Pay Dearly

by M. S. Brannon

  I need to get answers. I deserve the answers before he kills me. I need to know why he would kill that family, the men, and what his purpose is. So many questions linger in my mind, marrying with the emotions brewing through my blood.

  Although I am frightened for my life, I am angry most of all. I am angry because I was stupid enough to be in this position, because I had to come here alone. I am also furious with the man who is in front of me. I want to kill him, but first, I need to find out the truth.

  The words are hanging on the tip of my tongue, about to come out of my mouth, but before I can force it back, I ask, “Who are you?”

  The man doesn’t look in my direction. He simply looks at the wall ahead of him, lost in thought. I feel like he’s forgotten I am even there. His expression is all brooding and intense. I find myself mystified by him for a moment, exactly like when I was a young girl and was always fascinated with serial killers, trying to figure out the motives behind their actions. However, I find him the most perplexing of all the cases I’ve studied or worked.

  Then, like a switch turning on, the distant man he was seconds ago vanishes, and he’s a completely different person, a very dark and scary person. He is a person who wants to eradicate anything in his path, and currently, I am the only thing standing in his way.

  “I am the man you’ve been looking for, my dear.” The sound of his voice is deep, much deeper than expected, his words all said with a glint of happiness in them. “Although, I thought it would be me visiting you, not the other way around.”

  When I look around the room, I see it is vacant of the silver suitcase. Whatever was in that case, he did not want me to see it. I can only think its incriminating evidence to six murders. Now, the only thing in the room other than the cot and table is his suit hanging on a rusty nail and the heavy bag.

  He still hasn’t answered my question, and I am in no mood to toy around with the freak. “You did not answer my question.”

  He cocks his head to the side, probably wondering where my bravery comes from. That’s right, dick. I’ve had it all along, and I will go down while fighting you every step of the way.

  “Who are you?”

  “That is an excellent story, love, but I will not be sharing that with you just yet.”

  My heart sinks to my feet, knowing he’s calculating a plan. I obviously foiled whatever he was going to do with me initially, so he has to formulate something new. The cogs are turning, and I have no doubt he will have an expert plan soon.

  I decide that, if I’m going to die, then I need to just get it all out in the open. I don’t care if I piss him off. I want answers so I know all of this was not for nothing.

  “Look, asshole, you can dick around all you want. All I am asking for is who you are. We both know you are the man known as Ryan Smith, although I doubt that is your real name.”

  “Fascinating, Josslyn. What else do you know?” He looks intrigued, and I am a little off balance with his eagerness to talk to me. Nevertheless, that needs to be my plan—keep him talking. I have to keep him distracted, and hopefully he will slip up enough for me to put the pieces of the puzzle together or beat the shit out of him. I will take either one.

  I follow him with my eyes as he moves to his suit hanging on the nail and carefully lays it down on the end of the bed.

  “I know that you’re a demented psychopath who likes to mutilate people.” He looks over to me, his eyes full of a brewing rage. I am pushing his buttons—good. “I know that you are connected to the Vory V Zakone.” This gets him to turn fully and face me. Yes, asshole, I’ve got your number. You are not that sly. “With that and the sound of your accent, I know you are Russian, and you’re probably here illegally.” He is on the brink. The cold, killer eyes ignite into a blue inferno-like heat. Now it’s time to see how far I can push him. I clear my throat and go for the kill. Hopefully, it won’t be me who dies. “And I know you’re a sick asshole who likes to rape and kill little girls!” I shout.

  Before I can blink, he is on top of me, holding a large knife with a serrated blade to my throat and pressing the edge into my skin. My breath leaves my body as the pinch of the knife cuts into my skin. The look in his eyes is suffocating, and my panic soon floods in. The sudden weight is suffocating me. He is on top of me. I can’t breathe.

