Dragged into Darkness (7 page)

The legs looked good.  The shiny carbon and polished alloy looked sharp.  She tottered around in a circle to look at the backs.

“No crooked seams.  Not bad,” she said approvingly.

Grace caught sight of the scars where her lung and kidney had been removed.  The kidney scar was small but the lung scar was larger at eight inches.  Neither scar was ugly but rather dignified, much like a tattoo.  Grace completed the pirouette and studied her naked front again.

“Looking good, Gracie.
  Now
it’s
show time,” she said to her reflection.  For Grace, this was the moment of truth.  Had it all been worth it?

With her mechanical legs she climbed onto the scales.  Her grin was huge as she gazed down at the readout.  She squeaked with delight, satisfaction and a hundred other emotions.  The readout read one hundred and forty, Grace’s target weight, not a penny more, not a penny less.

After a few more days of recuperation and adaptation to her new legs, Grace strode proudly into the hospital.   She wanted to make an entrance and boy did she do that.  She wanted to give everybody the opportunity to see the
new
Grace.  She wore the shortest skirt she had ever worn, showing off her new legs that click-clacked with every step on the tiled floor.  Her crop top showed a bare midriff complete with operational scars. 

Everybody stopped and stared, openmouthed in astonishment.

Get a good look boys and girls, I’m my target weight.  What man can’t help but look me now?
Grace thought.

He glimpsed the girl wandering along the highway’s edge and felt that tingle again.  The tingle intensified the closer he got to her.  His psyche whacked up the amps in his groin.  He didn’t have a choice.  He had to stop.

He shot past the hitchhiker before he eased his pride and joy—a ‘78
Camaro
—off the highway and onto the dirt shoulder.  He swung the passenger door open and waited for her to catch up.  He followed her every move in his rearview. 

Seeing his offer, she took her own sweet time, not bothering to race over to open the door.  She didn’t seem to fear that the offer of a ride might be available for a limited period only. 

But screw it, why should he care?  It gave him time to stare.  She was young, eighteen maybe.  He liked them young. 

The pink dress, shapeless and angular with the tiniest of sleeves, would have been unflattering on most.  But, on her, it told him more about her hot
bod
hiding underneath than if her clothes had been sprayed on.  The swing of her hips nudged the stiff fabric and soft curves cried for release.  The hem enticed, stopping halfway up her thigh.  It only made him want to see higher.

Maybe she wasn’t a hitchhiker.  She hadn’t thumbed for a ride or even paid attention to the sparse traffic.  She definitely wasn’t dressed for the weather conditions.  With miles of unending highway ahead and behind, he wouldn’t want to be caught out in the blazing summer heat. 

Maybe that was it.  Maybe she had been caught out.  Maybe she had blown a piston and she needed a knight in shining armor.  Maybe, he could be her knight.

As she crouched to see into his car, she shielded her eyes from the sun.  Her eyes searched the interior. 

“Need a ride?” he asked.

Wrinkling her nose, she replied, “Not really.”

She’s cool, he thought.  Yes sir, she’s cool.

“I’m offering one.”  He flashed his smile, the deal clincher smile.

She thought about the offer for a moment.  The smile worked again.  “Okay,” she replied.

She slid into the passenger seat and closed the door.  The pink dress wasn’t just pink, but polka-dotted with red spots.  The material was stiff and creased in all the wrong places.  She made the best of a bad job, smoothing out the wrinkles.

He squashed the gas pedal into the carpet and the
Camaro
leapt forward.  He hadn’t meant to pull away so fast but the tingle made him.  He had to get a grip.  He needed something to let him know who was in control.  Idly, he let his left arm drop between the gap between his door and the seat.  His fingertips grazed the blade and the tingle took its rightful place under his command.

She gazed at sun-baked nothingness out of the window, although she didn’t seem interested in the world flashing past.  Her attitude dripped apathy.  She didn’t seem to care about anything.  But he would make her care.

“Don’t you wear a seatbelt?” he asked.

She turned and examined the belt stretched across his chest.  “No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t.”

Her gaze returned to the open window—end of subject.

Well, if she didn’t want to talk, fine.  He wasn’t a big one for conversation anyway.  He was quite happy to continue staring.

Hot wind funneled through the window, blow-drying her hazelnut hair.  He imagined it would have a glossy shine to it, if shampooed and conditioned.  The wind lifted her hair and he noticed errant strands glued to her neck by sweat.  So she was cool, but not that cool.

His gaze descended to her slender arms and delicate hands that graced them, both reddened by the sun.  She took care of her fingernails. 
Definitely manicured.
  Each one was perfectly sculpted and painted crimson.

