by C. E. Hansen
After dinner, they walked to the garage to get his car. When the attendant brought his car, he walked slowly around the car.
“What the fuck is this?” he shouted at the attendant, pointing to the fender.
“Don’t know.”
Alison heard him mumble something under his breath, but then he calmed
Several tense minutes later, they pulled into the underground garage at his apartment building and rode the elevator up in silence. When he opened the door, she was amazed. It was smaller than she imagined a supermodel would have and sparsely decorated. He had two couches, a chair, a table or two and a TV in the living room. The walls were covered with pictures of him. Jonathan leaning on a car, smiling, Jonathan kissing the hand of a beautiful woman, smiling, Jonathan laying on a lounge poolside in a posh resort, and smiling.
Cor, he loves his face.
Alison asked him if she could use the bathroom. He pointed down the hall.
“Room across from the bedroom.”
Wooo…the bedroom. Hell, if he were lucky. Alison laughed inside imagining herself screwing a model, and a big time model, on billboards and such. They all would be green with envy.
She heard him playing back his answering machine, the messages playing one after the other. Alison heard little of the messages but was sure it was a list of places and times he needed to be.
She opened the bathroom door and walked in. When she looked around, she was speechless. It was the polar opposite of the living area. There wasn’t an inch of space on any surface. The back of the toilet, the sink, the corner stand, the shelves, hell even the floor. All full of product; hair, face, makeup, lotions, cologne, everything. There wasn’t an inch of space to put anything else.
What a fucking product freak he is.
She peeked into his medicine cabinet, shocked to see it stuffed full of meds. At least thirty bottles stood on the shelves, all neatly arranged.
Alison didn’t know what most of the bottles were but she did see a few she recognized, as she spun them around. Thorazine, Risperdal, and Clozaril. Those bottles were filled with antipsychotics. Alison knew these too well. Her mum had taken them all at one time or another for her condition. She was Bipolar and continually suffered with manic highs and severe depression, which triggered dramatic mood swings. A chill caused the hairs on her neck to rise.
What the fuck did I get myself into here?
She quickly used the bathroom. Alison did like that he was famous, and beautiful, but she kept getting an uneasy feeling. He was moody and irritable.
Fucker must be off his meds, the loon.
She washed her hands and walked out into the hall.
Alison lifted her eyes up and saw Jonathan in the room next to the bathroom, talking. It sounded like he was angry. She thought quickly, coming up with a plan. She would tell him she had a lovely time at dinner, but was tired and not feeling well. I’ll tell him I ate too much...She looked into the room again, noticing it was the only room in the apartment that looked normal. The king bed was made and covered in a beautiful silk spread. Oddly, it looked like it had never been slept in. The matching silk curtains were elegant as well. The furniture looked very expensive.
Alison tapped lightly on the door to get his attention. Jonathan immediately turned to look at her. She thought it odd he wasn’t on the phone. Had he been talking to himself?
“Jon, I wanted to thank you for din...”
“Jonathan,”
“Excuse me?”
“JON A THAN. Should I fucking spell it for you, you stupid fucking cunt?” His voice was full of venom.
“I, um, I...I’m sorry...Jonathan.” The cold chill spread from her belly outward. “I wanted to thank you for the lovely meal, but...I’m…I’m not feeling well. I need to lie down…I’m going to go back to my flat. Must’ve ate too much…um, no need to see me out, I can grab a taxi. Thank you again for dinner, it was lovely.” She started backing out of the room.
“You ate too much?...Really...Of course you did, you greedy fucking cow.” She didn’t have time to react. He reached her in two quick steps, grabbed her by her throat and lifted her off the floor. Smashing her violently into the wall, his hand holding her in place, he clasped her tightly around her neck. The drywall dented from the force of her head slamming into it. She was dazed, her head pounding.
He took a remote from his pocket and pushed a button. Music started pouring out of his speakers, becoming increasingly louder. Hard rock, Rolling Stones, Sympathy for the Devil.
She felt ill, her supper rising, bile burning the back of her throat, blocked from escape by his long fingers. Her stomach twisted and curled. She raised her hands up to her throat trying in vain to pull his fingers loose. He smiled viciously at her feeble attempt.
“Fucking cunt.” He smiled again.
You crazy bugger...her head lolled back against the wall, her arms dropped to her sides, the lack of oxygen making her dizzy. Her brain pounded with her attempt to stay conscious, focused.
He released her abruptly and casually walked into the living room. Alison slid precipitously to the floor. She hadn’t realized her feet weren’t touching the floor until the moment her numb legs collided with the hard surface.
Lifting her hand to her throat, she rubbed her neck, trying to sooth her bruised trachea while trying to think, her head still foggy from the blow. Alison tried to stand but was still too dizzy. She started crawling toward where she thought she remembered the entrance was.
She had to get out of this place or something terrible would happen. She crawled to the end of the hall and looked up to see Jonathan standing there, smiling eerily, an ominous look on his face. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying until she tried focusing. She quickly swiped the tears away and spotted her cutthroat in his hand.
How did the Looney fucker get my cutthroat?
