SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT - The Complete Psycho Thriller (The Complete Epic) Page 14

  A new millennium dawned. Sometimes, she thought about Orson and Luther, but mostly she lived in the moment, just trying to get through and out of whatever stage of craving she found herself.

  One day, she turned twenty.

  Twenty-five seemed to arrive the next week.

  She had no friends. No family. Just a guitar case and a hunger that could never be satisfied.

  More and more, she was keeping to the quiet, untraveled corners of America. The long, empty interstates of the Dakotas. The desert Southwest. She was finding new and exciting things to do in the middle of the night on these long, empty stretches of asphalt, to the poor souls who stopped to offer a ride.

  There was both peace and sadness in the knowledge that she would never stop. That she was a hopeless addict. The killing, the blood, was simply all that mattered. She never worried about someone killing her. She had no fear. She only worried about getting caught, getting locked up in a cell away from all these beautiful drugs that were driving around on the American highway system.

  1996 — The events in Blake Crouch’s novel Desert Places, featuring Andrew Z. Thomas, Orson Thomas, and Luther Kite, occur next…

  “Greetings. There is a body buried on your property, covered in your blood. The unfortunate young lady’s name is Rita Jones. In her jeans pocket you’ll find a slip of paper with a phone number on it. Call that number. If I have not heard from you by 8:00 P.M., the police will receive an anonymous call. I’ll tell them where Rita Jones is buried on your property, how you killed her, and where the murder weapon can be found in your house. (I do believe a paring knife is missing from your kitchen.) I strongly advise against going to the police, as I am always watching you.”

  Andrew Z. Thomas is a successful writer of suspense thrillers, living the dream at his lake house in the piedmont of North Carolina. One afternoon in late spring, he receives a bizarre letter that eventually threatens his career, his sanity, and the lives of everyone he loves. A murderer is designing his future, and for the life of him, Andrew can’t get away.

  The One That Got Away

  Hinsdale, Illinois, 2001

  -1-

  “You’re fucking kidding me.” Alex Kork crossed her arms, unable to believe the words that had just breached her brother’s lips.

  Charles Kork’s mouth formed a thin, colorless line, making him look like Father.

  “Tell me you’re joking,” Alex demanded.

  “You’re being an asshole,” Charles said. “I need your support on this.”

  “I’m being an asshole? Are you serious? You’re fucking getting married, for chrissakes.”

  Alex turned away. The anger raging inside her was quickly being overtaken by another, more frightening emotion. Fear.

  “It doesn’t change anything between us.” Charles put a hand on her shoulder, which she quickly shrugged off.

  “Do you love her?” Alex asked, surprised by the tremor in her voice. She couldn’t comprehend even asking him that question.

  “Of course not. It’s a disguise. So I don’t draw attention. I don’t want to go to jail again, and with all the crazy shit we’ve been doing—”

  Alex spun around, jabbing a finger into her brother’s chest. “Don’t fucking drag me into this. You’re not doing this to protect me.”

  “Then let’s do it at your place next time. You take the risk.”

  Alex felt mad enough to spit in his face. “Laws? You’re getting married because you’re afraid of breaking some goddamn laws? What we have, Charles, is a lot bigger than any law. We have something special…”

  “I know,” Charles said, looking grim. “And I don’t want that to end. But I also don’t want to get caught.”

  “So instead, we’re going to do it in your house, with your wife home?”

  “She’s an airhead. She won’t ever suspect a thing.”

  Alex searched her brother’s dark, pitiless eyes. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that things could go on just like they had been.

  But deep down she knew the world wasn’t suited for people like them. They were brother and sister, and the things they did together not only broke the law, but also caused knee-jerk revulsion in the majority of the population.

  That shouldn’t matter though. Alex knew, fucking knew, she and Charles were above the rest of the world. Better than they were. Stronger. Superior in every way.

  And now he wanted to hide that superiority in a cloak of normalcy.

  “What’s next?” she asked, bitterly. “You going to knock the bitch up?”

  “Can we discuss this later? Let’s just go downstairs and—”

  “You think I’m just going to forget this and go downstairs with you? Are you crazy?”

  “Why not? Things don’t have to change, Alex. Maybe we won’t be able to do this as much, but we won’t ever have to stop.”

  Alex shook her head. “You’re an asshole.”

  “Come on.” He reached out, stroking her arm. “We’ve got the rest of the night. Let’s have some fun, forget all of this.”

  Alex pulled away, refusing to cry. “I’m leaving. You can go downstairs by yourself. Have fun with your whore.”

  Then she got the hell out of there.

  -2-

  A steel crossbeam, flaking brown paint.

  Stained PVC pipes.

