by Ethan Cross
The thought had faded after the first days spent searching for weaknesses in her cell, pulling herself along the concrete floor, trying to find a way to escape or a weapon of any kind. She found neither. There was nothing her five-foot-four broken body could do against a man of his size and strength.
No way out and no way to resist.
He owned her. She was his property to use as he saw fit.
People would be looking for her, but she doubted they would make it in time to save anything of the college student and girl she had once been. That woman, that sister and lover and friend, seemed like a person she had dreamed up in another life. The tears, a mattress on the floor, and the rape of her mind, body, and soul seemed to be her whole existence now.
And she wasn’t the only resident of this hell.
She had heard doors opening. The muffled whimpering of other women as the devil chose to visit them. Trying to communicate, she had pressed her face to the door and yelled for someone to answer her. But the only reply had been the man in the skull mask shocking her with a cattle prod. The other girls, if she hadn’t simply imagined them, had apparently learned not to speak up.
Still, a small part of her former self had clung to life. A room inside her heart where she refused to succumb, where the girl with the genius-level IQ still listened and waited for a way to turn the tables on the devil himself.
Corin clenched her fists and thought of Blake and her sister. She thought of that other girl in that other life, the one who now hid somewhere deep inside her mind, struggling to stay alive and sane. She refused to let that girl die.
Long ago, she had heard of the concept of memory palaces, a technique which some used to retain vast amounts of information through internal visualization. Corin had constructed a memory palace of her own—not for the purposes of preserving memories, but for the purposes of preserving the girl who refused to die.
Separating herself from the cold darkness and the helplessness of her situation allowed her to, in essence, become two people. One who lay naked on a filthy mattress in an empty concrete cell, and one who lived in a bungalow the color of driftwood with steps leading to the beach. She tried to make that place her reality, stealing the details of the bungalow from a memory of the last family trip before her mother’s untimely death.
The strong woman inside her mind now stood at the railing of the vacation house’s deck, looking down at the beach, detached from the horrors of reality, ever thinking, ever plotting.
She wouldn’t die here. Instead, she would kill the devil himself.
She tried to maintain her cognitive distance and suppress fear and revulsion as she heard a key turn in her cell’s metal door. Imagining herself still in a place of sun and sand, she made mental notes of the number of seconds before the door closed again. His footfalls seemed to be louder than before. Normally, he entered her room naked, except for the skull mask, but now she heard the slap of leather on concrete. She dared not open her eyes or look at him, for fear of her mental barriers crumbling, allowing the despair of her reality to shatter what was left of her fragile defenses.
Corin had been naked since the moment she awoke, as if she was merely a piece of cattle or a sex toy built solely for his sick gratification. But now, something had changed. Instead of violating her, the devil threw a blanket over her bruised and shivering body and said, “Your blood tests came back. Congratulations, you’re going to be a mother.”
The barriers she had worked so hard to erect crumbled at those words.
At first, she didn’t comprehend the implications. She heard the devil’s footfalls retreating from the room as the full meaning of those words pierced her heart. Pregnant? She heard the door close as the man who called himself the Gladiator raped her again with this knowledge and left her to drown in her own hopelessness.
Corin Campbell wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. Instead, she pushed down both urges and made up her mind that, at this point, survival had become a secondary concern. Her primary goal was now to murder the devil himself, even if it cost her own life.
Although, she supposed it wasn’t only her life she needed to consider now, but the life of her alleged child. She pulled the blanket close to her body, curled into a ball, and wept, dreaming of bungalows on the beach.
26
Francis Ackerman’s family had never owned pets, even before his mother escaped with his brother in her womb. Father didn’t understand the concept of bringing animals into a home. Why take on the excess baggage of another living thing? At least human children could be put to some use.
Still, Ackerman had befriended the rare insect or arachnid that wandered into his concrete cell, and he could understand the appeal of pet ownership. The eight-legged predators fascinated him, but they didn’t make for good friends. They were too much like him, and he wanted to form a friendship with a being whose personality would provide balance to his own. He and the spiders had spent most of their time in each other’s company devising ways to kill and eat one another, which hadn’t seemed to be a good basis for a lasting kinship.
His favorite childhood playmate had been a pill bug. Although, he had later learned the little gray bug—which earned its name by rolling into a ball when threatened—wasn’t a bug at all, but, rather, a crustacean, more closely related to shrimp, crabs, and lobsters. He supposed that the tiny creature had actually been his only toy as well as a companion. The best of both worlds, a bug and a ball.
He was reminded of pets because Emily Morgan now approached with a small black-and-white canine tugging at a retractable leash. Emily wore a gray pantsuit with a purple shirt. Her dark hair was cut short. The sun lit upon subtle, dark-red highlights that she had recently added. A small smile unconsciously formed on his lips as he imagined running his hands along her porcelain skin.
She and the small vermin on the leash approached across the black asphalt parking lot of the Golden Gate bridge info center. The wind licked at the shortened strands of black and red, making it easier to picture what it would be like to run his fingers through her hair.
