The Trials of Tamara

by Ginger Talbot

  He presses it against my left nipple, then very slowly pushes it through. I go rigid with pain, grinding my teeth so I don’t scream. It feels as if my nipple is being pinched with red-hot pliers, and he draws it out for way longer than necessary. I know people who’ve had their nipples pierced; they said it was one quick pinch and then it was over. Micah’s doing everything possible to make this agonizing for me. Then he does some kind of clamping thing that hurts so much that tears spill onto my cheeks.

  I look down and see that there’s a silver barbell screwed through my nipple.

  He repeats the process with my right nipple, using a fresh needle. Then, when he’s got the barbell affixed, he twists it, and I let out a shriek of pain. “How does that feel, Tamara? Do you like it?” I don’t answer, so he twists the left nipple too. “What was that? I didn’t hear you!”

  “No!” I scream, panting from the pain. “No, I don’t like it!”

  “What a shame. Maybe you’ll like it better when I do it to your pussy.”

  I close my eyes as he rubs something cold on my clit, then grit my teeth and go rigid with pain as he shoves a needle through it.

  He fumbles with the needle. When I glance down, I see that there’s a big dangling ring there. He reaches down and pinches my tender flesh, wrenching another scream from me.

  He looks at the camera. “Wasn’t that fun, Joshua? I’ve got all the time in the world. I’m going to make her mine, and I’m going to mark every inch of her body. I notice that you never fucked her in the ass. Thank you for that. I look forward to popping that cherry. And in the end, of course, I’m going to kill her in ways that will make even you weep and vomit. Will that be in a week? A month? Will she still be sane by then, or will she be a gibbering monkey? I know the answer to those questions, but no spoilers here, my friend.”

  He avoided saying brother. He’s hiding his identity.

  He unstraps my wrist and ankle cuffs and snaps his fingers at me. “Up.”

  I slide off the chair, wincing at the pain that pulses from each of my new piercings.

  “Now I want you to kiss me. Kiss me like you mean it. And if you don’t, I’ll peel your friend’s face off with a cheese grater.”

  Well, he sure knows how to put a girl in the mood.

  And he’s still wearing the mask.

  He gathers me in his arms and pulls me up against him. Reluctantly, I press my lips against his and open my mouth for him. I let him slide his tongue across mine, and force down my gag reflex. I try to pretend he’s Joshua, but it doesn’t work, and all I want to do is bite his tongue off. If I had a better idea of what was on the other side of that door, I’d do it.

  He pulls back, shaking his head. “Poor performance there, Tamara.” He slides his fingers between my legs, rubbing them back and forth. I shudder at his touch and start to step back, but he grabs my arm and holds me in place. There’s no point in fighting; that’s what he wants from me. I just stand there, gritting my teeth, and endure it as he saws into my pussy with his fingers. “You’re not even wet for me. Your cunt’s drier than the Sahara. That makes me sad. Heather, now, she positively drips with excitement for me. She hates herself for it, of course, which makes it even more fun.”

  I don’t answer. I just stare down at the floor.

  “By the way, there was one room that Joshua took you into that didn’t have cameras in it.” He leaves his fingers there between my legs, wedged between the folds of my pussy, as he talks. Revulsion curdles my stomach, and I struggle not to vomit up the Gatorade. “You went in there for hours every day. What was in there? Another torture room?”

  I’m confused. There’s only one place that I can think of. “You mean…the exercise room?”

  “Ah, of course. Joshua likes his women fit. He would want you to have a perfect body.” He pulls his fingers from between my legs and runs his hand up my flat, muscular stomach. “Mission accomplished.”

  He drops the hand that was holding my arm. I hug myself and look away, keeping my face blank, but my mind is racing. He doesn’t know about the Krav Maga and the sparring. We talked about it outside the room occasionally, but not that often, and Micah probably didn’t listen to every conversation that Joshua and I ever had. So it’s possible he never heard us discuss our daily practice sessions. Even if he did hear us mention it, apparently he doesn’t know the extent of my training. He must have thought we were just play-fighting, just part of our exercise routine, like Boxercise classes. He doesn’t realize that I trained every single day for months.

