Diabolical (4 page)

Perry nodded, reiterating that the '97 was a good vintage, then segueing into the weather. He had little doubt his lean, lithe passenger had wanted to declare he wasn't a homosexual. Such protests weren't uncommon, in his experience. Usually when they popped up he would make a point of agreeing, explain how he understood completely, assure the young men—and they were always rather young—that it was obvious they were straight, how he could tell right off. Fashion a comment about how he never really thought otherwise. He was just looking forward to some good company, some stimulating conversation over drinks. Whatever reason they had for hanging around outside that bar, for approaching the car and getting in, it wasn't
that.
He was just happy to make a friend.

The little speech was ready to go. The kid would likely raise the objection again. But really, who was he kidding? Hadn't he made a point of mentioning how much he enjoyed some museum in San Francisco recently? As if
that
wasn't intended to send a message.

Perry hummed softly to himself, the lyrics to the tune bringing a smile to his lips as they cascaded over his thoughts.

He felt good. This was the part of the Game that got his juices flowing, the almost giddy feeling of anticipation. He was so thankful for his life, so grateful he had money and the freedom that came with it. He never questioned that he deserved it, that he'd
earned
it, but he also never let himself forget how fortunate he was compared to those like Darin. He had brains, and he'd used them to get what he wanted. Poor schmucks like the one next to him had no intellectual gifts, or at least none they used. As a consequence, they had no power. Nothing to offer but their bodies.

And for that particular commodity, it was always a buyer's market.

Perry shook his head silently. Disgusting, really.

The road doglegged, becoming a long driveway that forked into a teardrop turnaround. At the tip of it sat a block-shaped sectional protruding from the hillside, the elevated portions supported by solid round stilts.

“Well,” Perry said. “Here we are.”

Darin studied the edifice without expression. Trying not to look impressed, perhaps, but unable to hide his interest.

“What do you think?”

“I think the architect laughed all the way to the bank.”

Perry waited several seconds before responding. “I designed it myself.”

Darin nodded, as if the information didn't surprise him at all.

Perry was still trying to determine whether the remark had been an insult or a clumsy joke as he swung the car around the circle and parked near a set of white steps. He got out and waited at the base of them until his guest, frayed shoulder pack slung over his back and adopting what seemed like a painfully slow gait, finally joined him. The code to the keyless entry was Perry's birthday, year first, then day, then month. Keying in the numbers, he considered making a comment about the view and how it looked in the moonlight, describe the vista as it appears on a clear day, the rocky shadows of the mountain slopes, the cobalt blue Pacific visible in the divides, but sensed his new acquaintance wasn't impressed by such things. The kid was dressed in what Perry supposed was street-cool. Untucked gray shirt, baggy jeans, zip-up hoodie with some sort of graffiti-look design on the back. Fingerless black gloves.

But he did look clean. No hint of tweaking. Even if his taste in clothes suggested he was no stranger to that kind of thing.

The locking mechanism disengaged with a metallic hum, then the sliding clunk of a bolt being thrown.

“Please,” Perry said, closing the door behind them and gesturing toward a sofa. “Make yourself at home.”

The young man plodded into the house, absorbed the surroundings with measured glances. The main living area was open; a large island kitchen in full view on the far side and a dining area with an oversized table to the left. A wide stairway off to the right ascended to a loft area with a pool table and television overlooking the living room, a short half wall separating them. Next to the staircase, a brief passageway led to a master suite, two posts of a large bed visible through an open set of French doors a considerable distance from where they stood.

Perry strode toward the back, gesturing insistently that his guest take a seat. “Now, how about some of that wine?”

He stopped just short of the kitchen. “You might find this interesting,” he said. Bending down, he slid two fingers between the inset ring of a trap door and lifted it.

“This wine cellar is spiral. The staircase was handmade from a single piece of red cedar.”

Darin stood, swinging the pack over his shoulder like a lumberjack about to decamp.

Shit,
Perry thought.
I've spooked him.

“Oh, just look at me,” he said, lowering the cellar door shut. “Not much of a host. I haven't asked you if you're hungry or if you wanted something other than alcohol.”

“I need to use your bathroom. Is there one in the bedroom?”

Smiling, Perry swept his arm toward the door at the end of the hallway and began to move in that direction, not bothering to mention the closer bathroom near the stairs.

“Of course, help yourself. You don't even need to ask. If you don't mind, while you're in there I'm going to get out of these slacks, maybe put on some jeans. Relax a little.”

“It's your home,” Darin said.

Perry ushered him into the master suite. It was, by any standard, the showcase of the house. Cavernous but somehow still cozy. Perry reveled in the regal dimensions, the statement it made about someone who could claim such a chamber. But he'd been careful with the décor. The key was not to appear ostentatious. To find that balance of richly furnished but tastefully restrained. Still, there were some things he couldn't resist. In addition to the super-ultra king-sized bed, the area comfortably accommodated a full sofa and an Indian rosewood coffee table, a mahogany writing desk big enough to play ping-pong on, and an eighteenth-century armoire. A custom-made water feature of imported stone took up most of one wall, babbling gently in the background.

On the other side of the room, a large archway offered access to the bath. A curve of stylish brass craned out over a gigantic bowl sink, surrounded by veined granite and deeply colored marble. The rest of the bathroom lay hidden around the corner, extending back toward the main part of the house.

Perry watched as Darin swept his eyes from right to left, taking it all in. He had to be in awe—had to be—but his face was all poker. A second of standing there, orienting himself, then Darin headed for the archway.

A six-foot mirror leaned against the wall near the entry to the bath, framed in wide thick planks of brown-black wood. He paused in front of it. He seemed to be studying its design, admiring it, but Perry knew better. Little doubt the kid was checking himself out, making sure he looked good. Wanting to be at his most attractive for what the rest of the evening held in store.

