Twisted (30 page)

“Say no more,” Sloane interrupted. “I’ll go over to Elsa’s a little before seven while the nurse is still there. I’ll pretend I’m just dropping by to say hi so she won’t feel like a burden. I’ll feed and walk Princess Di while the nurse is still with your mother. After she leaves, I’ll heat up the casserole and we’ll have a lovely dinner in the upstairs sitting room. Stay at the bookstore as late as you need to. I’ll be with Elsa until you get here.”

Burt’s sigh of relief was audible. “Thanks, Sloane. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“There’s nothing to appreciate. You’ve come to my rescue on more occasions than I can count. I’m delighted to help. So, do your inventory. I’ll see you when I see you.”

She hung up the phone.

“What was that all about?” Derek asked.

Sloane explained the situation to him.

“I’m sorry about Elsa. I know how fond of her you are. As for Burt…” Derek frowned. “That guy’s a little out there. I’m not thrilled about your being alone with him, even with his sick mother upstairs, and the security assigned to you parked right outside.”

Sloane waved off Derek’s concerns. “You’re right, he is odd. But he just when through a messy divorce, his mother’s all he’s got, and she’s slipping away. I think he’s scared.”

“He’s got the hots for you, you know.”

“I noticed.”

“To my way of thinking, a recently divorced, vulnerable guy who’s odd and wants to hook up with you doesn’t sound like the ideal companion.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Sloane smiled. “But I wouldn’t worry. Burt’s seen my Krav Maga skills firsthand. I gave him and Elsa a demonstration once when I picked up the hounds. He’s also seen me shoot. I’m pretty intimidating with my bow and arrow. I’m also getting more accurate every day. At this point, my arrows consistently strike the red, in a tight cluster around the bull’s-eye. Truthfully, I think Burt’s fascinated by me, and at the same time, half afraid. He’s not exactly the macho type. He wouldn’t try anything for fear of his well-being.”

Derek looked amused. “When you put it that way, maybe I should be scared, too.”

“Maybe you should.”

The phone rang again. This time it was Derek’s cell. He punched it on.

“Parker,” he answered. “Mrs. Truman.” He shot Sloane a how-do-you-want-to-handle-this look. “Actually, I was going to get in touch with you either later today or tomorrow. Yes, we have some new information. But it’s only part of the whole picture. I was waiting until I had all the facts before I called you.”

Tell her we’ll call her together on speakerphone
. Sloane mouthed the words.

Derek nodded. “I understand. You’re both anxious. Well, I’m reviewing the update with Sloane Burbank as we speak. Why don’t the two of us call you back on a landline using a speakerphone. That way, we can all take part in the discussion. Fine. Give us five minutes.” He punched off the phone. “Dr. Truman is with her,” he informed Sloane. “So this will be a four-way talk, complete with a castigation and interrogation session. Do you still want to take the lead? Because I assume that’s why you were signaling me.”

“Yes, but only because I know them. It might take the tension down a notch or two.” Sloane’s pause was grim. “Not that my news is comforting. It implies the very worst of outcomes. This whole thing sucks.” She made a deferential gesture. “But this is your case. I told you I wouldn’t step on your toes, and I won’t. If you’d prefer to tell them what we found—”

“No, I think it should come from you,” Derek replied emphatically. “I’ll fill in the official details, emphasizing the role the
FBI
lab at Quantico is playing, and the fact that our forensic engineer’s analysis is still in the works. I want the Trumans to feel reassured that all the FBI’s resources are being utilized for the purpose of solving Penelope’s disappearance.”

“And I get to confirm their greatest fear. Because no matter how I spin it or cushion it, they’re going to draw the same conclusion we have—that Penny is dead.”

DATE:
8 April

TIME:
1530 hours

She walked right by me, eyes glazed, pupils as wide as saucers, oblivious to everything except the plastic bag stuffed in her pocket.
That
she fingered nervously, anxious to shoot up what she’d just scored.

She weaved her way into the four-story tenement, so unsteady on her feet that she could barely make it. No surprise given the number of needles she’d probably stuck in her arm this past week.

