by J. E. Taylor
“Good. I think I’ll take a rain check on that blowjob. I’m hungry,” he announced, pulling her to her feet. “Make me some food and don’t burn it,”
Tremors started in her jaw and she pressed her lips together. Get a grip. She took a deep breath, ignoring her daughter’s screams and the grinding of bone in her side. “What do you want?”
“Eggs, over easy.”
She bit her lower lip. “How about scrambled?”
He shook his head and backhanded her again.
She blinked the tears out of her eyes and pushed herself into a sitting position on the floor. The skin of her cheek felt like a hot iron had been pressed against it adding to her list of ailments. She shook, locking the sobs in her chest because that’s exactly what the bastard wanted.
She climbed to her feet and headed into the kitchen, the act of pulling the fry pan from the cabinet took all her strength. Pain, now diluted to numbness in some parts of her body, prevented her from functioning properly and the pan slipped, falling to the floor with a ringing clatter. She stared at it and closed her eyes before bending over, picking it up again and putting it on the stove. Images of Kyle screaming from a face full of hot grease crossed her mind and she opened her eyes at the shuffle behind her.
“I don’t want the yolks broken,” he announced and sat at the kitchen table.
Anger and fear throbbed inside her, surfacing in the form of tremors. Shaking, she prepared his meal. By some miracle, neither of the egg yolks broke when they landed in the pan and Jennifer let out a sob of relief. Samantha’s hand would be safe for another few minutes. Tears blurred her vision while the eggs cooked. She held her breath and flipped them, a squeak escaping when she did it successfully. She grabbed a plate and slid the eggs from the pan, turning and placing the dish on the table.
He stared at the eggs and stood, advancing on her.
Jennifer backed into the corner.
“I didn’t want the yolk broken,” he said.
Her gaze shot to his plate. A thin yellow line ran from one of the yolks. “I didn’t burn it,” she said in desperation.
Cornering her, he dragged the detonator down the front of her nightgown and leaned forward. His teeth sank into her bare shoulder, piercing the skin and pain flared, yanking a whimper from her chest.
“If you continue to disobey me, your husband won’t recognize either of you when he gets home.” He pulled the knife out of his belt. With a flick of his wrist, he cut her nipple, drawing blood.
Her sharp inhale filled the room. She focused on the sharp pain, letting it clear some of the numbness from her mind and her eyes narrowed with the hatred that flared.
Grabbing the plate and a fork, Kyle retreated to the living room and took a seat in the recliner. “Clean up the kitchen.”
She limped to the sink and cleaned the dishes while thin trails of blood flowed from her wounds, running slowly down her legs and staining the bright linoleum floor. She looked out the window at the lake and silently wished for a miracle.
Chapter 84
Steve sat at his desk, shuffling through Kyle’s file. He picked up the crime scene photo of the car and the dead man with the smashed face. Something gnawed inside and he looked up at the clock.
Why now? Why doesn’t this make sense?
That deep seeded intuition he relied on bristled and he shook his head, dropping the file on the desk. He stood, crossing to Jack’s office while mulling the murder over in his head.
Jack looked up from his computer. “What’s eating you?”
“Did you get the DNA results yet?”
“They just came.” Jack rifled through the pile of papers in his inbox, pulling out an envelope and tossing it to Steve.
Steve returned to his desk and opened the envelope. He scanned the report and his heart rate tripled. The DNA of the dead man did not match the multiple samples they had of the Slasher.
God damn it! And I left her alone. Shit!
He shot to his feet, dropping the paper on his desk and walking out of the office. He was running at top speed by the time he reached the parking lot.
Chapter 85
“Bedroom.” Kyle pointed as she shut off the water.
Jennifer hung her head and closed her eyes. Samantha had finally quieted to an exhausted whimper and all she could think about were her visions.
If he kills me now, I won’t have to hurt Steve and maybe, just maybe, Samantha will live.
“Now.” He stood up, tossing his plate onto the coffee table.
“Fuck off,” the words whispered from her mouth, feeling foreign, like a death sentence and she met his gaze, bracing herself for the reign of pain he was about to deliver.