Then the little dog thing spoiled the moment by jumping on his leg and looking up at him with a closed mouth and a tilted head. He scowled at the little beast, fighting the urge to dropkick.
Emily said, “I think he likes you. I’ve never seen anyone have that reaction before. Not initially, at least.”
“I thought a counselor would build up my self-esteem, not tear me down.”
“Under normal circumstances, that may be true. But in your case, your self-esteem needs to be dialed down. How do you like the dog?”
“I don’t work with animals. Too unreliable and unpredictable.”
Emily chuckled. “You think this little Shih Tzu puppy is here to help track down serial killers?”
“I assume he’s to be used as some kind of cover or distraction. A trojan horse, perhaps? How many pounds of explosives do you think it would be able to carry?”
She shook her head as if she was trying to wake from a dream. “We’re not blowing up the dog. He’s just here to be your friend. He’s for you. I think it would help you to have another living thing under your care.”
“Take it back. And if you insist on pursuing this ‘living thing’ therapy technique, then buy me a nice fern.”
“Fern’s don’t make good friends. They aren’t very intelligent.”
“That’s a rather stereotypical and offensive way of thinking. Every fern is different. There may be a strain that is quite personable.”
She held out the leash with a rigidly extended arm.
“I’m not taking that.”
“He’s yours now. Take him.”
“I will do no such thing.”
“Don’t be a baby. Take him on a walk and get to know one another.”
Ackerman ignored her and the vermin. Trying to change the subject, he said, “I’ve been thinking about the Gladiator. If the pattern of the victims being competent opponents continues, then he would need to be qui
te a skilled fighter. Local mixed martial arts training facilities would be a good place to start. But I’ve heard over the years that there is a thriving underground fighting scene in San Francisco. I would suggest we visit the gyms, and while there, we gather intelligence on the underground.”
The dog hadn’t moved. It had only cocked its head to the other side. It was looking up at him as if it smelled he wasn’t human. He shook the vermin from his leg.
Emily jammed the leash in his chest. His skin briefly electrified at her touch. These were the moments during which a reformed Ackerman had the greatest difficulty controlling his hunger.
Over his shoulder, his father’s voice said, She’s yours. Take her.
Ackerman had no fear. He didn’t worry that she would reject him. During the dark years, he lived by simply taking what he wanted. And who he wanted. His had been a world of endless possibilities and zero restrictions. And he had once planned to take what he wanted until someone worthy could kill him and take it all back.
In those days, he would have seen no reason not to give in to his desire at that very moment.
But from analysis of past experiences, he understood that the rest of the family may frown upon such actions. In the dark years, he had no greater purpose beyond the joy of the moment. Now, he felt something greater than himself guiding his path. And he had a sense that the something greater would also frown upon choices like rape and murder.
And although Ackerman couldn’t find a way to fear any deity, he had great respect for the Creator and his plans. In accordance with the grand scheme, he wished to find his own unique purpose, the reason he had felt so much pain and tasted so much death.
Emily said, “The gym idea sounds good. I’ll call Andrew and run it past him. Now, your dog needs to go potty. Take him over to the grass.”
“If I take that thing, it will be only for the purposes of killing and eating it. How did you even capture one of those so quickly after our flight landing?” The info center for the Golden Gate bridge had been their first stop after the FBI’s Gulfstream hit the ground in San Francisco.
She frowned and eyed him angrily over the top of her sunglasses. “Capture? Do you think Shih Tzus are running wild in the hills around San Francisco?”
“I was thinking more like a group of inbred strays banding together in the sewer systems.”
With a roll of her eyes, she said, “I called ahead and had this arranged. Shih Tzus are wonderful animals. My grandparents had three of them. They don’t even shed.”
“I was unaware that any canines shed their skin.”
“Their hair. Never mind. This is non-negotiable. A direct order.”
Ackerman growled and looked down at the furry, flat-faced vermin. The dog tilted its black-and-white head to the other side, its ears perking up. The creature seemed to be looking at him with some type of expectant energy. “What does it want? It’s eying me strangely.”
“I think he wants you to pet him.”
“I already find it annoying and repulsive.”
“He’ll grow on you.”
“Why is it so small and ugly? Is it deformed?”
When Ackerman looked back at Emily, he found her hiding a small smile. It looked nice on her, an expression she didn’t often share with him. She said, “He’s a Shih Tzu. This is what they look like. And he’s still young, but this is about as big as he gets.”
“If you insist on this madness, I think a larger dog would be more suited to my needs. Perhaps a Doberman?”
“This isn’t about your needs. You’re not supposed to train it to attack. You just need to take care of his needs and show him love.”
Ackerman picked up the animal and held it out like a baby with a soiled diaper. He wanted to protest further, but he knew how strong willed and unyielding Emily could be. He said, “This is absurd. What do I call it?”
“I figured you could name him.”
“How about Annoying Bag of Useless Flesh?”
