Held, Pushed, and 22918 (3 Complete Novels)

by Kimberly A Bettes

  Feeling secure, I grabbed the duffle bag from the back seat and slung it over my shoulder. It was heavy, the strap digging into my flesh as I walked across the yard, keeping close to the house.

  I ascended the two steps and stood on the deck, looking up to check for surveillance cameras that may be mounted on the house. It was too late, really. If there were any, my image had already been captured. But I looked anyway and found none, which didn’t surprise me. Ron was cocky and arrogant, not to mention psychotic. Even if there ever was an intruder, he wouldn’t leave alive. Ron would see to that.

  There was a back door, which probably opened into a laundry room. Figuring it to be locked, I paid it no mind and headed straight for the patio doors. It seemed no one ever locked their sliding glass doors, and Ron was no exception. One tug of the handle and the door slid on the track, opening up his house to me.

  My heart hammered in my chest. I’d once spent months trying to break out of Ron’s house. Now here I was breaking into it. Sure it was a different house, but it was the same man. And if I wasn’t careful, I wouldn’t leave this time. Not in one piece anyway.

  As my hand trembled on the door handle, I asked myself if this was really what I wanted, what I needed, because once I stepped inside the house, nothing would ever be the same. For better or for worse, things were going to change the second I crossed the threshold. Only one of us would be coming out of this house alive, and it was only a fifty-fifty chance that it would be me.

  I had to wonder if I even had the strength to face Ron once again. The last two years had worn me down, both physically and mentally. Facing him now, only one of two things would happen. Either I’d find strength I never knew I had and would be able to pull off my plan without incident, or I would revert back to being the victim and cower in a corner at the mere sight of him.

  One thing was for sure. If I didn’t do something now, nothing would ever be done. Ron would continue to torture and kill woman as long as he was able to. And he’d do it all without the fear of being caught. No. This had to stop. He had to stop. And there was only one person who could stop him. Me. Only then would the terror end. Only then could I regain my life. My husband. My son.

  I took a deep breath and stepped across the threshold.

  For some reason, I’d expected to see chaos. Slum. Overturned furniture. Dirty clothes. Rats. Cockroaches. Feces smeared on the walls. Anything that showed this was the home of a sadistic murderer.

  What I saw instead was absolute perfection. Beautiful and expensive furniture, neatly arranged. Hardwood floors, void of any scuffs or scratches. Elegant drapes on the windows. The scent of fresh linen in the air.

  From where I stood in the dining room, I could only see the living room and the kitchen, but the sight of just these three rooms had me awestruck, and at the same time furious.

  Here I was, reduced to living in a fleabag motel while this asshole was living in the lap of luxury. It wasn’t fair.

  Where was my huge china hutch?

  Where was my bouquet of fresh flowers on the table?

  Where was my expensive area rug?

  Where were my oversized stainless steel appliances?

  Where was my big, dust-free house with the fancy crown molding?

  Where was my justice?

  My fists automatically clenched at my sides. I was on the verge of seething, but I forced myself to calm down. Wallowing in my rage would accomplish nothing. There was work to be done, and that work required a clear head. Besides, he was about to get what he had coming to him. There would be justice. I just had to remain calm and focused.

  In the living room, I gently set my duffle bag on the coffee table. I didn’t want to leave any clues that I had been in the house. While it was true that Ron was a sadistic maniac, he was also a keen observer. He might notice if I plopped the bag onto the floor or the couch. Hell, he might even notice my shoeprints on the carpet. I made a mental note to cover my tracks when I was finished exploring.

  The rooms of the house were large and spacious. Ten foot ceilings throughout added to the airy feeling, as did the extra large windows. The color scheme throughout was neutral, everything from the walls to the carpet were varying shades of beige. Expensive artwork—actual paintings on real canvas, painted by famous artists—hung on the walls.

  Though there were similarities between this house and the one in which I’d been held, there were differences too. The main similarity was the simple style. There was no clutter, no unnecessary furnishings. The main difference was there was now a television hanging on the wall above the fireplace. I found that odd since Ron had been dead set against having a television before, but I supposed when you did the things he did, you needed to watch the news. Turns out Ron liked to know his enemy too.

  I explored the first floor of the house thoroughly before heading upstairs. It still amazed me that even though the man was a serial killer and now a semi-famous writer, he managed to find time to keep his house immaculate. Nothing was out of place and not a speck of dust could be found anywhere.

  Underneath the staircase that led to the second floor was a door. I didn’t need to open it to know where it went. Of course it was possible that I was wrong. It could be nothing more than a closet. Perhaps there was no basement to this house.

  Headlines from the news sprang to mind—another body found, another missing woman, she hasn’t been seen since Saturday—and the doubts were erased from my mind. I knew that there was no closet behind this door. No, beyond this door lay the source of many nightmares, the stuff Hollywood writers concocted to make money from horror-loving moviegoers.

  I backed away, not yet ready to face the madness within.

