Red Silk Scarf (20 page)

What day was
it?
 
Was it time?
 
The need was there, the desire, and the
terrible thirst for the blood rushing ecstasy as his victims struggled for their
last breath.
 
How each tug on the silk
increased his desire?
 
How slow
strangulation made his victim’s kick, squirm, and scream against the flesh of
his hand until he climaxed, then he killed them, only then.

This beauty
before him was a true competitor, a fighter.
  
He could feel her slight body rebelliously writhing beneath him as he
imagined strangling her, and he wondered when she looked into his eyes, if
she’d continue to fight until the end as he had always imagined.
 
Oh, he hoped so, but there was only one way
to find out.
 

He was more than
ready, he felt his member bulging and pulsating against his pants, sensations
that just the sight of her always summoned.
 
Any minute now, without even touching her he’d climax as he always did
whenever watching her.
 
Yes, he decided,
waiting would only increase the exhilarating rush she’d bring.
 
Soon enough the time would come when he
couldn’t survive the torture any longer, but not now, not tonight, instead he’d
make her his trophy, convince her to do whatever he asked, whenever he
asked.
 
She’d beg for her life, yes
indeed, she would or suffer repeated persecution.
 
     

Cassidy's hand
clutching the sheet covered her body as she rolled over.
  
For a while, he stayed watching her troubled
sleep cringing whenever her soft voice whispered other men’s names into the
night.

____________

Ben never
returned to his apartment.
   
Sullivan
neither went home nor to Mark's house.
 
Mark was still missing, and despite repeated attempts to contact Michael
and Dan, no one knew their whereabouts.

CHAPTER 14

Dressed in a suit
wrinkled from working more than twenty-four hours, Dan was in his car in route
to the office when receiving the call.
 
Six A.M. was the last time he checked his watch five minutes ago.
 

Flashing lights
captured the attention of his dull, weary etched eyes before identifying the
Coroners vehicle.
 
Mulling police
officers were barely able to keep curiosity seekers contained behind yellow
ribbon, a scene that typically brought on a rush of anticipation beefing up his
heart rate, and firing up his blood a revitalization process that spurred a
ridiculous grin.
  
Oh, Dan, liked his
job, liked it a lot, liked it too much.

No doubt, the
swarm would part to allow him access, an acknowledgment his position demanded,
and he enjoyed.
 
A recognition that
puffed his chest, straightened his spine, and swelled a brain already over
flowing with vanity.
 
A narcissism Dan
naively believed was due to respect and admiration, assumptions far from the
truth, known to go strictly by the book wasn’t the only reason, his demanding,
and unsympathetic, critical nature added fuel.
 
Not one word of praise ever crossed his lips, nor did one ounce of
concern for the welfare of his officer’s flow in his contaminated blood,
everyone was dispensable along with anything in the way of success.
 
Frankly, everyone hated Dan.

Falling prey to
societies demands, his officer’s willingly surrendered moving aside like the
sea parting for Moses as though Dan was a King about to dictate to his
kingdom.
 

Apprised that the
killer struck again, Dan brought one of his hands to the back of his neck to
knead the knots of tenseness brought about by swarming news media.
 
Eyelids blinking maddeningly tried to remove the
film of exhaustion caused from insomnia.
 
There was no time to sleep with a serial killer on the loose and L.A.s
entire population nipping at his heels.

Targeted by
flashing cameras and microphones shoved under his nose, reporters bombarded Dan
with questions as crazed bystanders chants increased in volume drowning out his
replies.
 
The city of L.A. wanted answers
that his title demanded regarding a case further complicated by a change of
pattern.
 
So much for the Brady luck, he
grumbled, Cassidy's expertise was yet to bring him anything conclusive, so busy
was she whoring.
 

Michael’s report
yesterday regarding Cassidy had inflicted a major migraine still pulsating,
another reason accumulating to a lengthy list causing his sleeplessness.
 
Apparently Ben was not enough, Cassidy had to
do Sullivan besides?
 
Never before did he
think she was the kind to move from bed to bed, particularly since he'd never
made it that far.
 
The reason examining
the corpse made him think of Cassidy as just another slut.
  
Damn her, if she continued to ignore his
warnings, sure as hell; she'd be the next victim.

Well, it would
serve her right for going beyond the limits, for becoming involved with
suspects.
 
Apparently, she drew upon her
female attributes as resources for crime solving rather than intelligence and
investigative abilities.
 
All Cassidy had
going for her was a bodacious body and the pleasures it offered.
 
Just like every woman, she was using her
beauty as a weapon.
 
Sorrowfully, though
he once believed her to be superior from the average female populace she wasn't
at all.
 

Assessing the
silk scarf that he was unconsciously rubbing between his fingers, Dan thought
about how its elegance matched Cassidy's beautiful neck, and how he'd love to
wring it, a startling reflection that straightened his fingers and allowed the
scarf to tumble back in place.

____________

Several cups of
straight, high-test coffee did little to arouse Cassidy, even two hands holding
the cup didn't steady it enough to sip the hot potion.
 
Despite her morning habit, there was no way
she could bring herself to drink orange juice when Sullivan was the last to
touch the pitcher.
 

With her elbows
on the table, hands holding her head rocked it back and forth.
 
Recently, it didn't matter how many hours of
sleep she managed it was never enough.
 