He approached her. His free hand clenched into a fist and his eyes narrowed.
She doubled over at the force of the strike to her stomach. He threw another punch, connecting his fist into her lower back and she fell to her knees, her muscles seizing with the pain pulsing through her. He yanked her hair and slammed her into the wall face first, creating dazzling blinking lights in her field of vision. Dazed by his assault, she barely felt the wood floor scraping her knees as he dragged her into the bedroom.
This time, he didn’t even use a pretense of gentleness or seduction. This time was meant to be excruciating, demeaning, and brutal. Each thrust ripped her anal path, bringing forth paralyzing pain, stealing her breath. Her screams were muffled by Kyle’s hand squeezing her throat, constricting her airway enough to strike terror in her heart, but not enough to kill.
A hundred showers scrubbing her skin raw wouldn’t erase this violation.
A litany of prayers repeated in her head, looping between vengeance and pleas for strength. Oh god, Steve, please come home, please kill the bastard, please… God please, please give me the strength to save my little girl.
When he finished, he slipped off the bed and dressed. “Go clean your face.”
Jennifer stumbled from the bedroom and collapsed on the living room floor, her legs unable to carry her to the bathroom. She crawled the rest of the way, pulling herself up on the sink. When her gaze landed on her reflection, she bit back the sob. Her nose was crushed into a crooked mess, her cheeks a relief map of black, blue, and purple, her front tooth chipped under the mass of swollen bloody lips. She reached a shaky hand toward the hand towel, wincing at the pain in her abdomen. Drawing cool water from the tap, she wet the washcloth and wiped as much of the blood as she could.
She prayed. For what, she wasn’t sure, but she prayed just the same. She limped out of the bathroom, holding the wall for support.
When she stepped out, Kyle pointed to the bouncy seat on the kitchen table. “Bring your daughter out here.”
His words didn’t quite seep into the haze surrounding her and Jennifer blinked. “What?”
“I want you to strap your daughter into the seat on the table,” he said, enunciating each word like talking to a dimwit.
Jennifer made her way into the nursery and wrapped Samantha in a blanket. Her whimpers continued in shaky starts and then died down to a small whine after Jennifer swaddled her tight and squeezed her in a gentle hug. Jennifer bit her lip, her vision blurred behind the sheen of tears, her physical pain nothing in comparison to the mental agony of the unknown waiting for them in the living room.
“I’m waiting.”
His voice jarred her and she sucked in a breath, turning and crossing into the room with Samantha against her chest. She strapped Samantha in the bouncy seat just as he instructed. The last thing she wanted to do was cause her daughter any pain and that is what Kyle’s eyes promised if she didn’t obey.
Turning toward Kyle, her gaze landed on the hedge sheers now lying across the table.
Jesus.
The image from her vision surfaced, of clamping those things around Steve’s forearm and slicing it off. Shivering, her eyes shot to Kyle’s and she pointed a shaky finger at the table. “What’s that for?” Her voice sounded distant and detached.
“I’ve got plans for that. Plans you’re going to carry out for me.”
Jennifer shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
He stood and crossed to her, grabbing a handful of her hair. “Do I have to remind you of the rules?”
She shook her head, her gaze drifting toward her daughter and back.
“Okay then, it’s time for that blow-job.” He dragged her to the recliner and unzipped his shorts.
Jennifer stared at his crotch, the scent drifting from the opening in his shorts was foul and she gagged at the thought of putting the source of that stench in her mouth. She raised her gaze to his and shook her head. “I can’t.”
He threaded his hand through her hair and yanked her forward. “Come on, baby, show me what that mouth can do and maybe I’ll let your daughter live.”
She met his gaze. “Liar.”
He grinned. “Maybe, but if you don’t open your mouth and suck me dry, your daughter will lose her hand.”
Resignation and disgust settled into her bones and she moved closer and closed her eyes, attempting to breathe out of her open mouth even as he forced the tip of his member between her lips. It tasted like licking dog shit off the ground and her throat closed in a gag.
