by Jack Kilborn
Kendal switched off the webcams in her room. Her weekly paycheck would take a hit, but she didn’t want to be watched right then. When she was finished, she closed her door, climbed onto her bed, curled into a ball, and closed her eyes.
CHAPTER 9
Erinyes’s eyes open.
The house is quiet. Still.
But not empty.
Erinyes checks the clock. Almost delivery time. The driver is never late.
Erinyes waits by the door, staring through the peep hole.
Watches the van pull up.
Watches the man drop off the packages.
Watches him take the envelope of cash under the welcome mat.
Watches him leave.
Erinyes unlocks the door and scoops up the brown boxes. They all have fake return addresses, paid for with stolen credit card numbers. Darknet purchases, sent to a PO Box in a false name, via a mail forwarding service, and dropped off by private courier.
No way to trace them. Too many layers of protection.
Erinyes spreads the boxes out on the dining room table. Picks up a utility knife.
It’s Christmas time.
Santa brought Erinyes some goodies.
Spironolactone.
More vantablack make-up.
Cyproterone acetate.
Eratigena agrestis eggs.
Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid.
A master key set for Sargent locks.
Clindamycin.
A new cat o’nine tails.
Erinyes inspects the whip. The previous one had broken after repeated use. This one seems to be higher quality. The nine lashes are supple cowhide. The handle is wrapped steel, giving the weapon greater weight. Each tail ends in a sharp metal barb. So sharp Erinyes draws blood on a fingertip after touching it.
This isn’t a cheap S/M toy to flog your spouse while playing Fifty Shades of Grey in the bedroom. This is the real thing, meant to administer severe corporal punishment.
Penance. Penance long overdue.
Erinyes unlocks the basement door and walks downstairs.
“The Eratigena have arrived,” Erinyes says to the darkness. “Soon you’ll have your crown.”
Whimpers, and a tinkling of chains being dragged across the cement floor.
“UPS also delivered a new whip.”
A moan.
“You shall atone for your sins with spilled blood. The punishment will cleanse your soul.”
“Please… don’t.” The voice is meek. Feeble.
“Don’t you want your sins forgiven?”
No reply. Erinyes hits the cell phone record button.
“Do you think you have suffered enough for your crimes?”
“Mercy. Please.”
“Erinyes does not know mercy. Only punishment.”
Erinyes raises the whip.
“Don’t hurt me anymore.”
“It is your sins that have hurt you. I am here to give Penance.”
Erinyes begins.
The Penance is very loud. And very bloody.
CHAPTER 10
“I cut open dead bodies for a living, and this one made my stomach turn.”
Tom was using Facetime on his cell phone with Dr. Phil Blasky, who was in session at Cook County Morgue. Blasky hovered over the corpse of Kendal Hefferton, his voice booming through the refrigerated room, bouncing off concrete and stainless steel.
“Look at this,” Blasky switched to the rear camera. Tom didn’t like it when Blasky did that, and he winced at the sight of the victim.
“These wounds here in the vagina and anus all have increased histamine levels, indicating the injuries were pre-mortem.”
“She was alive,” Tom interpreted.
“Alive and struggling. Lots of defensive cuts.”
“Did the killer leave any trace?”
“Not a goddamn thing. I’ve been over every square inch of her with an alternate light source, swabbed every part of her I could think of, and the perp didn’t shed so much as an eyelash.”
That wasn’t good. While DNA rarely led to suspects, it often led to convictions. Tom had been hoping the killer left something behind.
“The tape used to bind her?” Tom asked.
“Standard duct tape”
“Prints?”
“Oval spots where he touched the adhesive, but no prints. He wore gloves.”
“Any evidence of rape?”
“Other than with the butcher knife? None I could find. No skin under her nails. If she fought back, she didn’t scratch him.”
“We think he might have tried to drink her blood.”
“Then he did it clean. No saliva I could find.”
Tom thought of something awful, and winced when he spoke. “Could he have maybe used a straw?”
“You mean poked into a vein and drank her like a juice box?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s something wrong with you that you think of stuff like that. But if the killer did it, I can’t find the entry point.”
Tom sighed. “So what can you tell me?”
“Her molars are loose, but no bruises on her face or cheeks.” Blasky stuck a gloved hand in the victim’s mouth and wiggled a tooth. “It’s a guess, but I think she was gagged and bit down hard on it.”
“Ball gag?”
“More like a bit.”
“Like for horses?”
“That’s what I’d bet on. Wedged into the back of the mouth, buckled around the head. Common bondage item. So I’ve heard.”
“Tox screen?”
“Waiting on results. Lab takes forever, you know that. But I have a theory how he tied her up.”
“Could it be consensual? A cam model decides to make extra money as a call girl, the client is into bondage.”
Blasky switched the camera back to himself, and he made a face. “Would you let some guy you didn’t trust tie you up?”
“There was no evidence of B&E. She might have let him in.”
“Or she might have been knocked out.” He turned the phone around. “See the small mark above her nose, and one under her chin?