  I might still have a chance. If I wait for the right time and hit him with a disabling blow when he’s not expecting it, I could survive this. A sharp enough blow to the side of the neck would cause shock to the carotid artery, jugular vein and vagus nerve, knocking him out. And the second he’s unconscious, I won’t hesitate to kill him.

  I’ve got to believe there’s hope, or I’ll go mad sitting here waiting for him to torture me to death.

  Micah’s hand darts out, and he grabs me by the nipple, tugging on it hard as he steers me toward the bed. Tears of pain run down my cheeks, and I choke on a sob. He pulls a chain from the bed frame and chains up my feet, spread apart, then my hands, over my head.

  “I don’t want to fuck that dry little pussy, so I guess I’ll just have to have some fun with your friend.”

  I lie there rigid and silent, twisting my head away so I’m not looking at him.

  As he starts in on Heather, I close my eyes and hum loudly, trying to drown out the sound of her screams and the thunking of her bed against the wall.

  It doesn’t work. I hear every last thud and whimper.

  With tears running down my face, I think of Joshua. I conjure him up in my mind, imagining him lying in bed with me, his arms wrapped around me. I can almost feel the muscles in his arms bunching up as he holds me against him, and I can smell the spice of his aftershave tickling my nostrils. He’s murmuring into my ear, telling me how strong and brave I am. His words are magic, wrapping around me in a protective cloak.

  And then Heather’s screams tear through my fantasy.

  “Oh, God, no! Please, no! Micah…no…no…!” I squeeze my eyes shut, and my heart slams in my chest in perfect rhythm with the thuds of Heather’s bed.

  Chapter Three

  Joshua

  It’s shortly after noon. Sixteen hours since I woke up naked in the woods. I am sitting in the office of my penthouse in Manhattan. I’ve had the apartment swept for listening devices planted by Charlemagne, of which there were many. They’ve all been removed. A doctor was waiting for me at the penthouse last night when I arrived, and he treated and properly stitched up the gunshot wound in my foot, then reset and bandaged my nose. I continued surfing the internet the entire time the doctor was stitching my wound closed, desperately searching for any hint of my brother’s whereabouts. I accepted local anesthetic but refused painkillers; I need my mind clear.

  Somewhere inside, I’m roaring with rage. I am tearing Charlemagne’s face off with my bare hands. But the part of my brain that needs to focus is a vast, flat lake of calm.

  I was awake all night, trying to track down any trace of his whereabouts. This morning, my brother sent a video to the cell phone he gave me.

  I strapped on a blood pressure cuff and put a pulse monitor on my fingertip to ensure that I retained control of my emotions. If I lose control, I can’t help Tamara. I sat there and remained calm as I forced myself to watch the video. He wore a ski mask as he pierced Tamara’s nipples and clitoral hood. Her face contorted in pain, and my body turned to ice when he twisted her nipples to make her scream.

  My heart rate stayed a steady seventy beats per minute.

  I ignored the way the walled-up part of me felt. Instead of raging, I studied the video for clues, but there was nothing to give away where he might be keeping her. I tried to track the origin of the call from the blocked number, but my brother has excellent re-routing software. The location of the call bounces around on my com
puter screen as I watch; China, Afghanistan, France. He’s fucking with me. Having a good time.

  To find him, I’ve summoned a potential ally I never would have given the time of day before.

  The elevator pings. I glance at the video screen. Sergeant Ruiz is here.

  Garrett pokes his head through the door. He spent the night here, calling all over the world, working with all his black ops contacts, and coming up as empty as I did.

  “Let him in, then leave us,” I tell him. “Don’t bother taking his gun. I can handle him.”

  I watch the video monitor as Sergeant Alfredo Ruiz walks through the open elevator door, then through a scanner that would put the TSA to shame. I glance at the screen next to my desk. He’s armed and has a cell phone on him, but that’s it.

  Garrett steers him down the hallway. He comes through the door to my office and shuts it behind him, and I stand up, favoring my injured foot.

