Alicia was extremely thirsty when she awoke. Her head was pounding and there was a dull ache in her chest. Her thoughts were cloudy and sluggish from the painkillers coursing through her veins.
‘Water,’ she croaked, and an old man leaned forward with a Styrofoam cup. He placed the cup to her lips and the icecold water splashed into her mouth like a blessing. Alicia gulped it down in a few quick swallows.
‘Thank you. Where am I? Who are you?’
‘You are in a hospital. You were attacked. My name is Professor John Locke. I’m a psychiatrist. I’m here to help you. Can you remember anything about what happened?’
Alicia looked around her. She was in a hospital room surrounded by cops.
‘What are all these police here for?’
‘They are looking for the man who attacked you. Can you tell us who he is?’
‘Don’t hurt him. He’s sick. He didn’t mean to─‘
Alicia thought about the last few days she’d spent being terrorized by the big cannibalistic serial sex murderer named Joe. He’d chewed off her nipples, kept her chained in his apartment, murdered another woman in front of her and ate her while Alicia watched helplessly. He’d dragged her all the way across the state in the back of a van, cooked a man alive and forced her to eat human flesh, and then he’d…
‘Oh my God! My breasts! He ate my breasts!’ Alicia lifted the covers and stared at the bandages wrapped around her chest. They were completely flat. Her breasts were gone.
‘Who? Tell us who did this to you. Who don’t you want us to hurt?’
Despite all of this Alicia still could not bring herself to betray him. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Do you remember how you got here? To Washington? Were you kidnapped? Did he bring you here against your will?’
‘I can’t remember. I can’t remember. I can’t remember!’ She pounded her fists against the sides of her head and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.
Soon she was openly sobbing. A black cop who looked like a detective stepped forward in front of the professor.
‘Okay. Okay. We’ll leave you alone. But if your memory returns, here’s my card. Give me a call.’
Alicia turned away and continued to weep into the pillow. ‘My breasts are gone. They’re gone. He ate my breasts!’ She began to scream.
The detective dropped his card on the nightstand and backed away just as the nurses rushed into the room.
‘Sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re upsetting the patient and she’s still in guarded condition.’
‘We were just about to leave.’ The detectives and the two professors stepped out into the hall with the captain.
‘That was quite a show,’ Professor Locke offered.
‘You think she was faking that? Did you see the look on her face when she realized that she’d lost her breasts?’
‘That part may have been real but I don’t believe for a second that she doesn’t remember who attacked her. She’s protecting Joseph.’
‘Protecting him? But he’s the scumbag who ate her titties off,’ Captain Marshal added, with his eyebrows raised quizzically. He looked both exhausted and overwhelmed, as if he would fall over at any second.
‘Ever hear of Stockholm syndrome?’ A sea of blank stares looked back at him.
‘It’s when a prisoner begins to identify, even to sympathize and, in extreme cases, to fall in love with his or her captor. Who knows how long Joseph had her or what he told her. His is a pretty sympathetic tale if you look at it from his perspective. Here’s a kid who was attacked by a serial killer and horribly tortured and raped for hours. He survives only to grow up and discover that this serial killer passed some disease on to him that’s turning him into a killer too and the only way he can cure himself is by murdering the man who gave him the disease.’
‘So you think she bought all this bull shit?’
‘It may not be bull shit. As I said before, there is a possibility that such a disease could exist. That’s what brought us out here. We just need to convince her that it’s bull shit. That’s the only way we’re going to get her to cooperate.’
Captain Marshal’s cell phone rang and he excused himself to answer it. When he hung up, his face was set in a hard line that told everyone in the room that the night was not yet over.
‘You think this will convince her? We just got a call from a motel manager a few blocks away. There are two bodies down there torn to shreds.’
Marshal walked briskly out of the hospital followed by Montgomery and the two professors. ‘I guess you two eggheads had it right. He’s on a rampage now. It’s only been a few hours since he killed Trent and the Janitor.’
‘He didn’t feed on them, Captain. He must have been hungry when he got home. Not to mention his disappointment when he found that his cure wasn’t working,’ Professor Locke offered.
‘Well from what my officers are telling me, he should be pretty damn well fed now.’
They piled into two separate squad cars and raced the two miles to the motel where Joe had been just hours before.
They slipped past the barricades and police tape and into the room where the dismembered bodies lay strewn around the room like wet red confetti.
‘Jesus!’ the two professors cried out in unison.
‘Oh my God! He did this? How could anyone do something like this?’
‘You tell us, Doc. Does this hold with your little theory? You still think you can cure him with a few little pills?’ The captain was feeling surly. He didn’t like the idea of a serial killer in his town and he liked it even less that these two had known he was coming and hadn’t said anything. If they had thought to drop a warning there might be four people alive right now and one lunatic behind bars. But instead they had tried to play heroes. It was all he could do to keep from knocking one of them down. He knew exactly which one it would be too.
‘I’m even more sure of it now than ever,’ Professor Locke said, elevating his chin to look down his nose at the policeman.
