Do Not Disturb

by A. R. Torre

  Katie stops breathing, her chest constricting as it struggles for air, her body suddenly chiming in with all of the places that ache, bleed, are broken. She stops trying to see past the white, stops trying to listen to her father, and only tries to think. To open up last night’s window and remember. Then memories pour in, and she reopens her mouth. Gasps in a breath while she wheezes out a scream. Her lips, her tongue, finally working, opening and shutting as sound actually comes out.

  She can speak. This is good. She doesn’t hear her father’s response to the stranger’s voice. His thoughts, his words, no longer matter. She is too busy screaming for her broken soul.

  She remembers, her memories going back to a dim bedroom, no clear understanding of how she got there. She remembers waking up in the room. The man before her. The smile on his face… the… oh my God…

  She remembers.

  She remembers.

  She remembers.

  And suddenly, she wants nothing but to forget.

  PART 3

  “Can you rip his head off for me? Start pushing at his forehead until it snaps the fuck off? Yank in and rip out tendril after tendril of veins and organs until he is a hot dripping mess of blood?”

  CHAPTER 52

  MARCUS SIGHS. THIS should be a joyous occasion. The literal unshackling of oppression. Trumpets should sound, friends should surround him, bitches should cheer. Instead, the removal of Marcus’s anklet is done without ceremony, his attorney looking on dourly at the rate of four hundred an hour. When the metal piece finally falls, the demon inside of him flexes itchy wings, and Marcus tries to keep a grin off his face. Finally, he’ll have a normal range of activity. To dine in his old restaurants. To visit his properties. To return to the life of the elite. His old self would be making plans, calling business associates, celebrating with champagne and filet tonight.

  Instead, he has only one thought. Only one goal. The reward that has, over the last three months, grown into an obsession. And now, with the bitch’s address burning a hole in his pocket, it is the only thing he can think of. He shakes his attorney’s hand, gives him a grim smile, then turns to the redheaded houseboy. “Gas up my car and pack me a bag. I have work to take care of.”

  CHAPTER 53

  18 hours later

  EMPTY TIME. IN moments of weakness it has led to violence. But empty time has also been the creation point for much of Marcus’s wealth and most of his plans. Empty time can be precious if used properly. Can give him valuable moments to strategize. To think. To figure out the things most people rush right over. To judge past decisions and learn from his mistakes. Now, he drives. The open road before him, hours both behind and ahead. Empty time. Planning time.

  It feels strange to drive, his initial hundred miles hesitant before he regained his confidence. Before prison, he rarely drove. Had people for that, every moment useful, a million-dollar property often brokered in the backseat. Real estate development and management is a nonstop process, one where a missed opportunity can mean lost market share. Now, he sees all of the benefits of being behind the wheel. Freedom. Obscurity. At this moment in time, this moment in space, no one on earth knows where he is. What he is doing. Before, with Thorat, a driver, and security staff, there were too many pieces. Pieces that all became liabilities when it came time for his trial. People had to be paid, controlled, intimidated. Thorat handled it all, keeping the silence while enjoying a healthy bonus and protection from Marcus in return. All of Thorat’s efforts useless, the jail cell still clanging behind him with finality. Yes, Thorat’s procurement of the women, the delivery and cleanup crews, had all been convenient, his fuck house had been ideal, complete control of the environment liberating, but it had tied a hundred strings of evidence to him in the process. He had been stupid and egotistic to think he’d never be caught.

  Here, on the open road, he has so many more options. And nothing but time to plan the perfect ending for Jess Reilly.

