by Jon Athan
As she sniffled, Carrie said, “Stop... Please stop...”
The man chuckled, then he slowly licked the tip of the blade. His tongue was stained with blood as he savored the pungent taste. He slurped, then he loudly swallowed. He wanted everyone to hear his deranged actions. Pleasing his fans stroked his ego. He was an insane performer.
In a hoarse tone, the man said, “I think I've teased you enough, sweetheart. I'm sorry to put you through such excruciating trials. But, if you want the job, you have to work for it. You have to show me something I can work with.” As Carrie indistinctly whispered, the man held his hand to his ear and said, “Huh? What's that? You want to know my name? Well, you can call me 'Lambert.' Yeah, that's your boss' name. Don't forget it, doll. Lambert.”
Lambert chuckled as he stared at Carrie's mutilated stomach. Blood dripped from the small punctures – droplets of blood oozing like lava from a volcano. He couldn't help but lick his lips as he fantasized about licking her stomach. Cannibalism was not on the script, though. The actor could not break character for his own selfish desires.
Continuing his sinister performance, Lambert held his hand to his ear and said, “What's that? Oh, sweetie, you don't want to call me that. Calling me a 'pervert' makes me angry. It's dishonest and it makes me feel dirty. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to punish you for that. Trust me, sweetie, I don't want to do this, but you forced my hand.”
Carrie mewled like a newborn baby as she tightly shut her eyes and hopelessly tried to squirm away. Lambert leaned towards Carrie, then he stabbed her with the sharp blade. The knife thrust a centimeter into her left breast. Like an artist holding a pencil, Lambert calmly dragged the knife across her perky breast – writing with a steady hand.
As she breathed heavily through her nose, Carrie pleaded, “Please, stop... Stop... Stop...”
Without a blink of his eyelids or a tremble of his hand, Lambert said, “Don't worry. I'm almost done, sweetie...”
Lambert's black mask rustled as he beamed from ear-to-ear. His eyes sparkled like a child at a toy store – the joy was evident. He was blatantly proud of his artistic masterpiece. Carved into her flesh, a bloodied message read: YOU are the whore, not ME.
Lambert walked out of the ring of illumination, constantly glancing back at his work of art. He was pleased with himself, obviously. Carrie's stiff shoulders loosened as she glanced down at her wounded torso. Although she was still restrained by a mysterious man and pliable rope, she felt some relief in Lambert's hiatus.
To her utter dismay, her solace was short-lived. Lambert returned to the light with a stainless steel spoon in his right hand. He knelt down in front of Carrie, then he tapped her forehead with the eating utensil. Carrie furrowed her brow as she gazed at Lambert. She glanced at the spoon and slowly shook her head. She couldn't link the pieces together – a wicked man and an everyday spoon. Where's the milk and cereal?
Lambert held the spoon to Carrie's face and explained, “You can't go around disrespecting your boss, sweetie. You can't do that. You certainly can't call me a 'pervert,' not with our coworkers around. It's... It's blasphemous. Not only is it disrespectful, but you're wrong. You're dead wrong. I'm not a pervert, your eyes are just lying to you. I have to fix that. So, tell me: which eye do you like more? Hmm? I'll scoop that one out last.”
Carrie's eyes widened upon hearing the dastardly words. She squirmed in reverse, twisting her body every which way. Her muffled cries and helpless shouts echoed through the room. The indistinct whispers and gentle giggles brought her to an enfeebled state. The dastardly men were incapable of feeling sympathy – it was a regular day for irregular people.
As she hyperventilated, Carrie said, “Dad–Daddy... I'm sorry... Dad...”
Lambert said, “Your daddy can't help you, sweetie. Next time, think twice before you speak or I'll rip your tongue out and you won't see it coming. Hell, I might rip it out now just to be safe. Yeah, I think that's a good idea.”
Lambert maniacally chuckled, his devious laughter reverberated through the room. As she kicked and screamed, Lambert savagely pulled Carrie's hair, then he pushed her head back. He pulled the eating utensil back, then he thrust the spoon towards her eye socket. As the spoon pierced into her eye, the video was stopped and the television was turned off.