He was playing with it, slowly turning it in his hands, caressing it with his fingers, looking intently at the blade. He removed the guide and tossed it to the floor. The exposed razor coaxed a smile from him. He lifted it to the light, marveling at its purity. He swiped the blade, cutting deeply into his finger as he did.
He stuck his bloody digit into his mouth sucking hard, drawing his blood from the slice. The sides of his mouth twisted into a sneer.
He is fucking mad he is, insane bastard.
He walked slowly to where she sat shaking her head.
“Please, Jonathan. I just want to go home. I won’t say anything to anyone. Please...please.” She begged, her voice throaty and coarse, sounded odd to her. If she didn’t get out of here she was going to die.
Fucking bastard.
Somewhere inside her an anger built. Reaching up she grabbed, searched for anything she could use. With dexterous fingers she felt along the top of the table next to her, combing for something she could wrap her fingers around, anything that would cause him pain. She groped until her fingers rested on a thick heavy object, maybe an ashtray. She grasped it and without hesitating, flung it at him. It collided with his forehead and rocked him back on his heels. Her cutthroat skittered across the floor, bumping then resting against the wood molding along the walls.
He yelled in pain. “Fucking cunt. You fucking cow cunt.”
He sat down holding his head with both hands, rocking.
She found the strength she desperately needed and using the wall as her guide, slowly rose to her feet. She was weak but if she didn’t try, she would die. She stood for what seemed like an eternity. Using her hands on the wall, she slowly forced her legs to move, walking around the perimeter of the room, looking back and forth from where he sat cursing to the front door.
The bile rose in her throat as panic set in. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she slowly crept along the wall, hoping and praying to a God who had clearly abandoned her.
Alison looked in his direction, seeing him watching her as a smile formed on his lips, reaching his eyes. Demonic eyes.
Fucking devil.
He licked his lips. He swiped at the blood trail, smearing it across his forehead, and slowly stood, searching the room for her cutthroat. He was unsteady, holding onto the back of the sofa. He took a small step and stopped to reach down to pick up a small table. He threw it across the room where it smashed into the wall next to her, breaking apart with such force, splitting into pieces, scattering across the floor.
She watched in horror as he slowly advanced toward her, his steps unsteady, his swiped blood resembling war paint. She turned toward the door.
If I can just get there, scream, get out, run—anything.
She looked at him; he watched her like a cat playing with a mouse, toying with her. Time was not on her side. She took in a deep breath then made a run for the door. When she reached it, her heart was beating so hard she thought it would explode. She began fumbling with the lock, twisting the knob, banging on the door.
Why won’t this open?
She quickly turned around with her back against the door. He stood ten feet behind her, a sardonic smile playing on his evil face.
Alison was fully panicked now and began to pound on the door using all her might, screaming for help. Her voice lacked volume and was scratchy. She lifted the chain, tugging it up, then releasing it. It fell against the door, swinging in tempo with the music. Alison grabbed the knob again, jiggling, pulling at it.
Why won’t it turn?
She looked behind her and saw him walking slowly toward her, her razor in one hand, smiling broadly, holding up a shiny key in the other. Her heart sank into her chest. She was trapped. The fucking loon locked the door with a key from the inside.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the gleam of the overhead light shining off the gleaming metal of the razor. Soon after she felt the pinch as the blade cut across her skin, slicing through her throat, her arteries.
Alison lifted both her hands to her neck pushing in, trying to hold the gaping wound closed. Hot liquid spurted unevenly from the pulsating cut. Light-headed, Alison looked up in horror, seeing him putting the blade into his mouth, his tongue licking her blood. His eyes rolled back into his head, savoring the taste.
As the music pumping loudly, her heartbeat slowed…she was losing consciousness as she heard fading voices in the hall. There was a knocking on the door.
They heard me. They will help me.
Jonathan pulled the remote out of his pocket and pushed a button, raising the volume. Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven crawled up the walls, bass and guitar wailing.
How proper…Fucking loon. Insane fucker.
She slowly sank to the floor, and the pounding of her blood in her ears slowed. It became quiet, very quiet.
And as we wind on down the road…there is a story we are told…
A large puddle of blood formed around her head. Jonathan looked at her and watched until the spurts through her delicate fingers slowed and eventually stopped. He walked over to the pretty blonde girl with the wrong colored eyes and kicked her lifeless body. The volume of the music grew louder, the drum solo driving him on. Jonathan’s erection grew. The more he kicked the harder he got. Fucking steel. He grabbed his steel and releasing it from his pants, he grabbed himself and painfully jerked until it spurted, pulsing like the blood from her neck. He came watching her motionless body.
You fucking brainless twat.
He smiled, happy. He wanted to go dancing now.
Chapter 32
It was snowing in Denver. Cole stared unfocused, looking out the wall of glass behind his desk.
“Mr. Grayson?” Jenna’s voice softly came over the speakerphone. “I have a Mr. Roberts on the phone for you. He said it’s very important.”
Cole turned his chair around. “Thank you.” He pushed the button on the speakerphone.
“Grayson.” His tone was clipped.
