Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller (17 page)

“Some people say there are no accidents, Calvin.”

“Yeah, well those people have obviously never seen a great white shark leap out of the water and bite a girl in half before.”

The cab driver shot a nervous glance over his shoulder.

“Wow,” Angela said. “Did you get it on film?”

“Nope—tossed it overboard,” I said with what little joy I could summon.

Another pause. And then: “So let me get this straight. Gene and Andrew are dead.”

“Yup.

“The girl is dead.”

“Yes.”

“And we’ve got no tape.”

“Correct.

“So we’ve got nothing.”

“No,
you’ve
got nothing. I’m done. I am
fucking done
.”

“You’re done, huh?” she said. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“So I guess you’re not afraid of prison anymore.”

“Fuck you, bitch. Send your little tape to whoever you want. I’ll take my chances.”

She chuckled. “Sorry, Calvin, it’s not that easy. You can’t just—”

“
Easy?
I killed
four-fucking-people
this week! I—” I stopped suddenly, a realization hitting me like a horrible memory once forgotten. “Holy shit…you only need to kill
three
people in order to be officially labeled a serial killer…
I’m a fucking serial killer!
”

The cab driver glanced back at me again. He looked like he was about to shit himself.

“Relax, Calvin, okay? You need to calm—”

“
Stop telling me to relax and calm down!
I’m done, you hear me!? I am fucking done!”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry…” She stammered, incredulously stumped for words. “You can’t just…you can’t…” She shifted suddenly, making a weak attempt at regaining the advantage by targeting my psyche. “You know what? I don’t think you
are
done.” Even over the phone I could tell her words weren’t loaded. “I
saw
something in you. I saw—”

I barked out a laugh, cutting her off.

“What you saw was
depression
, Angela—plain and simple. I think, and I say things that are conceivable only in the safety of my own fucked-up head, and that’s all.” I shifted the phone to my other ear as I started building momentum. “I used to think there’d be no significant transition if my depraved thoughts ever crossed over into reality, but you know what? There’s a big one.
A big-fucking-terrifying transition.
And now, thanks to a sick bitch like you, I know that as an absolute
fact
.”

A long pause. When she finally spoke she sounded so vulnerable, I wondered if it was even her. “Please don’t do this. I’ll tell you everything, okay? Just please don’t leave…
Please
.”

“You had your chance to talk to me. I’m done.” I snapped my phone shut.

(
Impressive.
)

Shut the fuck up.

I leaned forward in my seat. “How much further?”

“Not far, not far,” the cabbie said quickly, probably counting the seconds before we hit the airport.

“Good. Hurry up. And don’t mess with me; I’m a serial killer.”

Her pleading. What was all that about? I’m no shrink, and if you haven’t guessed by now, I’m the reigning champ of cynicism, but it felt like there was something sincere in her tone that, for a record first, was not the starts of a mind fuck. She truly seemed upset about something, and I know it wasn’t the prospect of losing me as a lover; in addition to holding the Cynicism Belt, I am also number one contender for the Lack of Self-esteem Title.

So what was it then? What did she seem so upset about? And more importantly—
far
more importantly—what to do about the tape? Angela seemed upset on the phone, but how soon until that sadness turns to anger? How soon until she follows through on her blackmail threat and FedExes copies of that tape to every precinct in the Philadelphia area?

I stuck my key in my apartment door.

Do I run?
Could
I run?

(
Or maybe you could eliminate the problem at the source.
)

She wouldn’t give me the tape.

(
You know that’s not what I meant. Your body count is all her fault anyway. What’s one more?
)

No. No more…

(
It would be even
more
justified than when you killed the freak in self-defense. It’s all about self-preservation.
)

NO. Besides, she made it abundantly clear that she’s not the only one with a copy of the tape. If anything happened to her…

(
She said you have no way of KNOWING if someone else has the tape. That you’d be taking a big risk. She could have been bluffing.
)

Drop it.

I entered my apartment and Pele rushed towards my shins, meowing incessantly as he rubbed against them—a hello and a where the fuck have you been?

I bent to pick him up, but he moved out of range. He circled then cast me a look with another meow that was English to me:
Fuck you; you think I’m forgiving you so quickly? Get on my dinner, bitch, and MAYBE I’ll let you pet me later.

I headed to my kitchen with two objectives: feed Pele, and whiskey Calvin.

Pele was soon nose deep in a bowl of Friskies, and I was soon nose deep in a healthy glass of Beam. I leaned against my kitchen counter as I drank.

Run or wait? That’s what it all comes down to, doesn’t it?

(
Or…
)

I said drop it—it’s not an option.

I downed the remainder of my Beam, poured myself another, and then headed towards my sofa. Although I knew I wouldn’t pay attention to program one, the simple act of channel surfing might be cathartic in a let’s-figure-out-how-to-get-out-of-the-snuff film industry-without-going-to-prison kind of way.

I set my drink on the arm of the sofa and leaned forward to grab the remote from the coffee table.

I froze, my hand suspended in air, hovering over the remote.

What…the fuck…are those?

I needed a better look—because they couldn’t have been what I thought they were. Slowly, steadily, I lifted the remote by its sides, keeping it horizontal so as not to spill anything.

I brought the remote closer. Yup—two blood-stained teeth resting on the remote like capers on a biscuit.

I dropped the remote as if it had just burned me, the teeth scattering across my rug. Pele approached one of the teeth, sniffed, and then started batting it playfully.

“No! Pele,
no
!” I leapt from the sofa and shooed him away from the tooth. He hissed and swiped at my foot before darting off.

Everything felt like a scene in a movie, where the camera does a dizzying 360 around the main character as he desperately clings to sanity.

A sudden knock at my door stops the camera’s orbit cold, and now it’s a shotgun zoom in on my panicked face with the classic tilted frame to convey my instability.