Taylor bit his bottom lip, then he said, “You didn't say 'stop,' but I think we've seen enough.”
***
Taylor rubbed his hands together as he turned towards Russell. He was rattled by the disturbing footage, but he masqueraded as a man with a plan. He could not lose control of the situation. He analyzed his guest, diligently scanning every crease on the haunted man's steady face. Only one thought ran through his mind: I should have stopped the video earlier.
Taylor sighed, then he said, “I'm sorry, Mr. Wheeler. I had to show you a substantial amount in order to receive a proper identification of your daughter and anything or anyone else you may have recognized. The video continues to depict a violent murder. I'm sorry, but I still have to ask: is the woman in this video Carrie Wheeler?”
Russell did not respond. With bloodshot eyes, he glared at the television. His eyes were burning with rage. His aggressive glare was unwavering. Yet, Taylor could see the tears swelling in the man's eyes – he could see the sorrow in the windows to his soul. A single blink would cause a waterfall of woe, like opening a floodgate after a tragic storm.
Taylor asked, “That was Carrie, correct?”
Russell clenched his jaw and slowly shook his head. He breathed heavily through his nose, his entire body moved with each inhale. His anger was difficult to articulate – words could not describe his mixed emotions. He jabbed his index finger towards the television, then he glanced at Taylor.
Russell asked, “What the fuck was that? What did you... What did you show me? Why did you show me that? Huh? What the hell is wrong with you?!”
Taylor waved his arms in a peaceful gesture. He said, “I apologize for the lack of efficient preparation, Mr. Wheeler, but I have to work quickly. I have to ask and I need an answer. Was that Carrie Wheeler? Was that your daughter?”
“Yes! Yes, that was my daughter! What... What the hell happened to her? Why... What... What is this? What did you show me?”
As he wheezed and grunted, Russell's words became muddled nonsense. A single tear streamed down his right cheek, then plopped onto his jeans – a single tear for his slaughtered daughter. Although he sought to bawl like a child, Russell could not conjure any more tears. The sorrow bellowed from the bottom of his heart, but he could only croak and groan. His woe was evident. Russell sniffled as he turned towards Taylor.
The distraught father asked, “Who did this to her? Where did you get that video? Where's... Where's my daughter?” With downcast eyes, Taylor ran his fingers through his hair and leaned back in his seat. Russell sternly said, “You owe me an explanation. You owe me the truth.”
Taylor nodded, then he explained, “This video was confiscated yesterday during a routine traffic stop. A young man in an expensive car, far too expensive for his age if you ask me, was stopped. He was acting suspiciously and our officer spotted blood in the car. While waiting for a K-9 unit, the young man bolted out of the vehicle. The kid got away. He basically abandoned ship. We have not linked the vehicle to the murder, but we're working on it.”
Russell loured at Taylor, shaking his head and gritting his teeth. He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from biting the detective's head off. He knew it was irrational, but he found himself only capable of blaming one man for his daughter's death – Detective Taylor.
Russell said, “You should have caught the bastard... This is your fault. My daughter's dead because of you. My daughter's killers are loose because of you.”
Taylor responded, “We'll catch him, Mr. Wheeler. I will catch him. Your cooperation will help me catch him and anyone else involved in Carrie's death and the production of this video. So, please, bear with me and answer my questions as accurately as possib
le. Was Carrie around any suspicious characters before her disappearance?”
“Why are you asking me? What good does it do anyone now? You had the bastard and you let him get away! You and your fucking squad sat there with your thumbs up your asses while this man walked away. He could have killed my daughter. He could be out of the goddamn state by now. I don't see a manhunt on the news. I don't see you out there hunting him down. No, you're in here asking me bullshit questions with your thumb smelling like shit.”
“I need an answer. Was she around any suspicious people? Did you recognize any voices in the video? Anything at all?”
Russell groaned as he dug his fingers into his unkempt hair. He stomped and shook his head from the swelling frustration. He witnessed the beginning of his daughter's brutal slaying. He could not control his emotions. With his beanie in hand, Russell stood from his seat and turned towards the door. He couldn't stand to be near the detective.
