Cellar Door

by Suzanne Steele

  “I’m a surgeon,” I say as I dab at the wound, more than a little exasperated at having to continue to explain myself. “Being precise is part of my job. It’s in my nature. And I consider your safety every bit as much a life or death situation as anything I’ve ever encountered in an operating room.” I go completely still as I stare her down. “Don’t underestimate me.”

  There’s no sense in playing games with her. She needs to understand her circumstances. Every move I make has to be precisely executed for my plan to be successful.

  She really is the perfect playmate for me. I can only hope that we take it far beyond fun and games. Being raised in an orphanage and never knowing who her parents were or why they left her practically guarantee that she has a fear of abandonment. Again, simply perfect.

  To someone else without a bent for kink, the experience we’re about to share would seem ludicrous. Neither of us is normal though. We both seem to accept that about ourselves.

  Two things are already working in my favor, and I intend to capitalize on them: nature and nurture. Not either/or, but both. Madonna’s life up until this point has perfectly prepared her for me. I, in turn, have created the perfect environment in which to persuade her that she’s exactly where she needs to be.

  My Madonna is already mine—she just doesn’t know it yet.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Madonna

  I waited until he reached the bottom step, going for the element of surprise. But he was so much stronger than I expected. I don’t know why I was surprised or what I was thinking by trying to fight my way out of here. I never stood a chance.

  His hand is clamped around my wrists and he’s pressed against me, effortlessly pinning me to the wall. His breathing is raspy and labored, but not from exertion – no, there’s no mistaking the hard length pressing against my lower abdomen, or the hand that’s palming my breast. I’ve heard about men who enjoy rough sex and, although I’d never admit it to a soul, I’ve thought about it myself. I’m thinking about it now.

  Still reeling from shock at my arousal from being manhandled so harshly, I listen with horror as he tells me his twin brother is a notorious serial killer and that I had been targeted as his next victim before he was arrested – and that I’m still a target. My stalker is some kind of delusional ‘fan boy’ of the guy. He’s decided it’s his life’s purpose to take care of The Riddler’s unfinished business -- me.

  So Liam watching me from the coffee shop was no coincidence. What the hell?! How long has he been watching me? Has Liam saved me in the past without me even knowing it? If this is the safest place for me to be, then I am really fucked. These thoughts flit through my mind like a movie on fast forward, far too fast for me to comprehend.

  He relaxes his hold on my neck, rubbing his thumb against my skin. Oddly, my frantic heartbeat slows in response to his touch. How can I possibly be soothed by the touch of a madman? It’s enough to make me doubt my own sanity.

  If I have indeed lost my mind, then I am well and truly alone in this world. And at his mercy.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  His Murder

  She’s tied to the chair. Gagged. At my mercy, really. Too bad for her, I’m all out of mercy today. I abandoned any vestiges of compassion in a dark alley last night.

  Her head bobs limply onto her chest as she struggles weakly against the powerful drug I injected into her neck after her john drove off. I unbutton a few buttons on her blouse, then impatiently yank the material apart so her tits spill out. I like them; I especially like knowing I’m the last man to play with them. Based on what I saw in the alley, bitch doesn’t strike me as the kind of whore who lets a john have any real fun along the way. Might as well.

  I grab a tit in each hand and squeeze as hard as I can until she moans weakly in protest. I push them together, twist and pull her nipples, finally biting down on one just to see her try to squirm away.

  Then playtime’s over. I wrap a leather belt around her neck. I’ve punched extra holes right where I’ll need them tonight. As the leather slides through the buckle, I pull it taut without fastening it, just to give her a taste. Her limbs thrash wildly as she emits a series of guttural, choking sounds that are muffled by the gag. Right before she passes out, I loosen the belt. I ignore her hoarse, incoherent pleas for help but give her a few seconds to catch her breath. Then I’m back at it, tightening the length of leather again, fastening the buckle this time so I can step back and enjoy the view, hands-free.