  Clear your mind, Josslyn. You can do this. Focus, I say in my mind, yet the flashes of the man who raped me are coming back to me. I can feel my chest heaving from my rapid breathing. Just like that night, I need to escape from what’s about to happen. I need to vanish. I need the darkness.

  Sounds start forming and leaving my mouth, but I don’t comprehend them. I see his blue eyes. They are the last color I focus on before I allow the black to seep in. Everything is blurry. Everything is gone. Darkness is starting to invade my sight.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nikolai

  August 6, 2015 4:53 a.m.

  I am staring at Boris’s dead body, wondering what I did wrong to make Smith’s whereabouts known. Then I remember Anna caved to them and told them about what we did. If she would have only told me sooner, I would have been able to get here and maybe stop all of it from happening. Now I am back where I started.

  I killed Boris before I could get any information on Stravinsky. My rage took over, something I can’t allow to happen again.

  I wrap up the rest of his body in the blanket from the motel and put him in the trunk with his friend. The night air is rainy and cool. I hate the weather in this damn town. It’s always raining, making my job worse than before.

  I pull out from behind the building and leave The Ruins, heading for the ports to dump them. I am done with Blythe Harbor. The only other thing I need to do now is visit that detective who’s working the Smith case. According to Manny, she is a bulldog who will stop at nothing to get her man. Well, I can’t have that bitch fucking everything up for me. If she is that determined, then she needs to die, too.

  I know cops like her. She won’t concede, and I need time to get the job done. Once it’s over, the police can have me. I really don’t give a fuck at that point. Until then, I need her to back off. Of course, the only way I can do that is by eliminating her.

  Catching her will be a job in itself, though. I’m sure she has family or friends who are around her, or she is constantly on the job¸ living at the police station. I will need to follow her and see when the best time to snatch her up would be.

  I pull along the gravel road and find a dark, semi-secluded place to dump the bodies. I pull Boris out first, unwrap his body, and let him roll in the tall grass. Then I drive a ways down the road, dumping his friend in the same manner. This will surely keep that stupid bitch busy.

  I made sure to prepare the bodies, to have them point toward the Vory V Zakone. Who knows if they are smart enough to figure that out, but I have a feeling this woman is.

  I will leave town as soon as that bitch is out of the picture. I need to erase the evidence of me being here so all traces of Nikolai Petrov are gone.

  I drive myself back to The Ruins and get to work on my car. If I am going to drive this across the country, I cannot have blood traces inside of it. Besides, I need to find a way to put my money in the trunk without it being obvious.

  I manage to find an opening on the west side of the building that will accommodate the car. After clearing away some debris, I park the car inside and get to work cleaning it up. Pulling a bottle from my briefcase, I spray luminol over the vinyl covering in the trunk, looking for blood trace evidence. Then I pull a small, handheld black light from my briefcase and run it over the back of the trunk.

  Sweeping from left to right, I start in the back, looking for the blue, illuminated sight of blood. There are some splatters toward the back and marked on the side, so I remove my suit jacket and shirt, pull out the bleach, and scrub it off.

  Next, I open the compartment in the truck that holds the spare tire. It’s built into the floor of the trunk, and when I opened the latch, I c
an tell immediately it’s big enough to hold my suitcase. This will be perfect.

  I dump the tire and tools for changing one and test the size with my case. It barely fits, but I manage to make it work.

  August 7, 2015 4:43 a.m.

  By the time I am done cleaning my car and myself, I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. I don’t think I’ve slept since I left Seattle, and my body just can’t take it. When I awake again, it’s almost twenty-four hours later. My appetite is overwhelming, and the rolling of my stomach is probably what snapped me out of my sleep.

  When I leave The Ruins, it’s nearing dawn. The coffee shop by the motel on highway 101 is open this time of night, and I am in need of a strong cup and a little something to eat. Then I will head back to The Ruins, get a couple more hours of sleep, and when night rolls around again, I will stake out the detective before the sun rises the next day. I will get to know her routine and then eliminate her as an obstacle. Then I will leave town and I won’t stop until I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.