An insistent beep opened her eyes and she looked up, with him still filling her mouth.
He looked at a little hand-held monitor and smiled, his gaze flitting from the screen to her. “Showtime, baby, and if you stop for any reason, I will kill your daughter.” He waved the detonator in front of her and pocketed the monitor, glancing in the direction of the door.
His gaze lowered and he raised an eyebrow, challenging her stillness. His thumb caressing the trigger set her in motion and his hand guided her farther down his shaft with each stroke. “That a girl.”
Chapter 86
Steve ran to the door with his gun drawn. The shade was still down and the deadbolt stopped him. He slipped the key in, threw the lock, and swung the door open, calling her name as he stepped in, the gun trained in front of him. The sound died in his throat at the sight of Jennifer’s head buried in Kyle’s lap and the familiar motion of a blowjob in progress.
Acute fury stormed through Steve’s frame and the gun trembled. He couldn’t rip his gaze from Jennifer, he couldn’t pull a breath into his lungs, and he couldn’t squeeze the trigger because the bastard had his little girl wired somewhere in the cottage.
“Come on in,” Kyle said, waiving the detonator, his thumb over the trigger. “If you so much as flinch, I will blow your daughter to bits.” His other hand was in Jennifer’s hair as she serviced him. “Close the door,” he ordered.
He swung the door shut and closed his eyes for a moment. Reining in his fury, he got a grip on the fear lacing his stomach with a burn more toxic than battery acid. He steadied the gun in his hands and opened his eyes. His gaze fell to the intricate tattoo on the wrist holding the detonator.
“Put the gun down and have a seat.” Kyle pointed toward the chair in front of the window.
Steve moved toward the chair, still gripping his gun, training it on the point between Kyle’s eyes, ignoring the sobs coming from Jennifer’s full mouth. He glanced toward the kitchen and stopped walking. There on the table strapped into the bouncy seat was his daughter, fully enclosed in a deadly jacket and his gaze shot back to Kyle.
Kyle smiled when Steve’s head snapped in his direction. “She gives good head.”
Steve ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached and he squelched the urge to pull the trigger. “Kyle, I presume.”
He gave a slight nod in Steve’s direction, pulling Jennifer down and thrusting deeper into her mouth. “That’s right, suck me, baby.” He moved her more fervently, grinning at Steve.
Fury lined his skin, and his trigger finger just itched to yank back, blowing a hole between this bastards eyes but he paused, frozen by indecision, his eyes dropping between her bobbing head and the detonator.
Kyle pushed her head farther into his lap, his jaw clenching along with his fist in her hair and Jennifer gagged. A wet throaty sound Steve remembered from the crypt and the forced fraternity rite he witnessed in Brooksfield. And his soul blackened.
Kyle pushed her away and zipped up his shorts. “Drop the gun and sit your ass down!”
Steve glanced at Jennifer’s battered face for the first time and he knew if he put the gun down, they were all dead.
“I’ll give you to three then I press the button. One… Two…”
One look in Steve’s direction sent Jennifer scrambling toward the kitchen.
All motion and sound ceased to exist and Steve adjusted the sights on his target pulling the trigger. The roar of the gun blasted, reverberating in his ears, dulling the sound of the explosion that rocked the cabin a split second later. He had less than a second to register that his shot missed before the explosion lifted him off his feet and sent him careening toward the far wall, his gun knocked from his grip.
Kyle rolled toward the door, shielded from the explosion by the furniture.
Steve’s ankle caught on the couch and torqued, ripping the tendons and crunching bones. His right arm snapped as he landed, the ulna ripping through his skin at an odd angle. He blinked, dazed and numb, lifting his ringing head. The front door stood ajar and he looked toward the kitchen. Blood covered everything.
Blood and bits of the bouncy seat.
Oh, god, what have I done?
His gaze shot to Jennifer and he crawled to her, pulling her unconscious form into his lap. He rocked, holding her bloody head to his chest, sobbing her name over, and over, and over.
