She was in strong need of a long soak in the tub and an early bedtime. Regardless of today’s often-voiced opinion that the Sunrise Killer had fled the territory, she was preparing herself mentally for another quiet patrol through the early morning mists of Woody Heights. She knew that the guy was still around, still patiently anticipating his next kill, and this was not so much an intuition as a “study” of the killer. He was still there, yes, still confident and waiting; so would be Rebecca Storme. She had carefully cleaned and oiled her revolver as well as a small backup weapon, checked her Mace canister and clipped it to her holster belt for convenient access, checked the battery for her two-way police radio, laid out stretch leggings and T-shirt, a light jacket and running shoes.
She was as agile and quick as most men, perhaps as strong and physically fit. This time she was not going to lose her quarry as easily as the first time around.
It would be fitting, she guessed, for a woman to bring this guy in. She hoped that she would. No, she prayed that she would—not to prove anything to anyone except the killer himself. He obviously had such low regard for the female of the species, worth nothing more than a quick sexual thrill and a senseless death. The worst part of it was that this man, if the experts were right, was not actually committing a sexual act, the most creative process known in nature, but a true perversion of that process—the elimination of the female herself. To any thinking human mind, this must be the most heinous of all sins, when we consider that every natural precept is toward the protection and enhancement of the procreative act. If that is true, and Rebecca believed that it was true, then this type of killer is the closest thing to the “anti-christ” that can be encountered on this planet.
All that it meant to Rebecca, however, was that she had to stop this monster—by any means necessary.
She intended to do just that, God willing.
She completed her preparations, double checked her alarm clock, and fell almost immediately into a troubled sleep. Twice during the night she awoke with a start, heart racing, then had to force herself back to sleep. She wanted to be ready for this one. And she knew that she was.
Jesus! Nobody in the world had ever seen a cock like this before! A rod, a steel rod, that’s what it was, as hard as titanium, and it grew harder and larger every time she touched it. Oh yeah, she liked this one all right and God how she wanted it! But he was just playing with her, teasing her, holding her off and making her beg for it, giving that dripping pussy no more than a quick touch before dancing away. She was caressing and kissing him, trying to go down on him to show the depths of her love for him—but, wow, he was steel, he was cool, he was God Himself and in charge of the world. When “he” was ready, he would let her have some more—if she was nice—and maybe he would even give her mouth a taste every now and then. But oh shit—oh shit!—he was going to come!—he was going to come, dammit—Jesus, Mommy! Oh, oh, oh no, shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have mentioned that bitch!—now she was going to take it away from him again!
The rotten bitch!
No!—please don’t….
He awoke in a cold sweat. A dream?—another damned wet dream? Shit! Shit!
She’d done it to him again. He rolled over onto his belly, trying desperately for friction against the sheet—but already it was subsiding, fading away with all the magic draining out and that omnipotent cock turning to soft butter.
Damn it, Mommy! Damn you!
He wept with frustration, burying his face into the bed and wishing that he could just stop breathing—stop thinking—stop living! Why had he been born? It was a cosmic joke, all of life. The gods got their kicks this way! Those sons of bitches were into it for fun and games, that was all, and they loved to see us grovel and beg for mercy.
Well fuck that!
He could play God, too, couldn’t he? Sure he could. But he would be a God of justice, of good—make the world a better place, not a shit hole.
He had been good, hadn’t he? Of course he had, very good. If these other sons of bitches would just get off his back….
Well they were not going to do that—were they? The fucking posse was after him again. Those bastards! Didn’t they know that he could kill them all? He could take them out one at a time—bang, bang, bang—take them all out, as quick as that.
He wiped his tears and struggled off the bed, inspected his dead cock in the mirror and made a face at it, relieved himself at the toilet, made another face at the dead, limp thing crumpled between his thighs, then went on to the shower and took it cold, like a man, shivering and gasping with the shock of the cleansing stream, then he shaved mechanically and got into some clothes.
Another day.
So what? Another shitty day, that was all.
He put some Wheaties into a bowl, added milk and sugar, ate without enthusiasm then returned to the bedroom for a look at his “stash.”
These sons of bitches obviously did not know who they were dealing with. He went through the press clippings, almost reverently, kissed them, told them quietly—each in turn, “It’s okay, I forgive you. You knew not what you were doing.”
It was a bit harder to forgive those two latest kids. They had really fucked it up, yelling and screaming that way. No wonder the guy came banging at the door, with all that ruckus going on inside. Shouldn’t have done that, girls. I would have shown you some fun. Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I?
Well, hell, you couldn’t figure with a kid. It was all for nothing, girls. None of us had much fun, did we. Next time, dammit, behave yourselves.
He supposed that he would have to be moving along soon. Too bad. He was beginning to like the area. But he’d been pushing his luck and he knew it. He had to be more careful. One more bust and he was a dead man for sure. Not that he was afraid of dying. He would rather be dead than locked up again. He needed to plan for that. A suicide pill, maybe, if the heat suddenly got too intense. Meanwhile, he’d better just cool it for a while.
