Killer Instinct (10 page)

Chapter
Twenty-Three

ON TUESDAY EVENING I PULL
into Marco’s apartment complex, locate his number, and park nearby. He’s sitting alone on his balcony, smoking, staring off into the woods. As I watch him my mind begins to wander.

The thing about most abusers is that they don’t just become abusers. Something significant happens to them to make them into the person they are.

This, of course, does not hold true in every situation.

Look at Reggie, for example. Her dad slapped her around pretty much on a nightly basis. Granted, she now lives inside a computer and has only one friend, me, but she’s never harmed another living thing. Nor will she ever.

Then there’s the occasional abuser that’s a mystery. They’re raised in a loving home, never spanked, and likely given everything they ever wanted. Yet they turn out rotten.

What’s the magic equation that produces the perfect person? I don’t think there is one. I think each person is shaped by the events in their life and ultimately decides which way they want to go.

Take my family. Although I have a different father, all three of us kids have been raised by the same parents. Justin’s about as perfect as they come. Daisy’s a misguided missile. And I’m, well . . . I suppose I’m still trying to figure the ins and outs of that one.

I tried hypnosis once to find out more about why I am who I am and came out with nothing. With the new knowledge about my real dad, maybe it’s time to do it again. There might just be some twisted memory stuck in the dark corners of my mind. Or . . . there might be nothing.

As far as Marco Morales, basically he had no parental supervision. His mom and dad are day laborers, working every job they can possibly pick up.

Marco’s one of eight kids. The family’s a perfect example of my point. Two of the kids studied hard and got college scholarships. One of the girls got pregnant at fifteen and is currently living on the government. Two, including Marco, have been in and out of trouble and jail. The remaining three are sprinkled between elementary and middle school.

“Fuck yeah, I’m going,” Marco says into his phone, and I refocus in on him.

He takes a drag of a cigarette. “There’s going to be ass all in that party.”

Basically he’s an idiot. I’ve been sitting here, boldly watching him for a while now, and he hasn’t once glanced in my direction.

He crushes a beer can and grabs another from the twelve-pack sitting next to his plastic chair. Why guys feel the need to crush cans has always perplexed me. Maybe it’s some primal show of testosterone.

One of his roommates comes out onto the balcony. “We’re leaving. See you there?”

Marco nods and tosses the roommate a beer.

As he continues yapping his mouth into the phone, the roommates file out and into an old Chevy. Cranking their music to a thumping level, they slowly, badasslike, pull from the lot.

Posers.

I go back to looking at Marco. He hangs up the phone, crushes his already empty can, and starts on another.
Don’t get too drunk, Mr. Marco. I want you good and awake for what’s in store.

From a first-story apartment saunters a cat, and I catch sight of it at the exact same second Marco does.

I watch as he watches it, and I can visualize his twisted brain devising a torturous plan.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” he sweetly calls.

The cat lazily arches its back in an atypical show of interest, and my every nerve ending goes on alert. I swerve my gaze back up to Marco and stare as he reaches beneath his seat and pulls out a BB gun. He sights down the length at the cat, and I immediately slam my hand into my horn.

The cat scurries and Marco jumps.

A couple of seconds tick by. Marco laughs and, with his BB gun, heads inside.

I hop out of my Wrangler, and as I trot up his second-story apartment stairs, I lower the ski mask over my face. There’s no place I’d rather be than right here, right now, making Marco pay for his depravities. I turn his door knob, take a brief second to enjoy the exhilaration bubbling through me, and then walk right inside.

My nostrils flare beneath my ski mask at the funky smell—like unclean feet and intestines.

As I listen to him peeing in the bathroom, I lock the door and look around his disgusting apartment. Days-old fast-food containers take up the kitchen counters. Bags of pot litter the coffee table. A dead roach lies in the corner. Suspicious stains dot the gray couches and tan-carpeted floor. Dirty boy underwear is looped over a chair’s back.

Marco stumbles from the bathroom. I doubt he washed his hands.

“What the fuck?” he slurs.

I raise the Taser and pull the trigger. Barbs fly across the small space, and he dodges back into the bathroom.

