Closer by Morning

by Thom Collins

  It was no accident.

  Clint hadn’t intended for Aaron to become his next victim, not until last weekend. But adaptability had always been one of his strengths. It was a poor twist of fate for Aaron, but once Clint had made up his mind, it had all gone to plan.

  He turned off the computer. There was nothing more of note in the story. The press and the police were clueless. Nobody knew what motivated the Durham Strangler. How or why he operated. That was the way it would stay. It was time to switch things up again. The riverbanks around the city would be too well patrolled now. He couldn’t risk grabbing another boy from within the city or dumping them in the river. Didn’t matter. He was ready to take his campaign to another level. While the police were looking one way, he would seize them from another.

  Clint turned out the lights and locked up the gym. His four-by-four was parked in the deserted car park behind the main street. He sat behind the wheel and ate the beef sandwich he’d picked up earlier. It had been a long day and it was not over yet. He ate slowly. Thoroughly chewing before swallowing each mouthful. The bread was stale and dry and the beef was tough. It didn’t bother him. Clint took little pleasure from food. It was merely fuel.

  Finished, he started the engine and got on his way. Driving carefully and observing the speed limit. The Durham Strangler would not be one of those incompetent killers the police caught on something as mundane as a traffic stop.

  The press had claimed Aaron Oxford was Clint’s third victim. A fact that was far from true. The police had only made the connection between Aaron and the previous victims because he had wanted them to. The parallels between the three killings were deliberate. They thought Connor Welsh was his first but Clint had killed before Conner, many times. None of those deaths were ever connected or attributed to a single killer. He liked killing. But as with all things he enjoyed, moderation and variety were key. Together with a considerable will and steely determination. Clint was confident in his abilities. He would not be caught. The murders would only stop when he wanted them to.

  And that would be never.

  He had been twenty-five when he had taken his first life. Serving in Germany, he’d picked up a skinny blond boy in a leather bar. The kid had been all for show, posturing around the club, telling everyone how much he had wanted an older top to fuck him hard. Going back to the boy’s grimy apartment, Clint had done just that, fucking the boy harder than he’d ever expected or wanted. He had cried like a bitch and begged him to stop. When he’d begun to cry rape, the only way to silence him had been to break his neck.

  It had been a spur-of-the-moment loss of control. He’d reacted on instinct, foolish instinct that could have landed him in prison, but he hadn’t been able to deny how much he’d enjoyed it. The power of that control. Of exercising his strength over the boy’s weakness. Feeling those bones crack. He had cleaned the apartment as best he could. There would always be traces he could not eradicate, but thankfully he had used a condom to screw the kid, keeping DNA evidence to a minimum.

  The murder had not made the news. He had followed the local papers and bulletins, but seen nothing. He had been deployed to Ireland four months later and considered himself lucky.

  He’d always known there was something wrong with him. Being queer was bad enough but his issues went deeper than that. Sex alone was never enough, even before that night in Germany. He liked to punish his lovers. Fuck them without lube, hit them, mark them, take them by force. He craved total domination over other men.

  But he didn’t know what that truly meant until he broke the German boy’s neck in that depressingly small apartment.

  For the first time he’d experienced real power. Total control.

  Having tasted it, nothing else would ever be enough.

  He tried to keep those urges at bay. He had struggled for years to deny them. Making do. Humiliating his lovers. Punishing them. The men he met in leather bars and on hook-up sites were submissive. Willing victims who got off on the cruel punishments he devised for them. Clint could take no pleasure from their masochism. There was nothing he could do to hurt those men, short of ending their lives. But he wasn’t ready to take that step again. Not yet. He’d left the Army and was living permanently in the UK. It would not be as easy to get away with it on home turf.

  For a while, rape provided the solution. Taking other men by force satiated those passions.

  He had to be careful. Always. He had no intention of going to jail for raping some faggot’s ass. He was no opportunistic sex offender. He chose his victims with tremendous care. It was the only way to control it.

  It could sometimes take weeks to make a selection. He would travel far on weekends, just looking. In the small towns and villages around County Durham, going south to North Yorkshire, or up into Northumberland. Always looking, discounting hundreds of men until a suitable victim emerged.

  Supermarkets were his favorite hunting ground, prowling the aisles, seeking the perfect one. There was no particular type. His selection was based on the feelings he underwent when he saw a certain man. He seldom found them attractive. It was the excitement they triggered that he found most electrifying.

  Straight men were the best. Married men even better. They had so much more to lose when he exerted his ultimate power over then. Straight men were less likely to report it when he raped them. They couldn’t admit it when another guy took their ass. Out of dozens of attacks he’d carried out, Clint was only aware of three that had been reported to the police.

  He was never questioned about any of them.

  He thanked his carefully planning for that. Once he chose his victim, he spent weeks stalking them. That’s where supermarkets proved so fruitful. Most people doing their weekly shopping went straight home afterward. Which made finding out where these men lived so effortless. He would return several times, always in disguise, learning his victims’ routines, who they lived with, where they worked, when they were alone. Compiling a picture. Formulating a plan. People were creatures of habit and that made his task so easy.