  With my duffle bag in tow, I headed upstairs, squatting and using my hand to fluff the fibers of the rugs and carpets I walked on along the way, ensuring that I left no evidence of my presence. I didn’t want Ron to know I was here.

  11

  The book signing was a smash. People loved Ron. He was handsome and charming, smart and funny. What wasn’t there to like?

  He left the bookstore with a spring in his step and a smile on his face. He loved that feeling, the feeling of success. So much had gone right in his life over the past year or so, that it was hard to remember the little that had gone wrong, so he didn’t bother with remembering it. He just lived in the moment, enjoying the high that came with achieving the success he’d longed for all those years.

  The signing had gone on longer than he’d planned. He wasn’t one to turn away a fan though, so as long as they kept lining up, he kept signing their books. And smiling. And talking. And flirting with the women. The women ate it up, the attention of this mysterious writer. Elderly ladies giggled like schoolgirls and schoolgirls babbled like idiots. This would make it even more unbelievable if he ever did fall under the suspicion of the police for the crimes he’d committed. His fans would have his back, no doubt. They could attest that there was no way such a charming and charismatic, polite and friendly man could do the horrible things of which they were accusing him.

  The owner of the bookstore had invited Ron out to an early dinner and a drink in celebration of the success of the signing. He declined. Not only was there a steak in his refrigerator calling his name, but he didn’t care to be around other people. The only time he tolerated it was when he had a reason. There was no reason to go out with this middle-aged bald man whose belly hung over his belt. Ron wasn’t yet ready to look for a new woman to fill his basement, and there was nothing else to gain from sharing the man’s company. So politely, he explained that he had to put the finishing touches on his latest novel. He then left the man with a smile and a wave.

  Driving home, Ron left the radio off so he could better relive the previous night’s events. Not the clean-up. He always hated that part and did his best not to think about it after it was done. Instead, he enjoyed thinking back on the moments before the clean-up, which were always the best moments to remember. In this case, it was Bethany’s final mom
ents.

  He watched the world around him, extra careful in traffic so as not to be involved in an accident of any kind that would put his name on the lips of police officers, but while his eyes saw green lights and brake lights and pedestrians, his mind saw Bethany’s lips rip apart as she tried to open her mouth to scream, fighting against the super glue that had sealed them closed.

  His ears heard the blaring horns of frustrated and angry drivers around him, but his mind heard Bethany’s tortured screams as he’d cut open her belly and plunged his hand into her abdominal cavity. He could still hear her ragged gasps for breath as she wailed until her throat stopped producing sound.

  His nose smelled the light scent of chemicals as the car’s air conditioner blew gently on his face, but his mind smelled Bethany’s blood, thick with iron and reminiscent of metal. He smelled the bitter aroma of her intestines as he pulled them slowly out of her body and slid them through his hands. They were slick with blood and warm, so warm.

  A smile crept across his face as he remembered how good it felt to hold her organs in his hands, organs that were still alive and working. He savored the memory of the look on her face as he’d held up his hands and showed her what her uterus looked like, her intestines, and then her spleen. It was a shame she hadn’t lived long enough to see them all.

  Maybe the next woman would.

  Ron thought of the blond woman who’d given him her phone number at the previous signing. Perhaps he should call her and see if she would like to come over for a drink. She was certainly a bold woman, approaching him without hesitation and giving out her number. Maybe she was strong enough to remain alive long enough to see all of her innards.

  He pulled into his driveway, parked in the garage, and went in the house. No matter where in the world he went, it was always good to be home.

  Immediately, Ron went to work preparing to cook the steak. He gathered everything he needed, placed it all on the wooden tray he used for just such a purpose, and then headed toward the patio doors, intending to grill the steak and potato on the deck. It was something he did often, something he enjoyed doing.

  With one hand beneath the tray and the other on the handle of the sliding glass door, he looked outside, thought for a second, and then changed his mind. He wasn’t going to grill the steak today. Today, he was too tired to go to all the trouble of grilling it. Instead, he went back into the kitchen and cooked the steak on the stove and baked the potato in the oven. It was just as delicious and there was less mess to clean.

  After the work he’d done the night before, he didn’t feel like cleaning another mess. Bethany had been a chore. It had taken him the greater part of the night to dispose of her and erase all traces of her from his home. He’d attained very little sleep in the wee hours of the morning before having to get ready for and attend the tour’s final book signing. He was too exhausted to even call the blond woman from the bookstore.

  While driving to the bookstore that morning, he’d fooled himself into thinking he could come home and work on his latest book. He now realized that wasn’t going to happen. Not until he’d at the very least taken a nap.

  These women were sapping him of his strength. But boy was it worth it.

  It wasn’t a lie that he used the women as research for his books. That was definitely true. But it would be a lie to say that he didn’t enjoy what he did. He more than enjoyed it. He loved it. Even if he never wrote another book in his life, he would continue to do what he did with the women. It was simply too much fun to stop. More than fun even. It was thrilling. Exciting. Exhilarating.

