I Can Barely Breathe (2 page)

He took off her underwear and smelled them,
breathing in her flowery scent, then placed them in his pants
pocket. Carver moved his hand to her hairless vagina. It was soft,
just as he’d expected. She jolted a little when he touched it.
Wanting desperately to test a long-standing theory, he pushed two
fingers deep inside and kept them there. His other hand brought the
blade to the young girl’s throat, and slit it hard and fast,
severing her carotid artery. She screamed and choked and thrashed
her body violently.

He smiled as he noticed that with each
thrust of her body, her pussy massaged his fingers. Her pelvis
worked her outer lips over his flesh, forcing his digits slightly
out, then slightly in, putting pressure on all the right spots. The
blood had soaked into her dress and ran down her stomach. It
dripped from Carver’s hand and fell to the red tile below. He
didn’t dare pull out. He waited until her movements got slower and
softer, her breath shorter, until finally her body ceased to caress
his.

With her head drooped down and her body
propped up, he kissed her forehead and slid his bloody hand out
from between her thighs. Carver quickly unbuckled his belt and
unzipped his pants. He pulled his erect penis from his briefs and
used the blood on her vagina as a lubricant to slide inside her. To
him, there was nothing greater than the first moment he would feel
a girl’s insides pressing against his throbbing member.

He fucked her dead body, ripped the duct
tape from her mouth and sucked on her lower lip until his semen
filled her up. Carver held the girl’s lifeless fresh corpse close
to him. He felt connected to her, like she was more than just his
victim, as if they had known each other in a previous life. He felt
at peace, because, in that moment, he loved her.

Carver stood in the hot shower, as blood
dripped from his body, pooled around his feet and then went down
the drain. He always felt so satisfied after a kill. It made him
feel like a man.

It was around 3:45 p.m. After putting on a
casual suit and tie in preparation for his trip to the police
station, he pulled his laminated ID card, connected to a lanyard
which hung on his mirror, and placed it comfortably around his
neck. The card read:

Carver Thorton

Special Investigator

Sorrow’s Sky Police Department

A small square image of his smiling face was
in the bottom right corner.

He exited his bedroom and strolled down the
hall, peeking into his murder room. The girl’s body still stood
propped up on the wooden stand. He felt a little arousal pulse
through his veins, due to the large amount of blood that had soaked
into her dress and ran down her legs. Ignoring those impulses, he
pulled a key from his pocket and locked up the room.

The chime of his doorbell made him freeze in
place. He backtracked down the hall and entered his living room.
When he opened the front door, he was relieved to see a uniformed
police officer standing there.

“Come on in, gentlemen. I was just heading
to the station.”

Two men shuffled in. The officer removed his
hat. His face was round, and his eyes were a dark brown; they
complemented his pale complexion. The other man stood proper,
holding an electronic tablet in his hand.

“No need. We’ve got a case. There’s been a
murder,” the man with the tablet said.

His name was Kattic. He was also a special
investigator. He and Carver had known each other only a short
while, not even a full year, since the strange cases started up.
Kattic’s dark hair was parted to the left, and the product in it
made it look wet. He was tall and skinny with a salesman’s smile,
always showing off his white teeth. He was smart. He knew things he
couldn’t possibly know, and he was always right.

The officer was Thomas Mallic, Carver’s
childhood friend. They were like brothers. Tom had a temporary limp
in his left leg—shot in the line of duty during a routine traffic
stop about six months prior. He was a family man with a wife and a
newborn son at home, and he took his job very seriously; they all
did.

Carver hesitated, as he remembered his
victim’s face while slitting her throat. “What happened?”

“Who knows? It’s over in Arpac Hills. All
they told us was it’s not a pretty sight,” Tom answered, heading to
the kitchen. “You got any whiskey?”

“Yeah, fridge.”

Carver looked into Kattic’s eyes. “You think
it’s the serial killer?”

“Could be.”

They both knew better. Carver hadn’t been in
the cemetery in over two years, since his uncle’s funeral. And he
certainly wouldn’t be so sloppy as to leave a crime scene for
anyone to stumble upon. He wondered if maybe someone was trying to
copycat his murders.