I faced my door, chest heaving, mind spiraling. “Who is it?”

“I need help.” A female voice. Soft and weak.

“
Who is it?
”

“Please let me in.”

I inched cautiously towards the door as if it might burst open at any second. I placed an eye on the peephole. It was Angela. Her head was down, and she had something pressed to her mouth, but it was her.

“Angela?”

“Please let me in, Calvin.”

A trick. Was it a trick? Were there freaks with her, flanking her, far enough away so I missed them through the peephole? Would there be no blackmail after all? In its stead, a sweeping under the rug, like I had been tricked to do with the freak for having a big mouth?

“Are you alone?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I looked through the peephole again. Strained muscles in my eye I’d never used in order to gain the widest scope possible. She did seem alone. And if she did have goons with her, wouldn’t they just kick the door down? Kill me and be gone before neighbors started to wonder what all the commotion was about?

I opened the door. The thing covering her mouth was a white rag. At least it used to be white. Now it was mostly red. I pulled her inside, shut the door and locked it.

I gestured towards the rag. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

She pulled the bloodied cloth away from her mouth, winced and raised her upper lip. I now knew whose front teeth were on my remote.

“Jesus Christ. Who did that to you?”

“My—” She stopped, sighed, and then corrected herself. “
Our
boss.”

“So you’re saying you answer to someone,” I said. “This isn’t just your gig.”

Cloth to mouth, she nodded slowly.

“So this is what you meant when you said you had no choice in doing this kind of work. I
wasn’t
misunderstanding things.”

She nodded again and lowered the rag. “I may be a bit wild, Calvin, but I’m not a psychopath. I was fucked…just like I fucked you.”

“Blackmailed.”

“More or less.”

I stared at her, refusing to blink, lips pursed in contempt.
Start talking
, I hoped my face read.

She took a deep breath and let it out with a long sigh. “Okay…you ready for the after school special?”

I nodded.

She dabbed her mouth with the cloth and let out another long sigh. “I was an addict and I lived on the street. My life sucked and I wanted to die. So I OD’d. But then some Good Samaritan comes along, scoops me up, and dumps me off at the hospital. Saves my life.

“A few days later I’m released, and as I’m leaving I’m greeted by a limo. The guy inside tells me
he
was the one who saved me. Tells me I was so beautiful with all this potential and that if I let him, he would take care of me.” She dabbed her mouth again and winced. “My life is a big fucking zero so I figure I’ve got nothing to lose, right? So I go with him, and for a year he’s like Mr. Johnny-on-the-spot with the luxury and spoils. I’m living in a palace, new clothes, jewelry…I don’t even have any desire for smack anymore.

“And I never questioned it either. I mean why look a gift horse in the mouth, right? It’s been over a year already, and I figured if the guy just wanted to fuck me he would have tried by now. Instead he just treats me like a princess and gives me whatever I want.”

“But…?”

She held up a hand, asking for my patience. “So there I am, living a dream life. But after a while I start to ask myself all those questions I wasn’t asking in the beginning. Why is this guy doing all this for me? Can there really be no ulterior motive? So one day I ask him. And he told me.”

“Told you what?”

“Told me the kind of work that he did—and that he was planning on using me in that line of work.”

“Use you how?”

“Recruiting. Bringing in people for us to employ, and bringing in people for us to…film.”

“So what did you do after he told you everything?”

“I freaked. I called him a sick bastard and said I was leaving.”

“You did?”

She frowned a little. “
Yes.
I told you, I’m not a psychopath.”

I held up a hand, a slightly patronizing hint to my tone when I said: “My apologies.”

Her little frown grew. “Should I even go on?”

I wanted her to. Whether I was swallowing all of it—

So then who pulled out her teeth?

—or not, I wasn’t sure, but I did want her to go on.

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, go on.”

She paused, taking her time dabbing her mouth, likely reminding me that both of her front teeth had been ripped out, thank you very much; a little courtesy would be nice.

I reiterated with a teaspoon of that courtesy. “No really, please—go on. I’m sorry. Tell me what he did when you told him you were leaving.”

She did a final dab and said, “He beat the shit out of me.”

My face must have registered surprise, because she continued with: “Yeah—he told me that he didn’t spend the past year wasting his money on a junkie like me so that she could just up and leave whenever she wanted to.”

“You ever try sneaking away, or…?”

“Several times. He always found me though. And every time I was brought back I was showed the error of my ways. Once he locked me in a cellar for a week with no food, only water. Told me I could stand to lose a few pounds anyway.” She gave a pathetic chuckle.

“So I guess you stopped trying to run after that?”

“No—I tried one last time. Of course I was caught and brought back, but this time he didn’t punish me; he just showed me a picture.”

“Of what?”

“A beautiful woman lying by a pool. He told me it was the girl I was replacing. He then shows me another photo, and I can tell it’s the same girl, but just barely. She was hanging on a meat hook.”

“Jesus.”

“He told me that she too had tried to leave several times, and that if I tried once more I’d be hanging on a hook next to her.”

“So what’d you do?”

She shrugged. “What could I do? I stayed.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Five years, give or take.”

“
Five years?
”

She gave a reluctant nod.

“Does he still abuse you?”

“Not if I do what I’m told. Every now and then I’ll get a little courage and defy him, but I always end up regretting it.” Another pathetic chuckle. “I think it’s a safe bet to say that my only way out is that meat hook.”

It added up and it didn’t.

“Wait, wait, wait,” I said. “You weren’t necessarily acting like a woman who was doing this shit against her will. Hell, you had me believing you were Charles Manson’s hot sister.”

She pursed her lips at my wit. “I became
desensitized
, Calvin. And let’s be honest, the money helped.”