  Sergeant Ruiz is off-duty today, wearing a wool coat and a rumpled brown suit. His round face curdles in disgust when he sees me. His eyes light on my bandaged nose. “Did that happen when your house blew up?” he snarls. “The Maine State Police called me. Nice way to eliminate the evidence. Tamara Bennet’s just smoke in the wind now, isn’t she? Yeah, yeah, nobody can prove you owned the property. You rich bastards get away with everything, don’t you?”

  He’s getting more and more agitated as he talks, and his hand drifts toward the gun strapped to his waist under his jacket.

  “I can outdraw you,” I say mildly. I don’t even bother reaching for my holstered Glock.

  His eyes flare with defiance. “I doubt it. I’m pretty good. But I got no fucking problem finding out.”

  I’ve done my research on him. He is pretty good; he visits a shooting range a couple of times a week—way more than most beat cops. But he’s not as good as me. Few are.

  This is normally the part where I show my dominance, whatever the cost. Backing down from a challenge is physically painful for me. It feels like grasping a hot poker, a pain that demands response. But I think of Tamara, and I force myself to let it go.

  “I need your help,” I say quickly, almost choking on the words.

  He looks at me with shock. Yeah, he wasn’t expecting that.

  The words leave a foul taste in my mouth. Rage prickles inside me. The primal beast demands satisfaction. He challenged me. Kill him, humiliate him…

  No.

  His gaze sweeps my office. The hand-carved mahogany desk, the built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes, the three framed Picasso sketches side by side, the red-and-black Oriental rug that cost more than his annual salary, the million-dollar view of the Manhattan skyline.

  His forehead wrinkles in disgust, and his dark brown eyes flare with anger. “Mister, all the fucking money in the world won’t buy—”

  I hold up a box that was sitting on my desk.

  “I don’t have time for this. If you want to hear what I have to say, put your cell phone in this box.”

  He looks at me with contempt, but then obeys me with a suspicious look.

  I shut and lock the box, which will block his phone from recording us, in case he’s done anything sneaky. My scanner already showed me he’s not wearing a wire. He sits down in a chair facing my desk, and I sit back down in my chair and make a steeple of my fingers, resting them on my desktop.

  “Tamara Bennett was staying with me in Maine, and now she’s missing. My brother has her. And if you tell the police any of this, I’ll deny it under oath, and I’ll pass a polygraph test too. Again.”

  His eyes fly wide open with shock. “You’re admitting that you had her?” he barks at me.

  “I am telling you that she was staying with me. If you find her, you can ask her anything you want. When you find her.” I have to believe she’ll be found. Alive. “The thing is, we can’t tell the police. My brother has informed me that if I do, he will start cutting off body parts.”

  His lips twist in a sneer. “You think I actually trust you, asshole?”

  I struggled to tamp down my frantic impatience. I expected this, but every second spent explaining things to him is time he’s not looking for her.

  “No, nor should you. But that’s not the point. You want her safe, and so do I. And I know you say you don’t want money, but that is also on the table. And anything else you could possibly want.”

  He snorts. “What else do you think I would want from you? Hookers and blow?”

  “Revenge.” I open a folder that is sitting on my desk and shove two pictures at him. He looks at them, and his olive skin flushes dark.

  One of them is a picture of his wife’s former boss, Peter Brown, the one who had asbestos in the workplace where Ruiz’s wife was employed on the janitorial staff. Years of breathing in poison made her cells riot in revolt. Cancer rotted her lungs, and she wheezed to death on a hospital bed. Peter was slapped with a few fines. Peter’s on a yacht in the Bahamas.

  One of them is a picture of Gideon Culpepper, the spoiled trust fund brat who introduced Ruiz’s daughter to heroin, with fatal results. He’s on the balcony of a hotel in Miami, getting a blow job from some little brunette. The smirk on his face alone is enough to make me want to set him on fire.

  “I can make them suffer in ways you could never even dream of.”

  An ugly expression contorts his face. “Oh, believe me, I can dream up plenty. And I’m not going to help a serial killer.”

  “I am not running around killing women. I have never killed a woman.” That’s not a lie.