Dammit.

I race after him and round the corner, and he sprays something in my face. “Aarrgghh!” I stumble back and he comes at me. Through my hazy vision I throw a kick intended for his balls, and it lands on his kneecap instead.

He lets out a yelp. I blink several times but can’t clear my vision. Marco reaches over, grabs my throat, and starts choking me.

Panic festers at the realization that I can’t catch a breath. I cough. He squeezes tighter.

I focus on his blurry image, concentrate on cramming my fingers into his eye sockets, and hope to holy hell I’m hurting him. He screams and immediately releases his grip.

I gasp for air and ram my heel into his groin, this time hitting the mark. He grunts and cups his balls and falls to the carpet like the creepy little rat he is. I disengage the Taser cartridge, load another one, and, at close range, shoot.

Barbs sink into his chest, and he spasms into a twitching mess. Beneath my mask I let out a conquering laugh.
Take that, you asshole!
God, I want nothing more than to squeeze the trigger again, but I hold myself back. I have too many wonderful things in store.

I swallow, my throat tender, and concentrate on regaining my equilibrium. Pulling the zip ties from my side cargo pocket, I approach him. He tries to crawl away and I stalk him, loving the power it gives me over him. I can tell the .3 joules is starting to wear off, and so I roll him onto his stomach. He moans and makes a feeble attempt to get away, but I secure his wrists and ankles, then prop him up against the wall.

He spits right in my face.

Nasty.
I punch him in the eye, glad his spit is on my mask and not my cheek.

I shove a handkerchief into his mouth and step away. I tune in to myself and realize I’m panting. The asshole wore me out. I take a second to center myself and blink my eyes a few times to clear the last remnants of whatever he sprayed in them. I hadn’t expected him to be so challenging. But . . . I like it. The whole fight-and-chase thing adds an interesting element to the process. It elevates things to a more satisfying blood-pounding level.

I slip my hand into my back pocket and get out the reference list I’d printed.

It’s repulsive and long, and although he served time, I can’t believe he’s not still in jail for what he did to those helpless animals.

Squatting down in front of him, I hold the list out and wait for him to read it, to recognize it.

His dark eyes slowly grow large as realization dawns. I’m here to do to him what he did to these animals.

He grunts and struggles against the zip ties, and I get to my feet.

From my cargo pants I pull out the supplies: a knife, a lighter, pliers, tacks, and a cigarette.

I lay them all in a neat line so he can see them, then I retrieve the BB gun from where he left it in the living room.

On the wall above his head I tack the printed list. I don’t intend on doing all forty-six items, just the first five. Enough to show him the pain he’s put vulnerable beings through.

1. Burned a cat seven times with a cigarette.

I take the cigarette and make a show of lighting it right in front of his face. I want him good and scared. I lower it toward his forearm, and he lets out a scream muffled by the handkerchief. I haven’t even burned him yet. And to think I have seven of these to do. This isn’t going to work.

I flip on his stereo and crank the volume, then pull a small roll of duct tape from my lower cargo pocket. As Victor says, duct tape has a million uses. How right he is. I peel off a strip and slap it over Marco’s already-stuffed mouth.

Duct tape use number one million and one: to silence someone.

I take the cigarette and proceed. . . .

2. Pressed four tacks into a newborn kitten.

3. Used pliers to pull two toenails from a one-year-old puppy.

4. Shot an elderly blind dog ten times with a BB gun.

5. Carved an X into a poodle.

Each of his muted cries zings through my veins and tingles my capillaries. I ignore his whimpers and muffled pleas as I complete all five items. I feel nothing toward his pain but spirit and justice.

Slim justice.

I walk right out of his apartment, leaving him bloody, shaking with fear, and defenseless. Just like he left all forty-six of the animals he tortured.

I hope he’s learned his lesson.

Chapter
Twenty-Four

I GET HOME A LITTLE
before midnight to find Mom sitting on my bed. She’s looking at my journal full of newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and printed pages on serial killers throughout time.

The Decapitator is on the last two pages, including the pieced-together picture he personally sent me.