‘This escalating pattern of violence is consistent with the pattern of addiction. He’s developing a tolerance for it so he needs more. More victims, and more violence. If we don’t get him into treatment the victims will just keep piling up.
‘That is unless we shoot him down. Or lock his ass up.”
‘That would be one solution. At least to this problem. But what about all the other killers out there? This is bigger than one man and a handful of victims. We could possibly put an end to this type of sexual/rage killing forever.’
‘Get off your soapbox, Doc. I ain’t buyin’ it. Now wait in the car while we search this place. You’re contaminating my crime scene.’
The captain and Detective Montgomery cleared everyone else out of the room except for the CSI crew. They immediately went to work photographing, bagging, and tagging everything they found that looked even remotely like it might lead them to the killer. There was more than enough physical evidence to tell them who the killer was and even to practically guarantee a conviction─his DNA and fingerprints were all over the place. But there was nothing here to suggest where he might have gone.
‘What about the telephone?’
‘This one?’ the captain asked, lifting the receiver from a cradle that was tacky with blood.
‘No. The one in the apartment he was renting. Let’s get the phone records and find out who he was calling.’
‘That’s no problem. There’s a police liaison at the phone company who does traces for us.’
They were both more than a little relieved to leave the murder scene.
‘Where’s that manager?’ the captain asked one of the officers standing nearby.
He pointed to a short, paunchy, balding Mexican with guilty, fidgety eyes. The man stepped forward, looking from side to side as if frantically trying to plan his escape. He had the look of an ex-con with the crude tattoos to match.
‘Which one did Miles stay in?’
‘Right next door … uh, sir.’
‘Well, then open it up! We need to check it for evidence.’
They paused in the doorway of the apartment, taking note of the handcuffs attached to the bed and the wide bloodstain that saturated the mattress and sheets. This is where Alicia had been held, where Joe had performed his radical mastectomy on her. The big burly police captain froze and turned to look at the young black detective with stunned, exhausted eyes.
‘What the fuck are we up against here?’
‘A man. Just a man.’
The captain picked up the phone and dialed the operator. Minutes later they had their information. He set the phone back in the cradle and let out a sigh of relief.
‘Well, it looks like Joseph Miles is your problem again. The last number he dialed was back in the Bay Area. Hayward, California. A Mr. Lionel Ray Miles. He’s going home to Daddy.’
********
Lionel Ray Miles stood on his porch, cradling the Mossburg pistol-grip shotgun in his arms and peering out into the darkness. He knew he’d heard something out there. Maybe one of the neighbor kids was playing a trick on him, but he was sure he’d heard the sound of glass breaking. And it had sounded like it was coming from his garage. He crept around to the front of the garage and saw that two of the windows had been smashed and there was a huge dent in the aluminum, as if something big and heavy had crashed into it. He heard shuffling noises coming from inside.
Lionel Ray jacked a round into the chamber and crept around to the side service door. He didn’t make a sound. He was not about to give whoever had dared break into his property any warning. Lionel didn’t want to scare them away. He wanted blood. He imagined himself creeping up on some teenaged crackhead or speed freak and opening up on them with the shotgun. One less junkie, sneak thief, shoplifter, burglar, purse snatcher for the overburdened court system to worry about.
The service door on the side of the garage had been smashed in too. It looked like someone had used a sledgehammer on it. That door had cost Lionel Ray two hundred dollars at the home-and-garden store. Not to mention the time it had taken him to install it and paint it. That alone was enough to justify him blowing away the intruder.
There was a shadow in roughly the outline of a human body standing right beside Lionel Ray’s prized ’69 Lincoln Continental. The Lincoln was Lionel Ray’s dream car. Not a Cadillac or a Mercedes, but a Lincoln with its sleek lines and suicide doors had always symbolized success to him. He’d purchased it on eBay with money from his 401K. Had it driven all the way from Texas. And that speed-freak intruder was using it as a shield.
The Lincoln had all its original chrome bought straight from the factory and shined to a high gloss. Brand-new black leather upholstery. White-walled tires. Lionel Ray had spent countless hours restoring the car to mint condition. It was his pride and joy and there was no way he was going to risk a shot in the dark that just might spray the old girl with buckshot and ruin the new eight hundred-dollar paintjob he’d just put on it. If need be he’d just walk over there and throttle the bastard with his bare hands. Lionel Ray Miles was tall with thick muscles from years of hard labor rather than months in the gym. He had no fear of the intruder attacking him before he could squeeze off a shot.
But the guy was big. A lot bigger than he’d expected. Too big to be a junkie or a crackhead, though that still didn’t rule out a teenaged jock or a frat boy pulling some kind of prank.
If this sonuvabitch tries to charge me he’ll wind up getting his neck broken just before I blow his damned head off his shoulders, Lionel thought. I just want a better look at him so I can aim properly. Lionel Ray reached over and pulled the chain on the little keyless light that dangled from the ceiling overhead. The sudden burst of radiance dazzled him and he quickly raised the shotgun in the direction the figure had been standing, afraid that the intruder might try to attack him in the seconds it took his eyes to adjust to the light. The guy wasn’t moving, however.
