Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2) (18 page)

The Killer

My head lolls back against the leather couch, feeling much too heavy for me to hold up. I must have fallen asleep, or rather I drunk myself into a stupor—drunk being the operative word. Somehow still holding onto the bottle, I tip the last of the warm beer into my mouth. No amount of drinking can abate the trouble I’ve gotten myself into. Why bother thinking? No matter how many different scenarios I toss around in my head concerning my present circumstances, I can’t come up with a single one that brings a positive resolution.

I pull my legs from the coffee table and stumble into the bathroom to take a piss. My hand gropes along the wall in search of the light switch, but it looks as though the bulb’s out because nothing is happening when I hit it. I finally just give up and make my best attempt to aim for the toilet in the dark.

“What the fuck, man?”

I stumble back toward the dining room, which is adjacent to the living room where I’d fallen asleep. Once again, my hand gropes along the wall in search of the switch, but after flicking it, there’s nothing.

“Shit, what’s going on here?”

I automatically reach for my phone to use the flashlight app, forgetting that I’d taken out the battery to disable its GPS function. The last thing I need is getting locked up over some stupid mistake. I feel my way along the counter, fumbling around in the kitchen drawer for a flashlight and a fuse. It isn’t uncommon for the electricity to go out here in my river house. Usually it’s just a matter of a blown fuse, so I’ve learned to keep them on hand. Though it’s usually an easy enough fix, it’s a pain in the ass endeavor when you’re half drunk.

I’m still a bit unsteady on my feet, so I hold onto the wall as I stagger down the stairs and into the unfinished basement where the fuse box is located. After fifteen minutes of stumbling and bumbling around, I am able to get the lights to turn back on. I had plans to set this area up so it was more in line with what I have at the warehouse, but I haven’t gotten around to doing it yet. This basement is crude, unfinished, and downright creepy with no lighting.

I walk back out into the main area from around the corner of the small niche where the fuse box is tucked away. As soon as I turn the corner and lift my head, my blood runs cold. There, slung over one of the wooden rafters, is a rope tied into a noose. That would be enough to scare me on its own, but what really has me terrified is the note and single stemmed, dead, black rose attached to it with duct tape.

I am your worst nightmare. What you subjected those women to will be nothing compared to what I have planned for you.

You have one way out, and I think we both know what it is. Yours truly, Black Rose

Maybe he’s right. I’ve thought and thought, and I damn sure don’t see any other solution.

Charles

It would have been easy to go in and kill Richard Roundtree, but where is the fun in that? We had successfully trailed his partner in crime down to a house on the river, but he’d left after five minutes of banging on the door with no response.

Assuming he wasn’t home, we decided to break in. Luckily, we had erred on the side of caution and had still made a quiet entrance because we found him passed out drunk on the couch. I could have slit his throat right then, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. He needed to suffer for what he had forced those poor women to endure.

We’d gone in, shut his electricity off, and then left him a little surprise. The only regret I have is that I couldn’t witness the horror on his face when he saw the personal message I’d left for him.

As far as I’m concerned, the best thing he can do is wrap that fucking noose around his neck and free the world of the scourge of his abuse. Let him be the one to suffer mental anguish as he tries to figure a way out of the mess he’s made. I’m well aware of how tormenting mental sadism can be, and by the time I’m finished, he will understand firsthand what he put those women through.

It’s because of men like him that I started my career as a vigilante. I’ve always known I had a thirst for blood, but my journey has been different than most serial killers.

I’ve done my research, and I know most serial killers start out with animals when they’re young. I have never, nor would I ever, kill some small helpless animal. I’m more inclined to kill the person who has the gall to do something so cruel.

I remember beating the shit out of a neighbor kid as a child for stepping on a frog and purposely killing it. His brothers caught me out alone at a later date and beat me up in retaliation, but I still felt like it was worth it. From that day forward, I knew I was different. It’s crazy, but I felt a strong compassion for that frog. That compassion quickly morphed into rage, and there was no stopping me from attacking that kid. It was then that I knew I was able to feel compassion for the helpless.

The real change, though, had come after I witnessed a gang beat a man to death, and there was nothing I could do to help him. That was the pivotal moment. A man died in my arms that day, and when I exited the alley where he’d been beaten to death, I was a changed man. I vowed to defend those too helpless to defend themselves.

