around Nick’s wrist, held his hand in place and slid the apparatus around it.

  Delbert turned the crank at the top, closing the gap between the two metal plates on either side of Nick’s right hand, one squeaky twist a time.

  The bound author’s cries were swallowed by the red rubber ball in his mouth. He pulled at the straps holding him down with his entire body, shaking the bed. The headboard slammed against the wall of the room.

  “Relax, Nick, I haven’t even gotten started yet.” Delbert gently slapped Nick’s forehead. “You think this will be bad, you should feel what it’s like to have your lips sewn together with no anesthetic.”

  Delbert glanced at a digital clock on the bedside table. “Who knows, maybe we’ll get around to something like that. I don’t have Clark’s fancy surgical doo-dads, but I have some fishing wire that might work.” He looked down at Nick, his head tilting side to side. “Maybe keep that red ball in while I do it. Colorful. That’d be a nice touch. And Clark was supposed to be the artistic one.”

  Nick shook the bed in blind terror and hoped for a miracle. Seconds passed as Delbert walked across the room and drank water from a bottle on the table. Then he came back to the bed and rested his hands on the vise’s grip. No miracle had presented itself. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  Let’s not. Nick protested with guttural moans and the wump wump wump sound of the headboard pounding against the wall.

  Delbert wrapped a hairy hand around Nick’s throat. Thick fingers dug into the side of his neck. The pressure was incredible. For a second, Nick thought they’d go right through. Delbert would tear his trachea out bare-handed.

  Fuck, this is it. Please god, make it quick.

  Nick’s tormentor leaned in inches from his face. The lug breathed heavily through his nose, a steady stream of air audibly streaming in and out of his flaring nostrils. He closed his eyes tight and released his grip on Nick’s throat. “No,” Delbert said through gritted teeth. “You don’t get off that easy.”

  Nick coughed into his ball gag.

  “Be a man.” Delbert said as he repositioned his hands on the vise grip. “And be grateful we don’t have more time.” Delbert gave the contraption a turn. Then another. What little room there was for Nick’s hand to fit in the device comfortably disappeared. Cold metal pressed on either side of his hand. He did his best to flatten it out. It bought him a few seconds before the pressure increased again.

  Delbert encountered resistance as the vise closed on Nick’s hand. He turned harder.

  Wump wump wump. Nick pulled and kicked at the straps with what had to be adrenaline-fueled superhuman strength, but they didn’t budge. The bed gave slightly, resulting in the steady drumbeat of wood on plaster; a methodic countdown to when Nick’s hand would explode with pain as it was crushed into a fine paste of bone, blood and sinew.

  He hoped to black out long before that.

  The top of his hand felt the pinch first. Delbert put his back into it and the pressure radiated throughout the rest of his appendage. With every millimeter the maniac turned, the pain increased by multiple increments.

  Black out. Black out, go to sleep.

  “That looks painful.” Delbert moved in for a closer look. Nick’s hand had turned a dark purple color. “Do you know the skin can go nearly black from severe bruising? When the crabs were eating my muscles, when their claws where digging for an escape route, the skin was darker than this.”

  Nick’s head twisted and turned as thoug
h trying to escape his own body. He thought of the scene from The Thing where the guy’s head tore itself free, sprouted legs and skittered away. He envied that guy.

  Delbert gripped the vise tight. “Do you think we’ll hear the bones give?”

  Knock knock knock.

  Someone was at the door. Nick screamed as loud as he could through his rubber muzzle. He couldn’t be sure it would be audible through the door.

  Delbert picked up a pillow and covered Nick’s face with the suffocating down. He didn’t put pressure on it, he hadn’t gone fully One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, but it was probably enough to smother what little noise Nick could muster from his lungs.

  “Shhh.” Nick felt Delbert walk away from the bed; the successive footsteps as he neared the door. Then the sound of the door opening.

  “They’re looking for him.” The high pitch of the voice… Brundlefly was back. “What the fuck are you doing to him?”

  The pillow lifted away from Nick’s face. Delbert had his dog mask on again. “He has to pay for what he did to our people, right? This is how we do it.”

  Brundlefly’s face belied a squeamishness ill-sited for the grim work at hand.

  At hand.

  Nick marveled at his own pun and then remembered he could die at any moment. Unless the kid was squeamish about more than mere torture.

  Brundlefly feigned a smile. It was the same weak imitation Blaire tossed around when she was uncomfortable. The kid was out of his element.

  Now to get him to realize that.

  Nick stared at Brundle as mercilessly and intently as the kid had done to him all day.

  Look at me.

  Brundle glanced at Nick.

  Yes. Look.

  Nick made helpless doe eyes at Brundle in a bid for sympathy.

  That’s right, I’m a person. Help me.

  Brundle looked away. “I’ll be honest, can we just kill him and clear out? Being here with all these cops sniffing around makes me nervous.”

  Nyaaah, you little shit.

  Delbert walked back over to the vise. “Now, how’s it going to look if you check out of here in the middle of the night right after he’s gone missing?” His voice was reasonable. Calm. He gripped the device’s handle tight. “We wait until morning. In the meantime, let’s make him regret what he did to the others. To Clark... and the girl.”