by Ian Worrall
Chapter 5
T he water rushes into the bag she is trapped in. Shivering against the cold, Melissa knows death is coming. Whatever he put in with me weighs more than I do. Her parents were so worried, mom especially, about their little girl being away from home. This is going to kill Mom and Dad.
Finished the last mock audition, the girls all had one or two more left, such a tough semester and play we were rehearsing for. I deserved to celebrate, didn’t I? Just one mistake and now death. The police warnings were clear: don’t go out alone, don’t leave your drinks unattended. Why didn’t I heed them? Please God save me.
Almost as an answer, she feels something grab her around her waist and start pulling her up. My prayer was answered.
Drenched in sweat, she wakes up next to the sleeping Danil. It was just another nightmare. Safe again, she thinks as she wipes tears from her eyes. She grabs her chest. Her heart feels like it’s about to bust right out of her rib cage. She breathes—five seconds in and five seconds out—five times to get her heart rate to return to normal. Without waking Danil, she gets out of bed, picks up his shirt off the floor and slips it on. A shirt sized for a man of six foot five and two-hundred fifty pounds seems like a dress on the five-foot, ninety-pound woman.
Leaving the bedroom, she makes her way to the bar. The liquor cabinet and bar are solid oak shaped as the eagle of imperial Russia. The Romanovs are a dynasty gone a hundred years. On the wall hangs a picture of Danil with Melissa sitting on his lap. The two of them are sitting in between his parents, Alexei and Elena. Two sisters, Anastasia and Tatiana, are on each side of the picture. They are on their fishing boat, The Alexandra.
Sitting on a stool, she takes down a bottle of Vodka, fills a tumbler full to the rim, and downs it. Putting the glass back down on the bar, she pours herself another full glass. Sipping on the drink, she starts to reminisce about the girl she was when she started college.
Back then she was the girly girl. The fruity flavored drinks were her favorite. Mojito’s were so great. She loved dancing, but as it usually happens, hook up with a regular guy and the dancing ends. She loved horses and dogs and cats, animals of all kinds. But Danil would not allow her to have a pet.
Being the girly girl got me what? A near death experience at the hands of a serial killer. Rescued by a man who he never lets me forget the debt I owe him. Her lover, mentor, and keeper trained her so she can strike back at men who hurt women.
In the years since Danil’s father died of cancer, leaving the family business to Danil, she’s had free reign to take out rapists. That same year her father died of a stroke. And five years later, her mother was killed in a car accident. Melissa and her keeper had been trying for years to have kids, to no avail. No kids, no pets, no dancing. Is this house really a home? She finishes her drink and pours another one.
As a child, she rehearsed her wedding day over and over. The dashing groom waiting for her at the altar while her dad walks her down the aisle to give her away.
To give her away—a throwback to the time when women were the property of men. Have we ever gotten out of that?
She throws back the third drink and pours herself a fourth. Got to stop this. It will slow me down. She throws back the fourth drink and pours herself a fifth.
Scanning the pictures on the wall, she finds another with Danil’s great-grandfather, also named Danil, standing next to the last Czar of Russia, Nicholas II. The picture is dated 1915. They both seem oblivious to what was happening in Russia at the time, not knowing that Nicholas had only three years left to live.
For many of the Russian aristocracy, the revolution was anything but a great momentous event. Their properties and riches were seized. But with the fall of communism in Russia, many of their descendants had reclaimed what was taken. They still have to pay a tribute to the Russian government, though, unless they want to be arrested or punished in even more creative ways, like “accidentally” falling out of an eight-floor window when their apartment was on the fourth floor of a building ten miles away.
It was a tradition in the Burlomov family to name their children after those of the last Czar, except for Danil. His brother Nicholas was killed by a rival. His father already had the name Alexei. Their children, if he and Melissa ever had any sons, would be Nicholas and Alexei. Daughters would be Olga and Anastasia. That’s what Danil had said.
Downing the fifth drink, she pours herself a sixth. In less than thirty minutes, she drank almost half the once full bottle of vodka.
The killer of Danil’s brother would serve to be her first paid contract. How easy it was for her to lure him to a hotel room for sex. A beautiful girl like Melissa, what guy wouldn’t take her? All she had to do was walk up to him and put her hand on his knee then tell him she wanted him in her room that very minute. Once there, she drugged him, just like she had been. Danil was in an adjoining room and the hapless victim was stuffed into a suitcase.
They took the man out on The Alexandra. With the victim dangling out over the water on a crane, the Burlomov men and their crew started chumming for sharks. The terrified victim was begging for his life. As the sharks reached the surface, the crew bounced him deep into the water. A surge of red spewed out and they raised the man out. He was screaming and one of his legs was missing.
He was lowered several more times until there were only arms hanging from the shackles. They wanted him to suffer for killing Nicholas. And suffer he did, but not quite enough.
Halfway through this drink, the alcohol has taken affect as she almost falls off the stool when Danil comes up behind her wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her on top of her head. “Everything all right, my love?”
“I f, f, f, feel a storrrrrrm is com coming,” slurring her words.
“How so?”