  My eyes are drawn again to her full, heavy breasts as they jiggle and bounce while she struggles. Her eyes really are remarkable, so beautiful as they silently plead with me. Once again I loosen the belt just before she passes out.

  I cock my head to the side as I consider her predicament. I mean, this is good, but what would it be like to fuck her and choke her with my bare hands? Over and over, I tighten and release the belt, fondling her tits and twisting her nipples harder each time. They really are amazing breasts, far more than a handful and so perky as she arches her back in agony.

  I cinch the buckle a final time and step back. As the light fades from her unfocused eyes, I see what The Riddler meant. The moment of death is truly a profound moment of absolute power. And it is indeed intoxicating, just like he said it would be.

  I want more. Fuck, but my dick wants more. I palm it slow and steady as I memorize every detail of this whore who has, for me, become the personification of sublime, eternal submission.

  Strangling her with the belt was up close and oh so personal. I think I’d like to do that again, but I have more surprises in store. I don’t want to use the same technique all the time; I’m going to experiment, change it up.

  I stand behind the whore and jerk her head back by her hair. Leaning over her, I slide my thumb behind her eyeball and pop it out of the socket. I read all about it online but I’m still surprised by how easy it is. So I repeat the process on the other eye.

  “See…no…evil…” I mutter out loud as I wipe my hands. Lance isn’t the only smart one. I’m smart too – smart enough to have my own way of doing things. I am, however, going to copycat one thing Lance did: I’m going to drop her body off on the doorstep of that ex-cop who trains private investigators, with a note telling them they should have paid more attention.

  I once saw an article about how Lance left a head staked on the Urban Elite security gate. Yeah, I’m sure Lance and the people of Louisville will get the connection when I drop the whore’s dead body off in front of the Urban Elite compound. They locked him up and forgot all about him, and now more women are going to die.

  Lance will be so jealous that he’s not the one interacting with these wanna-be detectives. Yeah, it will enrage him – the mere thought of me having something he values and craves more than anything—the power of life and death. And there won’t be a thing he can do about it, except watch.

  The whore’s eyeballs dangle over her cheekbones, attached by only a length of muscle now. Dim lighting gives her a ghostly, nightmarish appearance as I release the restraints and pose her body the way I want. When her skirt bunches up around her hips, I spread her legs apart just so. With her foot hooked over the horizontal spindle between the front and back legs of the chair, her thighs drop open and her pussy is laid bare.

  I step back and slide my hand down the front of my jeans, the friction making my dick surge with blood and lengthen in my hand. I know deep down inside I’m a killer and a twisted fucker, because the aftermath of her agony has me turned on. With no risk of being interrupted or discovered, I can take my time getting off from the mere sight of her. And it won’t cost me a dime.

  I smirk as I lower my zipper and take out my cock, stroking it from root to tip as I straddle her body. She was a whore in life and now, quite literally by my hand, she’s a whore in death too. I push her firm, still-warm tits together around my dick and begin.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  His Gift

  If I’m going to be successful dropping
a dead body at the Urban Elite front gate, I’m going to have to do my homework.

  The internet is a vast wealth of information and it doesn’t take long to find Urban Elite’s crime blog. It’s run by one of his trainees who goes by the name of Max. Lance talked to me a little about her and they seemed to have developed an odd relationship—maybe I can do the same thing. If Lance taught me anything he taught me a good mind fuck is never a bad thing.

  Max still visits him and he does outside interviews solely with her, so there must be something about the girl he likes. If she picks his brain for research on serial killers, I’m sure she could use another subject like me. I do know Lance doesn‘t bond, so if he’s somehow smitten with the girl, there has to be something special about her. I feel compelled to make him jealous and hijacking his personal connections is a sure way to do it—especially an attractive one of the female persuasion.

