Cellar Door (12 page)

Liam

It’s been hard to sleep knowing the object of my obsession is close by. And yet, she might as well be a thousand miles away. Extended periods of solitude should have her looking forward to our interactions. When a person is lonely, even a visit from an enemy is a reprieve from the isolation.

Reluctantly, I push her from my thoughts as I pull into the parking lot of Our Lady of Tranquility, the psychiatric hospital where my brother is being held. Instead of a lengthy prison sentence, he agreed to chat with medical students and scored a relatively cushy life behind locked doors. Hardly seems fair, really. Today he’ll talk to
me
; I need more information on the hooded stalker and no one is going to know him better than Lance.

I can’t shake the idea that this guy isn’t finished just because he wasn’t successful in taking Madonna. His attachment to Lance leads me to believe that the failed attempt will only whet his appetite. He’ll be back for more, if he hasn’t already.

Even after all the shit Lance has put me through, I cannot deny the visceral connection we share as brothers. After all, he’s not just my brother, he’s my twin. No amount of crazy can ever change that.

I check in at the front desk and see that I’m the first visitor to sign in this morning. On a whim, I drop off some commissary money with the receptionist, who then directs me down the hall to the entrance of the secured wing. I wait for the telltale click of the lock releasing, then the double doors swing open and a security guard ushers me into the private visiting room.

I lean back against the wall to wait for my brother, propping one foot against it and folding my arms over my chest. I never sit during these visits. Standing establishes dominance. When dealing with my brother, it’s important to control the conversation.

“I see you still feel the need to keep your guard up, dear brother. Your body language speaks volumes, you know,” he taunts me as he shuffles into the room with a guard. He sits down, then rolls his eyes as the guard secures his manacles to a pair of clips bolted into the floor.

“I think we both know why I’m here today, Lance, and why this won’t be a relaxed, friendly visit.”

“Oh, do we have those? Have I somehow missed out on the friendly visits?” he smirks. At my eye roll, he continues, “Oh, calm down. What can I possibly do all shackled like this?”

His chains rattle and clank as he lifts his forearms and waves his hands back and forth. “To what do I owe the honor of a visit from the talented and revered Dr. Liam Sheldon Chambers?” he says with grandiose flair. I wait until the guard leaves before I speak.

“Your little hooded groupie
tried
to kidnap Madonna last night.”

His mocking laughter rings through the air. “Oh… so let me guess. The great and terrible Dr. Chambers rode in on his white horse and, what, took her for himself? In the name of
saving her
, of course.”

I step away from the wall and lean in, slamming my hands down on the table. A frisson of satisfaction courses through me when his body jerks abruptly. My voice comes out through clenched teeth.

“You ignorant son of a bitch, that crazy fuck has got it in his head to kill her because of you!” I hiss as I jab my finger right in front of his face. He just smiles and I’m tempted to knock the smart ass expression right off his face.

“So let me get this straight; you kidnapped her to keep her
safe.
Huh. You know, you’re one sick son of a bitch, Liam. You and I both know your motives are not altogether altruistic here. You get off on that shit. Now…why exactly are you here again?” he asks sarcastically, tilting his head to the side and cupping his hand behind an ear as if to hear me better.
Asshole.

I can’t believe I’m letting him get to me like this. I know I can’t let him push my buttons and keep me from getting the information I need. I lean in closer, biting my bottom lip in an effort to not verbally eviscerate him. “I need to know one thing: is he crazy enough to kill someone else instead?”

He leans in and rests his chin in the palm of a manacled hand, and whispers like we’re sharing a secret. “You know, your whole wanting-to-tie-women-up-and-fuck-them-senseless fetish -- it all stems from a need for control. In fact, I think you don’t have any friends because you’re just too fucking OCD for anyone to develop any kind of relationship with you.

“Anyway…back to crazy boy; yes, I do believe he’s quite capable of killing someone just to get his own kicks. He so looks up to me, you know. Of course, he certainly isn’t the only fan I have.” He leans in again, looks around surreptitiously as if someone might hear him, and whispers conspiratorially, “You ought to see some of the letters I get from the women out there. And the pictures! Talk about a spank bank, brother. The things they say they’d like to do to me make me wish I was a free man.”

I’ve heard enough. I stomp over to the metal door and rap on it three times, signaling the guard to let me out.

“Leaving so soon?”

“I left you money, you fucker.”

“Oh, goody. I get to buy chewing gum and you get to deny your guilt about the plight of your long-lost brother. It’s a win-win.”

When the guard opens the door, I turn back and look my brother directly in the eye. “I feel no guilt whatsoever concerning you or anyone else. I came to grips with who and what I am years ago. It’s
your
soul you should be concerned with, not mine.”