  The plan and the anticipation of executing it could be delightfully drawn out for weeks. He was rarely in a hurry and always in complete control of his emotions. The murder in Germany had been the one time he’d lost control. He made sure that it never happened again.

  For many years, stalking and sexual abuse was enough. The thrill of taking another man and exerting control over him satisfied his darkest needs. He wasn’t too prolific either. One or two men each year, that was all he needed.

  When they cried and begged him to stop—that was when he liked it best.

  New Year’s Eve 2013. Clint had been invited to a party at the home of one of his gym regulars. He hadn’t planned on going but had changed his mind at the last minute. He had been unusually optimistic about the coming year. As he’d stood in the kitchen, talking to the husband of another gym member, he’d realized why he’d been looking forward to the new year. It had been time for him to kill again.

  Once the decision had been made, he’d begun to enjoy it.

  Yes, he would kill a man that year. He had decided then to start with the man he’d been talking to at that very moment. His name had been Anthony and they had only met that night. Anthony had been an electrician, almost thirty and still hanging on to the prettiness of his youth, despite having been married for four years with two kids. His hair had been receding and he had the beginnings of a beer belly.

  Yes, Clint had thought. I’ll kill him this year before he loses his looks completely.

  It had been a great liberation as he’d made the decision, all he’d done till then was suppress his natural instinct. The urge to kill again had been with him ever since Germany. He wouldn’t deny it any longer. Now he was free to do what he wanted.

  Free did not mean careless. He had planned the murder of Anthony more minutely than any of his other crimes. He had to. It wasn’t going to be lik
e before—choosing a random stranger in a nowhere town. He would be acting out his fantasies here, in the city where he lived, among people he knew.

  Keeping tabs on Anthony hadn’t been an easy thing. As an electrician, he had no set routine. His job had taken him all over the county and his hours of work had been erratic. Clint had taken care not to mention him when his wife Laura had attended the gym. Once the deed had been done, he hadn’t wanted anyone making even the most tenuous connection between him and his victim.

  He had bided his time. There had been no rapes elsewhere that year. He hadn’t needed them. They had been a coping mechanism, to stop him from killing, and he hadn’t required that anymore.

  He had made his move in August. For some reason, an upcoming family holiday he guessed, Anthony had taken up jogging after work, three nights a week, heading up into the lonely hills outside the town, following the same route each time. It had been too perfect.

  Clint had been waiting in the deepest part of the course. Anthony hadn’t even seen him when he’d stepped out from behind and smacked a rock against his head. Clint had dragged him unconscious into a deeply shaded gully and had taken his time with the rest.

  The body hadn’t been found for two days.

  Despite a major investigation and tearful appeals for witnesses by his wife, no arrests had been made and Anthony’s murder remained unsolved.

  ****

  Clint parked his car in a quiet residential street, a mile from the estate where Matt Blyth lived. He had used this spot only once before, several weeks back and would not come this way again. There was no CCTV coverage in the area and there was nothing about his car to make it stand out from any other on the street. But twice was enough. People were naturally nosy and nosy people noticed things.

  He got out of the car and pulled a scarf around his neck, high enough to cover his lower face. It was a cool night and he would not look suspicious dressed as he was. Sticking to the shadows, he took a circuitous route through the estate, down narrow pathways, between the houses, avoiding the brightly lit open spaces that were popular with late night dog walkers. Like a soldier, under cover of darkness in enemy terrain, he was the ultimate professional stalker.

  Matt Blyth had been his target for almost a year. Before any of the most recent killings, Matt had been on his radar. Matt was something special. More special than any man he’d pursued before. There always came a point for Clint, during the long process of choosing a victim and following him, when the urge to kill became too great, when it couldn’t be denied any longer. That hadn’t happened with Matt. So far, he drew more pleasure from the slow pursuit and manipulation of his prey than the idea of killing him. Toying with him, playing with him, fucking with his mind. Like the other night when he slashed the tires of his car.

  With Matt, he was playing a longer game than usual.

  The more recent killings, indeed the creation of the Durham Strangler, were a diversion, a side project that allowed him to draw out the chase. It was considerably more rewarding.

  Matt was a curiosity. Clint didn’t fully understand why this man piqued his interest more than any other. He was a handsome bastard—nice body, nice ass—but that wasn’t it. His body would be even better soon. If he kept up the exercise. Luring him to boot camp had been inspired. And easy. Clint dropped fliers for the course at all the houses on the estate and then a week later to all the businesses in the area of Matt’s work. He was prepared to wait. Do it all again in a few week’s time. But that hadn’t been necessary. The bimbo from Matt’s office had called to book a session after the first drop.

  Of course if he hadn’t come to boot camp Matt would never have struck up a romance with the cheesy American. But even that had the potential to amuse him. Especially since Dale was mixed up in that stupid TV show, the one they claimed Clint was copying. How was he supposed to mimic something he hadn’t seen? Still, it struck him that he could delay Matt’s murder and make it a lot more interesting by killing Dale first.