  I go over the blog information, confirming the Urban Elite address. There is a Bio section that tells something about a few members of the staff. I recognize one of the girls from the stroll and I’m shocked the guy’s willing to take on ex-whores. This presents me with an interesting opportunity. It would be absolutely delicious if she knew the girl I’ll be dumping off on their doorstep tonight. Talk about an instant mind fuck; that should get me in the door with that Max girl.

  I don’t just want to make Lance jealous. There’s more to it than that. There are some things he taught me that are as important to me as they were to him—like picking out my own name before the media dubs me with a lame one. I’m going with Kikazaru Killer. By the time I’m done, the media will see the connection between the three wise monkeys: See no evil; Hear no evil; Speak no evil. But I don’t want to wait until they get the hidden meaning, so I’m offering up one of the monkey’s names: Kikazaru, the one that hears no evil. Nobody wanted to see, hear, or speak to me, because I wasn’t important enough. But they will damn sure notice me now. It’s their fault I do these things—they should have listened -- so saith Kikazaru.

  I spend the afternoon getting ready to dump this bitch on the doorstep of the Urban Elite do-gooders—well, not quite their doorstep, because I’m sure there will be security cameras and too many prying eyes. So I wait until after midnight when most are in bed and unaware of the evil that lurks in the shadows. I slink out the door and use the same ruse Lance used for one of his abductions: just a homeless guy with a grocery cart.

  I love this time of night when a person can hide right out in the open. People don’t see the homeless. That’s what he told me and it’s true. Nobody wants to come face to face with society’s failures and face the guilt that comes from passing them by. Me? I’m keeping it real while others fake their way through life. I have killed a woman and I feel more alive than I ever have because of it. And I will kill again.

  I slither out of the shadows and take to the side streets and alleys, where dumpsters are plentiful and attract stray cats and rodents of all kinds. A glass beer bottle rolling down the alleyway is the only sound in the night. The fact that there are no cars and no people is soothing to my senses. I know the presence of either would interrupt my plan.

  I originally planned to dump her in front of the Urban Elite compound, but I really want to use my own style in this kill and not Lance’s. He had his heyday, now it’s my turn. I have picked up a lot of good information during my time with him. I remember him telling me one time: ‘What a serial killer does doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but him’.

  I have a plan, something never done before by any other serial killer—or at least not that I’m aware of. It will set me apart. I want people to fear me, I want that kind of power. I wish I could make the man I once idolized fear me. There truly is a thin line between love and hate, and I’m walking its tightrope where Lance is concerned.

  I pull the ski mask from my pocket and place it on my head, pulling the hood of my sweatshirt up over it. When I reach my destination, I peer up and down the alley to make sure no one else is lurking in the shadows. I don’t repeat my mistakes. When I’m sure all’s clear, I push the cart over to the dumpster I’ve chosen. Lifting my victim’s body from the grocery cart proves to be more difficult than heaving her into it. I’m annoyed when the damn cart topples over and a cat screeches and leaps from a dumpster. He scurries away after giving me a resentful glare because I interrupted his snack.

  Once again I look up and down the alley, but this time with trepidation and I resent it. I was enjoying the adrenaline high; I should kill that fucking cat but…as if he sensed he was in the presence of a killer, he’s long gone. I drag the body over to the dumpster, posing her, or ‘staging’ her, as the professionals call it. She looks like one of those bobble dolls with the eyes popping out on springs and I laugh when I think of it.

  There’s a neatly typed note attached to her slutty clothing and it doesn’t fucking rhyme: You really should have seen me…Kikazaru.

  I take one more look at my bug-eyed victim. I viciously kick her legs apart so there’s no mistaking this whore’s lot in life. When I’m satisfied she’s positioned in the manner of my choosing, I trudge back down the alley with my grocery cart.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Liam

  It’s been hard to sleep knowing the object of my obsession is close by. And yet, she might as well be a thousand miles away. Extended periods of solitude should have her looking forward to our interactions. When a person is lonely, even a visit from an enemy is a reprieve from the isolation.