But he knew that he would not do that. The dream that he had awakened with was commanding attention again.
“Cool it!” he growled aloud, but he knew that he needed one more look at the area before bidding San Remo a fond adieu.
Once more. He had to hit it once more.
He carefully returned the press clippings to their box and concealed it on a closet shelf behind a stack of magazines.
The sun would be rising soon. So would he.
He changed into his sweat suit, stuffed the ski mask into a pocket, went out the door, and faded quickly into the early morning gloom.
Watch my smoke now, Mommy. This whole city is in my hands. You hear that, Mommy. My fucking hands!
Chapter Twenty-one
Rebecca slowly drove along the winding road, moving through patches of dense fog which at times gave her near zero visibility and an almost surrealistic sensation. As the fog closed in around her, she was feeling disoriented and claustrophobic. Her perceptions seemed distorted and bizarre as she tried to find her way through the clustering maze of curves and hills. She had been driving with her window down and trying to anticipate every sound of the road, eyes straining for the first suggestion that another vehicle would leap out at her without warning.
But finally she had to acknowledge the reality that it was insane trying to drive in these conditions. She crept into a “safe harbor” and parked her car, resolved to continue the patrol on foot. She did not know what she hoped to achieve, but she felt that such a morning would be ideal for the killer if he thought that he could find his way to another victim under these conditions. Any criminal would feel a sense of security once he got inside; these people thrive in an environment which may assure them seclusion.
She also knew that the fog would dissipate with the rising sun, so he would be hoping to conclude his “business” before the weather cleared.
This was what made the situation ideal for the Sunrise Killer.
So she was into the maze on foot and without any sure sense of where she was
at any given moment, or of what the morning held in store for her. She was moving as much by instinct as anything, feeling totally alone and vulnerable. She had lost sight of her car after the first few paces along the deserted street. If there were lights showing among the homes, she glimpsed them only now and then as a dim glow buried faintly beyond any sense of objective reality.
Even the neighborhood dogs seemed to be shivering in their own silence and loathe to reveal themselves. Occasionally she stumbled and almost fell, so complete was her disorientation and inability to perceive with any clarity.
She had already seen the futility of continuing in this mode and was trying to retrace her steps toward the car, relying upon the touch of her own footfalls on the pavement when a figure loomed abruptly through a brief thinning of the fog. Her pistol leapt into her hand without any conscious decision and she automatically assumed a firing stance as she quickly called out, “Police!”
Her husband’s concerned tones leapt back to announce, “It’s me, Pete.”
She exclaimed, “Oh shit, Pete!”
“Are you going to burn me, Rebecca?”
She laughed shakily, “I should have. You scared the pee out of me.”
“What the hell you doing out here in this impossible mess all by yourself?”
She went into his arms, the gun still clutched in her right hand, and replied with a shiver, “I’m on patrol, dummy. What’s your excuse?”
“Sheathe your weapon,” he suggested, “before you get carried away.”
She felt like an idiot as she huskily apologized and returned the gun to her holster.
At this distance, the visibility wasn’t bad. She could see him clearly, even smell the male presence. “How did you find me?” she asked him.
“Not from your ten-twenty.”
“Uh, I guess I hadn’t reported in yet, had I. So how did you find me?”
“I ought to spank you, damn it. I saw your car as you cruised past and heard you park it. I’d been down this road already, knew that you wouldn’t get far. So what the hell were you doing, Rebecca, trying to set yourself up as the next Sunrise victim?”
She said, almost angrily, “Come on, Peter, I’m just doing my job…trying to.”
“You do it by my rules, Detective, or you stay in the damn office. You are not to pull any roving patrols in this area without backup. Tell me that you understand that.”
She hugged him warmly, said, “Yes, sir, Sergeant Sir, I hear you. Any more instructions, sir?”
He growled, “Yes, Detective, just one more. Get your precious self back into my bed, please.”
That was good for a long, heartfelt kiss, while the damp morning air billowed about them. “When? Do you have a king-size bed in your motel room? And what are you doing for lunch, Sergeant?”
“Hell, why wait for lunch. Breakfast is still open.”
She asked suggestively, “Is that a proposition, sir?”
“You bet it is, Detective. In fact, it is also an order.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his motel key. “Room two-ten. You’re on duty there from eight o’clock ’til noon. I’ll bring the donuts.”
She whispered, “Yes, sir; thank you, sir. Is this a one night—uh, one morning stand, sir?”
“Would that be okay for starters?”
“Oh, you’re thinking of something more permanent, Sergeant?”
He patted her butt. “Let’s see how good you are, first.”
She said, “Gosh, you demand a try-out first? I’ve been told I’m damned good.”
“I can’t be sure. You know how guys talk.”
“Who’s been talking about me?”