“Mr. Grayson, Gil Roberts.”
“Roberts, what do you have?”
“I followed through on that lead you provided. Dr. Delaney was very helpful, he remembered a patient at Girard round about the time you said you were there. A Joseph Kuzlow. Got himself into a little trouble in the neighborhood. So after some poking around, I was able to get my hands on some of Joseph Kuzlow’s records.” Gil paused.
“Go on.”
“Well, it appears that Kuzlow was a difficult patient for the doctor. He informed me Kuzlow had some difficulty adjusting to living in the boys’ home. Had difficult upbringing, several foster homes and the like. He was a ‘bitter, malevolent young man,’ to quote the doctor. I found out after a few interviews I had with personnel at Girard and a few neighbors in the surrounding area, Kuzlow was thought to have killed neighboring residents’ pets. Small animals, mostly cats and dogs, were all found with their throats cut, and this is the interesting part, he also set their mutilated bodies on fire.
“I went to the local police and viewed the complaints made by the surrounding neighbors. Found there were also a couple of eyewitness accounts, and tip line calls made to the police whereby he was seen walking away from area the fires were started. It was never proven, there was no hard evidence; however, the investigation conducted by the local police kept on coming back to Kuzlow. Unfortunately, the cops who led the investigation either died or retired. One retiree, the lead on the case, is now living in Florida. I’m going to speak with the captain of the Manayunk Police. Maybe he’ll remember something that could help us, point me in the right direction.”
Coles’ interest instantly aroused.
“Do they know the whereabouts of Kuzlow now?”
“No, sir, they don’t. It’s believed he left the boys home on bad terms when he was eighteen. Somewhat of a troublemaker. But he didn’t have a clue to his whereabouts today.”
“What is your next move, Roberts?”
“I have a few people in the area I still need to speak to, maybe I could find someone who’ll remember seeing something regarding the incidents and this Kuzlow, but my belief is we have a viable suspect in the arson/murders committed on your family.”
“Keep me updated, Roberts.” Cole paused. “Of all leads.”
“Yes, sir, I will.” He hung up.
Cole pushed the button ending the call; finally more to go on. The familiar anger rushed through him and he tensed. This was the first real lead he had since starting his investigation, and it took three investigators and a lot of money to get where he was now.
The memory of his little brother’s lifeless body being carried in the arms of a fireman to the back of the ambulance washed over him like a tidal wave. He inhaled deeply several times, the tension ebbing with each breath. He could not, would not, let it control him.
The completion of his plan was near; he could sense it. He would kill the son-of-a-bitch. He planned it for the past seventeen years—he had to do it, needing peace.
He thought of Grace. With the serial murderer in New York City killing blonde women, his worry for her safety was his top priority, seconded only by finding the arsonist who’d murdered his family. After reading the news accounts from New York showing the five pictures of the women murdered with a razor sharp knife, all tall blondes, all blue eyed, he immediately secured his team in place, having her under surveillance and guarded 24/7. Without her knowledge. She would fight him, telling him he had no right, no place watching her. But he didn’t care what she might say. At all cost, he would make sure she was not the killer’s next victim.
This would be easier after he moved to New York, when he wouldn’t have to rely on reports from his security team, however capable and exceptionally good at their job they were. Cole would feel better watching after her himself.
Grace, in his arms, the feel of her warm body beneath his, him inside her, her lips on his, her calling his name in passion, her warm smile and a body made for fucking. He thought of her, and those images pushed his anger down, back into that lonely place in his heart, at the same time making his cock hard.
She was the first person who was able to make hi
m feel anything. When he was with her, he was relaxed and calm. She had a way of making him forget, if only for a little while, the evil consuming his past.
With Grace it was possible for him to have a future. She made him feel whole, as whole as was possible for his broken soul. It was a relief of sorts to feel peace inside, however brief. But now, he needed to keep this malevolence, this part of him, away from her. He avowed he would not let any harm or trouble come to her because of anything he had done and for this reason he must distance himself from her. However ironic, being with him was the worst thing for her right now. He needed to rid himself of his demons.
His plan to kill this malignancy who’d murdered his family could only hurt Grace, and he would not have her or her family name involved. It was his intention only he would suffer, if caught. Of course if his plan succeeded, no one would be the wiser, and he would feel clean enough to make a new start.
Until then he had to be content to view her on security tapes taken by his team. Grace would say he was voyeuristic, taking advantage of her situation, but her safety was his primary goal. There were always the paparazzi pictures, the pictures he searched the internet for daily and found. Never in his life did he think he would be thankful for the paparazzi. Irony followed his every move.
Chapter 33
Gil entered the Manayunk Police station and walked up to the officer at the desk.
“I have an appointment with Captain Maloney.”
“And you are?” the officer asked.
“Gil Roberts, he’s expecting me.”
Without a word, the officer turned and walked through the door in the back returning after several minutes.
“You can go back, the third office on the left.” He reached down and pushed a button that buzzed open the door.
Gil stepped inside the open office and the captain looked up. Standing, he reached his hand out, shaking Gil’s.