  I drive toward the outskirts of town and find myself in the parking lot of an all-night diner. The bell over the door rings when I walk through the entrance. The only people in the diner are a couple of old gentlemen sipping on coffee. It’s not a big place. There is an L-shaped countertop bar where the old men are sitting and dark green covered booths along the windows. It appears to be fairly outdated, but from the smell of food on the grill, that doesn’t matter.

  My gut rumbles with hunger as I walk deeper into the diner and find a booth in the back corner by the restrooms. I sit with my back to the wall, keeping my sights on everything around me.

  The waitress comes over, handing me a small menu covered in see-through plastic. She is wearing the traditional pink and white waitress attire and has her long, gray hair braided down her back. She looks old and tired, like a woman who will not want to put up with any shit. Perhaps this is why she works the night shift. She can handle the type of people who stroll in here after the bars close.

  “What can I get ya?” she asks, pulling a pencil out from behind her ear and putting it to the order pad in her hand.

  “I will have a pot of coffee and your Topper’s breakfast special, eggs over easy,” I tell her.

  She takes the menu from me and walks to the window to the kitchen, putting the piece of paper on the spinning thing.

  I look off into the distance and watch the sunrise out the window. It’s just now peeking over the horizon, making the sky illuminate with colors of purple, orange, and yellow. The sky is bright on one side of the building and dark on the other. It makes me think of Smith.

  He and I were close at one point. We survived when the odds were stacked against us. So many obstacles were put in front of us, and we were just kids, but we lived. Although I don’t know how, we did.

  It’s been many, many years since I thought of him or the night I last saw him. I told him, if the plan worked out, I would never see him again. However, I was wrong. The plan went really, really wrong, yet I hadn’t seen him at all. I knew what he wanted in life, and it wasn’t a part of my destiny. I wanted nothing but the best for him. I’ve cared for him most of my youth, so when he told me he was getting out, I had no other choice than to help him.

  The fact that I disobeyed Stravinsky is the reason the hit was put out on me and, ultimately, Smith. This is the price I’m paying for helping him. Even back then, I knew this was a possibility, but his chance for happiness could not be held back because of me. If anyone needed help to break free of the organization, it was him.

  The television gets my attention when a news report comes on the screen. The female detective is standing outside of the Smith’s home. I can’t hear what is being said over the noise in the diner, but I know they are reporting something about the killings.

  I walk up to the counter where I see the newspaper sitting next to one of the older men who just walked out the front door. I snag it, walk back to my booth, and then read the headline.

  They are reporting a serial killer, someone who was responsible for the murder of the Smith family and one man who was found by the ports. They are looking for me.

  I connect my eyes to the kids in the picture, and I feel my insides harden. She is so beautiful. Her long, black hair and her big, happy smile leap off the page. I knew she would have a better life in America. Then I read the caption under the family picture. It says the women were sexually assaulted, the boy was stabbed in his sleep, and Smith was shot in cold blood.

  My gut brews with hate. Boris did this. He violated those girls—my girl—and he killed them. He took away every chance she had at a good life. I am glad I killed him and wish he were alive again so I could do it all over again. Only, this time, it would take twice as long. I would slowly saw his dick off and shove it down his throat for what he did to her. I know she never really belonged to me—I gave that up—but it still infuriates me just as much.

  The bell over the diner’s door rings, snapping me out of my furious thoughts. I look around the side of the paper and see the detective. She looks like she’s just finished working out in her skin-tight cotton pants and oversized hooded sweatshirt. Her long, blonde hair is pulled on top of her head, and she has in earphones. She has a sheen of sweat on her skin, but I can’t keep my eyes off her perfect curves. Her ass is round, and I bet, if I were to knead my fingers in it, it would be soft and firm. It’s apparent she makes a point to stay in good shape.