Chapter 87
Kyle slid out the door, his ears ringing and his clothing splattered with blood. He paused, looking between the lake and the woods where his bike was stowed, debating. When he ran a hand over his face, that was the deciding factor. It came away covered with a thin sheen of blood and he wondered if it was his or the baby’s.
The handheld monitor somehow remained in his pocket and he pulled it out, scanning the carnage in the cottage, sending the signal to his laptop at the hotel along with the relay code that fed the entire day’s events to his computer at his new apartment in Connecticut. Once the feed completed, the signal would be cut and the laptop at the hotel would be rendered useless by a virus. With the sequence commands sent, he dove off the end of the dock, sneakers and all, and let the electronic device drop to the sandy bottom of the lake after a few powerful strokes in the direction of his compromised safe house. He could use the kayak stored in the boathouse.
The explosion had blown out the kitchen and living room windows and he was unsure whether Steve had the sense to call the cops or not, but he didn’t want to take the chance of being anywhere near their side of the lake when first responders got to the scene.
Halfway across the lake, he heard the sirens and the distinct whirl of helicopter blades chopping through the air.
Shit! A fucking helicopter? Was he wired?
The thought chilled him and he dove underwater, stripping his sneakers and socks before surfacing and taking a deep breath. He plunged and kicked, pulling through the water as fast as he could.
Surfacing less than fifty yards from the shore, he took another deep breath. This time he was a few feet from where he’d pulled the kayak on the shore the day before. Without hesitation or even a glance over his shoulder, he hoisted himself onto the small dock of the boathouse and quickly launched the kayak into the water, grabbing the oar and rowing toward the far side of the lake where the public beach and hotels resided. He peeled off his shirt, shoved the ball in the small storage space behind him, and continued rowing. He dared a glance in the direction of the cottage, now barely visible through the thick woods.
The trees bent in response to the force of air from the chopper’s blades.
Damn, damn, damn.
Bondino will skin me alive if I get caught.
The thought tripped his heart, knocking it in his chest in half-beats to each stroke of his oars. He retraced
his steps, from the alias he used at the hotel to the car rental and even to the computer signals. Nothing could be traced back to Kyle Winslow or John Sheridan or, more importantly, to Tony Bondino.
With each foot he gained away from the cottage, confidence edged the hammering fear from his body.
New sirens echoed off the lake. He pegged them as ambulances and his tense muscles relaxed another fraction. With the incremental release of stress came irritation.
His plans thwarted again. The satisfaction of having Jennifer torture Steve at his direction. The absolute ecstasy of killing her like he killed all his victims. And delivering the final crushing blow-using Steve’s severed hand to detonate the bomb-all robbed from him because of that bastard.
The sweet revenge he dreamed of turned bitter and he pulled on the oars, taking a quick check at the distance from the hotel docks that were now in sight. He estimated a half-mile and then a quick walk to the hotel room.
The oars stopped in the water. Kyle sent a glance in the direction of the cottage and closed his eyes. “Shit.”
His hotel key was in his backpack. His backpack was somewhere in the wreckage.
“Fuck.”
He turned his attention to rowing. If he could get to his room and get out of the hotel before they figured out the backpack was his, he had a chance, and at least being shirtless, shoeless and wet wasn’t a big deal, not at a beach resort.
He docked the kayak, tying it to the mooring before hopping out and approaching the boating attendant. Patting his pockets, he smiled, letting it fade as he pulled out nothing from the recesses of the wet fabric.
“Um,” he said and looked back at the boat. “I seem to have lost my room key.” He turned back to the boating attendant.
The attendant just stared at him, his jaw slightly askew and his gaze glued to a spot on Kyle’s temple.
He swiped his forehead, bringing back bloody fingers and uttered a slight laugh. “I must have hit that rock harder than I thought.” He raised his gaze from his hand to the blinking attendant. “It’s just a little scratch, I’m fine.” His eyes flicked to the attendant’s nametag. “Really, Todd, I’m fine. I just need my room key, but I have a feeling it’s at the bottom of the lake.”