I take a panicked step into my room. She looks up at me and gives my whole body a once-over. I fight the urge to check if Marco’s blood is somewhere on me.

“Where have you been?” she asks.

I put my book bag down. “The usual.” Studying at the coffeehouse.

She nods to my closet doors standing open and the shoe box she found the journal in. “I was looking for stuff to donate to Goodwill.”

I nod. She doesn’t have to explain. I know she wasn’t intentionally being nosy. It’s not her style.

Mom holds up the journal. “How long have you had this?”

“Years,” I honestly tell her.

“Why?”

“Serial killers intrigue me. Like . . . they intrigue you, I guess.” This point must hit home, because she nods her understanding.

I watch as she flips through the book. I’m relieved I never jotted personal thoughts in it. That would really freak her out. Maybe in the back of my mind I knew something like this might happen someday.

She glances up at me. “Is there anything you want to tell me? Talk to me about?”

Where do I start?
But I shake my head instead.

“You know if you ever want to talk to someone about your thoughts, you only need to tell me and I’ll arrange it.”

I move over to sit at my desk. “You mean like a psychiatrist?” Or a hypnotist.

Mom nods.

“I’m fine,” I reassure her, hating that I’ve worried her. “Really.” I motion to the book. “They fascinate me. That’s it.”

She flips to the back two pages and points to the picture the Decapitator sent me. “Where did you get this?”

“Decapitator fan site,” I lie, although there are some out there. I’ve been to a couple. I’m sure Mom’s FBI team has too.

It’s a likely explanation. The head, arm, and leg individually were all over the Internet. That’s what happens when a killer publicly reveals body parts. Any person with photo software can make it into a pieced-together photo.

Mom closes the book and leaves it on my bed as she gets up. “Thank you for your honesty. Goodnight, Lane.”

She clicks my door shut behind her, and I immediately survey my clothes. No Marco blood. Good.

I sit down at my desk for a minute, staring at my journal. I’ve never come right out and asked my mom if something horrible happened to me when I was a kid. Sure, I asked her if I fell and hit my head, but that’s it. I haven’t really pursued the topic beyond that. Mainly because I think it would creep my mom out even more. She’d want to know why I want to know. She’d insist on professional help. She’d constantly be checking in.

No, I don’t want nor do I need that intense attention.

I open up my journal and flip through it. I am my mother’s daughter. Her fascination is my fascination. But when did it become so intense for her that it developed into her life’s work?

• • •

This is the exact question I ask her the next morning.

In response, she gives me a long look, and just when I think she’s not going to answer my question, she speaks. “When I was a little girl, my best friend lived next door. She was kidnapped, brutally murdered, and left in a ditch along the highway. Her killer was never caught. That single event changed the direction of my life.”

I take a second to digest that, circling back around to the term “single event.”

Mom puts the lid on her travel mug. “What about you, Lane? What’s got you interested?”

I give an honest shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe it’s me,” she offers.

“What do you mean?”

“I bring too much work home. I’m not as careful as I should be on the phone. I leave files in my office. . . .” She lets out a weary sigh, and I get the impression she’s been thinking about this all night. Like she’s the reason I have a warped mind.

I step forward and give her a hug. “You’re a great mom.” The best. “Please don’t doubt that.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Mom.” I pull her in tighter. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re careful around the house. If anything you’re
overly
conscientious of keeping work and family separate.”

If anything she could be a little freer with information, but of course I don’t say that.

She nods and pulls away, and I can tell what I’ve said has made no difference in the way she feels.

What’s funny is that I really don’t care about making people feel better or okay about themselves. With Mom, though, it matters. I don’t want her doubting herself. She really is about as good as parents come.

Justin barrels down the stairs. “Mom, you’re coming today. Remember?”

She kisses the top of his head. “No
way
I’d miss your play.”

“Dad, too?”

Mom nods. “He’s meeting us at the school.” She grabs her stuff and, without a glance in my direction, heads out the door.

I really could’ve used a last glance from her. Or even a
Bye, see you later, Lane.

Justin looks up at me. “Daisy will
not
come out of the bathroom.”

I’m not dealing with this right now. “Go use Mom and Dad’s.”