  Oh, the things I could do to her. The mere thought gets my dick stirring in my pants. Of course, I’m not a sick fuck like Boris, so I will never force myself upon her. However, I will make her willingly submit to me. That, I know I can do. Maybe I should keep her around for a while. After all, it’s been eight years since I sunk my dick into a woman. Then again, I don’t think she is that brazen. She probably likes it her way and her way only and, therefore, only sticks to the men who will allow it. Pussies if you ask me.

  She walks to the counter, ordering a cup of coffee to go. She pulls a notepad from her pocket and begins to talk to the older waitress. I can’t hear what she is saying, but I know she has to be interviewing her about the murders. This diner is very close to the motel Boris and his friend were staying at. Perhaps she is asking if they came in here.

  When I think about it, a little smile grazes my cheeks. She’s here looking for me, and here I sit. I’m right behind her, hiding in plain sight.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Josslyn

  August 8, 2015 2:37 a.m.

  My frame feels weighted down, like I’m suffocating. Maybe I am. Maybe I am drowning in the harbor, and no one can help me. No one can find me here. Still, there is a throbbing pain inside my skull, one that wasn’t there from what I last remember.

  I can feel the burn between my legs, making my stomach feel sick. Am I still alive? Or am I weighted down in the Hudson? I don’t think I could feel the pain if I were dead, so I must be alive. I can barely remember anything.

  Feeling brave, I flutter my eyes open, and it’s then my reality comes crashing down on me. My head throbs because I was slugged in the back of my skull by a gun. My private parts hurt because a man ripped me in half with his body, and my chest burns because I know my father is dead.

  I slowly sit up and pull the blindfold from my eyes. I can feel the warm blood trickling down my neck as it dries on my skin. When I look around, all I can see is blood. There is blood on my night shirt and under my bottom. There is blood coming from the hand hanging over the bed.

  It’s my mother’s hand, and I am so afraid to touch it. I don’t know if she’s dead, but my heart aches, feeling like it’s a great possibility.

  The warm tears prick my eyes as the room begins spinning. I feel so many things. I am dizzy and nauseous and terrified and alone. I don’t want to be alone. I want my mom. I want my dad. I want to be in their arms, protected and safe. I want to wake up from this horrible nightmare and be wrapped in their tight, comforting arms. I want …

&nbs
p; The heartbreak from my dream awakens me slowly, and I gradually crack my eyelids. My chest is heavy, and my body feels like it’s been through hell. When the muted light comes back into view, I know I am far away from that horrible night when I was fourteen. I also know that my mother survived the attack like me, but there were several minutes when I thought I was alone. It was the scariest feeling in the world. Now that feeling is back.

  I am locked inside a killer’s haven. I don’t know what my fate will be as my time progresses, but I do know I feel very much like I did when I woke up alone in my parents’ bedroom.

  I can feel my body lying on its side, sore and stiff from being on the concrete floor. When I look up, I see the man I am at the mercy of, and it frightens me.

  He has dressed in an all black suit, his hair combed nicely to the side. His shoes probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. He’s wearing black leather gloves, and from my view, I can see the bulge under his jacket, his gun tucked safely at his side. His ever-present egotistical face is looking down on me.

  This is the face of a killer. This is the face he donned when he killed the Smith family and the two men by the ports. This is the face he will wear when he finally kills me.

  He kneels down and sets me back on my butt. Then the man stands over me and studies my expression. He is a very calculating and puzzling person. Just by looking at someone, I can tell a lot about them. I have a good intuition that way, but he is different. He appears to wear many masks, and in the little time I have been in his presence, I know he is warring with something in his head.

  A jarring pain rips down my arms as I readjust my body. My shoulders are sore from my hands being bound behind my back. My arms feel tingly, like they are falling asleep, and when I twist my wrists, the plastic tie around them cuts into my skin. I keep rolling my wrists, trying to see how tightly bound I am. I think … Oh, my God, I … I think I can wriggle a wrist free.