Taylor said, “Please, Mr. Wheeler, sit down. Your assistance is vital for this investigation.”
Russell nervously chuckled as he glanced at Taylor. He said, “My assistance is vital to your investigation, but you're not vital to mine.”
Russell veiled his dome with the black beanie as he shambled into the hallway. Taylor furrowed his brow as he pondered Russell's forbidding message. Vigilante justice echoed through his mind. Yet, he could not muster the courage to restrain a man with nothing to lose.
Taylor stood at the doorway and shouted, “Call me if you remember anything, Mr. Wheeler! Don't do anything stupid!” Russell disregarded the detective, strolling away at a snail's pace. As he watched Russell with narrowed eyes, Taylor leaned on the doorway and whispered, “I'm going to catch him, Mr. Wheeler. I'm going to catch him...”
Chapter Four
Tavern Revelations
Russell sat at the bar of a dingy tavern. He wore a black hooded sweatshirt beneath a black leather coat, dark blue fitted jeans, and black steel toe boots. He drummed his fingertips on the hardwood counter as he gazed at the opaque glass cup in front of him – the filmy cup would not pass a health inspection. The tantalizing liquid in the cup rippled with each thud, teasing his taste buds. The whiskey called his name, but he refused to answer.
With downcast eyes, Russell muttered, “Bastards... Goddamn bastards...”
Russell was not a struggling alcoholic. His ability to drink was not hindered by an oath. The alcohol represented a different demon. A swig of whiskey and he knew he would spiral into madness; a shot of tequila would awaken the beast slumbering within. Alcohol stroked his lust for action and vengeance, regardless of brand or strength.
As he tightly gripped the cup, Russell muttered, “I'm going to kill all of those bastards, Carrie... I'll do it for you, baby... I swear, I won't let them get away with this.”
Russell bit his bottom lip and glanced around the bar. The merry patrons were playing pool, chattering over beer, bantering over whiskey, and sashaying to the smooth rock blaring from the jukebox. The world was not affected by Carrie's brutal murder. The people were carefree, celebrating life as the dead putrefied. Taverns filled with exuberant crowds and ditches filled with rotting corpses – such was life.
The bar door swung open. In a spiffy black suit, Scott entered the pub. From the doorway, he glanced to his left, then towards his right – inspecting his environment before delving deeper. The man was always cautious, maneuvering like a shadow at night. The coast was clear. Scott's black slacks whooshed and his black polished dress shoes thudded on the hardwood floor with each swaggering stride.
Scott stopped at the stool to Russell's left. He said, “Come on, buddy, let's go have a little chat.”
Russell sighed as he pensively stared at the whiskey. The world around him had vanished, buried by an avalanche of violent thoughts. The people, friend or foe, did not matter. There was only one concern lingering at the back of his mind – vengeance. He did not have time to spare for friendly discourse.
Scott sniffled, then he sternly repeated, “Let's go have a little chat.”
Russell turned towards his guest, then he looked towards Scott's hands. Scott did not hold a sheet of paper, a briefcase, or any item of value in his hands. As far as Russell was concerned, Scott was another useless man in a worthless world. He sought information and vengeance, not conversation and friendship.
Russell turned back towards the bar. He said, “You come here empty-handed and you think you can command me like some sort of dog? Is that it? Listen, unless you found something for me, we have nothing to talk about. So, don't come in here asking for my time. I've got things to plan and people to...” Russell bit his bottom lip as he glanced towards the bartender – the man was occupied. Russell said, “I've got things to plan and plans to execute. You understand? Bring me something, then we'll talk.”
Scott sighed and tugged on Russell's arm. He said, “Come on, Russ. Let's get the hell out of here. Fuck the alcohol, let's got talk. I've got...”
Russell slammed his fist on the countertop and barked, “Get your damn hands off me! Don't touch me, goddammit! Don't you dare touch me!”
The chattering and bantering immediately dwindled. The pool balls stopped thudding and the beers were no longer slurped. Scott ran his fingers through his slick hair and nervously smiled as he glanced around the bar, embarrassed. The patrons glanced over at the commotion – some blatant, others inconspicuously. A group of nosy people with necks of rubber and inquisitive eyes filled the tavern. A bar fight would surely quench their thirst for action.