“All right, but if they yell at me later, you better tell them you gave me permission.”

“I’ll tell them.”

• • •

Later, in first period, I’m sitting in my usual spot in the library, researching hypnosis. There’s a whole site dedicated to the most popular programs used by psychiatrists in the treatment of patients with repressed memories. If there’s something in me, maybe this time it’ll come out. I find a reputable one by a Dr. Jim Orland, pay for it, and download the MP3 file. I’ll give it a try tonight.

From across the library Zach walks right toward me. “I heard about Belinda fighting you in the parking lot.”

I get a little amused at how rumors morph. “We didn’t fight.”

“I’m sorry, Lane. I’m really sorry.”

I like the way he always calls me Lane and not Slim. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. So what if your ex has it in for me?”

Zach levels me with a long look. “Does anything scare you?”

“Rats kind of freak me out.”

His mouth cocks up on one corner. “Why do you have to be so hot?”

“It’s a gift.” I crack a rare joke, and he laughs.

“Well, if you’re not scared of Belinda and you ever want to no-strings-attached continue what we started over there”—he nods toward the bookshelf where my orgasm occurred—“then let me know.”

I cock my mouth at the corner too. “I will.”

With that he’s gone, the bell rings, and I head to second period. By the end of the day Marco Morales is all the school can talk about.

“Whoever did it left the door cracked, and the neighbor found him.” This comment comes from the guy who sits behind me. “She called the cops, and Marco totally got busted for a ton of pot all over his apartment.”

Good, the pot means he’ll be back in jail.

“I bet it was the Masked Savior.” This comes from the girl on my right. “Left a note nailed above his head and everything.”

I’d
tacked
the note, but whatever. And . . . can we not find a better name than Masked Savior? It rings of a comic-book hero. Or in this case, heroine.

Last bell rings and I head home. Daisy’s out with friends, my parents are at Justin’s play, and I’ve got the whole house to myself. Time for a little Dr. Jim and self-hypnosis.

Knowing my iPod is in Daisy’s room, I go straight there. As I open the door, jasmine incense hits me first. Then I glance over to see my sister going down on her new guy, West. I thought she said she was out with friends?

His back is to me, so he doesn’t see me standing in the doorway. Daisy glances up and doesn’t miss a beat. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen her in action, and surely it won’t be the last.

I walk over to her desk, where the incense is burning, grab my iPod, and head back out. West doesn’t have a clue.

I speculate on Daisy’s reasons behind giving so much head. I suspect she doesn’t want an STD or to turn up pregnant. But does she realize she can get an STD in her mouth? Does she realize how nasty it is to be swallowing all that spunk?

Then again, maybe she spits.

Then again, maybe she needs to be paying more attention in health class.

Then again, perhaps she should perfect her hand job. Frankly, it’s cleaner.

But my real question: What’s up with the incense? She probably thinks it creates some sort of romantic environment.

As I shake my head at my own silly thought, I think of the time I accidentally walked in on my mom and stepdad. It was years ago and they never knew I saw. They were both naked on the floor in their bedroom. Victor was going down on my mom, and she had nipple clamps on. I exited, of course, just as fast as I had accidentally entered, but that image is forever singed in my brain. Nipple clamps—who knew my parents were so kinky.

My phone rings. “Hey, Reg.”

“Yo. I’m going to send you a link to a blog I stumbled across earlier today.”

“Blog?” I open my laptop and bring up my e-mail. “Blog about what?”

“The Decapitator.”

I go really still. “Reg, I said I don’t want you to do anything else with that. Please.”

“I didn’t. I programmed a Google search and forgot all about it. This landed in my spam.”

I go to my inbox and follow the link to read:

Dear Decapitator: Still out there? Where’s the other arm and leg?

Interesting. Seems I’m not the only one with that question on the brain. I scroll through the hundred or so comments and read a few:

[G_man] Dredge the Potomac.

[RocksTwinkies] You can decapitate me anytime.

[Alive@80] This is a gross blog!

One toward the end catches my attention:

[decap_itator] The next arm will be revealed to someone very special.

I read that again and know deep down that someone special is probably me.