  For as long as he could remember, Ron had wanted to write. He wasn’t sure what field of writing he wanted to go into, whether he should become a reporter or a novelist or an essayist, but he knew that words were his ticket out of the life he’d grown up living. He didn’t want to be like his father, abusive and shifty. He didn’t want to be like his mother either, a clueless victim. He wanted to rise above all that his parents had, which consisted of poverty, a long line of meaningless, dead-end jobs that came and went, the fear of never knowing where the next meal would come from, and a series of run-down roach-infested houses. He wanted to make a better life for himself, and the tool to achieving that goal was education, which was something neither of his parents had.

  Most of Ron’s learning was self-taught. As often as he could, he’d sneak out of the house and go the library, where he’d spend hours reading books and learning all he could on a vast variety of subjects. He’d learned early on in his life that if people thought you were dumb, they would take advantage of you and never think twice about it. If they thought you were intelligent, they treated you differently, better. Doors opened up to you when you were smart, doors that you would’ve never even seen otherwise.

  He’d started his writing career early, as a young man eager to prove himself and make his name known in the literary world.

  At the age of twenty, he applied for and was surprised to get a job for his local newspaper. It wasn’t much, just a weekly column about local happenings, but it was a start.

  After two years of that, he realized that if he was ever going to make anything more of his career, he had to take matters into his own hands. He began writing his first novel.

  The idea came to him after writing in his weekly column about a serial killer who’s death sentence was due to be carried out. The killer wasn’t a local man, but one of his victims had been a local woman.

  Thinking that the story would make a great first novel, Ron arranged an interview with him. The words that were exchanged between them that day had fueled the fire for writing that burned within Ron, and also sparked a curiosity about something else.

  Murder.

  The beginning of his career as a novelist was a failure, his first book selling miserably. But his career as a murderer had been successful from the start. As with his writing, his skill had improved greatly over the years. Though he couldn’t exactly brag about the things he’d done to anyone in real life, he was proud of his body of work and reveled in the fact that he could brag about it all he wanted on paper. If it was written on paper, it was fiction. People loved to read a gory story and soak up all the details as long as they thought it was fake, but if they ever learned it was real, well then suddenly it was disgusting and he was a hideous monster who should be locked away from society.

  People were funny that way.

  Ron sat at the dining room table, cutting his steak one piece at a time, chewing slowly and thinking about the work he had to do on his latest novel. From there, he thought about ideas for his next novel. And the one after that.

  He smiled because there was no end in sight. As long as there were women in the world, there was no end to the torment and pain he could cause them, which meant there was always going to be a book to write.

  He considered it job security.

  Once he’d consumed the steak and potato and drank a single glass of wine, he washed his plate, yawned, and headed upstairs to bed, exhausted.

  Normally, he would’ve brushed his teeth before turning back the blankets on the bed and sliding between the sheets. Not this time. It would have to wait because he was simply too tired.

  After removing his shoes and placing them neatly on the floor, he took off his pants, folded them—careful to keep the crease—and placed them on the chair beside the bed. He did the same thing with his shirt. He then folded his socks and laid them on top of his shoes. Wearing only his underwear, he got into bed, where he was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

  12

  Time seemed to crawl by as I waited for Ron to return home. When he finally did, I began to doubt my whole plan. As I heard the garage door go up and then come down, panic set in and my instinct told me to run, to get the hell out of that house before he found me.

  I ignored those instincts and stayed where I was, fighting through the panic and listening to his movements, waiting for my opportunity. It would be a while before it cam
e, and until then, I had to be patient and calm. Calm was an important factor in all of this.

  Finally, Ron came into the bedroom. My heart beat furiously in my chest, the sound of it echoing in my ears. I was terrified it was loud enough that Ron would hear and know exactly where I was.

  He took off his clothes and climbed into bed without becoming aware that I was in the room with him. I almost breathed a sigh of relief, but didn’t for fear of being heard.

  I waited until his snoring became loud and rhythmic, a slow and steady sound that served as an alarm. Only then did I dare come out from my hiding place.

  Slowly and carefully, I slid out from under the bed in which Ron lay sleeping. In order to mask any sounds I might possibly make, I only moved when he snored.

  Several minutes later, I was standing beside his bed, looking down on him as he slept.

  My first thought was to kill him. Just kill him right then and be done with it. It was the sound of the screaming women in my mind that kept me from doing that very thing. They deserved more than for him to die a quick and painless death. No. This son of a bitch was going to suffer and suffer greatly for what he’d done to them. To me.

  Before I’d hidden under the bed, I had retrieved some of the items from the duffle bag. The bag was too big and stuffed too full to fit underneath the bed with me, so I’d taken a chance and hidden it in the closet of one of the other bedrooms, hoping like hell he didn’t have a reason to go in there. The items I’d taken from the bag went with me in my hiding place. I now held two of those items, a bottle in one hand and a cloth in the other.

  It was time to use them.

  I quietly unscrewed the lid of the bottle and placed it on the nightstand. I cupped the cloth in my right hand and made a bowl shape out of it. I then took a deep breath and held it while pouring some of the liquid from the bottle onto the white cloth.