She looked strung out. Which meant she wasn’t as high as she needed to be. That was good news. She’d be more susceptible to pain.

That
was mandatory. She
had
to feel every life-draining slice of my knife.

For the third time, I vomited in the street. I’d overdone it on the morphine. I knew it would make me sick, but I had no choice. How else could I dull the pain enough so I could drive down here and satisfy the demons?

I never do this during the day. And never right out in the open. But I’m desperate. The demons won’t let me sleep until I give them what they want.
Now.

I know she’s alone. Her two “roommates” left to go shopping. They’ll be gone for a while. Not that anyone will notice. No one gives a damn who walks in or out of this dump they call a “resting house.” A lovely euphemism for the basement where whores live when they’re not at work. Late night is when their “careers” soar, when they go to that garish brothel on East Broadway and service the men.

Not this
ji nv
. Not tonight. She won’t be alive to service anyone.

I don’t know why the demons chose her, nor do I care. I’ve seen her come and go from the brothel a dozen times, even followed her here on two separate occasions. She’s been doing her job the longest. The demons must know that and have deemed her the one to punish. And made me their messenger.

Even so, I’m furious that she’s forced me into this vulnerable position. My hands are starting to shake. The rage is beginning to pound through my body. Damn, I hate her, more every second. I can’t wait to carve her away, bit by bit.

One more minute—enough time to sit down, get her fix ready, maybe even tie the tourniquet around her arm. But not enough time to inject the heroin. I want her alive, awake, aware, and terrified.

And then I’ll send her to hell.

It’s time.

I walk down Eldridge Street, past a bunch of punks who look as seedy as the block we’re walking on. There’s garbage strewn everywhere. The sleazy teenagers are darting into doorways, probably picking up their Xstasy to sell tonight. They’re high as kites themselves, and wouldn’t remember my hooded sweatshirt or black gym bag if they fell over me.

The stench of the tenement is vile—a combination of sex, filth, and drugs. I retch, but there’s nothing left to vomit up except bile. The staircase to the basement is cluttered with needles. I expected that, having followed her here before. The demons must have been preparing me.

As assumed, I find her in the basement, crouched down on the concrete floor. Her back is propped against the wall as she concentrates on arranging what she needs for her next fix. The rest of the place is as still as death.

I pull on my latex gloves. Then I shut the front door behind me and turn the lock.

She looks up. Not surprised. Not anything. No emotion at all in those dark, almond-shaped eyes.

“No,” she informs me. Her words are slurred, and the rest she mutters in Fukienese. But I understand enough. She’s instructing me to come to the brothel and make an appointment with “Susie.” She has the additional audacity to tell me she’s very busy and that she takes cash only.

My hatred and revulsion escalate.

“I’m not a client,” I respond in her dialect. Calmly, I unzip my bag and take out the photo equipment. I extend the tripod legs, set it in place, and anchor the video camera. I arrange it at the perfect angle so I can capture everything on tape.

She looks vaguely puzzled, and asks who wants a picture of her.

“I do.” I press record, finishing up that part of the ritual. Then I cross over to her, whisk out my prefilled hypodermic, and inject the ketamine in one quick stab to her thigh.

She opens her mouth to yell in pain. I stuff a rag in it. Then I press her against the wall and hold her there, waiting for the ketamine to do its job.

She fights like a wild animal. I restrain myself, knowing I’ll have all the time in the world to vent my fury—until she reaches up and slashes her nails across my neck.
My
neck. None of them has ever touched me before. I’ve been too strong, too focused. It’s the morphine doing this—and the slut.

She does it again. That pushes me over the edge. Rage courses through me, stronger than my will. I don’t care that the ketamine hasn’t taken full effect. She touched me. She dared to lay one of her filthy hands on my body. I’m sickened.

I backhand her across the face, calling her what she is.
“Chao ji bei,”
I snarl, backhanding her again. She lunges like a tigress, clawing at me and trying to lurch up and escape.

I take out my combat knife, slash across her chest, up her neck, and down her arms.

She screams silently, the rag absorbing the sound. She stares at the blood oozing down her body, and then stares at my knife.

This time I see fear. Fear and pain.