“Just feeling, nightmares, nightmares continue.”
“And why are you wearing my shirt?”
“I woke sweaty from–”
“I was really that good to still affect you while you’re sleeping?”
There was no point trying to deflate his ego as Danil starts lifting the shirt up.
“You aren’t supposed to be wearing clothes in my home. You know that.”
She raises her arms, offering no resistance as Danil undresses her. Closing her eyes, she tightens her jaw as she takes his kiss on her neck then her shoulder.
“Come back to bed, my love,” he says.
A request or command?
He throws his shirt over his left shoulder then Melissa over his right. No surprise, back to bed was a command.
Chapter 6
I nside a single car garage, a dark-colored SUV has the cargo door open. The garage door itself is closed and a single light illuminates the space. Other than the vehicle, there are no other items stored there like a rake or lawnmower.
The door to the rest of the house opens and a tall, slender man walks in carrying a sports gear bag over his shoulder. His name is Colton Harris. The media once called him The Drowner. This is his latest victim, the first one in this town in ten years.
There is no movement from the one being carried. She is either unconscious or already dead. With a loud thump, Colton drops her in the back of the vehicle and closes the door. Next to her lies a high-powered flashlight, a cinder block, and rope.
Climbing into the driver’s seat, he starts the ignition and activates the automatic garage door. Into the night, he drives singing along to his favorite Country and Western tunes.
“Daddy’s little girl is going to die soon.”
Ten minutes later, he hits the highway and sets the cruise control to sixty-four miles per hour, one mile per hour below the speed limit. Don’t get caught speeding with a victim in the back. It almost happened once, ten years ago. That time he was cruising along singing to his songs, he didn’t notice he went over the speed limit. He had a sports car back then, a Toyota Celica. Unfortunately for the cop, when he got to Colton’s window to ask for license and registration he got a knife to
the throat instead.
He scanned the news channels and websites while away for the first three or four months and there were no missing person reports on her. Perhaps his prediction to her came true, that the sharks had made short work of her. Or maybe she wasn’t Daddy’s little girl; just a whore no one cared about. She must have been the fifth victim that completely disappeared. The fewer bodies found, the less likely a death sentence would be. I can always confess to those who were never found and avoid the death penalty if he’s ever caught.
When the task force released the profile, they came up for him, they got several things wrong. He drove a late model sports car, not a sedan. He had a good paying job, he wasn’t unemployed. Too smart for the cops to ever catch me.
“Back home I am free to do with women as I please. Take revenge on women. All the little bitches think they’re better than me,” he continues singing to the songs on the radio until the DJ introduces the next song.
“And now for some local talent, Darrenport, Florida’s own Buxman’s Way.”
Colton feels his blood start to boil. He grabs a screwdriver out of his glove compartment and starts ramming it into the car radio, “Fuck you. Better name is Back Stabber’s Way.”
He ignored the fact that the task force had gotten that part of the profile right. The Drowner is a man who has never had a healthy relationship with a woman, along with unfulfilled ambitions. The two girlfriends he did have left him for jocks. He could have taken his revenge out on athletes, but it is much easier for a guy who weighs a buck sixty at six feet tall to control a one-hundred-pound girl than a two-hundred-fifty-pound linebacker or two-hundred-pound hockey player, either of whom would have little problem defending themselves against him.
After thirty minutes of driving on the highway, he turns off the exit ramp towards the location for the body dump. He parks twenty feet from a bridge; a remote location rarely used anymore, except for those who want to partake illegal activities like underage drinking (or murder).
Waiting twenty minutes, he gets out, lights a cigarette, and walks up to the midway point of the bridge, about fifty feet above the water. He scans the area visually and listens for any sounds that might indicate other people. He winks and gives himself two thumbs up, then taps the rail of the bridge. Nobody here but me. He throws his cigarette out into the water and walks back to his vehicle.
It’s a good thing to put some distance between the dead bodies and home. His first ever victim, one that was not credited to him, was the friend of one of his girlfriends, or who he thought was his girl. He was sitting on a park bench despondent over the girl leaving him for the captain of the hockey team. She, the friend, had teased him about being dumped. The girl he was dating was out of his league, like all the bitches who think they’re better than me. Well, I showed her pushing the girl with such force she flew about five feet back, hitting her head on a rock. He made sure she was dead by putting his shirt over her mouth and nose, suffocating her.
And what a rush that was, better than anything from marijuana. To get to decide who lives and who dies. But the park was only a block away from home, and the cops had focused on all the guys in the vicinity. Dodging a bullet, the shirt got burned and from then on, revenge against women for what they did to me.
From the back of his car, he drags the victim out and takes her over his shoulder. In his other hand, he carries the cinder block, rope, and flashlight. As he carries the victim back to the middle of the bridge, he whistles and dances, further torment for his victim should she regain consciousness.
Reaching the midpoint of the bridge, he drops her down on the ground, unzips the bag, and the girl, a red head, falls forward groaning. Colton catches her and kisses her on the forehead. Then he ties the rope around her waist. “Enjoying your last minutes alive, my little sweetie?”
