by Katy Rose
Walking up to the guys neither seem to have missed me much. They are talking about sports scores and the Nicks versus Bulls game. Sighing I make a show of being grossed out. “Are you ready to go yet? This place creeps me out!”
“Yeah, I got what I need. Let’s go get some dinner before I take you home.” Looking over at Donovan Kaleb bumps fists with him, “Thanks, man. I will be in touch. Hey, do you know how to get a hold of Seth? Trent was sketchy on details.”
“Yeah, go by the Bean hive. That rich people coffee shop for hipsters over on Lexington and 79th. He sits in the back. If the girls you are going after to look like her, you will get paid a lot more. She looks underage. Those always pay double.” His slimy smile when he announces this makes me squeamish.
Nodding, I see the tick in Kaleb’s jaw from grinding his teeth. Raping women is bad enough but pedophilia as well? What the actual fuck did we stumble into? This is a fucking mess. Kaleb’s arm comes around me protectively. I feel his fingers dig into my side hard enough to bruise. I know he is thinking about our childhood and all the bullshit we went through. I will never let someone make me a victim again. I watch as he smirks over at Donovan while we walkout. “I will keep that in mind. Thanks, man. Have a nice night. We will be in touch.”
Getting in the car, we make our way over to the coffee shop. It looks like a regular business from the outside. Very inconspicuous. I am sure that’s what the old pervert was going for. Disgusting. We make our way in and toward the back anyway. Kaleb goes up to grab two cups of coffee and two subs while I grab a table near the back. I see Professor Elliot in the corner with his laptop. He is a science professor here at NYU. I have never had him, but I know plenty of girls who have and said he was a complete creeper. I catch him staring at me a few times before I pull out my sketch pad and start sketching a polar bear. Those are one of my favorite subjects to sketch in pen. It doesn’t matter if I don’t have a lot of colors; it looks fierce or soft depending on the pen strokes.
It isn’t long before Kaleb comes over with our food. Looking down, he chuckles. “Angry Polar Bear today?” I follow his line of sight and smirk. The polar bear is roaring and gnashing its teeth. My art subjects often take on what mood I am in or what mood I want to be in. Shrugging, I grab a sandwich and bite a piece off. Chewing, I look around again catching professor Elliot staring, again. I lean in and flick my eyes back toward Professor Elliot's table. Kaleb doesn't even look. He nods and gets out his phone. Looking up the school’s faculty page. Right there in black and white is a picture of Professor Seth Elliot, Physics Department. Well, son of a bitch. Looking up at Kaleb, I smile. It is a twisted and murderous one, I know, but at this point, I no longer care. I add Elliot to the top of my sketch. Our notes really kind of look like the names of my sketches. It is turning into a weird sort of list.
Finishing the food, we drive over to Staten Island and park. It is now nine at night; everyone should be gone from the junkyard, leaving Donovan to close up shop. Kaleb calls him up and says he has five hundred dollars for orders of the irresistible juice. Donovan agrees and tells us to hurry up that he is closing and leaving soon. Walking the block down to the gate of the dump, we let ourselves in. Grabbing the duffle bag from the trunk of the Pontiac and taking out our supplies. Pulling out a thin wire Kaleb ties one end to the car frame while I roll it out and I crouch down behind a tire holding the other end of the wire tied to a wooden handgrip. Kaleb calls out for Donovan as he makes his way back to the front by the gate. We hear a muffled call followed by the sound of footsteps and slamming around.
I duck back a little to make sure my face cannot be seen in the light. I took care to be unrecognizable. My blonde hair gelled down and concealed by a dark-colored wig. I used an eyebrow pencil to darken my eyebrows and add freckles. I had changed clothes in the car to a dark sweater and dark wash jeans. My black gloves are in place again, no fingerprints, no evidence. When I am sure I blend in with the shadows, I watch and wait.
Donovan comes out of the same supply shed he was on before. That must be where he is keeping his supply. Walking toward Kaleb, he calls out. “Hey man, you got the money I have the pills packaged for you.” Kaleb holds up a roll of twenties. There are probably closer to four thousand dollars there, but Donovan doesn’t know that. Once Donovan is outside the circle of light, I pull on the end of the wire and wrap it around the tire next to me. Donovan walks directly into it. He stumbles and starts to fall.