“Let’s roll,” Tom said, putting his
regulation hat back on and shuffling painfully to rejoin his two
coworkers.

Outside, the sun was shining, and the sky
was blue with white cumulonimbus clouds scattered about. A green
1950 Plymouth business coupe kicked up a little dust as it rolled
down the road. While the men walked by Carver’s backed-up Chevy,
Kattic reached up to the open trunk and closed it.

“What’s that about?” Kattic asked in a
monotone.

“Groceries,” Carver answered.

They approached the black-and-white squad
car. It was a similar design to Carver’s Chevy and had a single red
light on top, which sat still and unlit. Kattic sat in the back
while Carver hopped in the passenger seat. The interior was roomy.
An old CB radio was connected under the dash, and a brightly lit
yellow laptop sat ready to use in between the two men in the front
seat.

Tom put the car in Drive and then quickly
hit the brakes, allowing a young boy on a hoverbike to glide by;
his small craft was a good three feet off the ground. Carver tapped
on the radio dial and scrolled through the static to a station. An
old blues song chimed through the speakers. Tom eased on the
accelerator, and they began the drive to the crime scene.

“So how’s the leg?” Carver asked Tom. “I see
you’re still hobblin’ around.”

“It fuckin’ hurts. But it’s getting better.
I’m doing the exercises every day.”

“Good. Those should help.”

From Kattic’s front breast pocket of his
button-up shirt, a device alarmed, three chimes of a bell, each a
different note. He pulled out his communicator and glanced at its
lit LCD screen.

“Uniforms are taping off the scene now,” he
announced.

Carver laughed and glanced at Tom. “You’re a
uniform. You made detective. Why aren’t you dressing the part?”

“I was only promoted last week. Technically
I’m not a detective until next payday. So, on Tuesday, I’ll wear a
suit.”

“The chief’s orders?” Carver asked with a
smile.

“Yes. Dad’s a hard-ass.”

“We’ve been investigating these bizarre
cases for seven months now, minus your time in the hospital. He
should know you’re ready,” Carver insisted, pulling out a
cigarette.

“He does. That’s why I got the job.”

Carver flicked his lighter and burned the
tip of his smoke, just as the squad car pulled onto the paved
highway and headed northeast. Their destination lay halfway between
Sorrow’s Sky and Cosmos, but it was technically SSPD’s
jurisdiction. The song on the radio ended, and a news bulletin came
on. The DJ said, “
In today’s news
,
the infamous serial
killer, who has been stalking Cosmos’s streets for beautiful young
women, is still at large. Police are confident the suspect is male
but wouldn’t comment on any specific patterns he follows or details
related to any of the specific cases
.
Anyone with
information is encouraged to call the CPD
.
”

“Helluva case, huh?” Tom said.

“Yeah,” Carver replied.

“I heard he likes women in dresses and
skirts. They say he’s gotten about five of them,” Kattic added.

Six
, Carver thought with a discrete
grin.

After a four-mile cruise they pulled up to
the main entrance and drove under a fancy old metal frame that read
Arpac Hills Cemetery. They took a narrow paved road, and the
headstones on both sides seemed to go on for miles. Thousands of
names were chiseled into the polished, yet dated markers.

Tall trees with thick trunks and bright
yellow leaves complemented the area and prevented the sun’s light
from directly entering the sacred ground. Branches stretched and
twisted like vines reaching for the heavens. Carver cranked his
window all the way down and hung out his elbow. He noticed a few
mourners, but, for the most part, the place was vacant.

Up ahead they saw the yellow crime tape tied
to a few trees. Tom parked the car, and, through the windshield,
they could see their fellow officers huddled around something in
the grass. The three investigators exited the squad car, and Tom
did his best to slowly stretch his injured leg before walking on
it. Carver stomped out what was left of his cigarette and then
ducked under the crime tape. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from
his pocket and stretched them over his hands, while his partners
both did the same. It was routine for them, habit.

“Let me see, guys,” Tom said, scooting the
other uniforms out of the way.

Dropped in a puddle of blood-covered grass
was a severed arm.