“Yeah.”
“I’m a sucker for antique medical equipment. Did you know I have over a hundred pre-1950 reflex hammers? It’s crazy the shit you can find on eBay. Those burns, to me, look like they’d line up with a chloroform mask.”
Tom thought back to old black and white movies, an assailant sneaking up on a woman with a chloroformed rag to knock her out.
“Can you still buy chloroform?”
“You can buy anything. A hundred reflex hammers, remember? Chloroform masks were made of wire or mesh. They fit over the mouth and nose, and held a rag in place. You find the mask, I can match it to her injuries. Just as good as DNA evidence.”
Blasky then began to talk about his 1923 tonsil guillotine, and Tom was spared the details because he had another call.
“Gotta take this, Phil. Call if you find anything.” Tom switched over. “Hi, babe,” he said to Joan. “What’s up?”
“I’m checking to see if we’re still on for dinner.”
“Of course we’re on for dinner. Nothing could keep me from dinner with you. Are you still with Trish?”
“Yes. We ate at Uno’s.”
That’s what Tom had planned on for dinner, but he supposed he could figure out an alternative. “How was it?”
“They didn’t have goat cheese.”
“Of course they didn’t have goat cheese. This is Chicago, not Rodeo Drive.”
“Don’t get snotty with me. You’re the one who stood me up.”
“I wasn’t getting snotty, hon, I—”
“Are you still at work?”
“Yes. Not for long, though. Want to maybe check out the Art Institute? There’s an O’Keefe exhibit.”
Tom’s other line beeped. He ignored it.
“Are you going to answer that?” Joan asked.
Tom checked the number. It was the crime lab.
“I can call them back.
”
“I hear your tone. It’s important.”
“You’re the one who is important, babe.”
The beeping continued. Tom wondered why the hell his voicemail didn’t pick up.
“The Art Institute sounds nice,” Joan finally said.
“Want to meet there in an hour?”
“Sure. That way, when you don’t show up, at least I’ll have something to do.”
“I’m going to show up, Joan. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
“Uh-huh.”
She didn’t sound convinced. Tom’s phone finally stopped beeping.
“I have.”
“Okay, fair enough. But why does it have to be you’re at work, thinking of me, or you’re with me, thinking of work?”
“We promised we’d never make our jobs a thing between us,” Tom said. “That’s why you still live in LA and I still live in Chicago. They’re part of who we are, and we decided not to ask each other to change.”
“What if we did?”
“Huh?”
“What if I asked you to give up your job for me, Tom? Would you do it?”
“Are you asking?”
“Do you want me to ask? Or do you want to ask me?”
“We said we wouldn’t ask. I know your work is important.”
“But movie deals aren’t as important as catching killers, right?”
“I didn’t say that,” Tom said.
“You don’t need to. I get a call in the morning, I have to talk a director off a ledge so he doesn’t derail a two hundred mil blockbuster. You get a call, someone died. So obviously, you think your job is more important.”
Tom’s other line beeped again. Same number.
“You should answer it,” Joan said. “Someone else might be dead.”
“Can we continue this discussion at the museum?”
“A coward is much more exposed to quarrels than a man of spirit.”
“What is that? Is that a Jefferson quote? Did you just quote Jefferson to me?”
“Text me when you cancel,” Joan said, then hung up.
Tom wanted to be irritated, but he didn’t want to miss the call again, so he shelved his frustration and picked up.
“Mankowski.”
“Detective, are you in your office? I can come up.”
“Who is this?”
“Firoz.”
“Excuse me?”
“Detective Firoz Nafisi?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m the CPD computer guy. I did forensics on Kendal Hefferton’s laptop. You’re lead on the case?”
“Me and Roy Lewis.”
“Can I come up?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Be right there.”
Tom opened up the folder containing his crime scene report of the first victim. He let himself drift back to it. The sight of her, tied to the bed, mutilated almost beyond recognition. The smell. The bloody writing on the wall. Tom was no stranger to violence. He’d seen it. He’d been the recipient of it. But this was a whole new level of psychotic. There was careful planning here. The perp had gained access to the apartment, brought along his torture tools, tape, gag, chloroform and mask. But there was so much raw rage, so much savagery, in the murder, that it looked like the work of someone severely unhinged.
“Detective?”
Tom was startled by someone speaking so near to him. He looked up.
“I’m Firoz.”
The man who extended a hand looked familiar, and Tom hid his surprise.
He looked a lot like Maddoksim Chmerkolinivskiy, which meant he looked like the suspect Tanya Bestrafen had described leaving the second victim’s apartment.
CHAPTER 11
The man bleeds.
The man hurts.
The man pulls at the chains.
The man knows there is no escape.
The man thinks about monsters.
The man knows they are real.
The man cries.
The man cries for himself.
The man cries for the world.
The man knows there is no forgiveness.
For anyone.
CHAPTER 12
Kendal picked up her cell phone.
“Hello?”