To be gay, he thought, was to be vain.

Perry watched him cross into the bathroom and glance around the corner. He imagined the young man's impressions of the place, of the luxuriousness of that shower, the pebbled stone floor behind the glass, the twin showerheads, the rock bench. This was another part of the Game he loved. He smiled and turned to enter the closet.

If the bedroom was his favorite room in the house, the closet was a big reason. It was the size of a small motel room. Modular organizers along the walls, sliding foot drawers, a three-sided mirror angled around a stepped platform. Nothing captured his sense of who he was like this room.

He nudged off his shoes, then slid off his trousers and hanged them on one of his valets. Shrugged off his shirt, boxers, and socks, dropped them each in a separate hamper compartment. He placed his shoes carefully on a rack and straightened his spine to inspect himself in the three-way. Not bad for fifty. Damn good, in fact. His cock especially. Hanging there, slightly engorged on its way to erect, mildly tingling with excitement, it looked manly. He allowed that perhaps his stomach could be flatter, his muscles a bit more toned, but to be leaner at his age meant time in a gym. That was for losers. Corded, sinewy bodies required too many hours, hours that he spent making money instead. He had a small workout room in the house, did twenty minutes of aerobics a day. That was enough. He had a Game to play.

One of the wardrobes held a drawer with new packs of individual boxer briefs. He opened one and pulled it over his legs, snapping the band around his hips. They felt fresh and tight, a feeling he loved. New underwear was part of the ritual.

Reaching up, lifting his heels to stretch, he felt along the top of the wardrobe until he found the latch. Hooking his finger around it, he pulled firmly, listening for the click. He held on to it and reached into the space above one of the shelves near his chest and pressed a button that looked like the head of a bolt in a line of several. The wooden frame crept a tiny bit, a loose, swaying feeling under Perry's weight. He lowered himself onto his heels and placed a hand along the side of it. The entire section glided open on graceful hinges.

God, he loved this closet.

He'd told the contractor this modification was to be a safe room, a tiny enclosure to provide a haven in case of a home invasion. Totally off contract. Four feet wide, five feet deep. He didn't want it on any of the plans, demanded all copies of the blueprint and spec revisions be handed over upon completion, and insisted those documents be kept to a minimum in the first place. A small bonus ensured no permits would be needed and no public record of the modification made. The contractor never blinked. Perry was convinced the guy actually swallowed the whole spiel.

And now it was his Sacred Space.

An overhead fluorescent bulb flickered on, bathing the compartment in a white glow. A sense of reverence, of holiness, washed over him as his eyes caressed the contents. It was the closest thing to a religious experience he knew, worshiping at this altar.

Each wall had its own theme, its own function. The wall on the left was a Memorial. A commemoration of his body of work, photos arrayed with great care. High-quality digital printouts in chronological order. The wall on the right held his souvenirs, his trophies. Some stood on small shelves, others hung from hooks. The back wall was dedicated to his tools of the trade. Mostly knives.

There were four rows of cutting instruments, as he liked to think of them. It was a term suited to what he saw as his particular avocation, his calling. The top two rows were held in place by magnetic strips. The lower two rows were for more specialized implements, some displayed in custom cases. These were secured to the wall on individual holders. Hanging along each side was a vertical row of handcuffs and manacles, an assortment of different size bracelets connected by chains of varying lengths.

Below the rows was a narrow table with a single drawer. He tugged open the drawer and examined the contents, which were neatly organized for quick access. First things first.

He removed a small glass jar of clear liquid and set it on the table, then retrieved a box containing an old-fashioned atomizer with a mesh bulb. Another narrow case held a syringe, which he removed and set out next to the atomizer.

Although he'd tried many methods in the past, some crude, others highly sophisticated, he found the simple approach of spraying an aerosolized solution of procaine to be the best. It was easy to acquire, easy to use, and most important, as long as an opioid antagonist was administered in short order, unlikely to result in death. Having them die early on was no way to play the Game. Death signaled the end. Rendering his subjects unconscious was intended to mark the beginning.

One of his early discoveries was that it was not as easy to induce unconsciousness as he'd thought. In fact, he learned it was actually quite hard—far more difficult than the way he'd seen it done in movies and on television. The most reliable methods required an administration of something narcotic, orally or intravenously. There were problems either way. Slipping something into a person's food or drink turned out to be far trickier than he'd anticipated. Some people had a habit of barely touching their beverage, others would sip it so slowly for so long the effect was diminished. And the wait while someone nursed their drink was just too excruciating to endure. On the other hand, injecting someone with a needle usually triggered a violent reaction. He'd been punched and kicked and almost stabbed once with his own syringe trying it that way. Not to mention, of course, the potential for damage to some of his exquisite furniture, a risk that couldn't be overlooked. And then there were the dosage issues. A few had never woken up, robbing him of the best part. Like being handed a forfeit after training and prepping for a win. It just wasn't right.

But he was always learning, and he had finally discovered a much more practical manner of delivery. He could spray his little concoction without touching the person, usually under the pretext of wanting his playmate to smell a wonderful fragrance. Two strong puffs, and that was usually it. The eyes would saucer, a look that seemed to be equal parts confusion and horrifying realization. The hands would shoot to the throat. Some rough coughing would ensue. A few violent shakes of the head, often a gasping noise, and then the legs would buckle. At this point, another spurt to the face was sometimes thrown in, just to be safe.

Lift him to the bed, apply a cuff to each arm, secure the legs at the ankles, and the hard part was done. From there it was simply a matter of reviving the sap. Arranging the instruments took a few minutes, but that was enjoyable work. After that, it was all fun. The purest kind.