  White and green wires hanging on nails.

  What she sees.

  Moni blinks, yawns, tries to turn onto her side.

  Can’t.

  The memory comes, jolting.

  Rainy, after midnight, huddling under an overpass. Trying to keep warm in hot pants and a halter top. Rent money overdue. Not a single john in sight.

  When the first car stopped, Moni would have tricked for free just to get inside and warm up.

  Didn’t have to, though. The guy flashed a big roll of twenties. Talked smooth, educated. Smiled a lot.

  But there was something wrong with his eyes. Something dead.

  Freak eyes.

  Moni didn’t do freaks. She’d made the mistake once, got hurt bad. Freaks weren’t out for sex. They were out for pain. And Moni, bad as she needed money, wasn’t going to take a beating for it.

  She reached around, felt for the door handle to get out.

  No handle.

  Mace in her tiny purse, buried in condoms. She reached for it, but the needle found her arm and then everything went blurry.

  And now…

  Moni blinks, tries to clear her head. The floor under her is cold. Concrete.

  She’s in a basement. Staring up at the unfinished ceiling.

  Moni tries to sit up, but her arms don’t move. They’re bound with twine, bound to steel rods set into the floor. She raises her head, sees her feet are also tied, legs apart.

  Her clothes are gone.

  Moni feels a scream building inside her, forces it back down. Forces herself to think.

  She takes in her surroundings. It’s bright, brighter than a basement should be. Two big lights on stands point down at her.

  Between them is a tripod. A camcorder.

  Next to the tripod, a table. Moni can see several knives on top. A hammer. A drill. A blowtorch. A cleaver.

  The cleaver is caked with little brown bits, and something else.

  Hair. Long, pink hair.

  Moni screams.

  Charlene has long pink hair. Charlene, who’s been missing for a week.

  Street talk was she’d gone straight, quit the life.

  Street talk was wrong.

  Moni screams until her lungs burn. Until her throat is raw. She twists and pulls and yanks, crying to get free, panic overriding the pain of the twine rubbing her wrists raw.

  The twine doesn’t budge.

  Moni leans to the right, stretching her neck, trying to reach the twine with her teeth.

  Not even close. But as she tries, she notices the stains on the floor beneath her. Sticky brown stains that smell like meat gone bad.

  Charlene’s blo
od.

  Moni’s breath catches. Her gaze drifts to the table again, even though she doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to see what this freak is going to use on her.

  “I’m dead,” she thinks. “And it’s gonna be bad.”

  Moni doesn’t like herself. Hasn’t for a while. It’s tough to find self-respect when one does the things she does for money. But even though she ruined her life with drugs, even though she hates the twenty-dollar-a-pop whore she’s become, Moni doesn’t want to die.

  Not yet.

  And not like this.

  Moni closes her eyes. She breathes in. Breathes out. Wills her muscles to relax.

  “I hope you didn’t pass out.”

  Every muscle in Moni’s body contracts in shock. The freak is looking down at her, smiling.

  He’d been standing right behind Moni the whole time. Out of her line of sight.

  “Please let me go.”

  His laugh is an evil thing. She knows, looking at his eyes, he won’t cut her free until her heart has stopped.

  “Keep begging. I like it. I like the begging almost as much as I like the screaming.”

  He walks around her, over to the table. Takes his time fondling his tools.

  “What should we start with? I’ll let you pick.”

  Moni doesn’t answer. She thinks back to when she was a child, before all of the bad stuff in her life happened, before hope was just another four-letter word. She remembers the little girl she used to be, bright and full of energy, wanting to grow up and be a lawyer like all of those fancy-dressed women on TV.

  “If I get through this,” Moni promises God, “I’ll quit the street and go back to school. I swear.”

  “Are you praying?” The freak grins. He’s got the blowtorch in his hand. “God doesn’t answer prayers here.”

  He fiddles with the camcorder, then kneels between her open legs. The torch ignites with the strike of a match. It’s the shape of a small fire extinguisher. The blue flame shooting from the nozzle hisses like a leaky tire.

  “I won’t lie to you. This is going to hurt. A lot. But it smells delicious. Just like cooking bacon.”

  Moni wonders how she can possibly brace herself for the oncoming pain, and realizes that she can’t. There’s nothing she can do. All of the mistakes, all of the bad choices, have led up to this sick final moment in her life, being burned alive in some psycho’s basement.

  She clenches her teeth, squeezes her eyes shut.

  A bell chimes.

  “Dammit.”

  The freak pauses, the flame a foot away from her thighs.

  The bell chimes again. A doorbell, coming from upstairs.

  Moni begins to cry out, but he guesses her intent, bringing his fist down hard onto her face.