He said teasingly, “This great stud—what’s the name?—this Sergeant Storme who spends all his nights on stakeouts.”
“So what could he know about it?”
“Maybe it’s intuition.”
“You willing to go on that?”
He said, “Well, for starters. Then I’ll see how you stack up.”
She said, “Gosh, I don’t know if I could stand the pressure. Could I bring my score card with me, too?”
He groaned, “Jesus, Rebecca. Course not. No score cards. Let’s make our own.”
“You’re on,” she said. “Room two-ten?”
Peter was walking her back to her car. “Yeah. Be there.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else you need?”
He saw her safely into her car and kissed her again before telling her, “Just bring yourself, Detective.”
He waited until she turned her car around and drove cautiously away. She’d bring herself, sure. With bells on.
But that was still two hours from now and the fog would be lifting soon. There was nothing in her “orders” to prevent her from another cautious patrol of the area from her vehicle.
With bells on—she had meant that, Peter, really meant it. But she was as much a cop as he was, her fate as predictable as his. She would soon understand the nature of the forces which propelled him into the dark and uncertain nights with only his courage to keep him strong.
She would understand it because she would experience it, herself, during a one on one confrontation with a killer. She was about to meet the ogre of Woody Heights, and this time eye to eye, heartbeat to heartbeat.
He had watched with growing impatience, an almost God-like sense of power building toward a fever pitch, while the jerk played with his windshield wipers and prepared for departure. Come on, Yuppy asshole, quit stalling, your mommy’s waiting for me.
The asshole wasn’t paying attention. Soon enough, soon enough. It was almost funny the way these guys always seem to think that they are in charge of the world and running it their own way. The truth, of course, was that this was his show, both the beginning and the end, and that they were dancing to his tune, not he to theirs.
Isn’t that funny, Mommy? Ever think that your little boy would have people like these by the balls?—that all these powerful people would be scurrying around and watching for my every move, every whisper?
It’s funny to me. Can you hear me laughing, Mommy? People like these would not have known I existed a few years ago. They know it now. I danced to their tune all my life. Now they shiver at mine. Is that justice?—or what? Aren’t you proud of me?
The Yuppy jerk finally got his act together and rolled on out of the driveway, the fancy garage door closing quickly on command as he drove away.
He stepped out of the bushes, confident that he was now home free, then strode boldly along the side wall to his preselected spot at the rear of the house. They made it so easy, as though a flimsy window or screen would protect them from a hostile world, when really it was no more than a brief inconvenience for anyone desiring entry. It took but a second to apply a strip of masking tape to the rear patio door to insure a silent break-in. A two-bit glass cutter made quick work of it and he was inside within moments.
A baby was wailing in a back room, which was no skin off his butt—it would just make “mommy” more cooperative. There was another kid inside somewhere, a girl of about three, according to his “profile” which he had developed during an earlier reconnaissance. He had spotted this tantalizing little family at a market down the street and had been watching them along with the others for months.
Maybe he had rushed this one a bit. He usually preferred to give “mommy” a few minutes to get herself quietened down a little before making his entrance but he was anxious to get this show on the road.
Just the mere entry was enough to produce a comforting pressure around his loins, a wild excitement thundering in his ears; this was what it was all about, this sensation alone worth all the planning and waiting—even the possibility of another incarceration not threatening enough to forestall the inevitable. And it was not just for fun and games; it was a calling, a necessary sacrifice of his own soul, even, if it came to that. It was not, after all, a perfect world—but he was trying.
“Mommy” let out a strangled little shriek of terror as he acco
sted her in the hallway outside the nursery. He smiled as he saw the look of horror in her eyes. She knew who had the power here, now, and she knew that there was no way to escape it.
She found her voice as he moved toward her, screaming in panic and trying to push him aside. He had to stifle that screaming, of course, not because it bothered him—hell, it just added to the excitement—but because it could possibly bring help her way and interfere with his show. She was trying to elude him but he could not allow that nor could he tolerate all the yelling. He hit her once, just once smartly across the face, and that took all the fight out of her.
“Cool it, Mommy!” he growled savagely. “Let’s keep the kids out of this.”
She belongs to me, now. She must know it. She’s looking at my cock. It is a hard on more ferocious than any I have ever known. Can’t you see that, Slut? What do you want for nothing, God’s sake? You’ll be begging for it, soon. You’re already in love with me, I can see it in your eyes.
How’s that, Mommy? Your son’s a grownup man now, isn’t he. Won’t she love this cock?
Wouldn’t you love it? Well you can’t have it, bitch! I’m going to give it to her. There won’t be any left for you, bitch, you half-ass excuse for a mother!
He knew what she was trying to do, hoping to keep him under control by being nice to him, but he knew it was a lie. She was no different than the rest. Sluts, all sluts. Every fucking one of them. Now she was screaming again, and he could not let her do that. He grabbed her by the hair and threw her onto the bed burying her face into the pillow to stifle the screams.
Roulette Page 12