  Reluctantly, I push her from my thoughts as I pull into the parking lot of Our Lady of Tranquility, the psychiatric hospital where my brother is being held. Instead of a lengthy prison sentence, he agreed to chat with medical students and scored a relatively cushy life behind locked doors. Hardly seems fair, really. Today he’ll talk to me; I need more information on the hooded stalker and no one is going to know him better than Lance.

  I can’t shake the idea that this guy isn’t finished just because he wasn’t successful in taking Madonna. His attachment to Lance leads me to believe that the failed attempt will only whet his appetite. He’ll be back for more, if he hasn’t already.

  Even after all the shit Lance has put me through, I cannot deny the visceral connection we share as brothers. After all, he’s not just my brother, he’s my twin. No amount of crazy can ever change that.

  I check in at the front desk and see that I’m the first visitor to sign in this morning. On a whim, I drop off some commissary money with the receptionist, who then directs me down the hall to the entrance of the secured wing. I wait for the telltale click of the lock releasing, then the double doors swing open and a security guard ushers me into the private visiting room.

  I lean back against the wall to wait for my brother, propping one foot against it and folding my arms over my chest. I never sit during these visits. Standing establishes dominance. When dealing with my brother, it’s important to control the conversation.

  “I see you still feel the need to keep your guard up, dear brother. Your body language speaks volumes, you know,” he taunts me as he shuffles into the room with a guard. He sits down, then rolls his eyes as the guard secures his manacles to a pair of clips bolted into the floor.

  “I think we both know why I’m here today, Lance, and why this won’t be a relaxed, friendly visit.”

  “Oh, do we have those? Have I somehow missed out on the friendly visits?” he smirks. At my eye roll, he continues, “Oh, calm down. What can I possibly do all shackled like this?”

  His chains rattle and clank as he lifts his forearms and waves his hands back and forth. “To what do I owe the honor of a visit from the talented and revered Dr. Liam Sheldon Chambers?” he says with grandiose flair. I wait until the guard leaves before I speak.

  “Your little hooded groupie tried to kidnap Madonna last night.”

  His mocking laughter rings through the air. “Oh… so let me guess. The great and terrible Dr. Chambers rode in on his white horse and, what, t
ook her for himself? In the name of saving her, of course.”

  I step away from the wall and lean in, slamming my hands down on the table. A frisson of satisfaction courses through me when his body jerks abruptly. My voice comes out through clenched teeth.

  “You ignorant son of a bitch, that crazy fuck has got it in his head to kill her because of you!” I hiss as I jab my finger right in front of his face. He just smiles and I’m tempted to knock the smart ass expression right off his face.

  “So let me get this straight; you kidnapped her to keep her safe. Huh. You know, you’re one sick son of a bitch, Liam. You and I both know your motives are not altogether altruistic here. You get off on that shit. Now…why exactly are you here again?” he asks sarcastically, tilting his head to the side and cupping his hand behind an ear as if to hear me better. Asshole.

  I can’t believe I’m letting him get to me like this. I know I can’t let him push my buttons and keep me from getting the information I need. I lean in closer, biting my bottom lip in an effort to not verbally eviscerate him. “I need to know one thing: is he crazy enough to kill someone else instead?”

  He leans in and rests his chin in the palm of a manacled hand, and whispers like we’re sharing a secret. “You know, your whole wanting-to-tie-women-up-and-fuck-them-senseless fetish -- it all stems from a need for control. In fact, I think you don’t have any friends because you’re just too fucking OCD for anyone to develop any kind of relationship with you.

  “Anyway…back to crazy boy; yes, I do believe he’s quite capable of killing someone just to get his own kicks. He so looks up to me, you know. Of course, he certainly isn’t the only fan I have.” He leans in again, looks around surreptitiously as if someone might hear him, and whispers conspiratorially, “You ought to see some of the letters I get from the women out there. And the pictures! Talk about a spank bank, brother. The things they say they’d like to do to me make me wish I was a free man.”