As Lionel squinted through the harsh glare of the naked 100-watt lightbulb, he began to recognize some of the intruder’s features. The man was even bigger than he’d appeared in the dark, bigger than Lionel himself. He had short, neatly cut black hair parted down the middle. Crystal-clear blue eyes. A strong chiseled jaw. High cheekbones and a smile filled with rows and rows of perfectly straight white teeth-teeth that had all been filed to sharp points. His body was armored with thick muscle rippling beneath the yellow polo shirt he wore.
‘Joey? Is that you, boy? What the hell are you doin’ breakin’ into my garage? Why ain’t your ass in school?’
‘I came to ask you a question.’ Lionel Ray lowered the shotgun and stared at his son with that angry, disappointed, and somewhat bemused expression he used to get just before he would slap Joe around when he was a kid.
‘Boy, it is way too late for games. What is this, some college prank or something? Some fuckin’ frat boys dare you to break into your dad’s garage, smash up my door and dent the damned garage door? I hope they’ve got money to pay for all of this or else it’s coming right out of your hide!’ Lionel Ray growled.
‘How soon after they found me bleeding to death in the park did you realize that one of your chickens had come home to roost? How long did it take you to recognize Damon Trent as one of your victims? I guess he was one of the unfortunate bastards who managed to survive, wasn’t he? How many were there? How many kids have you killed?’ Tears streamed down Joe’s face. His father just looked annoyed and slightly amused.
‘Well, you finally figured it out, huh? I tried to tell you before, but I didn’t think you could handle it. It looks like I was right. Look at you, standing there crying like some old woman. I can’t believe we’re the same blood. But we are, aren’t we? You’ve got my blood coursing through those veins, don’t you? My curse.”
‘How many were there?’
‘There were dozens! I don’t know.’
‘What did you do to them? Tell me everything.’
Lionel Ray cocked an eyebrow at his son. ‘Are you sure you want to know, boy?’
‘Tell me! I want to know what I am.’
‘I would pick them up at parks just like that Trent kid picked you up. Sometimes I’d offer them a ride home or tell them that their mommy had sent me to bring them home. Sometimes I’d just snatch them. After a while it became easier to just snatch them off the street. Less exposure that way. Then I’d take them home. Yeah, right to this house. Down in the basement. I’d cut on them for a while. I didn’t do sex with them. I wasn’t into all that. I’d just cut on them. I liked to hear them scream.’
‘Did you drink their blood?’
‘What? No! You mean like that fat freak who did you? I wasn’t some pervert. I just liked to hear them scream.’
‘Did you kill them?’
‘Some of them. Most of them, I guess. But I let a few of them go too. Mostly the really young ones I let go. I knew they wouldn’t be able to tell the police enough to send them after me. Most of them were too scared to say anything when I was done anyway. And if I was really worried about them talking I’d just cut their tongues out or put out their eyes or both. I should have cut Trent’s eyes out.’
‘But why, Dad? Why did you do it?’
‘For the same reason you tore apart that librarian at your school. Yeah, you didn’t think I knew about that, did you? The minute those cops showed up at my door asking questions about you I knew you were the one who did it. Like father, like son. I did it because it feels good, boy! Doesn’t it, Son? Doesn’t it feel good to prey on those weak, pitiful little things? It feels like your body was designed for it, doesn’t it? Like you’re fulfilling your purpose in life. Killing off the weak. Culling the herd. They ain’t good for nothin’ no way except screamin’ and dyin’. You happy now, boy? You got all your questions answered?’
‘All except one,’ Joe replied, staring down at the shotgun still leaning against his daddy’s leg. He was calculating his chances of crossing the garage floor and disarming his dad before he could raise that shotgun and squeeze off a round. Maybe he wouldn’t even shoot?
Joe thought. After all, I am his son. But he doubted that. He knew his dad well enough to know that the man valued his own happiness and preservation above any familial love or responsibility. He would shoot Joe dead if he thought his life was in danger.
Joe began inching closer to his father. The closer he was when he attacked the old man, the better his chances would be of avoiding a steaming hole in his chest.
‘So ask then. What else do you want to know about your old dad?’
Joe was now only a few feet away.
‘I want to know if there’s a cure for what we are. I want to know how to end this.’
Lionel Ray began to laugh. ‘A cure? You can’t change what you are, boy! There ain’t no cure!’
‘I think there is.’ Joe leapt forward, springing for his father’s throat. Lionel Ray tried to raise the shotgun to shoot his only son. He was too late. The blast went over Joe’s left shoulder. Joe noted without emotion that his dad had been aiming for his head.
A few shot pellets lodged in Joe’s shoulder, bicep, and chest, slowing him a bit but not stopping him. He tackled the elder Miles. His entire body slammed into the old man with the mass and velocity of a stampeding horse. They collapsed onto the hard concrete floor with a wet smack as the back of Lionel Ray’s head cracked against the cement.
Joe bared his fangs and clamped them down onto his father’s throat. There was something terribly satisfying about hearing the man’s screams.