He smiles but the smile doesn’t reach his flat, lifeless eyes. “My soul and I are just fine, thank you very much. Toodle-loo, until next time, bro…” he says in that creepy sing-song voice he uses sometimes. So weird. His chains clank as he waggles his fingers at me in a sarcastic farewell.

I don’t bother saying goodbye. Everything my brother does and says in my presence is for his own entertainment, to try to get me to engage. I, of all people, am aware of the love-hate relationship we share. It’s always the same, the need to go see him and the regret as soon as I do. For some reason, that contradiction is ever-present where he’s concerned. I’ve learned to live with it.

I sit in my car for a while, in no rush to leave the hospital parking lot. I need to get my head back into a good place – not the easiest thing to do after spending time in Lance’s presence. I have my own demons to contend with. I’m not taking his home with me too.

His Rage

“Son of a bitch, motherfucker!” I scream at the top of my lungs as I alternate between pulling my hair and slapping my face in rage. I curse and pace the floor as the reporter’s voice drones on and on about the killing overnight and, in particular, the body that was discovered at Urban Elite. The bitch isn’t getting the story right!

“Say it, say it, say ‘Kikazaru’, you ignorant bitch!”

I stare at the tv screen with a mixture of rage and hatred, trying to will her to give me
my
name. What am I doing wrong here? I shrug aside the temptation to visit Lance. He could help me, yeah, but not before playing with me, toying with me. He’ll read me like he always does, then he’ll laugh at my failure. He has power, he’ll see through me, I know he will. This isn’t how things are supposed go.

“This is
your
fault, you bitch!” I grab a notepad and a pen and hastily write down her name.
Stacy Halsey
. I should make her pay,
make
her use the name I’ve chosen. A light goes off in my head and an eerie calm settles over me. I know what I need to do…

This sense of calm has been provided by the forces of evil who love me, so I must use it wisely. They watch out for me. I don’t need Lance; I need them. They’re guiding me on this journey of self-discovery and vindication. I resolve to be more grateful to the forces of evil who work on my behalf.

It’s time for me to get back to my original plan of using Max the blogger to tell the world my message. It’s always been in the back of my mind to use
her
.

She. Is. My. Salvation.

I should have thought of her first. With so many followers, she can get my name out into the public as well as the traditional media can, probably better. I’m going to be famous and Max is going to help me do it.

I run my fingers over the image on the computer screen, touching her face, rubbing the tips of my fingers across her lips. She looks like a tomboy. I can’t see the curves I’d like to see. I wonder what she looks like naked. I shake myself out of the seductive train of thought she’s inspired. It’s time to get to work.

Lance’s tips are sure coming in handy. Thanks to him, I know how to use a proxy service to keep my browsing history and IP address anonymous. I’m glad I was able to put up with his arrogance to get the information I needed. There’s nothing he loves to do more than listen to himself talk. So here goes…

Max, you don’t know me yet but you will. I know who you are and I’m going to get to know you even better. Let’s start with my name. My name is Kikazaru and I killed the woman that was found behind your dumpster.

Consider her a gift. You’re welcome.

Don’t worry…there’ll be more. I’m just getting started.

Yours…Kikazaru

Liam

I haven’t been sleeping well because I know she’s so close and yet so far away. It’s the same story every morning lately: too damn early to be up and yet not late enough to begin getting ready to go in to the hospital.

Everything in me wants to go down to the basement, pin Madonna down and fuck her into submission. I sit up in bed and fluff one of the pillows behind me rougher than necessary. This girl is giving me blue balls and she’s not even trying. I’m wearing nothing but sweat pants and my unrestrained cock is so hard that it’s uncomfortable. I adjust myself in an effort to relieve the strain.

I could easily call one of the many Louisville women I know for a quick fuck and some relief from the stress of this situation. But I don’t want someone else.

I get up, take a piss, and climb back into bed. I grab the remote and turn on the TV for a little channel surfing. There are the usual infomercials and then a breaking news report catches my eye. When the news anchor issues a grim warning that the report is graphic, I know Madonna’s stalker has come unhinged. I go completely still, bracing for the inevitable.

‘When Bob Burns went out for his late night run he never expected to come upon the body of a young woman that had been dumped behind the Urban Elite compound.

‘The killer placed the woman’s body against a dumpster in the alley. Police stated that the victim’s eyes had been mutilated and she had been strangled by what they believe may have been a belt.

‘The killer left a note on the woman’s body and police, of course, are not revealing its contents. The victim is believed to have been a local prostitute.

‘Retired police detective Jack Heitman founded the Urban Elite investigation firm and training facility. We contacted Heitman for comment on the grisly pre-dawn discovery but haven’t received a response as of yet. This is Stacy Halsey and I’ll be keeping you up to date on this case as we know more.’

I don’t need the authorities or Jack Heitman to tell me who the killer is. I do wish I knew what that fucking note said though. It could so easily have been Madonna in that alley.