Disregarding the prying eyes, Scott loosened his charcoal-colored tie and said, “Listen, Russ, stop throwing a little bitch fit and come outside. I have something for you. I did what you asked and I found something for you, alright? It's in the car waiting for us. I'm not having this conversation here of all places. If you want it, come talk to me.”
Russell gazed into Scott's glimmering eyes. Scott was an aspiring kingpin, but his loyalty and honesty were unquestionable. His business was shady, people mysteriously disappeared, but his character was legitimate. Russell was convinced Scott had found a valuable piece of information. The vague statement was enough to captivate him.
Russell chugged his whiskey like water, then he said, “Let's go.”
***
The opulent sedan was parked in the alleyway beside the tavern. The black vehicle was veiled by the ominous shadows. Scott shuffled about in the driver's seat, riffling through a briefcase firmly situated on his lap. Russell watched from the passenger seat, waiting as patiently as possible. Patience, however, was a limited resource.
Russell said, “Come on. What is it? What did you find, Scott?”
Scott turned towards Russell and gave a slight nod. His slow perusing was simply meant to buy time. Although he had the information required, he wanted to carefully craft each sentence of his explanation. A mere blunder of his articulation could cause Russell to spiral into a rampage. He did not want to get caught in the warpath.
Scott sighed, then he explained, “Alright, alright. I got some stuff back from my buddies, you know, I acquired some valuable 'intel.' The video, Carrie's video, was a snuff film, Russ. A fucking snuff film.”
Russell furrowed his brow and repeated, “A snuff film?”
“Yeah, yeah. It's a... It's a video of real murder for sick bastards. It's like a really dark, hardcore porno where the lead actress or actor dies some horrific death. You understand? These sick fucks get off on this crap. They're aroused by the violence. It's... It's real depraved, man. These bastards are sick in the head.”
Russell despondently stared at his lap and asked, “Is that all you found? Is that it? The detective probably would have pieced that together sooner or later. He probably already did. They're stupid, but they're not blind. I need more, Scott.”
“I've got more. Don't you worry about that,” Scott said as he shuffled through the briefcase. He retrieved a crisp sheet of paper and scanned through the printout. Scott said, “The man b
ehind the business, he goes by 'Mr. Wu.' Some people call him 'Mr. Snuff,' though. He is the executive producer of these films. He practically runs the entire snuff film business across the state and he's been expanding across the country. I'm told he–he tricks these girls into thinking they're joining the porn business, then he has them killed on camera. A bait-and-switch, you know?”
Russell glared at Scott and asked, “Are you telling me my daughter was... was trying to be a pornstar? She was trying to get into the business?”
Scott bit his bottom lip as he slowly nodded and looked away. He was a brutally honest man, incapable of telling a lie. Yet, he could not conjure a simple 'yes.' Russell was fluent in silence, though. He accepted Scott's wordless confirmation.
Russell asked, “Why? Why does he make these videos? What kind of...” Russell glowered and shook his head. He jabbed his index finger at the dashboard and shouted, “What kind of sick bastard does this to a sweet girl?!”
As Russell wept without tears, wheezing and groaning, Scott stared down into the briefcase. Russell's passionate response struck him, piercing through his macho exterior. He could feel the father's agony. Despite the pair's close relationship, Scott refused to show his emotions – he kept his hand close to his heart.
Scott said, “I don't mean to be disrespectful, Russ, but you know what it is. It's business. That's all. If there's money in blood, some leech will come and suck it dry. Mr. Wu is that leech and he's got an entire list of clients with disgusting appetites. He's going to keep going until he's out of blood. That's the truth.”
As he vigorously rubbed his eyes, Russell asked, “How did they find my daughter? Why did they choose her?”
“I don't know yet. They're not picked at random, you know. They're not picked out of a hat or abducted off the streets. They're deceived. Someone gets very close, then he convinces them to join. He probably offers them a lot of money. But, I can't tell you for sure. I haven't found all of the pieces.”