“Hey man, are you ok?” Kaleb asks before hitting him upside the head with a tire iron. He must have hit him hard because the “thwunk” sound is similar to a metal softball bat hitting a watermelon. It is a complete knock out in one swing. We pat him down, finding a wad of money, the pills, and his phone. Stashing that in the duffle bag we get to work. Grabbing a nearby office chair, we hoist Donovan up and secure him to the chair with rope. When the ball gag is securely in place in his mouth, I give him a fun wake up. Lining up my stun gun, I shoot him in the inner thigh sending fifty thousand volts into his body. Donovan tries to yell out around the gag ball, but it comes out as more of a muffled, high-pitched, girly squeal. “Did you have to shoot him in the balls?” Kaleb asks seriously while adjusting himself.
Shrugging I make sure the power is off before I go and retract the prods. “My bad. I was aiming for right next to his junk, not for it. Lucky shot.”
“Donovan. It seems you are getting rich off women's pain. We can’t have that.” Pulling on the medal around his neck, Kaleb leans down close, looking it over. “This is a Saint Michael medallion. Are you a Catholic, Donovan? Do you go to confession and confess all your sins?” At the slow nod of his head, Kaleb throws his head back and barks out a laugh. “Seriously? Are you a Catholic? What is it with you fucking Catholics and thinking you can do whatever the fuck you want to anyone you want as long as you confess your sins? Like telling a priest, who is probably sinning himself, what you did will wipe the slate clean! It doesn’t work like that. Not this time. Not for you.”
Realizing Kaleb is on a tangent I get comfortable and start going through Donovan's phone. I take pictures using my phone of everything and leaving every phone call and every text exactly as it is. We will let this body be found. He deserves the public embarrassment that he has coming. I go through the drawers and hit pay dirt in the bottom right. There is a metal lockbox that is not locked. Flipping open the lid, I see pills upon pills bagged up and ready for distribution. I dump the entire supply into my duffle bag. Looking around I see a mini black notebook in the drawer and some familiar names pop out to me: Lucas- $600, Trent -$500, Shaun-$400, and toward the bottom of the page is my ex's name Collin-$100.
Turning my attention back to Donovan and Kaleb. “Michael won’t save you from us. Think of us as your executioners. You really should have spent more time on your knees and less time peddling date rape drugs. Qu'est ce qui vous empêche de changer de vie? Huh? What will you do with your pathetic life?” I know Kaleb is about to lose control when he starts ranting in French and going back and forth. Grabbing his attention, I hand him the little black notebook to distract him. Kaleb takes the book and starts flipping through it. Page after page is filled with dates and names.
Toward the back of the shed, there is a small refrigerator. I open the door and see bottles of Rohypnol that are already dissolved. Grabbing two of the biggest I dump them over Donovan's head. Looking around the office in the back of the shed, I see a stapler and a letter opener. Bending a little to look in his face, I ask the most obvious question, “Why do you do this?”
He refuses to answer me at first, so I open the stapler and slam it down on his arm a few times. He grits his teeth but doesn’t start talking. Wiping off the stapler I throw it under the desk. Pulling out the letter opener, I dangle it above his hands. “Eenie, meenie, miney, mo. This one looks like it will hurt.” When he still doesn’t talk, I shove the letter opener underneath his ring fingernail. Flipping it up the nail pops off onto the ground. Donovan begins yelling and cursing me. “Go
t anything to say now?”
It takes four fingernails before Donovan begins crying. He refuses to talk, though. If I weren’t so disgusted by him, I would respect the loyalty to his club of shit heads as it is though I was beyond annoyed. Flipping the letter opener a few times, I try and keep my cool. He still isn’t talking, well good. Fuck him. Slamming the letter opener down into the meaty section of his thigh I get in his face again, hissing through my teeth, “Go ahead and keep your fucking secrets, but you know what? I was one of those stupid bitches that got raped. I think you should at least know one of your countless victims before you die tonight. One way or another, I will make sure you are dead.”