  What a blast that would be.

  Watching from afar as Matt dealt with his grief. Playing a long game of mental torment before the inevitable end.

  Cutting between two houses, he came up on Matt’s place. The American’s rental car was parked on the drive. That Yank spent so much time here, he should pay rent.

  Clint crossed the street then ducked into the shadows. He crouched low and waited. Silence. No twitching curtains or faces at the windows. No one to see him. He waited another five minutes, just to be sure, before edging toward the gate, opening it and disappearing around the side of the house. He was used to operating in complete darkness and maneuvered without making a sound.

  For someone who worked with dangerous criminals and lived alone, Matt was hopelessly lax about security. There were no outside lights or cameras. Not even a dog. The house was not alarmed and he often slept with the windows open. The upstairs windows were easily accessible from the roof of the kitchen porch.

  Clint had been in the house several times. Tonight he was only here to look. He hadn’t intended on coming at all. Not until the news about Aaron broke. The fact that his latest victim worked on the American’s TV show would bring his crimes into their world.

  The murders were no longer taking place on the news, happening to other people. They were right here on their doorstep. It was someone they knew.

  That notion alone gave him a big hard-on.

  He raised his head above the kitchen sill. They were in the dining room, facing each other across the table, both in profile. There were two glasses between them and a bottle of red wine, almost empty. He didn’t need to hear what they were saying. He understood the serious tone of their conversation from their expressions. Furrowed brows, soulful eyes, downturned mouths.

  Death had entered their perfect lives. It had been there all along, they could only see it now he had chosen to offer a glimpse.

  Look at them talking it over, trying to make sense and comfort each other. Sweet. Enjoy it while you can.

  Clint grinned.

  Matt Blyth and Dale Zachary had no idea. They were living on borrowed time and the end would come soon enough.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They stayed up talking late into the night. Dale told Matt everything. Not just about Aaron, but his whole life. His anxiety from being in the closet and the fear he felt should he be outed. The impact it would have on his son. The ruin it would bring to his career. The fear he’d felt for so many years, of himself, of being gay. The panic that had driven him to marry Laura.

  Matt listened. Without comment or judgment.

  It was difficult for Dale to open up like this. He could see it in his face. Hear it in his fractured speech. But gradually, as his story unfolded, the strain began to ease.

  “So that’s everything.” Dale sighed, sharing what was left of the wine between their two glasses. “Every damn, complicated, fucked-up facet of my life. What a crock of shit.”

  Matt reached across the table, putting his hand on top of Dale’s. “Thank you. You didn’t have to tell me any of that. But please know how much I appreciate it.”

  “Really?”

  “Honestly.” He squeezed his hand.

  “The shit is gonna hit the fan, you know. Over Aaron. There’s no way I’ll be able to keep my name out of the press. Shit, listen to me. That alone should tell you what a fuck-up I am. A man is dead and I’m worried about how the press might link my name with his. What an asshole.”

  “Sssh,” Matt said softly. “So what if they out you? Big deal. We’re not in the 1970s or 80s. It’s not going to ruin you. Your role in Blood Falls proves that you’ve moved on from the pretty-boy phase of your career. This is a serious role. A dark role. I can’t imagine they’ll want you for more teen romances on the back of it.”

  “It’s not just my career that I’m worried about. There’s Jack.”

  “D
oes he know you’re gay?”

  “Of course not,” Dale said with wide eyes.

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “He’s twelve years old.”

  “And twelve year olds today are a lot wiser than we ever were,” Matt said. “They’re not hung up on things in the same way earlier generations were.”

  Dale laughed thinly. “No kid wants to think about their parents’ sex life. I doubt things have changed that much. It’s gross.”

  “Grosser still to have to read about it on Facebook, or in the school yard.”

  Dale looked up. ”What are you saying? That I should tell him first?”

  “It would be better coming from you, wouldn’t it?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  Matt felt for him. He was hurting badly. Watching the bottom fall out of his world. “Look, if you ask me, I think there’s a pretty good chance he knows already. I’d be amazed if he hasn’t asked Laura about you. Give her a call in the morning. Find out. But I think you should speak to him soon. If the press is going to keep a lid on the story, it won’t be for long. You’ll have until Sunday, I would say. The British press—they love running scandal stories on Sunday. It’s a tradition.”

  “Some tradition.” He drained his wine.

  “Come on.” Matt emptied his glass too. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed. There’s nothing you can do until the morning.”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I’ve got too much going through my mind.”

  Matt leaned in closer. “I said let’s go to bed. I didn’t say anything about sleeping.”

  He wanted to be close to Dale, to assure him and prove he was there for him. Dale had been so worried. Telling him about Aaron and the relationship that ended just as they met. Matt wasn’t the jealous type. Everyone came to a new relationship with some kind of past, bringing their emotional baggage with them. It wasn’t enough to put him off. The only thing they had together was a future. There was nothing to be gained dwelling on what had happened before they met.