  Moni sees blurry motes, tastes blood. A moment later he’s shoving something in her mouth. Her halter top, wedging it in so far it sticks to the back of her throat.

  “Be right back, bitch. The FedEx guy is bringing me something for you.”

  The freak walks off, up the stairs, out of sight.

  Moni tries to scream, choking on the cloth. She shakes and pulls and bucks but there’s no release from the twine and the gag won’t come out and any second he’ll be coming back down the stairs to use that awful blowtorch…

  The blowtorch.

  Moni stops struggling. Listens for the hissing sound.

  It’s behind her.

  She twists, cranes her neck around, sees the torch sitting on the floor only a few inches from her head.

  It’s still on.

  Moni scoots her body toward it. Strains against the ropes. Stretches her limbs to the limit.

  The top of her head touches the steel canister.

  Moni’s unsure of how much time she has, unsure if this will work, knowing she has less than a one-in-a-zillion chance but she has to try something and maybe dear god just maybe this will work.

  She cocks her head back and snaps it against the blowtorch. The torch teeters, falls onto its side, and begins a slow, agonizing roll over to her right hand.

  “Please,” Moni begs the universe. “Please.”

  The torch rolls close—too close—the flame brushing Moni’s arm and the horrible heat singeing hair and burning skin.

  Moni screams into her gag, jerks her elbow, tries to force the searing flame closer to the rope.

  The pain blinds her, takes her to a place beyond sensation, where her only thought, her only goal, is to make it stop make it stop MAKE IT STOP!

  Her arm is suddenly loose.

  Moni grabs the blowtorch, ignoring the burning twine that’s still wrapped tightly around her wrist. She points the flame at her left hand, severs the rope. Then her feet.

  She’s free!

  No time to dress. No time to hide. Up the stairs, two at a time, ready to dive out of a window naked and screaming and—

  “What the hell?”

  The freak is at the top of the stairs, pulling a wicked-looking hunting knife out of a cardboard box. He notices Moni and confusion registers on his face.

  It quickly morphs into rage.

  Moni doesn’t hesitate, bringing the blowtorch around, swinging it like a club, connecting hard with the side of the freak’s head, and then he’s falling forward, past her, arms pinwheeling as he dives face-first into the stairs.

  Moni continues to run, up into the house, looking left and right, finding the front door, reaching for the knob…

  And pauses.

  The freak took a hard fall, but he might still be alive.

  There will be other girls. Other girls in his basement.

  Girls like Charlene.

  Cops don’t help whores. Cops don’t care.

  But Moni does.

  Next to the front door is the living room. A couch. Curtains. A throw rug.

  Moni picks up the rug, wraps it around her body. Using the torch, she sets the couch ablaze, the curtains on fire, before throwing it onto the floor and running out into the street.

  It’s early morning. The sidewalk is cold under her bare feet. She’s shaken, and her burned arm throbs, but she feels lighter than air.

  A car stops.

  A john, cruising. Rolls down the window and asks if she’s for sale.

  “Not anymore,” Moni says.

  She walks away, not looking back.

  2003 — The events in Blake Crouch’s novel Locked Doors, featuring Andrew Thomas, Violet King, Luther Kite, Rufus Kite, and Maxine Kite, occur next…

  Seven years ago, suspense novelist Andrew Thomas’s life was shattered when he was framed for a series of murders. The killer’s victims were unearthed on Andrew’s lakefront property, and since he was wanted by the FBI, Andrew had no choice but to flee and to create a new identity. Andrew does just that in a cabin tucked away in the remote wilderness near Haines Junction, Yukon. His only link to society is by e-mail, through which he learns that all the people he ever loved are being stalked and murdered. Culminating in the spooky and secluded Outer Banks of North Carolina, the paths of Andrew Thomas, a psychotic named Luther Kite, and a young female detective collide. Locked Doors is a novel of blistering suspense that will scare you to death.

  An Unkindness of Ravens

  Gary, Indiana, 2003

  Javier Estrada

  Javier had been transporting a package west out of Pennsylvania en route to meet his drop-off in Boise—a fat-assed trucker named Jonathan—when he started seeing the billboard advertisements.

  The early ones, those just over the Indiana state line, were vague.

  GOT BABGAKS?

  By Richmond, the billboards were advising him to….

  GET BABGAKS!

  …and he was becoming angry—some bullshit American marketing scheme. All this fucking country did was try to sell you shit.

  But by the time he reached the west side of Greenfield, the acronym had revealed itself, literally:

  BABGAKS = BULLETS AND BABES GUN AND KNIFE SHOW

  Jav’s anger melt
ed, just a tad.