At first, there was silence. Then:
“Do you think you have suffered enough for your crimes?”
The voice sounded weird. Far away. “Hello?”
“Mercy. Please.”
“Who is this?” Kendal asked.
“Erinyes does not know mercy. Only punishment.”
“Don’t hurt me anymore.”
“It is your sins that have hurt you. I am here to give Penance.”
Then there was a cracking sound, and a scream that made all the fine hairs on Kendal’s arms stand on end.
The horrible sounds continued. Smacking and screaming, and Kendal realized she was listening to someone being beaten.
She hung up, holding the phone at arm’s length.
Caller Unknown.
What the hell had just happened?
Kendal hurried out of her bedroom, into the kitchen, brushing past Linda, grabbing a glass drying in the sink, and pouring herself some water from the tap. She sucked it down in a few gulps.
“Thirsty much?” Linda asked, laughing.
Kendal didn’t answer, pouring herself another glassful.
“Hey, girl, you okay?”
Kendal finished the water and sucked in a breath. “I just got a really weird phone call.”
“Like obscene weird? Some guy yanking his crank and moaning? You lucky slut! I never get calls like that.”
“I mean like someone being beaten.”
“That’s even kinkier.”
“Really beaten. Screaming for their lives beaten.”
Linda raised an eyebrow. “Was it some kind of joke?”
Kendal leaned against the counter, her shoulders slumping. “If it was, it wasn’t funny.”
“Who was it from?”
“It said caller unknown.”
“You can *67 or *69 him to call him back, even if it’s unknown.”
“I don’t want to call him back.”
“Give me your cell.”
Kendal hesitated, then handed Linda her phone. Linda’s thumbs were a blur on the screen.
“When did you get the call?”
“Just a minute or two ago.”
“There’s no record of it.”
“What?”
“The last call you got was yesterday.”
“But someone just—”
“Could you have deleted it?”
Kendal’s face pinched. “I don’t know.”
“If you deleted it, we can’t call it back.”
Linda handed the phone over. Kendal stared at it, wondering if it really happened.
Had she been asleep?
Dreaming?
Hallucinating?
Hallucinations were one of the big symptoms of schizophrenia. Another one was paranoia. Thinking people were watching you.
Kendal took an easy look around at all of the cameras in the kitchen. People actually were watching her.
But were they out to get her?
She thought about the van following her on the way to school. Had that been real? Had the chat with Allec2? The phone call she just got?
Or were past afflictions coming back to haunt her?
“Shy?” Linda asked, using her screen name. “You look like you’re seriously freaking out.”
“I think I just need to take a walk. Can you come with me?”
“History essay. I need to cut and paste some Wikipedia pages and change enough so it passes the sniff test. My prof searches phrases on Google.”
Kendal gripped her arm. “Just to the corner, get some ice cream or something. My treat.”
“You know I’m dieting, bitch.”
“Fine. We’ll go for celery. Please?”
“I heard celery has negative calories. It actua
lly burns more calories to chew it than you digest.”
“So let’s go. I’ll buy you ten pounds of celery, and you’ll be a size 2 by the time we get back.”
Linda made a face like she was severely constipated. “Ooh, it’s tempting, but I really have to do this paper. I’ve played around enough today.”
Linda left the kitchen. Kendal stared at her phone again.
Had I erased the call?
Or, maybe, had Linda erased the call?
Is it still paranoia if everyone is actually out to get you?
Kendal closed her eyes. She thought about her father. All the things he’d done to her. All the things he’d threatened to do.
But he was gone. Long gone. Kendal needed the webcam money, but if there had been a single chance in a billion that her father could somehow find her, she would have run away with the clothes on her back and not stopped until the soles of her shoes had worn down to nothing.
Kendal opened her eyes, forcing herself not to stare at any of the cameras, but feeling them on her body like hands pawing at her. She had to get out of there. Immediately.
She counted her steps—eighteen—to the front door, touched the knob three times before turning it, and then began the six hundred and eight step trip to the corner store.
Twenty-nine steps into her journey she shivered. It was cold, and she hadn’t taken a coat. She crossed her arms, hugging herself, and picked up the pace.
Turning the corner at one hundred and fifty-five steps, Kendal saw the van. The same one that might have followed her earlier. Dark, tinted windows, creeping along under the speed limit.
Coming toward her.
Kendal froze. Should she run? Call the police? Pinch herself to make sure it wasn’t a psychotic delusion?
The van pulled up alongside her and stopped, idling there.
Run! Kendal told herself.
But she’d forgotten her count.
As before, Kendal couldn’t draw a breath. Her legs began to tremble, but her feet might as well have grown roots.
The corner was 155. She knew that. How many steps had she gone past that point? Ten? Fifteen?
The side panel door of the van inched open.
Kendal cast a frantic look around, seeking help. Up ahead, coming her way, was a police car.
I need to scream. If I scream, the police will stop.
But her lungs were as frozen as her feet. She watched, her eyes blurry with tears, as the cop car rolled past.