“I think we have everything we can get out of him. Let's just get it over with and stage him.” I jump up on the desk and cross my legs, pulling out my sketch pad. Kaleb gets his brass knuckles on and hits Donovan repeatedly until his face is oozing blood from several different orifices. Nose, mouth, eyes, and several new holes adorn his face. I drag my pen down and around in a circle, creating the body of the flamingo. The hardest part of birds is getting the shading right. You want the eyes to look at the audience without seeming malevolent. Each hard stroke of my pen is punctuated by a hit from Kaleb. I like the sound the two make together. After several hits, Kaleb takes the gag out of Donovan’s mouth and throws it in the duffle bag.
Another punch lands on the lower edge of Donovan's jawline. Snapping his head backward in a perfect upper cut. Two more and I see Kaleb is starting to sweat. Whistling I make a motion to wipe the sweat before he leaves DNA evidence. Taking my cue, he wipes his forehead before pulling the brass knuckles off his gloved hand. I look to Donovan, and his face is cut and bloody. His right eye swollen shut and his left cheek are torn to shreds. He is practically unrecognizable. His eye slides over to me, I, in turn, give him a thumbs up. “Looking good there, juice fairy! Not too much longer now. Are you willing to talk yet?”
Kaleb pulls out the switchblade he got from our father when we said we were moving to New York. It is an Italian Stiletto nine-inch blade with a black handle and the family name engraved on the handle. A miniature fox is on the other side. Kaleb opens the knife asking Donovan “Where is your saint now? Maybe tell the devil I will be home soon. I have a few more bags of trash to take out first.”
My pen scratches in harsh hash marks to create the feathered body. Kaleb's arm strikes once. Right through the trachea. Blood starts pooling out around the knife and down his chest after a few minutes when Donovan is still breathing yet gurgling. Seemingly impressed Kaleb looks around and grabs whatever is closest to him. It is a toilet seat. Seriously? I send him a look while raising a brow. Kaleb shushes me and puts the toilet seat over Donovan's head. He pulls it to the left and right fighting Donovan the entire time. Finally, taking a firm grip, he pulls back hard enough that there is a loud crack and I notice Donovan's head rolled at an unnatural angle. It is hanging down and to the left. Blood is everywhere.
“Fingerprints!” I wipe down the edge of the toilet seat. Shit, the wipe made it too clean. “Kaleb, grab that dirt and rub it in a little.”
“What? Why?” Kaleb gives me a confused look but grabs a little bit of dirt and does as I say.
“The dirt is to make it look like we didn’t clean the crime scene. Duh. You said toilet tank if I remember correctly!” I say sarcastically as I gather the duffle bag and cut the rope off Donovan throwing it into the bag.
Kaleb flips me off as looks around, making sure we have everything. He throws some extra “It is called improvising my dear. Nice Flamingo?”
“Flamingos symbolize balance and truth. Now drive, I'm exhausted.” I sigh. Laying my head back against the headrest, I feel my eyelids grow heavy with sleep. Being a serial killer is a lot of work.
After we went got back to the old Brownstone, I was exhausted and at the same time wired. I couldn’t go to sleep yet; I needed to calm down. Kora went down to her art studio, so I went to my sacred place. The kitchen, cooking was always an escape for me. I open the cupboards and refrigerator pulling out ingredients. I decide something light is good. Bruschetta always works wonders. Looking at the calendar, I realize it is Saturday. These long weekends really mess with my sense of time.
Chopping up the tomato, basil, cilantro, and then mushrooms, I begin to formulate a plan. It is evil and disgusting, and I love every single thing about it. Toasting the fresh French bread, I prepare my grocery list for this upcoming Wednesday. After a few minutes, there is an e-invite sent out to six people. All of whom were in Donovan’s little black book of perverts. Oh, and I sent one to Kora. Que the curious and possibly angry sister in three…two…one.
The basement door slams open and Kora's petite blonde pissed off frame storms in. “A fucking dinner party? Seriously Kaleb? Why are we wining and dining these bastards?”