  It has been weeks since their last chat, but she’s been present every day in his mind. Like a flea you can’t find on your skin. Taunting, teasing him. He’d had to satisfy himself with handfucks to her website’s videos, her recorded voice coming through the speakers. Soon, he’ll have her. In the flesh—not through the computer. His hands will be able to touch, his mouth to taste. She will be his coming-back act. And he won’t necessarily have to kill her. Not if she behaves. Fucking might be enough, his cock in her, his hand on her face, forcing her eyes to his. She might behave, speak and tell him what he needs to hear. How good his cock feels. How much she wants him. How she was a little bitch for blocking him. How sorry she is. How he can fuck her any way that he wants. He will tie her down, spread-eagle. Fuck her face, her ass, the slutty place between her thighs. Maybe leave her there for an hour while he explores the town, has a celebratory steak and a nice merlot. Return when she’s reached the point of panic. Fuck her through that stage. Let her scream into the gag until she’s hoarse, beg until she cries. Take her again. Break her until the only thing she knows is his touch, and the only voice she recognizes is his. Then, depending on her spirit, he will decide what to do. Holding her life in his hands, he’ll be in the ultimate position of power.

  He’ll just need to be smart. After Katie… after being locked up, listening to the wisdom of those beside him in jail—it is better to be safe. It is probably, from this point on, too risky to leave a girl alive. But the look in her eyes will help him make that decision. The lost, blank look is best. Those you can leave without worry; they aren’t coming back. They’ll bump around in their life until they kill themselves or get adopted. The ones who spit fire till the end… those are the ones you have to kill. They don’t appreciate the attention and never learn respect, even when beaten and broken. They’re the ones who come back and bite you in the ass. Katie had been that girl. Katie he should have ended. He frowns, all experiences with Jess Reilly exhibiting her fire, showing nothing of the submissive innocent on her website’s videos. If only he had an additional tool. A child or a parent to threaten, break her with. He needs more information than the simple address the tech asshole provided.

  He checks the GPS. Seven hours more. Then he’ll be at her address. An estimated 10:30 p.m. arrival. A late hour, but not unthinkable. She’ll be up whoring. He’ll try knocking first, the dignified approach. If that fails, he’ll resort to his tools.

  If two decades in real estate and two years in jail had taught him anything, it was how to pick a lock.

  CHAPTER 54

  10:22 p.m.

  SIMON HAS NOT locked the door. I sit on the floor and stare at the metal door before me. Count the scratches on its surface for the third time. Again I reach the number forty-seven. They are scratches of my own making, from nights when I went mad and tried to rip my way to freedom. Three years of insanity shown on that surface, should someone pay enough attention to look.

  Simon has not locked the door. I noticed the oversight at 9:50, leaving a chat midsession, my feet bringing me to standing, my naked body heaving as I stared at the door, my eyes trailing down the thin crack between door and jamb and failing to see the thin view of dead-bolt lock. I ended the chat, leaving a fifty-year-old husband in Nevada hanging with his junk in his hand. I’d gingerly walked to the door, not touching its surface, not doing anything but looking. Verifying, my eyes close to the crack, that I was, in fact, unsecured.

  10:23 p.m. It does not escape my attention that this is the precise time of night, roughly five years ago, that my mother was halfway through killing my family. That’s not why I am shaking; this is not necessarily my genetic hour of killing. For me, the killing is not restricted to night—my last kill occurred at the time of day when most individuals were diving into a bowl of Cheerios. But night is my weakest; night is my most vulnerable time. Hence my mandate that Simon lock me in.

  Simon has not locked the door. He might be on the way now. Realizing, in whatever drug stupor that’s claimed his body, that he is late. Flooring his Kia’s gas pedal
, not wanting to anger his source of pharmaceutical assistance. I move closer to the door, my bare feet sliding out, gripping concrete floor, my ass dragging across the cool surface as it plays catch-up with my heels. Closer now. Close enough that I see a dried line of blood, no doubt shed in a past attempt to break down my door and kill someone.

  It hasn’t been long since I’ve had blood on my hands. Too short, really. Too short for me to want it like this. I had hoped, some twisted form of hope, that by killing, I would pacify the bloodthirstiness of my soul. That’s how it works in books. The serial killer kills every once in a while, and that death tides him over until the next psychological breakdown. But I only got a few days of solace, a few days where my mental state was so ruined that I could only sleep. Sleep and lie with Jeremy and let him take care of me. He had been so caring, so worried. I wonder if he’d have been so nurturing had he known what I had done.