“Where’s the rest?” Carver asked, following
the blood trail into the nearby trees with his gaze.

“You wanna go in there?” Tom asked, eyeing
the forest.

“Let’s see what we’ve got first.” Kattic
kneeled down to the appendage. “It’s obviously a male victim due to
the thick hair and the Zodiac analog wristwatch, still ticking.
Damn, no time of death. And the blood leads into the forest. Arm
looks to have been ripped from the socket, not cut.”

“You know what this is,” Carver said, as
Kattic stood up.

Kattic nodded. “I want to be sure. If
there’s a body, we need to find it.”

“Fine. We’ll check the forest. Who’s going
in?” Carver asked.

“You are,” Kattic answered.

“Why me?”

“Because you can run faster than I can.”

Carver shook his head. “If you see or hear
anything, you yell to me, he demanded.”

“Just go in deep enough to find where the
blood trail ends,” Tom said to Carver, shifting his weight off his
bad leg. “It can’t be too far.”

Carver stepped over some small shrubs and
slowly entered the trees. He pulled at the collar of his suit
jacket, adjusting it nervously. The canopy above was thick, and he
could hear crickets and birds chirping simultaneously. His shoes
snapped some twigs as he ventured in, leaving behind the comfort of
his coworkers.

He watched the wet red trail and followed it
closely. It covered dirt, leaves, rocks and small dry, dead
branches. Carver felt alone. The woods had an earthy smell to them,
like fresh dirt, a smell he knew all too well. The slight breeze he
had felt before entering was nonexistent.

As he brushed past a berry bush and
sidestepped some poison oak, he heard a faint rustle of leaves in
the distance. He stopped in his tracks, while his eyes scanned the
woodlands for any movement. The blood trail was thinning out, and,
just as he was about to backtrack, something caught his eye. He
kneeled down near a wild lilac shrub and peered under it.

“I got a pair of ripped pants,” he yelled
back, as he examined them. He pulled out a metal pen and used it to
lift the pants open a bit. “There’s still some leg meat inside
them.”

“Bag it!” Tom yelled.

Carver pulled a large evidence bag from his
suit pocket and carefully wadded the pants into a ball, then
stuffed them in and sealed the top closed, accidentally dropping
the pen to the forest floor. He looked around quickly and saw the
trail ended where he stood. As he bent to pick up his pen, it rose
from the dirt and hovered five feet off the ground. He grabbed it
from the air and slid it into his pocket. “I’m coming out!”

Shivers traveled up Carver’s spine, as he
turned his back to the forest. He moved quickly to rid himself of
the heebie-jeebies that felt like fingers on his shoulders.
Suddenly a branch broke nearby, and the snap echoed off the other
trees and rang in his ears. “I got movement back here!” he yelled
to his coworkers.

The guns in every officers’ holster slipped
out and free floated in front of them, spinning slowly. At the same
time, keys yanked at the officer’s belts, wanting to detach and
rise, but jingling, frozen in midpull instead. A soda can near
Carver raised to his full height. It spun fast, spitting drops of
soda over his black polished shoes.

Tom grabbed his floating sidearm and did his
best to limp his way into the forest, giving his partner some
much-needed backup.

After all, Carver had no way of defending
himself, should he be attacked. The SSPD didn’t issue side arms to
special investigators, only cops. With this in mind, he reached out
and gripped the soda can, then held it in the ready position over
his right shoulder. Feeling a bit ridiculous, he dropped the can to
the ground. It spun a bit, then shot back into the air.

Tom met Carver at the trunk of a toppled
dead tree, and he motioned for Carver to go on ahead of him. Tom
scanned the area, as he followed close behind his friend.

As Carver broke free of the tree line, a
scream from far back in the woods cut through the autumn air, the
hair on everyone’s arms standing tall. The quiet thud of eight
pistols hitting the grass at the same time stole everyone’s
attention, but only for a second. The disturbing yell wasn’t a
sound that could have been pushed from human lungs, and everyone
knew it. It was warm and fast, sharp and animalistic.

“Let’s go, Tom! They won’t warn you twice!”
Kattic called.