  There’s challenge in his eyes as he pushes his jaw out stubbornly. “What about Heather Abelard. Tamara’s missing neighbor?”

  “I have no idea what happened to her. There’s a good chance that my brother kidnapped her too, but I have nothing to do with it. So is it a yes?” I ask him.

  “It’s a maybe.” He folds his arms across his barrel-shaped chest. He’s got something of a gut lapping over his belt, but he has biceps like Popeye. He’s one of those men who just can’t lose the belly fat, no matter how much he works out, but he’s as solid as iron. I wouldn’t have called him in otherwise. I can’t trust a man who doesn’t keep fit; it reeks of weakness. “And don’t get too comfortable with me, you fucking freak. You’re up to something shady. You said you don’t kill women, but you didn’t deny you’re a serial killer.” So he’s not as dumb as he looks. I was pretty sure he wasn’t, because I checked up on him, but it’s good to have it confirmed.

  I look him in the eye. “The kind of men I just showed you pictures of…men who cause harm and misery to the innocent…sometimes they disappear. Perhaps I help make that happen.” Admittedly, I only kill those men for the thrill of the hunt. I don’t give a fuck that the men I kill are hurting innocent people, but Ruiz will.

  “Men like Baxter Warburton?” he says skeptically. “I read the file on him. He was a saint.”

  I snort in contempt. “Is there a patron saint for pedophiles? He liked to rape teenage boy prostitutes up the ass with giant dildos, then kill them.”

  He makes a raspberry sound with his lips. “No way. There’s never even been a hint of that.”

  “If I show you a video of him doing it, will you help me then?”

  He considers that.

  “We don’t have time,” I say, desperation edging my voice.

  He looks at me suspiciously. “What’s in it for you? Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I care about Tamara, and because every minute that passes, my brother is hurting her.” I allow emotion to leak into my voice; I need to be convincing. I don’t have to fake the fury and panic that roughens my words. “You think I’m a bad guy? My brother is the love-child of the Marquis de Sade and Vlad the Impaler.”

  “Get me the video.”

  I grab the pair of crutches that are leaning on my desk, limp out of my office and down the hall to my bedroom, where I open a wall safe and remove a USB. I shove the USB into my pocket.


  I limp back and jam it into my laptop.

  “What the hell happened to you? Your brother do that?” Ruiz is staring at my bandaged nose, and he flicks a glance at my foot.

  “Yes,” I lie smoothly. “And then he took Tamara.”

  I turn the laptop to face him and play the video, which was taken in a seedy motel room where Baxter had the motel clerk on his payroll. I impersonated a repairman and put a camera in an air duct.

  The teenage boy is face down, tied hand and foot, screaming and crying as Baxter violates him with a dildo the size of an elephant dong. Poor, impotent Baxter.

  Baxter reaches for the sharp knife on the night table. I watch with flat affect, uncaring. The boy is dead, nothing to be done about it, and he was nothing to me. Baxter was a problem. I took care of the problem.

  “Turn it off!” Ruiz yells, his eyes practically bulging out of his head. “Fuck! Fucking hell!” He grabs me by the shoulder. “Tell me you killed him. Tell me you killed him!”

  I shrug his hand off irritably and turn off the video. I’m not a fan of being touched, unless it’s by a woman I’m fucking, and even then I do most of the touching. “He and I met up in the woods,” I say. “He won’t be ass-raping any more boys.”

  It takes him a few moments to compose himself, and I struggle not to snap at him.

  “Tell me what you know so far,” he says warily. He flicks a horrified glance at the laptop, then looks away, grimacing. I can see he’s still shaken up by the video. Thank God I’m not like that. How would I ever get anything done if I was a weepy, sentimental little bitch who cried every time someone got a boo-boo?

  “Tell me why your brother took Tamara Bennett, and what you know that might help me track him down.” He grits out the words. “And I’ll tell you if I think I can help.”

  I start talking fast. Seconds count. “My twin brother, Charlemagne, was being held in a mental institution in California called the Blackthorne Institute for the last six years. Or rather, five and a half. He escaped about six months ago, as best I can tell. He blames me for the fact that they kept him there.”