The only commitment that has ever proven stronger than my desire to kill off the scum of the earth is the love I carry for my wife and son. I loved her enough to stop killing, and I loved her enough to resume my bloodthirsty acts of vengeance when she asked it of me.

During my research into the minds of serial killers, I have also delved into the emotional aspects. The majority of serial killers are unable to feel empathy. With some, the darkness goes so deep they are unable to feel any emotions. I differ from them in that manner as well because I am able to love—to the point of obsession. I’m a sinister sadist who actually feels things at a deeper level. My wife is very aware of how dangerous things can get concerning my volatile emotions, though I have never laid a hand on her when it wasn’t consensual. It is one of the reasons we fit so well together. She feeds off the danger and fear I provide. She’s an adrenaline junkie at heart, and I am the only man who can give her the drug her system craves.

In my mind, I am a superhero of sorts, out to avenge those wronged by bullies. Now, I have my partner’s approval, which is a monumental weight off my shoulders. That sense of obligation to my wife only grows with the passage of time. I am a contradiction of terms, a monster who craves the dripping of blood between my fingers and the look of fear in a victim’s eyes, but only from someone who has accosted the weak. Some victims live high-risk lifestyles, and others become victims of crime simply because they are in the wrong place at the right time. The authorities call it a crime of opportunity—I call bullshit. Nobody deserves to be victimized by men who prey on those weaker than them.

Yes, it’s true that I enjoy subjecting my willing wife to sexual depravity, and though the fear in her eyes excites me, it’s her hunger for me that I find the most thrilling. Knowing she feeds off my sadism and the fear I provoke in her turns me on. I know, even as sick and fucked-up as I am, I meet a need in her that no other man can ever meet. We may be polar opposites, but we’re cut from the same cloth.

In the end, there’s a big difference between subjecting women to horror against their will and two consenting adults pushing their sexual boundaries. I walk a tightrope all vigilantes walk. Just like everything else, it boils down to being in control. I have to exercise some restraint and only kill those who deserve to die.

Melanie

We had followed our target in hopes of establishing a pattern to his behavior, and what we got was Richard Roundtree’s river house. It was beyond lucky. I’m assuming with everything being reported in the news, Richard’s lackeys are panicking. Next time we track the partners, we’ll have to wait outside their homes. Charles was very clear about the dangers of establishing habits. We need to fly under the radar, and if we continue sitting outside the bar to spy on these guys, sooner or later, someone is going to notice. Whether we like it or not, we are outnumbered. Normally there would only be one person to target for a kill, but we were looking at four men. We’d already done away with one, but that doesn’t change the fact that we are still outnumbered. I know my husband is taking more precautions than he usually does, mainly in taking his time and executing less
messy
kills.

We’d been caught off guard because when we broke into Richard’s river house, he was home. After seeing his friend bang on the door for five minutes, we had just assumed he wouldn’t be there. Evidently, he was there, but he was passed out in a drunken stupor.

Charles used the opportunity to tell me the dangers of making assumptions. He even went so far as to say it was a learning experience for him as well. The problem is that making mistakes for serial killers can mean prison time or loss of life. I can’t imagine my life without my husband. I am taking the training very seriously. One mistake can bring my whole world crashing down. There are times I question whether I’ve done the right thing in asking him to kill again, but there is no turning back now. We’re past the proverbial point of no return.

It had actually been fun to go through his house while he was there, yet totally unaware of our presence. My husband believes it’s his vacation home, and he’s hiding out there. Because it’s on the river and the basement is unfinished, he doesn’t think it’s where he was bringing the women to torment. The idea my husband came up with was genius. A rope tied into a noose and thrown over a rafter was better than a prick like Richard deserved, but driving the man to suicide was nothing shy of brilliant.

I only have one regret; I wish I could have seen his face when he saw the package we left for him. The agony he will suffer won’t be in his actual death. It will be in never knowing when or where we will show up. He’ll also be tormented by thoughts of trying to figure out how to escape the predicament he’s gotten himself into. The result will always be the same—an agonizing loop of running through scenarios and then realizing there’s no way out of his nightmare. I guess the most fucked-up thing about it all is that I’m looking forward to it.