“I think you’d get tired of saying that name all the time.”
“I’ll call him Douchebag for short.”
“Be serious. You might as well get used to him. He’s going to be with you for the next decade or so.”
“I doubt that. I’m sure animals like this die of natural causes all the time. Or run out into traffic, fall off a bridge, leap out a five-story window. These things happen. I’m sure the numbers would support the possibilities.”
“None of those things better ever happen to this dog, or I will make sure you share his fate.”
He reluctantly took the leash and asked, “What now?”
“Take him for a walk over in that grassy area. He needs to go potty.”
“Please don’t refer to his defecation as going ‘potty.’”
She pulled out a clear cellophane glove from her purse and replied, “Fine. When he defecates, pick it up with this.”
“If I take that bag from you right now, I will slip it over this creature’s head and suffocate it to death. I do not want to be responsible for this thing’s droppings and maintenance. I consider this cruel and unusual punishment, and I have too much self-respect to allow such a waste of my time and energies to stand.”
“Fine. But you will no longer be able to see Dylan.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“If you can’t show me that you’re capable of caring about the needs of another living being over your own needs, then you don’t deserve to be in Dylan’s life.”
“My brother—”
“Is on my side about this.”
Ackerman gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and counted to ten. He imagined jamming the mutt into a microwave and serving the ground remains to Emily as paté.
Then he opened his eyes, took the plastic glove, and dragged the small vermin toward a grassy knoll along the edge of the parking lot.
27
Stefan Granger finished his reps with the two-hundred-pound dumbbells and tossed them to the mat. One entire wall of his apartment was a giant mirror, like they have in the nice gyms. But Stefan didn’t work his body to show off or have a bunch of people staring at him. He kept fit because that was the right thing to do. The right way to live, the only way, was to be the strongest and the smartest.
This was the third apartment he had rented in the city. The other two had become a problem because he had neighbors beneath and to the side of him. His new place was over the top of a garage. A nice young couple had rented it to him. It was originally built to be a nurse’s quarters for an old couple that had lived there, but after they passed away and a younger family moved in, they didn’t know what to do with the nurse’s quarters. So they decided to make some extra rental income.
Granger had become quite close with the young couple. The wife was pregnant. Due any day now. He had dinner with them at least once a week and had already volunteered to paint the baby’s room for them.
The situation suited him perfectly. It was a mansion compared to his dad’s place at the cemetery. He was able to work out whenever he wanted. He could make as much noise as he wanted. And it was perfect camouflage for a man in his profession.
He stretched and stood up and then went down into the splits, stretching out his legs and arms.
Falling into a state of meditation, he heard the cell phone ringing. But he didn’t answer. He tried to tell himself it was only a telemarketer or scammer. The only people who ever called him were telemarketers and a select few who actually had the number. But thinking of those who did have the number, he couldn’t concentrate. Knowing that anyone who did possess the number would only use it for an important reason.
He rolled to his feet, ending the movement in a powerful haymaker to his punching bag. Then he stepped over to the kitchen and picked up his phone. As he had feared, it was one of the important calls.
Granger started to hit redial while reaching over to turn off the stereo—which was pumping out AC/DC’s greatest hits—but then he realized that simply calling that s
ame number would do no good. That number had already been erased. The protocol for the client was to wait fifteen minutes and call back.
He checked the time of the call. Fourteen minutes to go. He considered getting in some more reps before the call but then decided against it. He didn’t want to sound out of breath when Mr. Demon called back.
28
The building looked nothing like the old gym in which Rocky had trained, the kind of place that reeked of testosterone and poor grooming habits. Ackerman had actually viewed part of the film in a theater at one of those retro film festivals. When the fire started to spread, the cinema enthusiasts had forced their way to the exits like pigs fighting over a morsel of food. Ackerman had sat in the center of the theater as the fire raged around him, eating popcorn and becoming genuinely interested in the film. He hadn’t feared the fire, but it was still a force to be respected, and so he had missed the last third of the movie. Ackerman assumed that Rocky must have proven victorious and become the champion, considering the Italian Stallion became the protagonist of a franchise spawning seven sequels.
The gym he and Emily were now entering had walls lined with mirrors. One section in the back was filled with exercise bikes and elliptical machines. The floors were a cedar hardwood, and the walls were gray brick. The air smelled vaguely of sweat, but the odor was nearly camouflaged by the strong scent of vanilla and cinnamon. The place reminded Ackerman more of an upscale coffee shop than a setting where warriors were born. He wondered if the waters here were served with slices of cucumber.
Looking around at the pristine equipment and the trailer-park champions staring at themselves in the mirror, Ackerman felt acutely disappointed. Where was the grit and fire of the Mickeys, and the underdog hunger of the Rocky Balboas? It seemed to have been replaced with a bunch of wannabe tough guys slash pretty boys who cared more about how swollen they looked in their selfies than the fire of competition and the drive to be a champion. Ackerman could plainly see that none of these men possessed the eye of the tiger.