The dress was a tease.  The inflexible material was so stiff it creased into awkward shapes that disobeyed her figure.  Through the short sleeves he caught the profile of her breast—small yet firm and unencumbered by a bra.  His mouth would fit it nicely.

Perfection continued with her legs.  Neither skinny nor muscled, but perfectly defined, every inch had just the right balance of muscle and flesh.  Shoulder dirt blackened her feet and the spaces between her toes.  Grime clogged her toenails.  She had been walking some time.  Her soles had to be tough, though.  He was no tenderfoot, but he knew he couldn’t have walked barefoot out there.

The tattoo was provocative, thrilling.  A red rose bloomed on the side of her left calf and its thorny stem curled around her ankle, ending on the top of her foot.  She had mutilated her perfect skin permanently, but it had enhanced her beauty.  It added to her mystery.  The mystery he would unlock with the tingle and his blade.

She caught him staring at her tattoo.  She was neither appalled nor flattered.  She viewed him without emotion like a scientist carrying out a routine experiment.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Rose,” she replied.

It seemed appropriate.

“I’m Jed.”  He offered a hand. 

She looked at his outstretched hand and didn’t take it.

Fine, fine, he thought, she wants to play it that way, then that’s fine and dandy.  He was a big boy; he could take it—no biggie.  But she wouldn’t be so aloof later.

The tingle took a lap of honor through his loins.  But it wasn’t a clean tingle.  It was tainted.  He reached down and stroked the blade again.  This time too hard, its edge dug into his thumb, drawing blood.  But the tingle backed down.

“Where
ya
heading?” he asked, keeping things moving.

She shrugged.

“Is anyone expecting you?”

She shook her head.

He licked his lips.  Life was throwing him a party.  This didn’t happen.  If she was as apathetic as she was making out and she had no trail, no one was missing her and no one was expecting her.  He could have his fun and he wouldn’t have to be careful.

The tingle ripped through him.  His heart skipped a beat and he caught his breath.  The tingle had been thinking it too.  Murder! 

Rose studied his spasm with fleeting interest.

Murder would move him up a league.  He had stuck rigidly to a formula.  He had raped at knifepoint.  He and the tingle got a kick out of seeing the nightmare play out on each poor bitch’s face.  And nobody went home without a cut or three.  He shouldn’t be the only one with a souvenir from the encounter. 

But could he get away with murder?  He didn’t want to get carried away with the notion if it was going to cost him the opportunity of ever performing his
hobby
again. 

He gave Rose a sideways glance.  She was so unaware, too wrapped up in herself.  She wouldn’t know what hit her.  It was worth the risk.

Rose crossed her legs.  Her dress did its best not to adhere to her movements.

For the first time, he realized that the polka dots didn’t cover the entire dress, only a fan around her neck.

What was it about that damn dress?  It was really bugging him.  The color and the unflattering shape were familiar but he couldn’t place where he had seen it before.  No matter, if he kept thinking about it, he would never remember. 
Best to forget about it and let his subconscious leap out with the answer.

“I’m going as far as Carson City, how about you?”

“Carson City’s cool.”

That didn’t exactly answer his question.

“I’ll have to leave you there.  You’ll have to pick up another ride.  Okay?”

“I’ll get another ride.”

What the fuck was she going to do when they hit Carson?  It had only just occurred, not only didn’t she have any
shoes,
she couldn’t have had any money.  The polka dot dress didn’t have any pockets and she wasn’t carrying a purse.  He hoped she wasn’t some freak.

“Did you break down or something?”

“How long before we get to Carson City?”

“Couple of hours.
  Why?”

“I
wanna
know how long before I can stop listening to you.”

“Hey, if you didn’t want the fucking ride, you shouldn’t have got in.”

“I want the ride but not the chat.  Okay?”

He shook his head.  Ungrateful bitch, he thought.  He had a damn good mind to kick her out.  But he needed her.  The tingle needed her.  So, she could stay.  She’d signed her death warrant but she could stay.  He hit the gas until the speedometer screamed eighty.

His anger boiled for miles but his fantasies brought the heat down to a pleasant simmer.  He had his first kill to drool over.  Rose would be special.  Her death would be with him forever.

How would he do it?

She had a big mouth; he could make it bigger.  He’d grind the blade into the corners of her mouth.  Watch the flesh bunch up before the knife sliced through her cheeks.  He imagined her smile.  He would be able to see all her teeth.  With a mouth that went from ear to ear, would she be able to scream louder?  Only experimentation would tell.

That wouldn’t kill her though.

But gutting her like a fish would.  He’d cut the dress off and stick with the knife at the base of her ribs.  He’d work the blade up, bisecting her, until the knife lodged in her throat.