  I let the sharp blade sink into Ralph’s skin and yank left, cutting the throat as I have, through books and videos, been taught, the blade jerking in a wet sweep across his neck until it breaks loose of the skin.

  I close my eyes and savor the memory. Wrap my arms tightly around my knees and rock back and forth, focusing on the images in my head, the way his blood pooled in the dirt, the look in his eyes, the steal of death across his features. The power. The rush. This is what Dr. Derek has taught me, this is what I know. When the urges get too strong, I am to contain myself and let the fantasies run wild. But I am not contained, my door is unlocked, and I can’t focus on anything but the opportunity before me. Time is wasting. Any minute I could hear the scrape of metal on metal and my opportunity will be gone. I bounce to my feet and stand, my breath quickening as I fight what I want with what I know. I know I shouldn’t. But I am weak. My hands shake. My heart pounds. I step forward and wrap my hand around the knob. Mentally prepare myself as—very faintly—my brain screams at me to stop.

  I’m not leaving to kill.

  I’m not leaving to kill.

  I’m not leaving to kill.

  I repeat the words and pretend to believe them. I can do this. I can leave the house at night. Just cross the street. Ice cream. I’ve gotten ice cream before. Ice cream and lotto. Maybe scratch-off or maybe I’ll buy my Powerball early.

  I’m not leaving to kill.

  I twist the knob and pull open the last barrier before me.

  CHAPTER 55

  FINALLY AT HIS destination, Marcus slips gloves on, working finger by finger through the leather, flexing his hands when complete, his heart thudding quicker than it ever has, excitement flooding him.

  Finally.

  Now.

  He has waited so long.

  He turns off the car and surveys the shitty street before him.

  CHAPTER 56

  I AM NAKED. A piece of my sanity speaks up, the warm air of the hall hitting my skin, a sharp contrast to the icy chill of my apartment. I pause, the heel of my foot stopping the closing of the door. I look down at small breasts and bare legs. No weapon. Not that I need one. Not that I am leaving to kill. No one ever strangled someone to death with sexuality. I step back, like a jerky video set in rewind, left-right-left until my door swings shut and I am back in 6E. I move to my bed, bend before the stack of clothes, and grab sweatpants and a T-shirt, pulling them on without undergarments, my movement quick. I snatch a hair elastic off the bathroom sink and pull my long hair back into a messy bun. Grab a baseball cap of Jeremy’s and tug it on, a quick glance into the mirror letting me know that I am good.

  Ice cream.

  A paper ticket that might hold a fortune.

  Proof that I can handle freedom.

  Without allowing myself to think, I push aside cardboard towers, squeezing back into the far corner of my apartment, my hands shaking in excitement by the time I reach my safe.

  I spin the dial, 22-31-14, the gritty scrape of metal on metal giving way, and the door swings open. My eyes dance over the selection as the reality of what I am doing pushes its way into my mind. Is this who I am? A girl who can’t take a single night without supervision? Ice cream. Lotto. I step back. Stare at the 9mm that leans against the right side of the space. It’s loaded; I keep it loaded, with one in the chamber. I step another few steps back and fumble on the bed for my cell. Have trouble finding it among the tangle of my sheets. I dial the number I know by heart and hold it to my ear.

  It rings and rings. With every ring the sound fades, and all I hear is the pounding in my head. The bellowing knock of insanity, it bangs at the inside of my skull and pushes me forward. I step forward as the phone rings, closer to the safe. Ring. My hand reaches out, tugs out the gun. Ring. It is cold in my hand but warm with possibilities. Ring. I heft it, feel the weight of it, then put it in the pocket of my sweatshirt, my finger light on the trigger. I will not kill anyone. It will be my protection. Ice cream. Lotto. I prefer my killing to be done with knives; I like blood, appreciate the close contact of manually cutting through a soul and watching it run, like uncontrolled tears, out of a body.

  I know. Probably shouldn’t stick that into the “Favorite Activities” section of a Match.com profile. I hang up the phone when his voice mail begins. Stick the cell in my pocket and head for the door, my conscience unable to be heard above the ringing in my ears.