Now, she was daydreaming about sleeping for a month on a sandy beach,
under the hot sun far, far away.

Of little
interest was the television on the counter behind her, she assumed a weather
reporter was summarizing the daily forecast.
 
Besides, she was too pre-occupied condemning herself to pay
attention.
 
Anything was better than
dwelling on Sullivan and brewing about the two weeks remaining before the
killer struck again.
 
Understandably, the
reason only a portion of the news broadcast penetrated her ears.

Suddenly, her cup
crashing to the floor sent glass splinters everywhere, splattering coffee on
the table, as well as her favorite bathrobe.
 
An incident caused by a quick movement toward the remote control of the
television to increase the volume.
 

Dear God, Dear
God, she prayed she heard incorrectly.
 
Hands covering her mouth muffled the words, “Oh, my God.
 
No!
 
No!”
 
Words washed from her palms
by tears enabling others to take their place.
 
“Gretchen, Dear God, Gretchen.”

Scattering
clothing from her drawers, Cassidy plucked this and that, anything, it didn't
matter.
 
She never gave a thought to
washing, or combing her hair, never considered socks before cramming sweaty
feet into canvas. Pounding her skull were dreadful thoughts of, Sullivan, Ben,
Mark, Sullivan, Ben's apartment, the scarf, Ben’s key, Sullivan.
 
“Please God, let Ben be there.
 
Please, she begged hoping to find him passed
out from drugs, in a drunken stupor, anything.
 
Please.”
  

Trashing the hell
out of Cassidy was the fact that she’d willingly ignored the crucial evidence
Gretchen offered so desperate was she to believe Ben innocent.
 
Now, Gretchen was dead.
 
She may as well have killed Gretchen herself.

There was no way the
key fit the lock, no way, she sputtered while trying and trying again unable to
see through the storm of tears.
 
Swiping
at them repeatedly didn't help, cursing, angrily stomping her feet.
 
Sweat drenched hair veiling her line of sight
antagonized her further.
 
If she could
only, cease her sobbing, stop acting like a child, as though it was the end of
the world.
 

By the time the
door finally gave way, Cassidy’s teeth were mashing her lips, the scene before
her preposterous.
 
Someone had ransacked
Ben’s apartment. “Ben, Ben, where are you,” she yelled, tossing everything in
her way aside, lamps, pillows, cushions, bedding, clothing, pictures, all
finding new places to litter.
 

Later, lost in a
realm of sorrow she never knew existed, the kind that left eternal scars,
cross-legged Cassidy sat on the bedroom floor.
 
Her chest was hurting from sobbing, an enormous volume of tears that
rendered her lethargic.
 
Her heart had
taken flight to a foreign place that a lifetime of searching would not find.

Coming back from
that place took a while.
 
By the time she
recharged herself, Michael was squatting in front of her, arms resting on his
knees, fingers wringing his knuckles white, eyes studying the carpet.
 
Watching Cassidy suffer was bad enough,
listening was pure torture.
 
She never
heard him enter, or speak, never felt him trying to fold her into his
arms.
 
Life as she once knew sucked from
her right before his eyes.
 
Until he
attempted to tug on the red silk scarves crumbled within her hand, Cassidy
remained non-responsive.
 
Scarves he
would later learn she found hanging behind Ben’s dresser mirror.
           

Shaking
uncontrollably, “Don't,” she screamed, slapping his hand.
 
Shooting to her feet, she bravely
straightened her stance; the color of her complexion the kind that made Michael
stay close so certain was he she’d give way any second.
        

           
“We'll do this together, Cassidy,”
Michael tried reasoning.

           
“No,” she yelled, with a pride
filled lift of her chin.
 
“If anyone
brings him in, it will be me,” each word cracking, almost falling short of
their mark as if they felt her pain.

Somehow, Cassidy
had to make it to her apartment, claim the evidence in the wastebasket before
going after Ben.
 
Besides, she needed her
gun.
 
Racing through her mind was what she’d
told Ben years ago, they couldn't be lovers, one day they might have to make a
life or death decision.
 
God Almighty,
she never thought she'd be the one to be forever tortured with memories of
their lovemaking, a moment in time when they were more than friends when she
tore a page from her own book of ethics.
 

Entering her
apartment, rounding the corner of her bedroom, had it not been for Michael's
strong arms, she would have measured the floor.
 
The wastebasket was empty.
 

In useless
supplication, she examined Michael's face as he explained that the scarf found
around Gretchen's neck appeared as though someone had tried to shred the
material.
  

Sullivan had
tossed the scarf in her wastebasket before leaving.
 
Only two people were in her apartment last
night.
 
God have mercy upon her soul, she
loved them both.

CHAPTER 15

Reluctantly pried
from Michael was a cross-your-heart promise, practically written in blood,
after a pitiful plea made to his vulnerable side not to report to Dan or look for
Ben for twenty-four hours.
 
Cassidy
needed time to collect herself, time to regain the strength she’d require in
the face of danger.
 

Danger and Ben,
never did Cassidy consider the combination, a concept that was nothing more
than complete lunacy.
  
Five times she
stuffed her gun into her purse, five times removed it.
 
Thoughts of showering, changing her clothes
were nothing more than fleeting moments.
 
Sleeping was impossible.
 
She
might dream, and she wanted no part of the dreams that continued to hold her in
suspended animation throughout the waking hours.