Cellar Door (16 page)

His Tutorial

I’ve got one thing to teach these pompous investigators: expect the unexpected. Most murderers would target women like the one who slipped through my fingers the other night—the woman who was supposed to be not only Lance’s next kill but my first. Sometimes killers will redirect their rage by using a type of proxy—a lookalike to serve as a substitute for the real person who crossed them. For some, it’s a mother who neglected them, a girlfriend who jilted them, fuck, it could be a teacher who humiliated them during class. For me, it’s Madonna. If I can’t kill
her
, I’ll just target the next best thing. Works for me.

I go through my
kill kit
, a large leather bag that I take great pride in. It contains all the tools and toys I could possibly need. There’s vet wrap (a self-adhering bandage wrap) that can be wrapped around a woman’s head to secure the dirty panties I’ll stuff in her mouth. That pretty much guarantees that she’ll shut the fuck up. Then there’s the all-purpose duct tape or you can always use electrician’s bundler tape—both have a multitude of uses. And of course there are other odds and ends like a knife, a gun, rope (I like mine in different colors, after all, why buy a bitch flowers when you can give her rope?), scissors, and the ever versatile club drugs—compliance being of the utmost importance. Yep, no gateway drugs like pot for me; it’s just as easy to go to the street dealers for the good shit that will make a girl see things my way.

Tonight is going to be a bit different, so I’m pulling out the big guns—the ‘Special K’. It’s easy to use and works on pretty much anyone.

The student has become the teacher. I close the leather bag and head out.

Madonna

As my stomach rumbles, it becomes clear that I’ve hurt no one but myself by destroying my food tray and, along with it, tonight’s dinner. As usual, hindsight is 20/20. Almost as if I conjured him from thin air, Liam returns. I hear his footsteps above me, so I run to the bottom of the steps and wait. The door opens and a bucket is placed on the top step. The click of the lock engaging echoes around the room even as the sound of his footsteps fades away.

Is that it? Not a word, not a glance? He didn’t even look at me.

With great trepidation, I slowly approach the bucket and peer in. It’s pretty much what I expected to see, so I get to work. I grab the handle and place the bucket on solid ground at the bottom of the stairs. The last thing I need is to spill it by accident and have him think I did it on purpose.
Remember Madonna…you’re only hurting yourself.

I dip the brush in soapy water and begin scrubbing the caked-on food off the walls, door, and stairs. I then use the rag to dry up the excess water. Humiliation festers deep inside me with each swipe of the brush or rag, but ultimately my survival instinct wins out. After all, it’s not like I have a choice. I’m so tired, both physically and emotionally. With no way to get my feelings out on paper, the seclusion is driving me crazy.

Most people think of food and shelter and even human companionship as the necessities of life. Not me. They’re all important, sure, but what do I truly require for survival? All I need is a pen and paper – ideally, a computer, but I’m okay with going old school. To get those things back from my captor, I would give up a piece of my soul. Hell…who am I kidding? To regain those things would be to regain my soul.

Liam

I half expected her to dump the bucket of soapy water over my head. I’m curious to see if she slams it into the door again, so I head to my office where the security monitors are located. I sit down at my desk and am pleasantly surprised to see her cleaning up the mess, but I’m also intrigued.

I wait until she’s finished before I venture over to my walk-in closet and retrieve a bag large enough to hold the items I have in mind. It’s all still in a nice, neat pile where I’ve kept it ever since I removed it from her room.

As I fill the bag with the items, I think about Madonna and her volatile behavior. She’s accustomed to seclusion; in fact, she prefers it. She seems to be more agitated yet remains compliant without her writing supplies. Interesting.

There isn’t a lot in this world that truly captivates me, but I have to admit that this woman does. The fact that she’s done so unwittingly is of no importance to me, all that matters now is that she has my undivided attention, and I’m not the kind of man who’s easy to shake.

I take great pains arranging the items in the bag: the laptop, a notebook with folder inserts as well as paper she can use to develop each character she cherishes and keep it all organized. I also include a variety of pens so she can choose the one that
feels right
in her hand.

Of course there are also the odds and ends such as Post-it notes, colored pencils, and highlighters. Maybe one day I'll be able to trust her with items like scissors and a stapler, but I doubt it will be any time soon.

His Plot Twist

They’re always so predictable…those who have a nasty addiction to the sex industry, or an addiction to anything else for that matter. It isn’t always street drugs or controlled substances that pull at a human’s soul. These working girls quickly become addicted to the money, some of them to the game, some to the rush of power that comes from luring a man into their web of deceit. For some it’s a need, for others it’s greed, but they all have one thing in common: They. Are. My. Prey.

I’m not after a woman tonight— because that’s what they’ll be expecting. I’m so much better than that, as they’ll soon find out.

I lean back in the seat of my cargo van, taking in the sights with a set of binoculars that include a camera feature. Having the right tools is very important in my line of work.

I have to admit, I’m pleased with my choice of vehicles. I put a lot of thought into it before I bought it. Oh, I know, a van is the cliché abduction vehicle, but, hey, at least I went with slate gray and not white. It looks like something a carpenter might use. Yep, I’ve got myself a half-ton Chevy Express Cargo Van. It’s the kind of van a man who deals in flipping properties would have. Unlike some who work construction, there will be no dragging around a trailer for me; if I need to pull something, the tow package has a button for electronically shifting to tow gear. Though I doubt I’ll be towing anything heavier than a dead body, I do look the part.

If I get pulled over and they decide to look around, the cops will see panels that open to reveal professional shelving. They won’t see the hidden section behind the shelving that could hide the body of a bound victim. If they open the back doors then they’ll just see a few nondescript supplies. And I highly doubt they’d ever think to lift the carpet and discover the hidden floor board panel that conceals a storage space just big enough to hide a body. Heavy duty tie-down hooks bolted into the van flooring would make it easy to restrain a woman so I can watch her squirm and moan.

I long for the day when I’ll see an abductee writhing and moaning in the back of my van, while her mind still can’t make sense of what’s going on. She’ll whimper and beg for help. She’ll try so hard to piece together what’s happening, but the drugs will keep the synapses in her brain from firing correctly to put two and two together.

In that moment, I will be in complete control in a world of chaos. For those hours or days that I have her at my mercy, before I watch the light in her eyes fade to black, I will be her God.