  I realize, at the moment that I step on the elevator, that I forgot shoes. My bare feet squish against the carpet, my mouth curling into a grimace as the stick of carpet lingers when I step forward. I freeze, midstep, in the middle of a pad that no doubt contains vomit and urine in its fibers. Bumping the “1” button with my elbow, I breathe through my mouth, trying to think of anything but the wet consistency of rotted carpet against my soles. I grab a moment of indecision and close my eyes. Pray. Pray that I won’t kill Marilyn from 6B or a family of four unpacking food-stamp groceries in our parking lot. I don’t need a gun to buy ice cream. I jab at the “6” button with the intention of returning the gun. I will not kill anyone. Please help me God. I don’t know if it’s a worthy prayer. If God even listens to psychopaths.

  The car settles on the ground floor, and I hear the shudder of door open behind me. I should stay on. Ride this beast back up to the sixth floor and return the gun. Without turning I pull my bare foot from the wet suck of carpet and step back, grateful for the hard concrete it hits, my second foot following quickly, any extra precautions disappearing with the close of the doors before me. It’s okay. I can handle this. I won’t use the gun. I will not kill anyone. I have a burst of confidence in my mantra, in myself, a moment of euphoria at the possibility of a successful field trip. It is nighttime. I am outside my apartment and armed, yet I will not hurt anyone. I put my hands in my pocket to stop their shake, the call of dark beckoning, my awareness narrowing as I focus on the task before me. I step to the left and push on the handle, the exterior door popping open, the world of cars and road open before me, the convenience store across the street glowing bright. In a normal neighborhood, the one I grew up in, the street would be quiet, the respectable families asleep or tucked away behind brick walls. But here, in a zip code that boasts the highest crime and lowest reportable income in the city, the streets buzz. I am surrounded, bodies sprinkled around the street, leaning against buildings, cars. I watch a prostitute skitter across the street toward the convenience store, wearing a pair of heels that cheaply mimics some of my own. Her end will come soon enough. It might be a blessing to have it through my hands, quick and final as opposed to a rough ending or slow death through disease. Plus, she is female, an easy target.

  I pause in my step onto the street, realize the path of my mind, the grip of my hand around the gun and spin to the left, walking in a direction that has no destination, the only thought in my head one of flight. Flight from my own thoughts, from the horrific individual that lies inside my bones. I wasn’t supposed to kill anyone tonight. I didn’t want to kill anyone tonight.

  My run from myself is redirected by the hand that closes around my elbow, a
firm grip, the body tied to the hand too close for me to see, the hold pinning my elbow to his side as I am shoved forward.

  I don’t scream, I don’t fight. It takes me a delayed moment to bring my mind out of my own self-loathing and realize what the hell is going on. I realize what is occurring around the time that the faceless stranger forces me left, into the dark space between two buildings, his grip tightening on my arm to a point of pain.

  CHAPTER 57

  EVERY JOB HAS its risks. A hacker’s life just contains more. It is part of the allure. High risks, high reward. Risks make Mike’s heart beat, his blood pump. It is what makes a mediocre life worth living. Plus, it gives him access to pussy. Women love the hacker angle. It makes a normal guy seem dangerous, connected. Makes them think he can, with a few strokes of deft fingers, accomplish anything he wants to. Unspeakable power harnessed by the sheer strength of self-control alone.

  Mike closes the screen, watching Deanna’s recorded show disappear with one reluctant mouse click. Ripping off a chunk of paper towels, he cleans off his cock, and rolls the chair back, tossing the damp towels into the trash can below the desk. He frowns, the towels missing their mark, batted away from entrance by the overfull can, bottles, takeout containers, and a healthy collection of used paper towels towering precariously over the rim of the basket. A quick debate over emptying the can is ended by a knock on his home’s front door, the song echoing through the empty house. Loud and decisive, the knock authoritative enough to make his hand freeze and brain regroup. Rolling the chair forward, he clicks on the security system, and opens the cam that displays the front porch, the dim porch light displaying a man, his features unclear, his stance straight enough to scream COP via the high-def feed. Cops, in his world, equal Feds—the fear of hackers everywhere.