Her muscles begin to tense up as the ketamine does its job. She’s stiff. And she’s scared. Even though her eyes are glazed, she knows. She feels.

That’s what I want. It’s what I need.

I grab her legs and drag her onto the filthy floor, where she belongs. Flat on her back, like a trapped cockroach about to be crushed. Then I begin the second part of the ritual. I cut off her clothes, piece by piece, throwing them aside. I’m determined not to allow myself to experience that profane surge of pleasure. I spread her legs wide, tying one ankle to a radiator, and the other to a water pipe. She’s delicately formed, her body firm, her curves gently rounded.

Like Artemis.

The very thought sends me into a tirade. How dare I compare a whore like this to my pure and precious Artemis? It must be the morphine. Nothing else would do this to me.

I unzip my fly. I never take off my clothes, not with any of them. That would demean me. I flinch as I touch myself. The pain in my groin is still bad, even with the morphine. As always, I extract a condom from my pocket—another absolute necessity. She’s a harborer of germs, of disease, of everything evil.

I can’t get the image of Artemis out of my head. It’s wrong, so wrong. I hate myself for it. But I can’t make it go away. Not until I make this whore go away.

I rip open the condom wrapper. I can’t harden my body enough to slide the damn thing on. It’s the injury. No, it’s the demons. They know I’m thinking impure thoughts about the purest of women. That terrifies and infuriates me. I rub myself fiercely. But to no avail. The pain in my testicles is too severe. And the demons are cursing me, threatening me, mocking me.

I go wild. I shove the condom over my flaccid penis. It’s her fault. Hers and Tyche’s. Two
biao zhis
.

I force my weight on top of hers, crushing her into the concrete floor with all my might. I lift up only to guide, shove, cram myself into her. It won’t happen. I begin pounding myself against her, desperate to penetrate.
I can’t. I can’t.

Sweat is pouring off of me. Pain lances through me with each unsuccessful thrust. Her blood is on my sweatshirt. I don’t care. I’m gripping her hair, pulling at it to gain leverage. It won’t work. Nothing will work.

I launch myself off of her, seize my combat knife.

I’ll conquer her one way or another, give the demons what they demand.

The first slices are deep, cutting through muscle and tissue, severing blood vessels and puncturing organs. The feeling is euphoric, obliterating the rage, replacing it with a hunger for more.

Excitement and power surge through me—the kind I get when I violate them. I’m shaking as I respond. I cut her again, and again, and again—each cut deeper, more frenzied. Time and place cease to exist. I’m blind to everything except the escalating pleasure taking possession of my senses. Building. Building.

I stifle a shout as my body shudders, culmination shaking me to the core. I close my eyes, a prisoner to the feeling, my body lurching repeatedly as I fill the condom that hangs loosely from my aching member.

My muscles go slack, and I roll onto my back, letting my eyes close and my head relax, loll to one side. I suck air into my lungs.

I open my eyes and see her, or what’s left of her. Bloody. Mutilated. Butchered into nonexistence.

I spit into her mangled face. Then I find the coin I brought, and place it beside her, in the stickiness of her spilled blood.

The pain in my wrist, my nose, my testicles—none of it matters.

The exhilaration is far greater. Because now I understand what the demons have been throbbing for.

It’s the purest form of pleasure. Savoring evil, rather than festering over its temptation.

A true victory. One I must revel in. And learn from.

Hunterdon County, New Jersey

4:15 P.M.

As it turned out, Sloane and Derek had another four-way conference call, this time with
FBI
SSA
William Mann and former
SSA
Lawrence Clark. The two men had worked closely together at the
BAU
for fifteen years before Larry’s retirement, so they were pleased to be doing so again. They listened carefully to the details Sloane and Derek provided.

“How are we handling this?” Bill asked afterward in his customary blunt style. “If you want the
BAU
on board in an official capacity, then this phone call and request for our help has to technically be initiated either by Derek in his SA capacity, or by Sergeant Erwin at Midtown North. But if you want to skip the red tape and let Larry handle this alone, as an independent consultant, that’s fine. You’ll get the best there is and any of you can request his help.”