He takes his Ka-bar knife and he sticks an inch of the blade into her, just under her collarbone, then kisses her cheek as she turns her head away from him trying to scream out. He stabs the knife an inch further and kisses her again. A third kiss and he plunges the knife fully into her.
“It’ll all be over soon, little darling.”
He stabs her twice more, ties the cinder block and rope around her waist, then picks her up, cradle, style holding her over the edge of the bridge. She is crying and trying to beg for her life through the duct tape gag.
“Just a few more seconds, so dry your eyes.”
He kisses her again on the forehead. “Goodbye, my darling,” and drops her over the side, shining the flashlight on her as she goes down and hits the water. He watches as his victim tries to thrash away to freedom but slips under the water.
Colton leans back against the railing of the bridge and lights another cigarette, a good night’s work. He takes a long drag and slowly breathes out the smoke. The women of this city will be terrified again. I will be famous once more.
The cases from his first reign of terror were featured on “America’s Most Wanted” and other true crime shows. There were even two books written about his case. He was never named as one of the possible suspects, nor interviewed by police. He had flown under the radar both here and in New York for the ones he did there.
Famous as a rock star. Just like the last time. For various reasons—lack of drive, lack of luck, or lack of real talent—all the failures of his life were always someone or something else’s fault. As a guitar player, he tried to be a Country Music sensation. But his mother had always wanted him to do something different; guitar and music should be a hobby. Mom screwed up everything for me. Now she’s gone and I don’t have her interfering in my life.
When he did have a band, he played with he screwed it up by always being late for practice and spending as much time smoking dope and drinking beer as he did working on the music. Six months after getting kicked out of that band, they signed a record deal and are now touring. They even won a Grammy Award this year.
While he does have a good paying job now as a janitor at a university, it’s because it is a unionized workplace. It’s the same place he worked the last time. Lucky the manager of the department, though, is different from the last time. He’s as lazy as ever; expecting a handout for everything, putting in as minimal effort as possible.
Finishing his cigarette, he throws it out into the water. A slight breeze takes it before hitting the water.
* * *
Stopping at a red light, Jack Quincey sees the dilapidated swing sets that the children of this neighborhood try to play on. What a shame their lives started out so disadvantaged.
Like so many, his family came to America with dreams of opportunity. But so few win and so many lose. Is it so wrong to want what the rich people have? Capitalism truly is nothing more than the uneven distribution of wealth. That’s what all the self-righteous ones like to spew out, particularly university professors. Was communism truly any better? That system is nothing more than the even distribution of poverty. Regardless of which system you live under, unless you have the reins of power, you’re nothing. The golden rule is true. He who has the gold makes the rules.
None of his kids will start with nothing. The money he’s made will ensure that.
Chapter 7
A s Jackie works on her file for the murder of Gary Taylor, Mitchell talks to four other police officers, handing them the picture of Arlene Benoit.
“This is the woman I want tracked, teams of two. One does days, the other does nights. Decide who does what. Everything’s in the file.”
He’s interrupted when his mobile phone rings just as a letter addressed to him is placed on his desk.
“Detective Burnlee,” he answers then listens to the voice on the other end. “Cruze and I will be there in five.”
Jackie looks up. “News?”
He replies, “The ME reports on the hotel dead bodies and Taylor are finally ready.”
Clicking save on the report, Jackie stands up from her desk. As promised, five minutes later Jackie and Mitchell are talking with
the Medical Examiner. The bodies of Mike Cairn, Gary Taylor, and the junkie are lying on slabs.
Pointing to the body of Mike Cairn, the ME claims, “This is a weird one.”
“I noticed there was no lividity and he was several shades more pale than usual. Was there something in the tox screen of the blood?” Mitchell asks.
Shaking his head, the ME replies, “There’s no blood at all.”
“You’re joking,” Jackie says.
“Not at all.”
“So,” Jackie says, “next you’re going to tell us there’s two fang marks on his neck?”
The Examiner laughs, “No.” He then lifts the left leg and draws their attention to the hole where the IV tube was inserted. “Someone drained the blood from the femoral artery in his leg.”
Whistling out Mitchell says, “I knew something didn’t seem right.”
“What about these other two?” Jackie asks, pointing to the bodies of Gary Taylor and the junkie.
Walking in between the bodies, the Medical Examiner hands them the files, “Another interesting twist.”
Pointing to the bruising on Gary’s body, “Both pre-and post-mortem bruising.”
“So, he was dead before he hit the bottom,” Jackie says.
“Yeah.”
“Could the air bag deployment have killed him?” Jackie asks.
“Not a chance. When we drew blood from Mr. Taylor and the John Doe, it was purple.”
“And that means?” Mitchell asks.
“Both died of cyanide poisoning.”
“Isn’t there supposed to be that smell of –” Jackie starts.
The ME shakes his head. “Of bitter almond? Not always. In a small enough dose, you won’t smell it. And that ability is a genetic trait.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Mitchell says as he puts the files on the three dead men into a satchel bag.
Leaving the examination room Mitchell and Jackie are grim faced. “So–” Jackie says.