“Bruschette?” I ask as the oven timer goes off. “It is fresh.”
“Don’t try to win me over with fresh food. You know it will work. I want two slices. Damn it, now. Tell me about your dinner party reception I was invited to!”
“You as well as six of the guys listed in Donovan's book that bought from him from before January are invited. I am making a very special dish.” My sardonic grin must give me away since Kora can barely contain her laughter.
“What dish? What do you have planned?” She begs me to tell her, and I don’t.
“Non, patience Mon petit. Everything worthwhile comes to those with patience.” Grinning I go over my plan in my head while I pour a chilled early 1900s Pinot Grigio with my Bruschette. Food really is the luxury of life.
It took two days to track down the ingredients needed for our special dinner and to marinate the dirt taste out of it. In those few days, I learn several things from surveillance. First of which is the discovery of Donovan's body at the Fresh Kills. The city was buzzing about the “Drug Deal Gone Wrong” if they only knew. The police are suspecting it is a young punk looking to make a quick buck on what money they found on him. They can think what they want.
The next thing I learned is that Drake’s parents put up a memorial for him and Trent. They have a “gut feeling” something terrible happened. Me being the caring and helpful teammate that I am offered to go down and gather all the letters from the Memorial. I possibly threw them in a box and let my sister read through them first, but it is the thought that counts. Amongst all the fake sob story letters about how great Drake was, there is also a letter in there that paints a completely different picture. It was written in a sympathy card so it was almost overlooked. However, Kora is meticulous when it comes to research.
One time right after we were adopted, and our father visited us at boarding school, Kora asked for a pony. I know how cute, what eight-year-old doesn’t want a pony, right? Well, Kora didn’t say “Daddy, I want a pony” like so many children do. No, my sister researched her heart out and asked “May I please have a Hanoverian jumping horse that was studded from a stallion in Germany by the Verband. I have marked a photo of the British Hanoverian Society. I know that this foal comes from a champion father and a mother who has bred winners. I believe with the right training; I could be an excellent jumper due to my size and temperament.” Our adopted father asked one question. How much? The answer was a reasonable thirty-eight thousand. He had Kora sign a contract stating if she slacked off on school or her jumping practices, he would have the horse killed. And that was how my sister became the owner of “Petit” her thoroughbred and a class A titleist for jumping. Eventually, she retired the horse from competitions, but her eye for detail and extensive research never went away.
Therefore, it was no surprise to me when she did find something the police missed. She came in on Monday with the sympathy card and laid it on the counter. I was getting the quiche out of the oven when I looked at the card and then to her. Raising a brow, I said, “I know part of you always wanted to be an only child, but I would have thought you would have made your peace with me years ago.”
“Ha. It de
pends on my mood, whether I am thankful or resentful of you and your shit. Open it. You need to read it.” She shoots back at me and sneaks over to the other counter toward my mini cherry cheesecakes.
“You touch one cake, and I will chop off your finger.” I glare at her while opening the card. Inside it has the standard “sorry for your loss” but that was crossed out. Now it simply reads:
Drake,
I am not sorry for your loss. I hope someone found out what you did to me and at least four other girls. I hope they fed you drugs and then raped you and killed you just like you killed Laura. Your friends and their club are disgusting. Blackmailing my father and others was so embarrassing. You have tortured me for two years. I cannot believe you have gotten away with it for this long! Looks like I get the last laugh though. Someone finally took you out. Karma is a bitch.
S.
“Two years?! He has been raping girls for at least two years? Are you fucking serious?” I exclaim. My mind is reeling while thinking about all the nameless and faceless victims.
“You know that means this is much bigger than a few disgusting college kids with a horrid taste in proclivities,” Kora says seriously.
“Yes, I am abundantly aware of that. It has rippled out from a few disgusting pigs at our University to including a professor and now blackmailing to sell pictures to the tabloids and pedophile sites.” Running my hands through my hair, I think of everything we have learned this far.
“You can’t kill every one of those guys. You will get caught, and you will be taken from me. How will you protect me from behind bars?” Kora is the voice of reason; I know this, and yet I cannot accept reason.